VOLUME XI

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
THEODOR STORM
WILHELM RAABE

ON THE NORTH SEA COAST
From the Painting by Jacob Alberts

[THE GERMAN CLASSICS]
Masterpieces of German Literature
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH

Patrons' Edition

IN TWENTY VOLUMES
ILLUSTRATED

THE GERMAN PUBLICATION SOCIETY
NEW YORK

The German Publication Society

[CONTRIBUTORS AND TRANSLATORS]

VOLUME XI

Special Writers

Marion D. Learned, Ph.D., Professor of Germanic Languages and Literatures, University of Pennsylvania:

The Life of Friedrich Spielhagen.

Ewald Eiserhardt, Ph.D., Assistant Professor in German, University of Rochester, N.Y.:

The Life of Theodor Storm; Wilhelm Raabe.

Translators

Marion D. Learned, Ph.D., Professor of Germanic Languages and Literatures, University of Pennsylvania:

Storm Flood.

Muriel Almon:

The Rider of the White Horse; The Hunger Pastor.

Charles Wharton Stork, Ph.D., Instructor in English, University of Pennsylvania:

Consolation.

Margarete Münsterberg:

To a deceased; The City; The Heath.

[CONTENTS OF VOLUME XI]

	PAGE
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
The Life of Friedrich Spielhagen. By Marion D. Learned	[1]
Storm Flood. Translated by Marion D. Learned	[14]
THEODOR STORM
The Life of Theodor Storm. By Ewald Eiserhardt	[214]
The Rider of the White Horse. Translated by Muriel Almon	[225]
To a Deceased. Translated by Margarete Münsterberg	[343]
The City. Translated by Margarete Münsterberg	[343]
The Heath. Translated by Margarete Münsterberg	[344]
Consolation. Translated by Charles Wharton Stork	[345]
WILHELM RAABE
Wilhelm Raabe. By Ewald Eiserhardt	[346]
The Hunger Pastor. Translated by Muriel Almon	[353]

[ILLUSTRATIONS—VOLUME XI]

	PAGE
On the North Sea Coast. By Jacob Alberts	Frontispiece
Friedrich Spielhagen. By A. Weiss	[12]
The Last Day of a Condemned Man. By Michael von Munkacsy	[22]
Arrested Vagabonds. By Michael von Munkacsy	[62]
The Loan Office. By Michael von Munkacsy	[92]
Two Families. By Michael von Munkacsy	[112]
The Little Thief. By Michael von Munkacsy	[142]
Milton and His Daughters. By Michael von Munkacsy	[172]
Christ Before Pilate. By Michael von Munkacsy	[192]
Golgatha. By Michael von Munkacsy	[212]
Theodor Storm	[220]
Dunes on the North Sea. By Jacob Alberts	[236]
Churchyard on a North Sea Island. By Jacob Alberts	[252]
Communion Service on a North Sea Island. By Jacob Alberts	[268]
A North Sea Islander's Congregation. By Jacob Alberts	[284]
Living-Room in a Frisian Farmhouse. By Jacob Alberts	[300]
A Quiet Corner. By Jacob Alberts	[316]
A Gentleman of the Old School. By Jacob Alberts	[332]
Wilhelm Raabe	[352]
The Commander of the Fortress. By Karl Spitzweg	[382]
The Letter Carrier. By Karl Spitzweg	[412]
The Nightly Round. By Karl Spitzweg	[442]
The Stork's Visit. By Karl Spitzweg	[472]
The Lover of Cacti. By Karl Spitzweg	[502]
The Antiquarian. By Karl Spitzweg	[532]

The illustrations in this volume, devoted to the writings of Spielhagen, Storm, and Raabe, are from paintings by Michael von Munkacsy, Jacob Alberts, and Karl Spitzweg. Munkacsy may be called an artistic counterpart to Spielhagen, inasmuch as he shared with him the conscious striving for effect, the predilection for striking social contrasts, and the desire to make propaganda for liberalism. Spitzweg was allied to Raabe in his truly Romantic inwardness, his joyful acceptance of all phases of life, his glorification of the humble and the lowly, and his inexhaustible humor. Alberts is probably the most talented living painter of that part of Germany which forms the background of Storm's finest novels: the Frisian coast of the North Sea.

Kuno Francke.

[THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN]

By Marion D. Learned, Ph.D.

Professor of Germanic Languages and Literatures, University of Pennsylvania.

The struggle for liberal institutions, which found expression in the Wars of Liberation, the July Revolution of 1830, and the March Revolution of 1848—with visions of a German Republic, with bitter protest against the Reaction, with a new hope of a regenerated social State and a renovated German Empire—marks only the stormy stages of the liberalizing movement which is still going on in the German nation. Since 1848, radical revolt has taken on forms very different from the dreams which fired the spirits of the Forty-eighters. The sword has yielded to the pen, the scene of combat has shifted from the arsenal and the battlefield to the printed book and the Council Chamber; while the necessity of an active policy of military defense has saved the German people from the throes of bloody internal strife.

In the transition from the armed revolutionary outbreak of 1848 to the evolutionary processes of the present day, the novel of purpose and of living issues (Tendenz-und Zeitroman) has played an important part in teaching the German people to think for themselves and to seek the highest good of the individual and of the classes in the general weal of the nation as a whole. In the front rank, if not the foremost, of the novelists of living issues in this period of social and economic reform was Friedrich Spielhagen, whose novels were almost without exception novels of purpose.

Friedrich Spielhagen was born in Magdeburg in the Prussian province of Saxony, February 24, 1829. He was the son of a civil engineer, and descended from a family of foresters in Tuchheim. His seriousness and precocity won him the nickname of "little old man," and also admission to the gymnasium a year before the average age of six. In 1835, when he was six years old, his father was transferred to the position of Inspector of Waterworks in Stralsund. It was here by the sea and among the dunes that the young poet spent his most plastic years, and became, like Fritz Reuter, his contemporary and literary colleague of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, the poet of the Flat Land, which he made so familiar to the German public of the '60s and '70s. Spielhagen has given his own account of the first years of his life in his autobiography entitled Discoverer and Inventor which is evidently modeled after Goethe's Poetry and Fact. Here we learn with what delight the boy accompanied his father on his tours of inspection about the harbor city, with what difficulties he contended in school, which he says was to him neither "stepmother" nor "alma mater," what deep impressions his vacation visits at the country homes of his school friends left upon his sensitive mind. Although his family never became fully naturalized in the social life of Stralsund, but remained to the end "newcomers," Spielhagen says of himself that, in his love for Pomeranian nature, he felt himself to be "the peer of the native born of Pomerania, which has come to be, in the truest sense of the word, my home land."

The sea with its endless variety of moods and scenes opened to him the secrets of his favorite poet Homer. He says: "I count it among the greatest privileges of my life that I could dream myself into my favorite poet, while the Greek original was still a book of seven seals." Following the steps of his great German model, Goethe, he tested his talents for the stage both at home, where he was playwright, manager, stage director, prompter and actor, all in one, and later on the real stage at Magdeburg only to find that he was not called to wear the buskin.

In his school days he began to read the authors of German fiction and poetry: Tieck, Arnim, Brentano, Stifter, Zschokke, Steffens, Goethe's Hermann and Dorothea and Faust (First Part), Lessing, Uhland, Heine's Book of Songs, Freiligrath, Herwegh. He also browsed about in other literatures: Byron's Don Juan he read first when he was seven years of age; of Walter Scott he says: "In speaking this precious name I mention perhaps not the most distinguished, but nevertheless the greatest and most sympathetic, stimulator of my mind at that time. * * * In comparison with this splendid Walter Scott, the other English and American novelists, Cooper, Ainsworth, Marryat, and whatever their names whose novels came into my hands at that time are stars of the second and third magnitude." He regards Bulwer alone as the peer of the Scottish Bard.

The English influence of the time was reflected also in the life about him, especially in the sport-life, with its horse-racing, pigeon-shooting, card-playing (Tarok, L'Hombre, Whist or Boston) and kindred pastimes. He knew "that Blacklock was sired by Brownlock from Semiramis, and Miss Jane was bred of the Bride of Abydos by Robin Hood"—an interesting sidelight on the Byronic influence of the time. This sport-life so zealously cultivated by the gentry, and his visits to the manor houses of his school friends during the vacations, afforded him glimpses into the customs and traditions of the agrarian gentry of Pomerania, and the manorial economy and reckless life of the nobles with their castles, dependents, laborers, overseers, apprentices, volunteers and the like—the first impressions of his Problematic Characters.

In 1847 Spielhagen left Stralsund to study jurisprudence at the University of Berlin, a journey of thirty German miles in twenty-four hours. What a revelation the great capital presented to the youthful provincial, who had never seen a railroad nor a gas jet before he began the journey! Arriving before the opening of the semester he had time to take an excursion into Thuringia, which later became so dear to him and is reflected in his From Darkness to Light (second part of Problematic Characters), Always to the Fore, Rose of the Court, Hans and Grete, The Village Coquette, The Amusement Commissioner, and The Fair Americans. Returning to Berlin he heard, among others, Heidemann on Natural Law and Trendelenburg on Logic. The signs of revolution were already visible in the university circles, but had not as yet awakened the interests of Spielhagen, who declared that revolution was a matter of weather, and that he himself was a republican in the sense that the others were not.

The next semester Spielhagen went to the University of Bonn, wavering between Law and Medicine. The landscape of the lower Rhineland was not congenial to him. He longed for his Pomeranian shore with its dunes and invigorating sea life. In Bonn he met leaders of the revolutionary party—Carl Schurz, "le bel homme," and Ludwig Meyer. The portrait he sketches of Carl Schurz is an outline of that which the liberator of Kinkel rounded out for himself in his long years of sturdy citizenship in America. Spielhagen warned Schurz at that time that his schemes were quixotic.

During the following vacation, on a foot-tour through Thuringia, Spielhagen witnessed the effects of the revolution and the ensuing reaction. He arrived at Frankfurt-on-the-Main just after the close of the Great Parliament. He was deeply impressed with the violence done to Auerswald and Lichnowski, and witnessed the trial of Lassalle for the theft of the jewel-casket of the Baroness von Meyendorf. His attention was thus fixed upon the personality of the great socialist reformer who was later to play such an important rôle in his novels, and of whom he said: "Lassalle set in motion the message which not only continues today, but is only beginning to manifest its depth and power, and the end of which no mind of the wise can foresee."

In Bonn Spielhagen finally went over to classical philology, and devoted much time also to modern literature. His beloved Homer, the Latin poets, Goethe's lyrics, Goetz, Iphigenia, Tasso, Wilhelm Meister, The Elective Affinities, Immermann's Münchhausen, Vilmar, Gervinus, Loebel, Simrock's Nibelungen, Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield, Dickens and Shakespeare all claimed his attention. The most interesting incident of his stay at Bonn was his audience with the later Crown Prince Frederick, who had come with his tutor, Professor Curtius, to take up his studies at the university—an audience which was repeated at the Court of Coburg in 1867, when Spielhagen came face to face with his literary antipathy, Gustav Freytag.

After three years of vacillation in his university studies, he finally made peace with his father, and decided to take his degree in philology. To this end he entered the University of Greifswald and began the more serious study of esthetics, starting with Humboldt's Esthetic Experiments, and developing his own theory of objectivity in the novel. Meanwhile he read the English novelists Dickens, Thackeray, Fielding, Smollett, Sterne, and the Germans Lichtenberg, Rabener, Jean Paul, Thümmel, and Vischer's Esthetics. His essay On Humor and other critical works owe much to these studies. After giving his interpretation of an ode of Horace in the seminary, he worked at his dissertation, and found in Tennyson the theme for his first finished work, Klara Vere.

Having left the university, Spielhagen entered the army for his year of service. Here he gained valuable experience and information, which stood him in good stead in his novels. During this year he found time to delve again into Spinoza, whom he had studied in Berlin. The doctrines of this philosopher now had a new meaning for him and offered him a philosophic mooring which he had so much needed in deciding upon his career. Commenting on his reading he says: "I wished to win from philosophy the right to be what I was, the right to give free rein to the power which I felt to be dominant in my mind. I wished to procure a charter for 'the ruling passion' of my soul." This charter he found in Spinoza's words: "Every one exists by the supreme right of Nature, and consequently, according to the supreme right of Nature, every one does what the necessity of his nature imposes, and accordingly by this supreme right of nature every one judges what is good and what is bad, and acts in his own way for his own welfare." This principle of "suum esse conservare" becomes the guiding thought in Spielhagen's life at this time. With this philosophic turn of mind came a reaction against Byron's immoral characters such as Don Juan.

He was now confronted with the problem of reconciling in his own life Freiligrath's words, "wage-earner and poet." His pedagogical faculties had been developed by the informal lectures which he had given to the circle of his sister's girl friends. After the manœuvres were over he took a position as private tutor in the family of a former Swedish officer of the "type of gentleman," as he says. In this rural Pomeranian retreat the instincts of the poet were rapidly awakened. Enraptured with the beauty of the country he adopted Friedrich Schlegel's practice of writing down his thoughts and shifting moods in the form of fragments. As the family broke up for the holidays, he strapped on his knapsack for a cross-country tour homeward, making a détour to visit an old friend at Rügen. It was here that he fell in love with Hedda, the heroine of the story On the Dunes. He felt love now for the first time in its real power, which was lacking in Klara Vere. But this new, strange passion left him only the more a poet. In one of his fragments he wrote: "The poet worships every beautiful woman as the devout Catholic does every image of the Holy Virgin, but the image is not the Queen of Heaven."

The vacation had made him discontented with his position. All the rural charm seemed changed to commonplace. He now felt a bond of sympathy with Rousseau, Victor Hugo, and George Sand, sought literary uplift in Homer, Æschylus, Shakespeare, Scott, Byron, and extended his reading to Gargantua, Tom Jones, Lamartine, Madame Bovary, and Vanity Fair, but declares he would willingly exchange Consuelo for Copperfield. It was at this time when Spielhagen was in unsteady mood as to his future, that he saw for the last time his old Greifswald friend, Albert Timm, who in the last three years had sadly changed from the promising student to the cynic: "'Yes,' he cried (from the platform of the moving train) 'I am going to America, not of my own wish, but because others wish it. They may be right; in any case, I have run my course in Europe. Perhaps I shall succeed better over there, or perhaps not; it's all the same. * * * Somewhere in the forest primeval! To the left around the corner! Don't forget: to the left around the ——' and the train sped out of sight." These parting words of his shipwrecked friend reminded Spielhagen only too keenly of his own unsettled career.

At length Spielhagen decided to go to Leipzig to prepare for a professorship of literature in the university. After a tour in Thuringia, during which he saw in Ilmenau a gipsy troop which furnished him with the character of Cziska in the Problematic Characters, he again took up his study of literature and esthetics. His encounter with Kant's philosophy and Schiller's esthetic theories led him back to Goethe and Spinoza. In the midst of these philosophical problems, he received one day a letter from Robert Hall Westley, an English friend in Leipzig, "a gentleman bred and born," telling him of a vacancy in English at the "Modernes Gesamt-Gymnasium" at that place. Spielhagen accepted the position in 1854, and in good American fashion followed the method of docendo discimus. Thus he finds himself again a producer.

The first fruit of his critical studies during the early Leipzig period was the completed essay On Humor, which was now accepted and published by Gutzkow in Unterhaltungen am häuslichen Herd. This, his first printed work, gave him new courage. His studies in English led him again to the English and American poets. The offer of a Leipzig firm to publish a collection of translations of American poetry added new zest to his reading in American literature. The chief source of his translations was Griswold's Poets and Poetry of America. A specimen from Emerson's Representative Men will illustrate his skill in translating:

Sphinx.

"O tiefer und tiefer
Muss tauchen der Geist;
Weisst alles du, weisst du,
Dass gar nichts du weisst;
Jetzt zieht es dich mächtig
Zum Himmel hinan;
Bist droben du, steckst du
Dir weiter die Bahn."

These translations appeared under the title Amerikanische Gedichte. In addition to selections from Bryant, Longfellow, Poe, Bayard Taylor, and others, he translated also George William Curtis' Nile Notes of an Howadji, which was published with the title Nil-Skizzen.

His admiration for American literature was very great, as his own words will show: "But upon this wide, entirely original, field of poetry what abundance, what variety of production! Palmettos grow by the side of gnarly oaks, and the most charming and modest flora of the prairie among the garden flowers of magic beauty and intoxicating perfume." The American poems were followed by translations of Michelet's L'Amour and other French and English works.

Spielhagen connected himself with Gutzkow's Europa and devoted himself for a time to criticism. Among the essays of this period are Objectivity in the Novel, Dickens, Thackeray, etc. At the suggestion of Kolatschek, an Austrian Forty-eighter, who had returned from America and founded the periodical Stimmung der Zeit in Vienna, Spielhagen wrote a severe criticism of Freytag's historical drama The Fabians. This attack upon Freytag was occasioned by the severe criticism of Gutzkow's Magician of Rome, published in the Grenzboten, edited by Julian Schmidt and Gustav Freytag. It was Spielhagen's demand for fair play as well as his admiration for Gutzkow that drew him into the conflict.

The old home in Pomerania had been broken up by the death of his father and the marriage of his sister, and the events of his early life could now be viewed as history. Out of these events and his later experience grew his first great novel, Problematic Characters (1860, Second Part 1861). This novel deals with the conditions in Pomerania in particular, and in Germany in general, before 1848. The title is drawn from Goethe's Aphorisms in Prose: "There are problematic characters which are not adapted to any position in life and are not satisfied with any condition in life. Out of this arises that titanic conflict which consumes life without compensation." The hero, Dr. Oswald Stein, is the poet himself in his rôle as family tutor and implacable foe of the institutions of the nobility, "a belated Young German" and an incipient socialist. He falls in love with Melitta von Berkow in her Hermitage, with the impulsive Emilie von Breesen at the ball, and with Helene von Grenwitz, his pupil. Because of the latter he fights a duel with her suitor, Felix, and then goes off with Dr. Braun to begin anew at Grünwald. In the second part of this novel this unfinished story is carried to its tragic and logical conclusion, when Oswald dies a heroic death at the barricades. Although most of the chief characters drawn in the novel are types, they are modeled after prototypes in real life. Oswald, the revolutionist with a suggestion of the Byronic, echoes the poet in his early career. Dr. Braun (Franz), the man of will, is modeled on the poet's young friend Bernhard, and Oldenburg, the titanic Faust nature, is taken from his friend Adalbert of the Gymnasium days at Stralsund. Albert Timm was his boon companion at Greifswald, and Professor Berger is a composite of Professor Barthold, the historian, and Professor M——, who later became insane.

In the years 1860-62 Spielhagen was editor of the literary supplement of the Zeitung für Norddeutschland, doing valuable service as a literary journalist. In this position he had opportunity to prepare himself for the wider activities as editor of the Deutsche Wochenschrift and later (1878-84) of Westermann's Monatshefte. After 1862 he was identified with the surging life of Berlin.

In The Hohensteins (1863) the story of a declining noble family, recalling the historical novel of Scott and Hauff's Lichtenstein, the socialistic program of Lassalle begins to appear. Lassalle's doctrines find their spokesman in the hero, Bernhard Münzer, the fantastic but despotic agitator and cosmopolitan socialist; while the idealist, Baltasar, voices the reform program of the poet himself in the words: "Educate yourselves, Germans, to love and freedom."

In the next novel, In Rank and File (1866), the program of Lassalle is reflected in Leo Gutmann, a character of the Auerbach type. The mouthpiece of the poet is really Walter Gutmann, who sums up the moral of the story in these sentences: "The heroic age is past. The battle-cry is no longer: 'one for all,' but 'all for all.' The individual is only a soldier in rank and file. As individual he is nothing; as member of the whole he is irresistible." Father Gutmann, the forester, is evidently an echo of the poet's family traditions, while Dr. Paulus is an exponent of the philosophy of Spinoza. Leo's career and fall illustrate the futility of the principle of "state aid" in the reform program. Even the seven years of residence in America were not sufficient to rescue him from his visionary schemes.

In Hammer and Anvil (1869) the same theme is treated in a different form. The poet teaches here that the conflict between master and servant, ruler and subject, must be reinterpreted and recognized as a necessary condition of society. "The situation is not hammer or anvil, as the revolutionists would have it, but hammer and anvil; for every creature, every man, is both together, at every moment." Thus the "solidarity of interests" is the aim to be kept in view, and is shown by Georg Hartwig, who having learned his lesson in the penitentiary now appears as the owner of a factory and gives his workmen an interest in the profits.

The most powerful of Spielhagen's novels is Storm Flood (1877), in which the inundation caused by the fearful storm on the coast of the Baltic Sea in 1874 is made a coincident parallel of the calamity brought about by the reckless speculation of the industrial promoters of the early seventies. As the catastrophe on the Baltic is the consequence of ignoring the warnings of physical phenomena in nature, so the financial crash and family distress which overwhelm the Werbens and Schmidts are the result of the violation of similar natural laws in the social and industrial world. The novelist has here reached the highest development of his art. The course of the narrative gathers in its wake all the elements of catastrophe, to let them break with the fury of the tempest over the lives of the characters, but allows the innocent children of Nature to come forth as the happy survivors of this wreck and ruin. The characters of Reinhold and Else, who find their bliss in true love, are his best creations. The poet has here proved himself a worthy disciple of Shakespeare and Walter Scott.

After this blast of the tempest, the poet turned to the more placid scenes of his native heath in the novel entitled Flat Land (1879), in which he describes the conditions of Pomerania between 1830-1840. The wealth of description and incident, the variety of motive and situation, make this story one of the most characteristic of Pomeranian scenery and life.

In the novel What Is to Come of It? (1887), liberalism, social democracy, nihilism, held in check by the grip of the Iron Chancellor, contend for the mastery. And what shall the result? The poet answers: "There is a bit of the Social Democrat in every one," but the result will be "a and lofty one and a new, glorious phase of an ever-striving humanity." Here are brought into play typical characters, the Bismarckian Squire, the reckless capitalist, the particularist with his feigned liberalism.

Spielhagen's pessimism finds vent in A New Pharaoh (1889), which is a protest against the Bismarck régime. The ideals of the Forty-eighter are represented by Baron von Alden, who comes back from America to visit his old home only to find a new Pharaoh, who knows nothing of the Joseph of 1848. Finding the Germans a race of toadies and slaves, in which the noble-minded go under while the base triumph, he turns his back upon the new empire for good and all. "Nothing is accomplished by the sword which another sword cannot in turn destroy. The permanent and imperishable can be accomplished only by the silent force of reason."

In addition to his more pretentious novels, Spielhagen wrote a large number of shorter novels and short stories. To these belong Klara Vere and On the Dunes, already mentioned, At the Twelfth Hour (1863), Rose of the Court (1864), The Fair Americans (1865), Hans and Grete, and The Village Coquette (1869), German Pioneers (1871), What the Swallow Sang (1873), Ultimo (1874), The Skeleton in the Closet (1878), Quisisana (1880), Angela (1881), Uhlenhans (1883), At the Spa (1885), Noblesse Oblige (1888). The most important of Spielhagen's latest novels are The Sunday Child (1893), Self Justice (1896), Sacrifices (1899), Born Free (1900).

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
Permission Berlin Photo. Co., New York A. Weiss

The place of Spielhagen in German literature is variously estimated. Heinrich and Julius Hart in Kritische Waffengänge (1884) contest his claim to a place among artists of the first rank and condemn his use of the novel for purposes of reform; while Gustav Karpeles in his Friedrich Spielhagen (1889) assigns him a place among the best novelists of his time. This latter position is more nearly correct. The modern disposition to cry art for art's sake, and to denounce all art which has a didactic purpose, is the offspring of ignorance of the real nature of art. In a general way all art has a didactic purpose of varying degrees of directness. It is just this didactic purpose which has entitled the novel to its place among the literary forms, and it is this purpose which made Spielhagen's novels such a potent power in the social revolution of the later nineteenth century.

The charge has been made against Spielhagen that his characters are mechanical types used as vehicles of the author's doctrines or of the tendencies of the time. This charge is not sustained by the facts, even in the case of his first somewhat crude novel, the Problematic Characters, of which he says later: "There was not a squire in Rügen nor a townsman in Stralsund or Greifswald who did not feel himself personally offended." And the pronounced and clearly defined characters of Storm Flood, in their sharp contrasts and fierce conflicts with social tradition and natural impulse, present a vivid picture of the surging life of the New Empire.

Spielhagen possessed an intimate knowledge of literary technique. Few if any of his contemporaries had given more careful attention to the principles of esthetics and of literary workmanship, as may be seen from his critical essays and particularly the treatises, Contributions to the Theory and Technique of the Novel, and New Contributions to the Theory and Technique of the Epic and Drama.

It was but poetic justice that the novelist of the stormy days of the Revolution should be permitted to spend the declining years of his long life in the sunshine of the new Berlin, in whose making he had participated and whose life he had chronicled. He died February 24, 1911, having passed his fourscore years.

[FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN]

[STORM FLOOD][1] (1877)

TRANSLATED AND CONDENSED BY MARION D. LEARNED, PH.D.

Professor of Germanic Languages and Literatures, University of Pennsylvania.

The weather had grown more inclement as evening came on. On the forward deck groups of laborers on their way to the new railroad at Sundin were huddled more closely together between the high tiers of casks, chests, and boxes; from the rear deck the passengers, with few exceptions, had disappeared. Two elderly gentlemen, who had chatted much together during the journey, stood on the starboard looking and pointing toward the island around the south end of which the ship had to pass. The flat coast of the island, rising in a wide circuit to the promontory, became more distinct with each second.

"So that is Warnow?"

"Your pardon, Mr. President—Ahlbeck, a fishing village; to be sure, on Warnow ground. Warnow itself lies further inland; the church tower is just visible above the outlines of the dunes."

The President let fall the eye-glasses through which he had tried in vain to see the point of the church tower. "What sharp eyes you have, General, and how quickly you get your bearings!"

"It is true I have been there only once," replied the General; "but since then I have had only too much time to study this bit of coast on the map."

The President smiled. "Yes, yes, it is classic soil," said he; "there has been much contention over it—much and to no purpose."

"I am convinced that it was fortunate that the contention was fruitless—at least had only a negative result," said the General.

"I am not sure that the strife will not be renewed again," replied the President; "Count Golm and his associates have been making the greatest efforts of late."

"Since they have so signally proved that the road would be unprofitable?"

"Just as you have shown the futility of a naval station here!"

"Pardon, Mr. President, I had not the deciding voice; or, more correctly, I had declined it. The only place at all adapted for the harbor would have been there in the southern corner of the bay, under cover of Wissow Point, that is on Warnow domain. To be sure, I have only the guardianship of the property of my sister——"

"I know, I know," interrupted the President; "old Prussian honesty, which amounts to scrupulousness. Count Golm and his associates are less scrupulous."

"So much the worse for them," replied the General.

The gentlemen then turned and joined a young girl who was seated in a sheltered spot in front of the cabin, passing the time as well as she could by reading or drawing in a small album.

"You would like to remain on deck, of course, Else?" asked the General.

"Do the gentlemen wish to go to the cabin?" queried the young girl in reply, looking up from her book. "I think it is terrible below; but, of course, it is certainly too rough for you, Mr. President!"

"It is, indeed, unusually rough," replied the President, rolling up the collar of his overcoat and casting a glance at the heavens; "I believe we shall have rain before sundown. You should really come with us, Miss Else! Do you not think so, General?"

"Else is weatherproof," replied the General with a smile; "but you might put a shawl or something of the kind about you. May I fetch you something?"

"Thank you, Papa! I have everything here that is necessary," replied Else, pointing to her roll of blankets and wraps; "I shall protect myself if it is necessary. Au revoir!"

She bowed gracefully to the President, cast a pleasant glance at her father, and took up her book again, while the gentlemen went around the corner to a small passage between the cabin and the railing.

She read a few minutes and then looked up and watched the cloud of smoke which was rising from the funnel in thick, dark gray puffs, and rolling over the ship just as before. The man at the helm also stood as he had been standing, letting the wheel run now to the right, now to the left, and then holding it steady in his rough hands. And, sure enough, there too was the gentleman again, who with untiring endurance strode up and down the deck from helm to bowsprit and back from bowsprit to helm, with a steadiness of gait which Else had repeatedly tried to imitate during the day—to be sure with only doubtful success.

"Otherwise," thought Else, "he hasn't much that especially distinguishes him;" and Else said to herself that she would scarcely have noticed the man in a larger company, certainly would not have observed him, perhaps not so much as seen him, and that if she had looked at him today countless times and actually studied him, this could only be because there had not been much to see, observe, or study.

Her sketch-book, which she was just glancing through, showed it. That was intended to be a bit of the harbor of Stettin. "It requires much imagination to make it out," thought Else. "Here is a sketch that came out better: the low meadows, the cows, the light-buoy—beyond, the smooth water with a few sails, again a strip of meadow—finally, in the distance, the sea. The man at the helm is not bad; he held still enough. But 'The Indefatigable' is awfully out of drawing—a downright caricature! That comes from the constant motion! At last! Again! Only five minutes, Mr. So-and-so! That may really be good—the position is splendid!"

The position was indeed simple enough. The gentleman was leaning against a seat with his hands in his pockets, and was looking directly westward into the sea; his face was in a bright light, although the sun had gone behind a cloud, and in addition he stood in sharp profile, which Else always especially liked. "Really a pretty profile," thought Else; "although the prettiest part, the large blue kindly eyes, did not come out well. But, as compensation, the dark full beard promises to be so much the better; I am always successful with beards. The hands in the pockets are very fortunate; the left leg is entirely concealed by the right—not especially picturesque, but extremely convenient for the artist. Now the seat—a bit of the railing—and 'The Indefatigable' is finished!"

She held the book at some distance, so as to view the sketch as a picture; she was highly pleased. "That shows that I can accomplish something when I work with interest," she said to herself; and then she wrote below the picture: "The Indefatigable One. With Devotion. August 26th, '72. E. von W...."

While the young lady was so eagerly trying to sketch the features and figure of the young man, her image had likewise impressed itself on his mind. It was all the same whether he shut his eyes or kept them open; she appeared to him with the same clearness, grace, and charm—now at the moment of departure from Stettin, when her father presented her to the President, and she bowed so gracefully; then, while she was breakfasting with the two gentlemen, and laughing so gaily, and lifting the glass to her lips; again, as she stood on the bridge with the captain, and the wind pressed her garments close to her figure and blew her veil like a pennant behind her; as she spoke with the steerage woman sitting on a coil of rope on the forward deck, quieting her youngest child wrapped in a shawl, then bending down, raising the shawl for a moment, and looking at the hidden treasure with a smile; as she, a minute later, went past him, inquiring with a stern glance of her brown eyes whether he had not at last presumed to observe her; or as she now sat next to the cabin and read, and drew, and read again, and then looked up at the cloud of smoke or at the sailors at the rudder! It was very astonishing how her image had stamped itself so firmly in this short time—but then he had seen nothing above him but the sky and nothing below him but the water, for a year! Thus it may be easily understood how the first beautiful, charming girl whom he beheld after so long a privation should make such a deep and thrilling impression upon him.

"And besides," said the young man to himself, "in three hours we shall be in Sundin, and then—farewell, farewell, never to meet again! But what are they thinking about? You don't intend, certainly," raising his voice, "to go over the Ostersand with this depth of water?" With the last words he had turned to the man at the helm.

"You see, Captain, the matter is this way," replied the man, shifting his quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other; "I was wondering, too, how we should hold our helm! But the Captain thinks——"

The young man did not wait for him to finish. He had taken the same journey repeatedly in former years; only a few days before he had passed the place for which they were steering, and had been alarmed to find only twelve feet of water where formerly there had been a depth of fifteen feet. Today, after the brisk west wind had driven so much water seaward, there could not be ten feet here, and the steamer drew eight feet! And under these circumstances no diminution of speed, no sounding, not a single one of the required precautions! Was the Captain crazy?

The young man ran past Else with such swiftness, and his eyes had such a peculiar expression as they glanced at her, that she involuntarily rose and looked after him. The next moment he was on the bridge with the old, fat Captain, speaking to him long and earnestly, at last, as it appeared, impatiently, and repeatedly pointing all the while toward a particular spot in the direction in which the ship was moving.

A strange sense of anxiety, not felt before on the whole journey, took possession of Else. It could not be a trifling circumstance which threw this quiet, unruffled man into such a state of excitement! And now, what she had supposed several times was clear to her—that he was a seaman, and, without doubt, an able one, who was certainly right, even though the old, fat Captain phlegmatically shrugged his shoulders and pointed likewise in the same direction, and looked through his glass, and again shrugged his shoulders, while the other rushed down the steps from the bridge to the deck, and came straight up to her as if he were about to speak to her.

Yet he did not do so at first, for he hurried past her, although his glance met hers; then, as he had undoubtedly read the silent question in her eyes and upon her lips, he hesitated for a moment and—sure enough, he turned back and was now close behind her!

"Pardon me!"

Her heart beat as if it would burst; she turned around.

"Pardon me," he repeated; "I suppose it is not right to alarm you, perhaps without cause. But it is not impossible, I consider it even quite probable, that we shall run aground within five minutes; I mean strike bottom——"

"For Heaven's sake!" exclaimed Else.

"I do not think it will be serious," continued the young man. "If the Captain—there! We now have only half steam—half speed, you know. But he should reverse the engines, and it is now probably too late for that."

"Can't he be compelled to do it?"

"On board his ship the captain is supreme," replied the young man, smiling in spite of his indignation. "I myself am a seaman, and would just as little brook interference in such a case." He lifted his cap and bowed, took a step and stopped again. A bright sparkle shone in his blue eyes, and his clear, firm voice quivered a bit as he went on, "It is not a question of real danger. The coast lies before us and the sea is comparatively quiet; I only wished that the moment should not surprise you. Pardon my presumption!"

He had bowed again and was quickly withdrawing as if he wished to avoid further questions. "There is no danger," muttered Else; "too bad! I wanted so much to have him rescue me. But father must know it. We ought to prepare the President, too, of course—he is more in need of warning than I am."

She turned toward the cabin; but the retarded movement of the ship, slowing up still more in the last half minute, had already attracted the attention of the passengers, who stood in a group. Her father and the President were already coming up the stairs.

"What's the matter?" cried the General.

"We can't possibly be in Prora already?" questioned the President.

At that instant all were struck as by an electric shock, as a peculiar, hollow, grinding sound grated harshly on their ears. The keel had scraped over the sand-bank without grounding. A shrill signal, a breathless stillness for a few seconds, then a mighty quake through the whole frame of the ship, and the powerful action of the screw working with reversed engine!

The precaution which a few minutes before would have prevented the accident was now too late. The ship was obliged to go back over the same sand-bank which it had just passed with such difficulty. A heavier swell, in receding, had driven the stern a few inches deeper. The screw was working continuously, and the ship listed a little but did not move.

"What in the devil does that mean?" cried the General.

"There is no real danger," said Else with a flash.

"For Heaven's sake, my dear young lady!" interjected the President, who had grown very pale.

"The shore is clearly in sight, and the sea is comparatively quiet," replied Else.

"Oh, what do you know about it!" exclaimed the General; "the sea is not to be trifled with!"

"I am not trifling at all, Papa," said Else.

Bustling, running, shouting, which was suddenly heard from all quarters, the strangely uncanny listing of the ship—all proved conclusively that the prediction of "The Indefatigable" had come true, and that the steamer was aground.

All efforts to float the ship had proved unavailing, but it was fortunate that, in the perilous task required of it, the screw had not broken; moreover, the listing of the hull had not increased. "If the night was not stormy they would lie there quietly till the next morning, when, in case they should not get afloat by that time (and they might get afloat any minute), a passing craft could take off the passengers and carry them to the next port." So spoke the Captain, who was not to be disconcerted by the misfortune which his own stubbornness had caused. He declared that it was clearly noted upon the maps by which he and every other captain had to sail that there were fifteen feet of water at this place; the gentlemen of the government should wake up and see that better charts or at least suitable buoys were provided. And if other captains had avoided the bank and preferred to sail around it for some years, he had meanwhile steered over the same place a hundred times—indeed only day before yesterday. But he had no objections to having the long-boat launched and the passengers set ashore, whence God knows how they were to continue their journey.

"The man is drunk or crazy," said the President, when the Captain had turned his broad back and gone back to his post. "It is a sin and shame that such a man is allowed to command a ship, even if it is only a tug; I shall start a rigid investigation, and he shall be punished in an exemplary manner."

The President, through all his long, thin body, shook with wrath, anxiety, and cold; the General shrugged his shoulders. "That's all very good, my dear Mr. President," said he, "but it comes a little too late to help us out of our unhappy plight. I refrain on principle from interfering with things I do not understand; but I wish we had somebody on board who could give advice. One must not ask the sailors—that would be undermining the discipline! What is it, Else?" Else had given him a meaning look, and he stepped toward her and repeated the question.

"Inquire of that gentleman!" said Else.

"Of what gentleman?"

"The one yonder. He's a seaman; he can certainly give you the best advice."

The General fixed his sharp eye upon the person designated. "Ah, that one?" asked he. "Really looks so."

"Doesn't he?" replied Else. "He had already told me that we were going to run aground."

"He's not one of the officers of the ship, of course?"

"O no! That is—I believe—but just speak to him!"

The General went up to "The Indefatigable." "Beg your pardon, Sir! I hear you are a seaman?"

"At your service."

"Captain?"

"Captain of a merchantman—Reinhold Schmidt."

"My name is General von Werben. You would oblige me, Captain, if you would give me a technical explanation of our situation—privately, of course, and in confidence. I should not like to ask you to say anything against a comrade, or to do anything that would shake his authority, which we may possibly yet need to make use of. Is the Captain responsible, in your opinion, for our accident?"

THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN
Permission Ch. Sedelmeyer, Paris
Michael von Munkacsy

"Yes, and no, General. No, for the sea charts, by which we are directed to steer, record this place as navigable. The charts were correct, too, until a few years ago; since that time heavy sand deposits have been made here, and, besides, the water has fallen continually in consequence of the west wind which has prevailed for some weeks. The more prudent, therefore, avoid this place. I myself should have avoided it."

"Very well! And now what do you think of the situation? Are we in danger, or likely to be?"

"I think not. The ship lies almost upright, and on clear, smooth sand. It may lie thus for a very long time, if nothing intervenes."

"The Captain is right in keeping us on board, then?"

"Yes, I think so—the more so as the wind, for the first time in three days, appears about to shift to the east, and, if it does, we shall probably be afloat again in a few hours. Meanwhile——"

"Meanwhile?"

"To err is human, General. If the wind—we now have south-southeast—it is not probable, but yet possible—should again shift to the west and become stronger, perhaps very strong, a serious situation might, of course, confront us."

"Then we should take advantage of the Captain's permission to leave the ship?"

"As the passage is easy and entirely safe, I can at least say nothing against it. But, in that case, it ought to be done while it is still sufficiently light—best of all, at once."

"And you? You would remain, as a matter of course?"

"As a matter of course, General."

"I thank you."

The General touched his cap with a slight nod of his head; Reinhold lifted his with a quick movement, returning the nod with a stiff bow.

"Well?" queried Else, as her father came up to her again.

"The man must have been a soldier," replied the General.

"Why so?" asked the President.

"Because I could wish that I might always have such clear, accurate reports from my officers. The situation, then, is this——"

He repeated what he had just heard from Reinhold, and closed by saying that he would recommend to the Captain that the passengers who wished to do so should be disembarked at once. "I, for my part, do not think of submitting to this inconvenience, which it would seem, moreover, is unnecessary; except that Else——"

"I, Papa!" exclaimed Else; "I don't think of it for a moment!"

The President was greatly embarrassed. He had, to be sure, only this morning renewed a very slight former personal acquaintance with General von Werben, after the departure from Stettin; but now that he had chatted with him the entire day and played the knight to the young lady on countless occasions, he could not help explaining, with a twitch of the lips which was intended to be a smile, that he wished now to share with his companions the discomforts of the journey as he had, up to this time, the comforts; the Prussian ministry would be able to console itself, if worse comes to worst, for the loss of a President who, as the father of six young hopefuls, has, besides, a succession of his own, and accordingly neither has nor makes claims to the sympathy of his own generation.

Notwithstanding his resignation, the heart of the worthy official was much troubled. Secretly he cursed his own boundless folly in coming home a day earlier, in having intrusted himself to a tug instead of waiting for a coast steamer, due the next morning, and in inviting the "stupid confidence" of the General and the coquettish manœuvrings of the young lady; and when the long-boat was really launched a few minutes later, and in what seemed to him an incredibly short time was filled with passengers from the foredeck, fortunately not many in number, together with a few ladies and gentlemen from the first cabin, and was now being propelled by the strokes of the heavy oars, and soon afterwards with hoisted sails was hastily moving toward the shore, he heaved a deep sigh and determined at any price—even that of the scornful smile on the lips of the young lady—to leave the ship, too, before nightfall.

And night came on only too quickly for the anxious man. The evening glow on the western horizon was fading every minute, while from the east—from the open sea—it was growing darker and darker. How long would it be till the land, which appeared through the evening mist only as an indistinct streak to the near-sighted man, would vanish from his sight entirely? And yet it was certain that the waves were rising higher every minute, and here and there white caps were appearing and breaking with increasing force upon the unfortunate ship—something that had not happened during the entire day! Then were heard the horrible creaking of the rigging, the uncanny whistling of the tackle, the nerve-racking boiling and hissing of the steam, which was escaping almost incessantly from the overheated boiler. Finally the boiler burst, and the torn limbs of a man, who had been just buttoning up his overcoat, were hurled in every direction through the air. The President grew so excited at this catastrophe that he unbuttoned his overcoat, but buttoned it up again because the wind was blowing with icy coldness. "It is insufferable!" he muttered.

Else had noticed for some time how uncomfortable it was for the President to stay upon the ship—a course which he had evidently decided upon, against his will, out of consideration for his traveling-companions. Her love of mischief had found satisfaction in this embarrassing situation, which he tried to conceal; but now her good nature gained the upper hand, for he was after all an elderly, apparently feeble gentleman, and a civilian. One could, of course, not expect of him the unflinching courage or the sturdiness of her father, who had not even once buttoned his cloak, and was now taking his accustomed evening walk to and fro upon the deck. But her father had decided to remain; it would be entirely hopeless now to induce him to leave the boat. "He must find a solution to the problem," she said to herself.

Reinhold had vanished after his last conversation with her father, and was not now on the rear deck; so she went forward, and there he sat on a great box, looking through a pocket telescope toward the land—so absorbed that she had come right up to him before he noticed her. He sprang hastily to his feet, and turned to her.

"How far are they?" asked Else.

"They are about to land," replied he. "Would you like to look?"

He handed her the instrument. The glass, when she touched it, still had a trace of the warmth of the hand from which it came, which would have been, under other circumstances, by no means an unpleasant sensation to her, but this time she scarcely noticed it, thinking of it only for an instant, while she was trying to bring into the focus of the glass the point which he indicated. She did not succeed; she saw nothing but an indistinct, shimmering gray. "I prefer to use my eyes!" she exclaimed, putting down the instrument. "I see the boat quite distinctly there, close to the land—in the white streak! What is it?"

"The surf."

"Where is the sail?"

"They let it down so as not to strike too hard. But, really, you have the eye of a seaman!" Else smiled at the compliment, and Reinhold smiled. Their glances met for a minute.

"I have a request to make of you," said Else, without dropping her eyes.

"I was just about to make one of you," he replied, looking straight into her brown eyes, which beamed upon him; "I was about to ask you to allow yourself to be put ashore also. We shall be afloat in another hour, but the night is growing stormy, and as soon as we have passed Wissow Hook"—he pointed to the promontory—"we shall have to cast anchor. That is at best not a very pleasant situation, at the worst a very unpleasant one. I should like to save you from both."

"I thank you," said Else; "and now my request is no longer necessary"—and she told Reinhold why she had come.

"That's a happy coincidence!" he said, "but there is not a moment to lose. I am going to speak to your father at once. We must be off without delay."

"We?"

"I shall, with your permission, take you ashore myself."

"I thank you," said Else again with a deep breath. She had held out her hand; he took the little tender hand in his, and again their glances met.

"One can trust that hand," thought Else; "and those eyes, too!" And she said aloud, "But you must not think that I should have been afraid to remain here! It's really for the sake of the poor President."

She had withdrawn her hand and was hastening away to meet her father, who, wondering why she had remained away so long, had come to look for her.

When he was about to follow her, Reinhold saw lying at his feet a little blue-gray glove. She must have just slipped it off as she was adjusting the telescope. He stooped down quickly, picked it up, and put it in his pocket.

"She will not get that again," he said to himself.

Reinhold was right; there had been no time to lose. While the little boat which he steered cut through the foaming waves, the sky became more and more overcast with dark clouds which threatened soon to extinguish even the last trace of the evening glow in the west. In addition, the strong wind had suddenly shifted from the south to the north, and because of this (to insure a more speedy return of the boat to the ship) they were unable to land at the place where the long-boat, which was already coming back, had discharged its passengers—viz., near the little fishing village, Ahlbeck, at the head of the bay, immediately below Wissow Hook. They had to steer more directly to the north, against the wind, where there was scarcely room upon the narrow beach of bare dunes for a single hut, much less for a fishing village; and Reinhold could consider himself fortunate when, with a bold manœuvre, he brought the little boat so near the shore that the disembarkment of the company and the few pieces of baggage which they had taken from the ship could be accomplished without great difficulty.

"I fear we have jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire," said the President gloomily.

"It is a consolation to me that we were not the cause of it," replied the General, not without a certain sharpness in the tone of his strong voice.

"No, no, certainly not!" acknowledged the President, "Mea maxima culpa! My fault alone, my dear young lady. But, admit it—the situation is hopeless, absolutely hopeless!"

"I don't know," replied Else; "it is all delightful to me."

"Well, I congratulate you heartily," said the President; "for my part I should rather have an open fire, a chicken wing, and half a bottle of St. Julien; but if it is a consolation to have companions in misery, then, it ought to be doubly so to know that what appears as very real misery to the pensive wisdom of one is a romantic adventure to the youthful imagination of another."

The President, while intending to banter, had hit upon the right word. To Else the whole affair appeared a "romantic adventure," in which she felt a genuine hearty delight. When Reinhold brought her the first intimation of the impending danger, she was, indeed, startled; but she had not felt fear for a moment—not even when the abusive men, crying women, and screaming children hurried from the ship, which seemed doomed to sink, into the long-boat which rocked up and down upon the gray waves, while night came over the open sea, dark and foreboding. The tall seaman, with the clear blue eyes, had said that there was no danger; he must know; why should she be afraid? And even if the situation should become dangerous he was the man to do the right thing at the right moment and to meet danger! This sense of security had not abandoned her when into the surf they steered the skiff, rocked like a nut-shell in the foaming waves. The President, deathly pale, cried out again and again, "For God's sake!" and a cloud of concern appeared even on the earnest face of her father. She had just cast a glance at the man at the helm, and his blue eyes had gleamed as brightly as before, even more brightly in the smile with which he answered her questioning glance. And then when the boat had touched the shore, and the sailors were carrying the President, her father, and the three servants to land, and she herself stood in the bow, ready to take a bold leap, she felt herself suddenly surrounded by a pair of strong arms, and was thus half carried, half swung, to the shore without wetting her foot—she herself knew not how.

And there she stood now, a few steps distant from the men, who were consulting, wrapped in her raincoat, in the full consciousness of a rapture such as she never felt before. Was it not then really fine! Before her the gray, surging, thundering, endless sea, above which dark threatening night was gathering; right and left in an unbroken line the white foaming breakers! She herself with the glorious moist wind blowing about her, rattling in her ears, wrapping her garments around her, and driving flecks of spray into her face! Behind her the bald spectral dunes, upon which the long dune grass, just visible against the faintly brighter western sky, beckoned and nodded—whither? On into the happy splendid adventure which was not yet at an end, could not be at an end, must not be at an end—for that would be a wretched shame!

The gentlemen approached her. "We have decided, Else," said the General, "to make an expedition over the dunes into the country. The fishing village at which the long-boat landed is nearly a quarter of a mile distant, and the road in the deep sand would probably be too difficult for our honored President. Besides, we should scarcely find shelter there."

"If only we don't get lost in the dunes," sighed the President.

"The Captain's knowledge of the locality will be guarantee for that," said the General.

"I can scarcely speak of a knowledge of the place, General," replied Reinhold. "Only once, and that six years ago, have I cast a glance from the top of these dunes into the country; but I remember clearly that I saw a small tenant-farm, or something of the kind, in that direction. I can promise to find the house. How it will be about quarters I cannot say in advance."

"In any case we cannot spend the night here," exclaimed the General. "So, en avant! Do you wish my arm, Else?"

"Thank you, Papa, I can get up."

And Else leaped upon the dune, following Reinhold, who, hurrying on ahead, had already reached the top, while the General and the President followed more slowly, and the two servants with the effects closed the procession.

"Well!" exclaimed Else with delight as, a little out of breath, she came up to Reinhold. "Are we also at the end of our tether, like the President?"

"Make fun of me if you like, young lady," replied Reinhold; "I don't feel at all jolly over the responsibility which I have undertaken. Yonder"—and he pointed over the lower dunes into the country, in which evening and mist made everything indistinct—"it must be there."

"'Must be,' if you were right! But 'must' you be right?"

As if answering the mocking question of the girl, a light suddenly shot up exactly in the direction in which Reinhold's arm had pointed. A strange shudder shot through Else.

"Pardon me!" she said.

Reinhold did not know what this exclamation meant. At that moment the others reached the top of the rather steep dune.

"Per aspera ad astra," puffed the President.

"I take my hat off to you, Captain," said the General.

"It was great luck," replied Reinhold modestly.

"And we must have luck," exclaimed Else, who had quickly overcome that strange emotion and had now returned to her bubbling good humor.

The little company strode on through the dunes; Reinhold going on ahead again, while Else remained with the other gentlemen.

"It is strange enough," said the General, "that the mishap had to strike us just at this point of the coast. It really seems as if we were being punished for our opposition. Even if my opinion that a naval station can be of no use here is not shaken, yet, now that we have almost suffered shipwreck here ourselves, a harbor appears to me——"

"A consummation devoutly to be wished!" exclaimed the President. "Heaven knows! And when I think of the severe cold which I shall take from this night's promenade in the abominably wet sand, and that, instead of this, I might now be sitting in a comfortable coupé and tonight be sleeping in my bed, then I repent every word I have spoken against the railroad, about which I have put myself at odds with all our magnates—and not the least with Count Golm, whose friendship would just now be very opportune for us."

"How so?" asked the General.

"Golm Castle lies, according to my calculation, at the most a mile from here; the hunting lodge on Golmberg——"

"I remember it," interrupted the General; "the second highest promontory on the shore to the north—to our right. We can be scarcely half a mile away."

"Now, see," said the President; "that would be so convenient, and the Count is probably there. Frankly, I have secretly counted on his hospitality in case, as I only too much fear, a hospitable shelter is not to be found in the tenant-house, and you do not give up your disinclination to knock at the door in Warnow, which would, indeed, be the simplest and most convenient thing to do."

The President, who had spoken panting, and with many intermissions, had stopped; the General replied with a sullen voice, "You know that I am entirely at outs with my sister."

"But you said the Baroness was in Italy?"

"Yet she must be coming back at this time, has perhaps already returned; and, if she were not, I would not go to Warnow, even if it were but ten paces from here. Let us hurry to get under shelter, Mr. President, or we shall be thoroughly drenched in addition to all we have already passed through."

In fact, scattered drops had been falling for some time from the low-moving clouds, and hastening their steps, they had just entered the farmyard and were groping their way between barns and stables over a very uneven courtyard to the house in whose window they had seen the light, when the rain, which had long been threatening, poured down in full force.

[Pölitz receives his guests with apologies for the accommodations and his wife's absence from the room. His manner is just a bit forced; Else, noticing it, goes out to look for Mrs. Pölitz, and brings the report that the children are sick. The President suggests that they go on to Golmberg. Pölitz will not hear of it, but Else has made arrangements—makeshifts though they are—for the trip, and insists upon leaving, even in the face of the storm. A messenger is to be sent ahead to announce them—Reinhold included, upon Else's insistence. Else goes into the kitchen, where Mrs. Pölitz pours out her soul to her—the hardheartedness of the Count, who has never married, and her vain labors to keep their little home in Swantow. It sets her thinking, first about the Count, then about Reinhold—was he married or not? Wouldn't any girl be proud of him—even herself! But then there would be disinheritance! Yet she keeps on thinking of him. How would "Mrs. Schmidt" sound! She laughs, and then grows serious; tears come into her eyes; she puts her hand into her pocket and feels the compass which Reinhold had given her. It is faithful. "If I ever love, I too shall be faithful," she says to herself.

Reinhold, going out to look for the boat, wonders why he left it to accompany the others to Pölitz's house; but fortunately he finds it safe. Now his duty to the General and Else is fulfilled; he will never see her again, probably. Yet he hastens back—and meets them just on the point of leaving for Golmberg.

The President has been waiting for the storm to blow over, he says. Else is fidgety, yet without knowing why; she wonders what has become of Reinhold. The President sounds Pölitz on the subject of the railway—the nearest doctor living so far away that they cannot afford to have him come. But Pölitz says that they do not want a railway—a decent wagon road would be enough, and they could have that if only the Count would help a little. A naval station? So far as they are concerned, a simple break-water would do, he tells the President. The latter, while Pölitz is out looking for the messenger, discusses with the General the condition of the Count's tenants, in the midst of which the Count himself arrives with his own carriages to take them over to Golmberg.

A chorus of greetings follows. The Count had met the General in Versailles on the day the German Emperor was proclaimed, the General had not forgotten. The company now lacks only Reinhold, and the Count, thinking that he must have lost his way, is about to send a searching party, when Else tells him that she has already done so. The Count smiles. She hates him for it, and outside, a moment later, rebukes herself for not controlling her temper. Reinhold meets her there. She commands him to accompany them. As they are leaving Else makes a remark about the doctor, which is overheard, as she intended, by the Count, who promises to send for the doctor himself.

They proceed to Golmberg. Conversation in the servants' carriage is lively, turning on the relative merits of their respective masters—how liberal the Count is; how strict, yet not so bad, the General; while a bottle of brandy passes around. In the first carriage, where Else, the President, and the General are riding, the conversation is of the Count's family and of old families in general, then of the project before them—the railroad and the naval station. The President drops that subject, finding the General not kindly disposed to it. He and Else are both thinking of her indirect request to the Count to send for the doctor. Then Else's thoughts turn again to Reinhold—his long absence—what he would think of her command to accompany them. The Count and Reinhold in the second carriage speak hardly a dozen words. Reinhold's thoughts are of Else—how hopelessly far above him she is—how he would like to run away. They arrive at Golmberg.]

The President had dropped the remark in his note that the absence of a hostess in the castle would be somewhat embarrassing for the young lady in their company, but as it was not so easily to be remedied he would apologize for him in advance. The Count had dispatched a messenger forthwith to his neighbor, von Strummin, with the urgent request that he should come with his wife and daughter to Golmberg, prepared to spend the night there. The Strummins were glad to render this neighborly service, and Madame and Miss von Strummin had already received Else in the hall, and conducted her to the room set apart for her, adjoining their own rooms.

The President rubbed his thin white hands contentedly before the fire in his own comfortable room, and murmured, as John put the baggage in order, "Delightful; very delightful! I think this will fully reconcile the young lady to her misfortune and restore her grouchy father to a sociable frame of mind."

Else was fully reconciled. To be released from the close, jolting prison of a landau and introduced into a brightly lighted castle in the midst of the forest, where servants stood with torches at the portal; to be most heartily welcomed in the ancient hall, with its strangely ornamented columns, by two ladies who approached from among the arms and armor with which the walls and columns were hung and surrounded, and conducted into the snuggest of all the apartments; to enjoy a flickering open fire, brightly burning wax tapers before a tall mirror in a rich rococo frame, velvet carpets of a marvelous design which was repeated in every possible variation upon the heavy hangings before the deeply recessed windows, on the portières of the high gilded doors, and the curtains of the antique bed—all this was so fitting, so charming, so exactly as it should be in an adventure! Else shook the hand of the matronly Madame von Strummin, thanked her for her kindness, and kissed the pretty little Marie, with the mischievous brown eyes, and asked permission to call her "Meta," or "Mieting," just as her mother did, who had just left the room. Mieting returned the embrace with the greatest fervor and declared that nothing more delightful in the world could have come to her than the invitation for this evening. She, with her Mamma, felt so bored at Strummin!—it was horribly monotonous in the country!—and in the midst of it this letter from the Count! She was fond of coming to Golmberg, anyhow—the forest was so beautiful, and the view from the platform of the tower, from the summit of Golmberg beyond the forest over the sea—that was really charming; to be sure, the opportunity but seldom! Her mother was a little indolent, and the gentlemen thought of their hunting, their horses, and generally only of themselves. Thus she had not been a little surprised, too, at the haste of the Count today in procuring company for the strange young lady, just as if he had already known beforehand how fair and lovely the strange young lady was, and how great the pleasure of being with her, and of chattering so much nonsense; if she might say "thou" to her, then they could chatter twice as pleasantly.

The permission gladly given and sealed with a kiss threw the frolicsome girl into the greatest ecstasy. "You must never go away again!" she exclaimed; "or, if you do, only to return in the autumn! He will not marry me, in any case; I have nothing, and he has nothing in spite of his entail, and Papa says that we shall all be bankrupt here if we don't get the railroad and the harbor. And your Papa and the President have the whole matter in hand, Papa said as we drove over; and if you marry him, your Papa will give the concession, as a matter of course—I believe that's what it's called, isn't it? And you are really already interested in it as it is; for the harbor, Papa says, can be laid out only on the estates which belong to your aunt, and you and your brother—you inherit it from your aunt—are already coheirs? It is a strange will, Papa says, and he would like to know how the matter really is. Don't you know? Please do tell me! I promise not to tell anyone."

"I really don't know," replied Else. "I only know that we are very poor, and that you may go on and marry your Count for all me."

"I should be glad to do so," said the little lady seriously, "but I'm not pretty enough for him, with my insignificant figure and my pug nose. I shall marry a rich burgher some day, who is impressed by our nobility—for the Strummins are as old as the island, you know—a Mr. Schulze, or Müller, or Schmidt. What's the name of the captain who came with you?"

"Schmidt, Reinhold Schmidt."

"No, you're joking!"

"Indeed, I'm not; but he's not a captain."

"Not a Captain! What then?"

"A sea captain."

"Of the Marine?"

"A simple sea captain."

"Oh, dear me!"

That came out so comically, and Mieting clapped her hands with such a naïve surprise, that Else had to laugh, and the more so as she could thus best conceal the blush of embarrassment which flushed her face.

"Then he will not even take supper with us!" exclaimed Mieting.

"Why not?" asked Else, who had suddenly become very serious again.

"A simple captain!" repeated Mieting; "too bad! He's such a handsome man! I had picked him out for myself! But a simple sea captain!"

Madame von Strummin entered the room to escort the ladies to supper. Mieting rushed toward her mother to tell her her great discovery. "Everything is already arranged," replied her mother. "The Count asked your father and the President whether they wished the captain to join the company. Both of the gentlemen were in favor of it, and so he too will appear at supper. And then, too, he seems so far to be a very respectable man," concluded Madame von Strummin.

"I'm really curious," said Mieting.

Else did not say anything; but when at the entrance of the corridor she met her father, who had just come from his room, she whispered to him, "Thank you!"

"One must keep a cheerful face in a losing game," replied the General in the same tone.

Else was a bit surprised; she had not believed that he would so seriously regard the question of etiquette, which he had just decided as she wished. She did not reflect that her father could not understand her remark without special explanation, and did not know that he had given to it an entirely different meaning. He had been annoyed and had allowed his displeasure to be noticed, even at the reception in the hall. He supposed that Else had observed this, and was now glad that he had meanwhile resolved to submit quietly and coolly to the inevitable, and in this frame of mind he had met her with a smile. It was only the Count's question that reminded him again of the young sea captain. He had attached no significance either to the question or to his answer, that he did not know why the Count should not invite the captain to supper.

Happily for Reinhold, he had not had even a suspicion of the possibility that his appearance or non-appearance at supper could be seriously debated by the company.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," he said to himself, arranging his suit as well as he could with the aid of the things which he had brought along in his bag from the ship for emergencies. "And now to the dickens with the sulks! If I have run aground in my stupidity, I shall get afloat again. To hang my head or to lose it would not be correcting the mistake, but only making it worse—and it is already bad enough. But now where are my shoes?"

In the last moment on board he had exchanged the shoes which he had been wearing for a pair of high waterproof boots. They had done him excellent service in the water and rain, in the wet sand of the shore, and on the way to the tenant-farm—but now! Where were the shoes? Certainly not in the traveling bag, into which he thought he had thrown them, but in which they refused to be found, although he finally, in his despair, turned the whole contents out and spread them about him. And this article of clothing here, which he had already taken up a dozen times and dropped again—the shirt bosoms were wanting! It was not the blue overcoat! It was the black evening coat, the most precious article of his wardrobe, which he was accustomed to wear only to dinners at the ship-owners', the consul's, and other formal occasions! Reinhold sprang for the bell—the rotten cord broke in his hand. He jerked the door open and peered into the hall—no servant was to be seen; he called first softly and then more loudly—no servant answered. And yet—what was to be done! The coarse woolen jacket which he had worn under his raincoat, and had, notwithstanding, got wet in places had been taken away by the servant to dry. "In a quarter of an hour," the man had said, "the Count will ask you to supper." Twenty minutes had already passed; he had heard distinctly that the President, who was quartered a few doors from his room, had passed through the hall to go downstairs; he would have to remain here in the most ridiculous imprisonment, or appear downstairs before the company in the most bizarre costume—water-boots and black dress suit—before the eyes of the President, whose long, lean figure, from the top of his small shapely head to his patent-leather tips, which he had worn even on board ship, was the image of the most painful precision—before the rigorous General, in his closely buttoned undress uniform—before the Count, who had already betrayed an inclination to doubt his social eligibility—before the ladies!—before her—before her mischievous brown eyes! "Very well," he concluded, "if I have been fool enough to follow the glances of these eyes then this shall be my punishment, I will now do penance—in a black dress coat and water-boots."

With a jerk he pulled on the boots which he still held in his rigid left hand, regarding them from time to time with horror, and opened the door again, this time to go down the broad stairway, and with a steady step along the hall into the dining-room, the location of which he had already learned from the servant.

Meanwhile the rest of the company had assembled. The two young ladies had appeared arm in arm and did not allow themselves to be separated, although the Count, who approached them with animation, addressed his words to Else alone. He dutifully hastened to inform the young lady that the carriage had been sent off to Prora for the doctor a quarter of an hour before. He asked Else whether she was interested in painting, and if she would allow him to call her attention hastily to some of the more important things which he had brought from the gallery in Castle Golm to Golmberg to decorate the dining-room, which seemed to him altogether too bare: here a Watteau, bought by his great-grandfather himself in Paris; over there, a cluster of fruit, called "Da Frutti," by the Italian Gobbo, a pupil of Annibale Carracci; yonder, the large still-life by the Netherlander Jacob van Ness. This flower piece would interest the young lady especially, as it is by a lady, Rachel Ruysch, a Netherlander of course, whose pictures are greatly in demand. Here on the étagère, the service of Meissen porcelain, once in the possession of August the Strong, which his great-grandfather, who was for some years Swedish minister at the Dresden Court, had received in exchange for a pair of reindeer—the first that had been seen on the continent; here the no less beautiful Sèvres service, which he himself had in previous years admired in the castle of a nobleman in France, who had presented it to him, in recognition of his fortunate efforts to preserve the castle, which he had turned into a hospital.

"You are not interested in old porcelain?" queried the Count, who thought he noticed that the dark eyes of the young lady glanced only very superficially over his treasures.

"I have seen so few such things," said Else, "I do not know how to appreciate their beauty."

"And then, too, we are a bit hungry," put in Mieting—"at least I am. We dine at home at eight o'clock, and now it is eleven."

"Hasn't the Captain been called?" asked the Count of the butler.

"Certainly, your Grace; a quarter of an hour ago."

"Then we will not wait any longer. The etiquette of kings does not appear to be that of sea captains. May I accompany you, Miss Else?"

He offered Else his arm; hesitatingly she rested the tips of her fingers upon it. She would have liked to spare the Captain the embarrassment of finding the company already at the table, but her father had offered his arm to Mieting's mother, and the gallant President his to Mieting. The three couples proceeded to the table, which stood between them and the door, when the door opened and the strange figure of a bearded man in black suit and high water-boots appeared, in which Else, to her horror, recognized the Captain. But in the next moment she had to laugh like the others. Mieting dropped the arm of the President and fled to a corner of the hall to smother in her handkerchief the convulsive laughter which had seized her at the unexpected sight.

"I must apologize," said Reinhold, "but the haste with which we left the ship today was not favorable to a strict selection from my wardrobe, as I have unfortunately just now noticed."

"And, as this haste has turned out to our advantage, we least of all have reason to lay any greater stress upon the trivial mishap than it deserves," said the President very graciously.

"Why didn't you call on my valet?" asked the Count with gentle reproof.

"I find the costume very becoming," said Else, with a desperate effort to be serious again and with a reproving glance at Mieting, who had come out of her corner but did not yet dare to take the handkerchief from her face.

"That is much more than I had dared to hope," said Reinhold.

They had taken their places at the table—Reinhold diagonally opposite Else and directly across from the Count; at his left, Miss Mieting, and, at his right, von Strummin, a broad-shouldered gentleman with a wide red face covered on the lower part by a big red beard; he was possessed of a tremendously loud voice which was the more unpleasant to Reinhold as it continually smothered the low merry chatter of the young lady at his left. The good-natured child had determined to make Reinhold forget her improper behavior of a few minutes before, and the execution of this resolution was made easier for her as, now that the tablecloth graciously covered the ridiculous water-boots, she verified what she thought she had discovered at the first glance—that the Captain, with his great, bright, blue eyes, his brown face, and his curly brown beard, was a handsome man, a very handsome man. After she had tried to communicate to Else this important discovery by significant glances and explanatory gestures, and to her delight had had it corroborated by a smile and nod, she yielded to the pleasure of conversation with the handsome man, the more eagerly because she was sure that this fervor would not pass unnoticed by the Count. For she knew from experience that it would not please him, that he would even feel it a kind of personal offense when ladies, whose favor he did not seek, bestowed special attention upon other gentlemen in his presence! And the fact that this was a simple sea captain, whose social status had been discussed shortly before, made the matter more amusing and spicy in her merry eyes; besides, the conversation was entertaining enough without that. "The Captain has so many stories to tell! And he tells them so simply and frankly! You can't believe, Else, how interesting it is!" she shouted across the table; "I could listen to him all night!"

"The child is not very discriminating in her taste," said the Count to Else.

"I am sorry," said Else, "she has just chosen me as her friend, as you have heard."

"That is another matter," said the Count.

The conversation between them could not get under way; the Count found himself repeatedly left to talk to Madame von Strummin, with whom he then conversed also—not to be altogether silent; while Else turned to her neighbor on the other side, the President. And more than once, when Madame von Strummin was again conversing with the General, the Count had to sit and look on in silence and see how well the conversation at his table could go on without him. To fill out these forced pauses, he drank one glass of wine after another without improving his humor, which he vented on the servants because he had nobody else. It would have been most agreeable to him, to be sure, to use the Captain for this purpose, but he found him extremely odious—everything about him, his appearance, his attitude, his manners, his expression, his voice! It was the irony of fate that he himself had brought the man to his house in his own wagon! If only he had not asked the man to supper, but had left him in his room! He said to himself that it was ridiculous to be angry about the man, and yet he was angry—angry again because he could not control his feeling. He must, at any price, make the conversation general, to release himself from a state of mind which had become quite intolerable to him.

Opposite him von Strummin was shouting into the ear of the General, who seemed to listen only against his will, his views about the railroad and the naval station. The Count, for his part, had determined not to touch upon the delicate theme while at table; now any theme was agreeable to him.

"Pardon, my friend," said he, raising his voice; "I have heard a snatch of what you have just been telling the General about our favorite project. You say continually 'we' and 'us,' but you know that our views differ in essential points; I should like, therefore, to ask you, if you must speak of the matter now, to do so only in your own name."

"Ho, ho!" exclaimed von Strummin. "Wherein do we differ so seriously? In one point, I wish a station at Strummin just as much as you do at Golm."

"But we can't all have a station," said the Count with a patronizing shrug of the shoulders.

"Certainly not; but I must, or the whole project is not worth a red cent to me," exclaimed the other. "What! Am I to haul my corn half a mile, as before, and an hour later let the train whizz past my nose! In that case I shall prefer to vote at the Diet for the highway which the government offers; that will run right behind my new barn; I can push the wagon from the barn floor to the road. Isn't that true, Mr. President?"

"Whether the highway will run directly behind your barn or not, von Strummin, I really do not know," said the President. "In any case it will come through your property; as for the rest, my views have been long known to the gentlemen;" and he turned to Else again, to continue with her the conversation which had been interrupted.

The Count was angry at the reproof which these last words seemed to convey, the more so as he was conscious that he had not deserved it. He had not begun the discussion! Now it might and must be carried still further!

"You see," continued he, turning to von Strummin, "what a bad turn you have done us—I must say 'us,' now—by this continual, disagreeable intrusion of personal interests. Of course we want our profit from it—what sensible man does not want that! But that is a secondary matter. First the State, then the other things. So I think, at least, and so does the General here."

"Certainly I think so," said the General; "but how is it that you bring me into it?"

"Because no one would profit more by the execution of the project than your sister—or whoever may be in possession of Warnow, Gristow, and Damerow."

"I shall never possess a foot of those estates," said the General knitting his eyebrows. "Besides, I have had absolutely nothing to do with the matter, as you yourself know, Count; I have not once expressed an opinion, and so am not in a position to accept the compliment you paid me."

He turned again to Madame von Strummin. The Count's face flushed.

"The views of a man in your position, General," he said with a skilful semblance of composure, "can no more be concealed than the most official declaration of our honored President, even if he give them no official form."

The General knitted his brows still more sternly.

"Very well, Count," exclaimed the General, "be it so, but I confess myself openly to be the most determined opponent of your project! I consider it strategically useless, and technically impossible of execution."

"Two reasons, either of which would be crushing if it were valid," rejoined the Count with an ironical smile. "As to the first, I submit, of course, to such an authority as you are—though we could not always have war with France and her weak navy, but might occasionally have it with Russia with her strong navy, and in that case a harbor facing the enemy might be very necessary. But the impracticability of the project, General! On this point I think that I, with my amphibian character as a country gentleman living by the sea, may with all deference say a word. Our sand, difficult as it makes the construction of roads, to the great regret of ourselves and our President, is excellent material for a railroad embankment, and will prove itself a good site for the foundation of our harbor walls."

"Except those places where we should have to become lake-dwellers again," said the President, who for the sake of the General could no longer keep silent.

"There may be such places," exclaimed the Count, who, in spite of the exasperating contradictions by both of the gentlemen, now had the satisfaction at least of knowing that all other conversation had ceased and that for the moment he alone was speaking; "I grant it. But what else would that prove than that the building of the harbor will last a few months or years longer and cost a few hundred thousands or even a few millions more? And what will they say of an undertaking which, once completed, is an invincible bulwark against any enemy attacking from the east?"

"Except one!" said Reinhold.

The Count had not thought that this person could join the conversation. His face flushed with anger; he cast a black look at the new opponent, and asked in a sharp defiant tone:

"And that is?"

"A storm flood," replied Reinhold.

"We here in this country are too much accustomed to storms and floods to be afraid of either," said the Count, with forced composure.

"Yes, I know," replied Reinhold; "but I am not speaking of ordinary atmospheric and marine adjustments and disturbances, but of an event which I am convinced has been coming for years and only waits for an opportune occasion, which will not be wanting, to break forth with a violence of which the boldest imagination can form no conception."

"Are we still in the realm of reality, or already in the sphere of the imagination?" asked the Count.

"We are in the domain of possibility," replied Reinhold; "of a possibility which a glance at the map will show us has already been more than once realized and will in all human probability be repeated at no very distant future time."

"You make us extremely curious," said the Count.

He had said it ironically; but he had only given expression to the feelings of the company. The eyes of all were fixed upon Reinhold.

"I am afraid I shall tire the ladies with these things," said Reinhold.

"Not in the least," said Else.

"I just revel in everything connected with the sea," said Mieting, with a mischievous glance at Else.

"You would really oblige me," said the President.

"Please continue!" added the General.

"I shall be as brief as possible," said Reinhold, glancing first at the General and then at the President, as if he were addressing them alone. "The Baltic appears to have remained a world to itself after its formation by revolutions of the most violent nature. It has no ebb and flow, it contains less salt than the North Sea, and the percentage of salt diminishes toward the east, so that the flora and fauna——"

"What's that?" interrupted Mieting.

"The vegetable and animal world, Miss Mieting—of the Gulf of Finland are almost those of fresh water. Nevertheless there is a constant interaction between the gulf and the ocean, as the two are still visibly connected—an ebb and flow from the latter to the former, and vice versa, with a highly complicated coincident combination of the most varied causes, one of which I must emphasize, because it is just that one of which I have to speak. It is the regularity with which the winds blow from west to east and from east to west, that accompanies and assists in a friendly manner, as it were, the ebb and flow of the water in its submarine channels. The mariner relied upon these winds with almost the same certainty with which one calculates the appearance of well established natural phenomena, and he was justified in doing so; for no considerable change had taken place within the memory of man, until, a few years ago, suddenly an east wind, which usually began to blow in the second half of August and prevailed until the middle of October, disappeared and has never reappeared."

"Well, and the effect of that?" asked the President, who had listened with rapt attention.

"The result is, Mr. President, that in the course of these years enormous masses of water have accumulated in the Baltic, attracting our attention the less because, as a matter of course, they tend to distribute themselves evenly in all directions, and the main force is continually increasing eastward, so that in the spring of last year at Nystad, in South Finland, a rise of four feet of water above the normal, at Wasa, two degrees further north, a rise of six feet, and at Torneo, in the northernmost end of the Bay of Bothnia, a rise of eight feet was registered. The gradual rise of the water and the uniformly high banks protected the inhabitants of those regions to a certain extent against the greatest calamity. But for us who have an almost uniformly flat shore, a sudden reversal of this current, which has for years set eastward without interruption, would be disastrous. But the reversed current must set in with a heavy storm from the northeast or east, particularly one that lasts for days. The water, forced westward by the violent storm, will seek in vain an outlet through the narrow passages of the Belt and of the Sound into the Kattegat and Skagger-Rak to the ocean, and, like a hunted beast of prey rushing over the hurdles, will surge over our coasts, rolling for miles inland, carrying with it everything that opposes its blind rage, covering fields and meadows with sand and boulders, and causing a devastation which our children and children's children will recount with horror."

While Reinhold was thus speaking the Count had not failed to notice that the President and General repeatedly exchanged knowing and corroborative glances, that von Strummin's broad face had lengthened with astonishment and horror, and, what vexed him most of all, the ladies had listened with as much attention as if it had been an account of a ball. He was determined at least not to allow Reinhold the last word.

"But this marvelous storm flood is at best—I mean, in the most favorable case for you—a hypothesis!" he exclaimed.

"Only for such as are not convinced of its inevitableness, as I am," replied Reinhold.

"Very well," said the Count; "I will assume for once that the gentleman is not alone in his conviction—yes, even more, that he is right, that the storm flood will come today, or tomorrow, or some time; yet it appears that it does not come every day, but only once in centuries. Now, gentlemen, I have the profoundest respect for the solicitude of our authorities, which looks far into the future; but such century-long perspectives of even the most solicitous would seem beyond calculation, at any rate not induce them to neglect what the moment demands."

As the last words of the Count were directed evidently to the General and the President, not to him, Reinhold thought he should refrain from answering. But neither of the two gentlemen replied; the rest, too, were silent; an embarrassing pause followed. Finally the President coughed into his slender white hand, and said:

"Strange! While the Captain here prophesies with a tone of conviction itself a storm flood, which our amiable host, who would be closest to it—as our Fritz Reuter says—would like to relegate to fable land, I have had to think at every word of another storm flood——"

"Still another!" exclaimed Mieting.

"Of a different storm flood, Miss Mieting, in another entirely different region; I need not tell the gentlemen in what region. Here too the usual course of things has been interrupted in the most unexpected manner, and here too a damming up of the floods has taken place, which have rushed in from west to east in an enormous stream—a stream of gold, ladies. Here, too, the wise predict that such unnatural conditions cannot last, that their consummation is imminent, that a reverse current must set in, a reaction, a storm flood, which, to keep the figure that so well fits the case, like that other flood will rush upon us with destruction and desolation, and will cover with its turbulent barren waters the places in which men believed that they had established their rule and dominion firmly and for all time."

In his zeal to give a different turn to the conversation and in his delight and satisfaction with the happy comparison, the President had not reflected that he was really continuing the subject and that the theme in this new form must be still more uncomfortable for the Count than in the first. He became aware of his thoughtlessness when the Count, in a tone reflecting his emotion, exclaimed:

"I hope, Mr. President, you will not associate our idea, dictated, I may be permitted to say, by the purest patriotism, with those financial bubbles so popular these days, which have usually no other source than the most ordinary thirst for gain."

"For Heaven's sake, Count! How can you impute to me such a thing as would not even enter my dreams!" exclaimed the President.

The Count bowed. "I thank you," said he, "for I confess nothing would have been more offensive to my feelings. I have, of course, always considered it a political necessity, and a proof of his eminent statesmanship, that Prince Bismarck in the execution of his great ideas made use of certain means which he would certainly have done better not to have employed, because he thus could not avoid too close contact with persons, dealings with whom were formerly very odious to him at least. I considered it also a necessary consequence of this unfortunate policy that he inaugurated, was forced to inaugurate, by means of these nefarious millions, the new era of haggling and immoderate lust for gain. However——"

"Pardon me for interrupting you," said the General; "I consider this bargaining of the Prince with those persons, parties, strata of the population, classes of society—call it what you will—as you do, Count, as of course an unfortunate policy but by no means a necessary one. Quite the contrary! The rocher de bronze, upon which the Prussian throne is established—a loyal nobility, a zealous officialdom, a faithful army—they were strong enough to bear the German Imperial dignity, even though it had to be a German and not a Prussian, or not an imperial dignity at all."

"Yes, General, it had to be an imperial dignity, and a German one too," said Reinhold.

The General shot a lowering glance from under his bushy brows at the young man; but he had just listened with satisfaction to his explanations, and he felt that he must now, even though Reinhold opposed him, let him speak. "Why do you think so?" he asked.

"I only follow my own feelings," replied Reinhold; "but I am sure that they are the feelings of all who have ever lived much abroad, away from home, as I have—those who have experienced, as I have, what it means to belong to a people that is not a nation, and, because it is not a nation, is not considered complete by the other nations with which we have intercourse, nay, is even despised outright; what it means in difficult situations into which the mariner so easily comes, to be left to one's own resources, or, what is still worse, to ask for the assistance or the protection of others who unwillingly render it or prefer not to help at all. I have experienced and endured all this, as thousands and thousands of others have done, and to all this injustice and wrong have had silently to clench my fist in my pocket. And now I have been abroad again since the war, until a few weeks ago, and found that I no longer needed to dance attendance and stand aside, that I could enter with as firm step as the others; and thus, my friends, I thanked God from the bottom of my heart that we have an Emperor—a German Emperor; for nothing less than a German Emperor it had to be, if we were to demonstrate to the Englishman, the American, the Chinese and Japanese, ad oculos, that they henceforth no longer carry on trade and form treaties with Hamburgers, Bremers, with Oldenburgers and Mecklinburgers, or even with Prussians, but with Germans, who sail under one and the same flag—a flag which has the will and the power to protect and defend the least and the poorest who shares the honor and the fortune of being a German."

The General, to whom the last words were addressed, stared straight ahead—evidently a sympathetic chord in his heart had been touched. The President had put on his eye-glasses, which he had not used the whole evening; the ladies scarcely took their eyes from the man who spoke with such feeling and loyalty—the Count seeing and noting everything; his dislike for the man grew with every word that came from his mouth; he felt he must silence the wretched chatterer.

"I confess," he said, "that I should regret the noble blood shed upon so many battlefields, if it were for no other purpose than to put more securely into the pockets of the men who speculate in cotton and sugar, or export our laborers, their petty profits."

"I did not say that it was for no other purpose," rejoined Reinhold.

"To be sure," continued the Count, with a pretense of ignoring the interruption; "the further out of gunshot the better! And it is very pleasant to bask in the glory and honor which others have won for us."

The General frowned, the President dropped his eye-glasses, the two young ladies exchanged terrified glances.

"I doubt not," said Reinhold, "that the Count has his full share of German glory; I, for my part, am content with the honor of not having been out of gunshot."

"Where were you on the day of Gravelotte, Captain?"

"At Gravelotte, Count."

The General raised his eyebrows, the President put on his eye-glasses, the young ladies glanced at each other again—Else this time with a thrill of delight, while Mieting almost broke out into unrestrained laughter at the puzzled expression of the Count.

"That is, to be accurate," continued Reinhold, whose cheeks were flushed by the attention which his last word had excited, as he turned to the General; "on the morning of that day I was on the march from Rezonville to St. Marie. Then, when it was learned, as the General knows, that the enemy was not retreating along the northern road, and the second army had executed the great flank movement to the right toward Berneville and Amanvilliers, we—the eighteenth division—came under fire at half-past eleven in the morning in the neighborhood of Berneville. Our division had the honor of opening the battle, as the General will recall."

Reinhold passed his hand over his brow. The dreadful scenes of those fateful days again came to his mind. He had forgotten the offensive scorn which had been couched in the Count's question, and which he wished to resent by his account of his participation in the battle.

"Did you go through the whole campaign?" asked the General; and there was a peculiar, almost tender tone in his deep voice.

"I did, General, if I may include the two weeks from the eighteenth of July to the first of August, when I was drilling in Coblenz. As a native Hamburger and a seaman I had not had the good fortune of thoroughly learning the military discipline in my youth."

"How did you happen to enter the campaign?"

"It is a short story, and I will tell it briefly. On the fifteenth of July I lay with my ship at the Roads of Southampton, destined for Bombay—captain of a full-rigged ship for the first time. On the evening of the sixteenth we were to sail. But on the morning of the sixteenth the news came that war had been declared; at noon, having already secured a suitable substitute, I severed my connection with the ship-owners and with my ship; in the evening I was in London; during the nights of the sixteenth and seventeenth on the way to Ostende by way of Brussels, down the Rhine to Coblenz, where I offered myself as a volunteer, was accepted, drilled a little, sent on, and—I don't know how it happened—assigned to the Ninth Corps, Eighteenth Division, —— Regiment, in which I went through the campaign."

"Were you promoted?"

"To the rank of Corporal at Gravelotte; on the first of September, the day after the great sally of Bazaine, to the rank of Vice-Sergeant-Major; on the fourth of September——"

"That was the day of Orléans?"

"Yes, General—on the day of the battle of Orléans I received my commission as officer."

"My congratulations on your rapid advancement!" said the General with a smile; but his face darkened again. "Why didn't you introduce yourself to me as comrade?"

"The sea captain apologizes for the Reserve Lieutenant, General."

"Did you receive a decoration?"

"At your service! I received the Cross with my commission."

"And you don't wear the decoration?"

"My dress is a little disordered today," replied Reinhold.

Mieting burst into laughter, in which Reinhold freely joined; and the others smiled—polite, approving, flattering smiles, as it seemed to the Count.

"I fear we have taxed the patience of the ladies too long," he said with a significant gesture.

[Mieting and Else are alone in their room. Mieting declares her love for the captain, declaring he is just her ideal of a man. She then unbraids her long hair, which reaches to her feet, tells Else all her little love stories, kisses her and runs off to bed.

The gentlemen likewise prepare to retire. Reinhold excuses himself very formally, declines the Count's offer of a carriage for his journey in the early morning, and is also about to retire, when the butler knocks on his door and tells him that the President wishes to speak to him. The President assures him of his personal interest, and asks him to look over certain papers relating to the railway and naval project and tell him whether he would be willing to work with him in the capacity of chief pilot at Wissow to succeed the old chief, soon to be pensioned. Reinhold is quite overcome by this confidence on the part of the stranger. The President invites him to dinner at his house, when he is to give his answer. Reinhold considers the proposal—to give up all his plans—his command of a ship plying between South America and China for the great Hamburg firm, his North Pole expedition, in which he had interested many people—to give up all for this desert coast and—he had to confess it—to be near Else, though his social position was hopelessly inferior; he would be but a fool, he knew. Which course should he take? He looks out of the window and sees Venus, the star of love, shining through a rift of the clouds. He decides to accept the President's proposal. It is dawn, and he lies down for an hour's sleep.

Else lies awake for a long time thinking of the day's happenings. When she does fall asleep, she dreams wildly of searching for Reinhold, and of wrestling with Mieting, by whom she is finally awakened just before sunrise. Mieting helps Else dress and they both go out to watch the sunrise from a height overlooking the sea. Reinhold comes upon them there. He sees the ship and hastens away with a word for Mieting and a glance for Else, who returns the glance and sends him on his way with a joyous heart.

On the train to Berlin Reinhold is in the same compartment with Ottomar von Werben, Else's brother, and the two recognize each other. Reinhold tells of his adventures in hunting buffaloes and tapirs, in contrast with which Ottomar describes his tiresome occupation as an officer since the close of the war. In the conversation Ottomar tells Reinhold that he lives next door to Reinhold's uncle, and offers to help him find his uncle when they arrive, since Reinhold has not seen him for ten years. While Ottomar is looking through the crowd Reinhold recognizes his uncle, who gives him an affectionate greeting, and Ferdinande, his uncle's daughter, now a young lady of twenty-four. Reinhold introduces Ottomar to Ferdinande, but she is in a hurry to be off, and whispers in Reinhold's ear that her father and Ottomar's father have been enemies since '48.

Reinhold, on entering his uncle's luxurious home, feels that it lacks real comfort, but thinks this may be due to the fact that he is a stranger. Then he thinks of Else—she lives next door! Aunt Rikchen greets him with hugs and kisses when he comes in. At dinner he asks about his cousin Philip, and learns that Philip almost never comes home. The question seems to have opened an old sore, as Philip is at odds with his father—an unfortunate beginning for the evening meal, Reinhold thinks.]

Meanwhile it appeared that his fears were fortunately not to be justified. To be sure, Aunt Rikchen could not open her mouth without having the thread of her discourse abruptly cut off by Uncle Ernst, and Ferdinande took little part in the conversation; but that signified little in the beginning, or was easily explained, as Uncle Ernst asked Reinhold first of all for a detailed account of his adventures and experiences during the long years since they had seen each other, and listened with an attentiveness which brooked no interruption. Now Reinhold had an opportunity to admire the very unusual fullness and accuracy of Uncle Ernst's knowledge. He could not mention a city, however distant, with whose location, history, and mercantile relations his uncle was not fully acquainted. He expressed to his uncle his astonishment and admiration.

"What do you expect?" answered Uncle Ernst. "If one is born a poor devil and has not the good fortune, like you, to roam around professionally through the world, but as a boy, a youth, and a man, has been bound to the soil and to hard work to gain his daily bread, until he has become an old fellow and can now no longer travel as one otherwise might do—what remains for him but to study the maps and nose through books to find out how grand and beautiful God has made His world."

While Uncle Ernst thus spoke, all the roughness and bitterness vanished from his voice, all sullenness from his rigid features, but only for a moment; then the dark cloud again gathered over his brow and eyes, like gray mists about the snows of a mountain range, which had just gleamed in the sunlight.

Reinhold could not take his eyes from the fine old face, whose expression constantly changed but never showed the slightest trace of shallowness or commonplace, remaining always dignified and strong, nor from the splendid head which, now that his abundant curly hair and bushy beard had grown quite gray, appeared more stately, more majestic than in former years. And at the same time he was compelled to think constantly of another face, opposite which he had sat but a few evenings before—that of General von Werben, with features likewise fine and sturdy, to be sure, but more composed, more concentrated, without the glowing fervor which, in Uncle Ernst, shone out in a splendid flash, or again, with threatening gleam, as if from beneath an ashy covering. Reinhold had said to himself from the beginning that it might not be long before he should have proof that this inner, scarcely subdued glow was threatening, and needed only an occasion to break forth with stormy violence; and he was not deceived.

In the narration of his journeys and wanderings he had come to the day, when, in Southampton, he received news of the outbreak of the war, and severed all his connections, gave up his other occupations and habits, and returned to Germany to fulfil his duty toward his native land which was in peril.—"The enthusiasm," he explained, "dictated my determination; with full devotion and the use of all my intellectual and physical powers, I carried it out from beginning to end, without—I may be permitted to say so—even once growing weary, flagging, or doubting for a moment that the cause to which I had consecrated myself was a holy one, however unholy the horrible bloody vestments in which it had to be enveloped. Then when the great object was attained, in a greater, better, fuller sense than I and indeed all who had gone into the battle with me had thought, had imagined, had desired, had intended—then I returned to my old occupation without delay, steered my ship again over the sea, in the silent happy consciousness of having done my duty; in the assurance of finding in the shadow of the German flag a bit of home everywhere, wherever the changing fate of the mariner might lead me; in the happy confidence that you in the fair Fatherland would never let the hard-won victory be lost, but would employ the precious time in filling out and completing the work so nobly planned, so vigorously begun, and that if I returned home it would be to a land full of joy and peace and sunshine in the hearts and countenances of all.

"I must confess that during the few days of my stay in my native land I have had many experiences which appeared to mock my hopes; but I have not been willing to believe that I saw aright. On the contrary, I am convinced that chance only has brought me repeatedly into contact with people who are discontented with the state of things purely for this or that personal reason, or are not entirely satisfied at least with the present conditions, as some of the gentlemen whom I met at Count Golm's. I have not been restrained from voicing my opinion of the upper aristocracy, even as late as yesterday, in the presence of the skeptical President in Sundin, but have rather given strong and open expression to my views. And now even here—in the bosom of my family—at your table, Uncle Ernst, who have fought so often and suffered so much for the honor and welfare of the Fatherland—this silence can no longer be fully maintained; but I can surely expect a hearty understanding and unconditional approval."

Uncle Ernst had listened in silence, with his head resting on his hand; now he suddenly lifted his head, and said with a voice that boded nothing good, "Pardon me for interrupting you to call your attention to the fact that I, too, agree not in the least with what you say. It is always well for the speaker to know that he does not have the listener on his side."

There was an unusually sullen expression in his searching eyes. Reinhold was well aware of it; he considered for a moment whether he should be silent or continue. But even if he remained but a few days this theme would still have to be discussed frequently, and if his uncle were still of a different opinion, as could no longer be doubted, it would be worth while to hear the views of such a man. So he went on, "I am very sorry, dear uncle, on account of the theme, and—pardon me for saying so—on your account."

"I don't understand you."

"I mean the question is so great and so weighty that it requires every pair of strong shoulders to move it; and it is so worthy and so holy that I am sorry for him who will not or cannot with full conviction participate in council and action."

"Or 'cannot'!" exclaimed Uncle Ernst; "quite right! Did I not take part in counsel and action as long as I could—on the barricades, in those March days, in the national convention, and everywhere and at all times when it was within human possibility—I mean when it was possible for an honorable man to put his shoulder to the wheel, as you said? I will not mention the fact that I pushed my shoulders sore in so doing—more than once; that they tricked me and molested me, dragged me from one penitential stool to another, and occasionally, too, clapped me into prison—that belonged to the game, and better people than I fared no better, but even worse, much worse. In a word, it was a struggle—a hopeless struggle, with very unequal weapons, if you will, but still a struggle! But how is it now? It is a fair, an old-clothes shop, where they dicker to and fro over the counter, and auction off one tatter after another of our proud old banner of freedom to the man who carries them all in his pocket, and who, they know, carries them all in his pocket."

The cloud on his brow grew more lowering, his dark brown eyes flashed, his deep voice grew sullen—a storm was coming; Reinhold thought it advisable to reef a few sails.

"I am not a politician, Uncle," he said. "I believe I have precious little talent for politics, and have at least had no time to cultivate such talent as I may possess. So I cannot contradict you when you say it is not altogether as it should be in this country. But then, too, you will grant me, as the aristocrats had to grant, that the question, viewed from the other side—I mean from abroad, from aboard ship, from a foreign harbor beyond the sea—makes a very different and much better impression; and I think you cannot blame me for thinking more favorably of the man—to put it flatly, for having a respect for him to whom we owe respect in the last analysis, a respect which the German name now enjoys throughout the world."

"I know the song!" said Uncle Ernst. "He sang it often enough, the sly old fowler, and still sings it every time when the bullfinches won't go into his net: 'Who is responsible for 1864, for 1866, for 1870? I! I!! I!!!'"

"And isn't he right, Uncle?"

"No, and a thousand times no!" exclaimed Uncle Ernst. "Has one man sole claim to the treasure which others have dug up and unearthed from the depths of the earth with unspeakable toil and labor, simply because he removed the last shovelful of earth? Schleswig-Holstein would still be Danish today if the noblemen had conquered it; Germany would still be torn into a thousand shreds if the noblemen had had to patch it together; the ravens would still flutter about the Kyffhäuser, if thousands and thousands of patriotic hearts had not dreamed of German unity, had not thought of Germany's greatness day and night—the hearts and heads of men who were not rewarded for their services with lands and the title of Count and Prince, and were not pardoned."

"I tell you, Uncle," said Reinhold, "I think it is with German unity as with other great things. Many fared in their imagination westward to the East Indies; in reality only one finally did it, and he discovered—America."

"I thought," said Uncle Ernst solemnly, "that the man who discovered it was called Columbus, and he is said to have been thrown into prison in gratitude for it, and to have died in obscurity. The one who came after and pocketed the glory, and for whom the land was named, was a wretched rascal not worthy to unloose the latchet of the discoverer's shoes."

"Well, really!" exclaimed Reinhold, laughing in spite of himself—"I believe no other man on the whole globe would speak in that way of Bismarck."

"Quite possible!" replied Uncle Ernst; "and I do not believe another man on the globe hates him as I do."

Uncle Ernst drained at one draught the glass he had just filled. It occurred to Reinhold that his uncle had tipped the bottle freely, and he thought he noticed that the hand which raised the glass to his mouth trembled a little, and that the hitherto steady gleam of his great eyes was dimmed and flickered ominously.

"That is the result of my obstinacy," said Reinhold to himself; "why excite the anger of the old graybeard? Every one has a right to look at things in his own way! You should have changed the course of the conversation."

On their way through the city he had given a brief account of the stranding of the steamer and the events that followed, so he could now without apparent effort resume the thread of his story there, and tell further how he had been kindly received by the President in Sundin and what prospects the President had held out to him. He described the manner of the man—how he at one time enveloped himself in clouds of diplomacy and, at another, spoke of men and things with the greatest frankness, while at the same time, in spite of his apparent tacking, keeping his goal clearly in view.

"You haven't drawn a bad portrait of the man," said Uncle Ernst. "I know him very well, ever since 1847, when he sat at the extreme right in the General Assembly. Now he belongs to the opposition—I mean to the concealed opposition of the old solid Bureaucracy, which bears a grudge toward the all-powerful Major Domus and would like, rather, to put an end to his clever economy, the sooner the better. He is not one of the worst; and yet I could wish that you hadn't gone quite so far with him."

"I have not yet committed myself," said Reinhold, "and I shall not do so until I have convinced myself that I shall find in the position offered to me a sphere of action in keeping with my powers and qualifications. But, if that should be the case, then I should have to accept it."

"Should 'have to'? Why?"

"Because I have sworn to serve my country on land and sea," replied Reinhold, with a smile. "The land service I have completed; now I should like to try the sea service."

"It appears that 'service' has become a necessity with you," said Uncle Ernst with a grim smile. It was intended as scorn—so Reinhold felt it; but he was determined not to yield to his opponent on a point which concerned, not himself, but his most personal views and convictions.

ARRESTED VAGABONDS
Permission Ch. Sedelmeyer, Paris
Michael von Munkacsy

"Why should I deny," he questioned, "that the rigid Prussian military discipline has made a very profound impression on me? With us, in a small Republican community, everything is a little lax; no one understands rightly the art of commanding, and no one will submit to commands. Then we go on board ship, where one alone commands and the others must obey. But no one has learned what he is now to do; the officers lack, only too often, the proper attitude; they proceed at random with abuse and noise, where a calm firm word would be more in place; another time they let things go at sixes and sevens, and give free rein when they should keep a tight rein. The men, for their part, are the less able to endure such irregular treatment, as they are mostly rough fellows, only waiting for the opportunity to throw off restraint, which chafes them. So things do not move without friction of all sorts, and one may thank God if things don't come to a worse pass, and even to the worst, as indeed they unfortunately do, frequently enough, and as has happened to me more than once. And if one has been able to maintain authority without mishap during a long voyage and has finally established order and discipline among the men, by that time one is again in harbor; and on the next voyage the dance begins again. In the army none of this is to be found. Every one knows in advance that unconditional obedience is his first and last duty; indeed, what is still more important, every one, even the roughest, feels that disobedience is not simply a misdemeanor but folly, which, if it were permitted in even the slightest case, would of necessity destroy the whole organization—that our enormous, strangely complicated mechanism, which we call the Army, can work only when every one of the smallest wheels, and every one of the smallest cogs in the smallest wheel, performs in its place and time exactly what is prescribed."

"For example, people who think differently about what benefits the country—those shot down in the trenches of Rastatt, and so forth," said Uncle Ernst.

Reinhold made no answer. What reply should he make? How could he hope to come to an understanding with a man whose views about everything were diametrically opposed to his own, who pushed his opinions to the last extremity, never making a concession even to a guest who, only an hour before, had been received with such cordiality as a father displays toward his own son returning from abroad?

"Perhaps you have caused a rupture with him for all time," thought Reinhold. "It is too bad; but you cannot yield, bound hand and foot, unconditionally, to the old tyrant! If you cannot possibly touch chords which awaken a friendly response in his hard soul, let the ladies try to do so—and indeed that is their office."

Aunt Rikchen had evidently read the thought from his face. She answered his silent appeal with one of her sharp, swift, furtive glances, and with light shrugs of her shoulders, as if to say—"He's always so! It can't be helped." Ferdinande seemed not to notice the interruption. She continued to gaze straight ahead, as she had done during the entire meal, with a strange, distracted, gloomy expression, and did not now stir as her aunt, bending toward her, said a few words in a low tone. Uncle Ernst, who was just about to fill his empty glass again, set down the bottle he had raised.

"I have asked you a thousand times, Rike, to stop that abominable whispering. What is the matter now?"

A swift flush of anger passed over Aunt Rikchen's wrinkled old-maidish face, as the distasteful name "Rike" fell upon her ear; but she answered in a tone of resigned indifference, in which she was accustomed to reply to the reprimand of her brother, "Nothing at all! I only asked Ferdinande if Justus was not coming this evening."

"Who is Justus?" asked Reinhold, glad that some other subject had been broached.

"Rike is fond of speaking of people in the most familiar way," said Uncle Ernst.

"When they half belong to the family, why not?" retorted Aunt Rikchen, who seemed determined not to be intimidated this time. "Justus, or, as Uncle Ernst will have it, Mr. Anders, is a young sculptor——"

"Of thirty and more years," said Uncle Ernst.

"Of thirty and more years, then," continued Aunt Rikchen; "more exactly, thirty-three. He has been living, who knows how long, with us——"

"Don't you know, Ferdinande?" asked Uncle Ernst.

"Ferdinande is his pupil, you know," continued Aunt Rikchen.

"Oh!" said Reinhold; "my compliments."

"It isn't worth mentioning," said Ferdinande.

"His best pupil!" exclaimed Aunt Rikchen; "he told me so himself yesterday, and that your 'Shepherd Boy' pleased the Commission very much. Ferdinande has a 'Shepherd Boy' at the exposition, you know, suggested by Schiller's poem——"

"Uhland's poem, Aunt!"

"I beg pardon—I haven't had the good fortune of an academic education, as others have!—I don't know now what I was about to say——"

"I guess it won't make much difference," growled Uncle Ernst.

"You were speaking of Ferdinande's 'Shepherd Boy,' Aunt," said Reinhold, coming to her aid.

Aunt Rikchen cast a grateful glance at him, but, before she could answer, the bell rang in the hall and a clear voice asked, "Are the family still at the table?"

"It's Justus!" cried Aunt Rikchen. "I thought it was you! Have you had supper?"

[Justus blows in like a fresh breeze just in time for tea. He has a cheery word for each member of the family, and a hearty greeting for Reinhold. He tells Reinhold that Berlin is becoming a great metropolis, "famös und famöser" every day. He tells Aunt Rikchen he has a new commission for a monument. Uncle Ernst interjects that Justus sets a new head on an old figure to make a Victoria or a Germania. Uncle Ernst thinks this a good symbol of German unity. Justus assures Reinhold that this is Uncle Ernst's way; he is only envious; envy is his passion. He envies God for having made the world so beautiful! Justus then proceeds, eating and drinking everything in sight between the words, to describe his new monument—Germania on a stove mounted on a granite pedestal. On the fundament are to be reliefs, which Justus extemporizes on the spot, making Reinhold a national guardsman with the wrinkles of the old servant Grollmann; Uncle Ernst is to be the burgomaster, and Ferdinande the prettiest girl; General von Werben extends his hand to the burgomaster on entering the city. This awakens Uncle Ernst's protest, as he hates the General. Ferdinande falls in a faint, and Uncle Ernst shows the effects of his wine. Ferdinande goes into the garden, and Justus and Reinhold leave the room to retire.

At breakfast Reinhold has a confidential talk with Aunt Rikchen and learns many of the secrets of the family, especially the breach between Uncle Ernst and Philip. Aunt Rikchen thinks Philip can't be so bad after all, when he stops his poor old aunt on the street and asks her if she wants any money.

Reinhold goes out of the house, with its gloomy associations, into the glorious sunshine. He sees Cilli, the blind daughter of Kreisel, Uncle Ernst's head bookkeeper, feeling her way along the iron fence, and notices that she has caught her apron in a thorn-bush. He comes to her relief and converses with her about the light, which she cannot see, and about the world, which she can only feel and hear. Her face is an animated ray of sunlight.

Reinhold starts out to find Uncle Ernst in his establishment. He passes Ferdinande's studio and inquires of the young Italian, Antonio, whether Miss Schmidt is in. Antonio makes an indifferent and rather impolite reply, that he doesn't know. After passing from one department to another, Reinhold finally finds Uncle Ernst confronted by a group of socialistic strikers, and takes a stand close by his side. "We are all socialists," cries a voice from the group. His uncle, in his rage, orders the men to go and get their pay, and discharges them, as he declares that might goes before right and revolution has become permanent. He then sends Reinhold to accompany Ferdinande to the Exhibition.]

The young man in shirt-sleeves, who had given a rather discourteous answer to Reinhold, after closing the door shook his fist, muttering a strong oath in his native tongue between his sharp white teeth. Then he stepped back into the inclosure and stole with noiseless tread to the door which separated this studio from the adjoining one. He put his ear to the door and listened a few minutes. A smile of satisfaction lighted up his dark face; straightening up, he drew a deep breath and then, as noiselessly as a cat, stole up the iron steps of the winding staircase which led to the little room whence he had descended a few minutes before to answer Reinhold's knock.

After some minutes he came down the stairs again, this time without artfully concealing the noise, but stepping more heavily than was necessary and whistling a tune. He now had his coat and vest on, and wore patent-leather shoes on his narrow feet, at which he cast satisfied glances as he descended. Downstairs he stepped quickly before the Venetian mirror and repeatedly scanned his entire figure with the closest scrutiny, adjusted his blue cravat, pressed one of the gold buttons more firmly into his shirt front, and passed a fine comb through his blue-black curls, which shone like raven plumes. His whistling became softer and softer, and finally ceased. He turned away from the mirror, noisily moving one object after another, till he came directly up to the door at which he had listened shortly before. He reached out and seized a footstool, which he had placed against the wall at arm's length for the purpose, and now stepped upon it and put his eye to the door, as he had his ear a while before—very close; for he had with great pains bored a hole with the smallest auger, and had experienced great difficulty in learning to see through it into the adjoining room, or the place where she was accustomed to work. The blood flushed his dark cheeks as he peeped through. "Oh, bellissima!" he whispered to himself, pressing a fervent kiss upon the wood.

All at once he jumped away—noiselessly as a cat; the seat stood again by the wall, and he himself stood before the half-finished statue of a female figure of heroic size, as a knock was heard at the door on the other side—"Signor Antonio!"

"Signora?" called the young man from where he sat. He had taken up his mallet and chisel, evidently only better to play the rôle of one surprised.

"Can you come in a moment, Signer Antonio? Fatemi il piacere!"

"Si, Signora!"

He threw down the tools and ran to the door, the bolt of which was already shoved back. Notwithstanding the request, he knocked before opening it.

"Ma—entrate!—How finely you have fixed yourself up, Signor Antonio!"

Antonio dropped his eyelashes, and his glance glided down his slender figure to the points of his patent-leather shoes—but only for a moment. The next instant his black eyes were fastened with a melancholy, passionate expression upon the beautiful girl, who stood before him in her simple dark house-dress and her work-apron, holding the modeling tool in her hand.

"You do not need to make yourself beautiful. You are always beautiful."

He said this in German. He was proud of his German, since she had praised his accent repeatedly during the Italian lessons he had given her, and had said that every word sounded to her, when he uttered it, new and precious, like an acquaintance one meets in a foreign land.

"I think I am anything but beautiful, this morning," said Ferdinande. "But I need your help. My model did not come; I wanted to work on the eyes today. You have prettier eyes than your countrywomen, Antonio; do pose for me—only a few minutes."

A proud smile of satisfaction passed over the beautiful face of the youth. He took the same attitude toward Ferdinande that she had given her statue.

"Fine!" she said. "One never knows whether you are greater as actor or as sculptor."

"Un povero abbozzatore!" he muttered.

"You are not a workingman!" said Ferdinande. "You know you are an artist."

"I am an artist as you are a princess!"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I was born to be an artist and yet am not one, as you were born to be a princess and yet are not one."

"You are crazy!"

It was not a tone of irritation in which she said this; there was something like acquiescence in it, which did not escape the ear of the Italian.

"And now you know it," he added.

She made no reply, and kept on with her work, but only mechanically. "She called you to tell you something," said Antonio to himself.

"Where were you last evening, Antonio?" she asked after a pause.

"In my club, Signora."

"When did you come home?"

"Late."

"But when?"

"At one o'clock, ma perchè?"

She had turned around to her little table on which lay her tools, which she was fingering.

"I only asked the question. We did not go to bed till late at night. We had a visitor—a cousin of mine—there was much talking and smoking—I got a fearful headache, and spent an hour in the garden. Will you pose again? Or shall we give it up? It is hard for you; I think you look tired."

"No, no!" he muttered.

He took the pose again, but less gracefully than before. Strange thoughts whirled through his brain, and made his heart throb.—"When did you come home?"—"I was in the garden for an hour."—Was it possible—but no, no, it was impossible, it was chance! But if he had met her alone in the garden, alone, late at night—what would he have said, what would he have done?

His eyes swam—he pressed his hands, which he should have held to his brow, to his eyes.

"What is the matter?" exclaimed Ferdinande.

His hand dropped; his eyes, which were fixed upon her, were aflame.

"What is the matter with me?" he muttered. "What is the matter with me?—Ho—non lo so neppur io: una febbre che mi divora, ho, che il sangue mi abbrucia, che il cervello mi si spezza; ho in fine, che non ne posso più, che sono stanco di questa vita!"

Ferdinande had tried to resist the outbreak, but without success. She shook from head to foot; from his flaming eyes a spark had shot into her own heart, and her voice trembled as she now replied with as much composure as she could command, "You know I do not understand you when you speak so wildly and fast."

"You did understand me," muttered the youth.

"I understood nothing but what I could see without all that—that 'a fever consumes you, that your blood chokes you, that your brain is about to burst, that you are tired of this life'—in German; that 'you sat too late at your club last night, and raved too much about fair Italy, and drank too much fiery Italian wine.'"

The blue veins appeared on his fine white brow; a hoarse sound like the cry of a wild beast came from his throat. He reached toward his breast, where he usually carried his stiletto—the side pocket was empty—his eyes glanced about as if he were looking for a weapon.

"Do you mean to murder me?"

His right hand, which was still clutching his breast, relaxed and sank; his left also dropped, his fingers were interlocked, a stream of tears burst from his eyes, extinguishing their glow; he fell on his knees and sobbed: "Pardonatemi! Ferdinanda, l'ho amata dal primo giorno che l'ho veduta, ed adesso—ah! adesso——"

"I know it, poor Antonio," said Ferdinande, "and that is why I pardon you—once more—for the last time! If this scene is repeated I shall tell my father, and you will have to go. And now, Signor Antonio, stand up!"

She extended her hand, which he, still kneeling, pressed to his lips and his forehead.

"Antonio! Antonio!" echoed the voice of Justus outside; immediately there was a rap upon the door which led to the court. Antonio sprang to his feet.

"Is Antonio here, Miss Ferdinande?"

Ferdinande went herself to open the door.

"Are you still at work?" inquired Justus, coming in.—"But I thought we were going with your cousin to the Exhibition?"

"I am waiting for him; he has not yet appeared; just go on ahead with Antonio; we shall meet in the sculpture gallery."

"As you say!—What you have done today on the eyes is not worth anything—an entirely false expression! You have been working without your model again; when will you come to see that we are helpless without a model!—Andiamo, Antonio! If you are not ashamed to cross the street with me!"

He had taken a position by the side of the Italian as if he wished to give Ferdinande the pleasure he found in contrasting his short stout figure, in the worn velvet coat and light trousers of doubtful newness, with the elegant, slender, handsome youth, his assistant. But Ferdinande had already turned away, and only said once more, "in the sculpture gallery, then!"

"Dunque—andiamo!" cried Justus; "a rivederci!"

[Ferdinande says Antonio is the only one, after all, who understands her. She then reads a letter which she has received from Ottomar over the garden wall. Ottomar speaks only of meeting her, but says nothing of seeing her father, or of more serious purposes. Reinhold knocks on her studio door, enters, and sees how the artists live in a world of their own. Ferdinande says her father does not care what she does so long as she can have her own way. Reinhold inspects her work and the studio.]

"But now I am afraid you will spoil me so thoroughly that I shall find it difficult to get back into my simple life," said Reinhold, as he sped on at the side of Ferdinande in his uncle's equipage through the Thiergartenstrasse to the Brandenburgerthor.

"Why do we have horses and a carriage if we are not to use them?" inquired Ferdinande.

She had leaned back against the cushions, just touching the front seat with the point of one of her shoes. Reinhold's glance glided almost shyly along the beautiful figure, whose splendid lines were brought out advantageously by an elegant autumn costume. He thought he had just discovered for the first time how beautiful his cousin was, and he considered it very natural that she should attract the attention of the motley throng with which the promenade teemed, and that many a cavalier who dashed by them turned in his saddle to look back at her. Ferdinande seemed not to take any notice of it; her large eyes looked down, or straight ahead, or glanced up with a dreamy, languid expression to the tops of the trees, which, likewise dreamy and languid, appeared to drink in the mild warmth of the autumn sun without stirring. Perhaps it was this association of ideas that caused Reinhold to ask himself how old the beautiful girl was; and he was a little astonished when he calculated that she could not be far from twenty-four. In his recollection she had always appeared as a tall, somewhat lank young thing, that was just about to unfold into a flower—but, to be sure, ten years had gone since that. Cousin Philip—at that time likewise a tall, thin young fellow—must already be in the beginning of his thirties.

A two-wheeled cabriolet came up behind them and passed them. On the high front seat sat a tall, stately, broad-shouldered gentleman, clad with most precise and somewhat studied elegance, as it appeared to Reinhold, who, with hands encased in light kid gloves, drove a fine high-stepping black steed, while the small groom with folded arms sat in the low rear seat. The gentleman had just been obliged to turn out for a carriage coming from the opposite direction, and his attention had been directed to the other side; now—at the distance of some carriage lengths—he turned upon his seat and waved a cordial greeting with his hand and whip, while Ferdinande, in her careless way, answered with a nod of her head.

"Who was that gentleman?" asked Reinhold.

"My brother Philip."

"How strange!"

"Why so?"

"I was just thinking of him."

"That happens so often—and particularly in a large city, and at an hour when everybody is on the go. I shall not be surprised if we meet him again at the Exhibition. Philip is a great lover of pictures, and is not bad himself at drawing and painting. There, he is stopping—I thought he would—Philip understands the proprieties."

At the next moment they were side by side with the cabriolet.

"Good morning, Ferdinande! Good morning, Reinhold! Stunning hit that I strike you on the first day! Wretched pun, Ferdinande—eh? Looks fine, our cousin, with his brown face and beard—but he doesn't need to be ashamed of the lady at his side—eh? Where are you going—to the Exhibition? That's fine! We'll meet there.—My nag acts like crazy today.—Au revoir!"

With the tip of his whip he touched the black horse, which was already beginning to rear in the traces, and sped off, nodding back once more over his broad shoulders.

"I should not have recognized Philip again," said Reinhold. "He doesn't resemble you—I mean Uncle and you—at all."

In fact, a greater contrast is scarcely conceivable than that between the broad, ruddy, beardless, clean-shaven face of the young man, with his closely clipped hair, and the splendid face of Uncle Ernst, with its deep furrows and heavy growth of gray hair and beard, or the stately pallor and aristocratic beauty of Ferdinande.

"Lucky for him!" cried Ferdinande.

"Lucky?"

"He is, as he appears, a man of his time; we are medieval ghosts. For that reason he moves about as a ghost among us—but it is not his fault."

"Then you are on his side in the rupture between him and Uncle?"

"The rest of us at home are never asked for our opinion; you must take note of that for the future."

"Also for the present," thought Reinhold, as Ferdinande sank back among the cushions.

"Ghosts are never one's favorite company, much less on such a beautiful sunny day. There are so many good happy people—sweet little Cilli, for example—and—of whom one thinks, him he meets!" As if wishing to make up in all haste for what he had foolishly neglected in the morning, he now tried to direct his thoughts to her whose image he believed he had forever in his soul, but which would not now appear.—"The throng is to blame for it," he said impatiently.

They were in the worst of the jam now, to be sure. A regiment was marching down Friedrichstrasse across the Linden with the band playing. The throng of pedestrians pressed back on both sides, particularly on that from which they came; in the midst of them mounted and unmounted policemen were striving with persuasion and force to maintain order and keep back the throng which now and then gave audible expression to their indignation.

The annoying delay seemed to make Ferdinande impatient, too; she looked at her watch.—"Already half-past twelve—we are losing the best part of the time." At last the rear of the battalion came along, while the van of the next battalion, with the band playing, came out of Friedrichstrasse again, and the throng of people pressed on with a rush through the small space in wild confusion.—"On! On! Johann!" cried Ferdinande, with an impatience which Reinhold could explain only by the anxiety which she felt. They got out of one crowd only to get into another.

In the first large square room of the Exhibition—the so-called clock room—a throng of spectators stood so closely jammed together that Reinhold, who had Ferdinande's arm, saw no possibility of advance. "There are not so many people in the side rooms," said Ferdinande, "but we must stand it a little while here; there are always good pictures here; let us separate—we can then move more freely. What do you think of this beautiful Andreas Achenbach? Isn't it charming, wonderful! In his best and noblest style! Sky and sea—all in gray, and yet—how sharply the individual details are brought out! And how well he knows how to enliven the apparent monotony by means of the red flag there on the mast at the stern of the steamer, and by the flickering lights on the planks of the bridge wet with spray here at the bow—masterful! Simply masterful!"

Reinhold had listened with great pleasure to Ferdinande's enthusiastic description. "Here she can speak!" he thought; "well, to be sure, she is an artist! You can see all that too, but not its significance, and you wouldn't be able to explain why it is so beautiful."

He stood there, wrapped in contemplation of the picture.—"What manœuvre would the captain make next? He would doubtless have to tack again to get before the wind, but for that he was already a ship's length or so too near the bridge—a devilish ticklish manœuvre."

He turned to communicate his observation to Ferdinande, and just missed addressing a fat little old lady, who had taken Ferdinande's place and was eagerly gazing through her lorgnette, in company with a score of other ladies and gentlemen standing closely together in a semicircle. Reinhold made a few vain efforts to escape this imprisonment and to get to Ferdinande, whom he saw at a distance speaking with some ladies, so absorbed that she did not turn even once, and had evidently forgotten him.—Another advantage of freedom of movement—you can also make use of that!—A picture nearby had attracted his attention—another sea view by Hans Gude, as the catalogue said—which pleased him almost better than the other. To the left, where the sea was open, lay a large steamer at anchor. On the shore, which curved around in a large bend, in the distance among the dunes, were a few fisher huts, with smoke rising from the chimneys. Between the village and the ship a boat was passing, while another, almost entirely in the foreground, was sailing toward the shore. The evening sky above the dunes was covered with such thick clouds that the smoke could hardly be distinguished from the sky; only on the extreme western horizon, above the wide open sea, appeared a narrow muddy streak. The night was likely to be stormy, and even now a stiff breeze was blowing; the flags of the steamer were fluttering straight out and there was a heavy surf on the bare beach in the foreground. Reinhold could not take his eyes from the picture. Thus it was, almost exactly, on that evening when he steered the boat from the steamer to the shore. There in the bow lay the two servants, huddled together; here sat the President, with one hand on the gunwale of the boat and the other clutching the seat, not daring to pull up the blanket which had slipped from his knees; here the General with the collar of his mantle turned up, his cap pulled down over his face, staring gloomily into the distance; and here, close by the man at the helm, she sat—looking out so boldly over the green waste of water, and the surf breaking before them; looking up so freely and joyously with her dear brown eyes at the man at the helm!—Reinhold no longer thought of the pressing throng about him, he had forgotten Ferdinande, he no longer saw the picture; he saw only the dear brown eyes!

"Do you think they will get to shore without a compass, Captain?" asked a voice at his side.

The brown eyes looked up at him, as he had just seen them in his dream; free and glad; glad, too, was the smile that dimpled her cheeks and played about her delicate lips as she extended her hand to him, without reserve, as to an old friend.

"When did you come?"

"Last evening."

"Then of course you haven't had time to ask after us and get your compass. Am I not the soul of honesty?"

"And what do you want of it?"

"Who knows? You thought I had great nautical talent; but let us get out of the jam and look for my brother, whom I just lost here. Are you alone?"

"With my cousin."

"You must introduce me to her. I have seen her 'Shepherd Boy' down stairs—charming! I have just learned from my brother that your cousin did it, and that we are neighbors, and all that.—Where is she?"

"I have been looking around for her, but can't find her."

"Well, that's jolly! Two children lost in this forest of people! I am really afraid."

She wasn't afraid.—Reinhold saw that she wasn't; she was at home here; it was her world—one with which she was thoroughly acquainted, as he was with the sea. How skilfully and gracefully she worked her way through a group of ladies who were not disposed to move! How unconcernedly she nodded to the towering officer, who bowed to her from the farthest corner of the room, above the heads of several hundred people! How she could talk over her shoulder with him, who followed her only with difficulty, when he was at her side, until they reached the long narrow passage in which the engravings and water colors were exhibited.

"I saw my brother go in here," she said. "There—no, that was von Saldern! Let us give him up! I shall find him soon—and you your cousin."

"Not here, either."

"It doesn't make any difference; she will not lack companions, any more than we. Let's chat a little until we find them; or do you want to look at pictures? There are a few excellent Passinis here."

"I prefer to chat."

"There is no better place to chat than at an exhibition, in the first days. One comes really to chat, to see one's acquaintances after the long summer when everybody is away, to scan the newest fashions which the banker's wife and daughters have brought back from Paris—we ladies of the officers don't play any rôle—one has an awful lot to do, and the pictures won't run away. You are going to spend the winter with us, my brother says?"

"A few weeks at least."

"Then you'll remain longer. You can't believe how interesting Berlin is in winter! And for you, too, who have the entrée into so many circles! Your uncle entertains in grand style, my brother says, from whom I have all my wisdom; artists go and come—as a matter of course, when the daughter herself is an artist, and pretty besides! Is she really so pretty? I'm so curious! At our house it's more quiet, and a little monotonous—always the same people—officers—but there are some fine men among them who will appeal to you, and among the ladies a few lovely, beautiful women and girls. This is familiar talk. And then Miss von Strummin is coming—Mieting! She promised me to do so at Golmberg, with a thousand pledges, and has already written half a dozen letters on the subject—she writes every day—sometimes two letters a day; the last one was entirely about you."

"That makes me curious."

"I believe it; but I shall take care not to tell you what was in it; you men are already vain enough. Papa, too, is very fond of you; did you know that?"

"No, I did not know it; but I don't know of anything that would make me prouder."

"He said—only yesterday evening, when Ottomar told us about meeting you, and that he had met you in Orléans—it was too bad that you didn't remain in the army; you would have had an easy time of it. You could still reënter any moment."

"Very kind! I thought of it myself during the campaign, and, if the campaign had lasted longer, who knows! But in time of peace! A second lieutenant at thirty years—that wouldn't do!"

"Of course, of course! But how would it be with the marine? That could certainly be arranged, and you could remain in your profession."

"I should be glad to remain in that, of course," answered Reinhold, "and I am just revolving in my mind a proposal which President von Sunden has made me recently, and which would advance me at once to the rank of commander."

"To the rank of commander!" exclaimed Else with wondering eyes.

"To the rank of Pilot Commander."

"Oh!"

There was disappointment in the exclamation, which did not escape Reinhold, and he continued with a smile: "That is, the command of a few dozen rough, seasoned, seaworthy men, and of a dozen capable, seaworthy, fast sailing craft, among them, I hope, also one or two life-boats—a modest position but yet one not without honor, and certainly full of dangers; all in all, a position of sufficient importance to justify any one who does not make any great claims on life, but is willing to exercise his capabilities in the service of the world, in devoting to it and risking for it, his powers and abilities and whatever else he has to give. And I—I should incidentally remain in my profession."

They stood at a window, a little apart from the throng of people which was surging just now up and down the long corridor with particular vivacity. Else, leaning gently against the window-sill, was looking with fixed eyes toward the street. Reinhold almost doubted whether she had heard what he said, when, suddenly lifting her head, she answered with the cheerful face of a few minutes before, "You are right—that is your real calling. Accepting the proposal which the dear old man has made to you, you have friends in all circles. Is it a question of some particular position, if I may ask?"

"Yes, I should have my post at Wissow."

"At Wissow?"

She clapped her hands and laughed. "At our Wissow? No, but that is too delightful! Then we should be half neighbors from Warnow and also from Strummin, when I make my promised visit to Mieting! Then we shall come, and you shall go sailing with us—but far, far out! Will you do it?"

"As far as you wish!"

"Done! And now we must continue our journey of discovery. Good gracious! Princess Heinrich August, with the princesses! The unfortunate Passinis! She has certainly seen me—she sees everything at a glance; I can't get away now.—But——"

"I am going!" said Reinhold.

"Yes, do; it is better! Here—give me your hand! Good-by!" She extended her hand which Reinhold held for a second; her eyes were turned again to the princess. He went down the corridor. When he turned again for a moment at the end of the corridor, he saw Else just making a deep curtsy to the princess. The noble lady had stopped and was speaking to Else.

"How will she get out of it," thought Reinhold. "She cannot say she has been in the bay window speaking with a pilot commander in spe."

Ferdinande had talked with her friends so long in the clock room that she thought she noticed that Reinhold, who had repeatedly looked around for her, now having dismissed her from his mind for the moment, was fully occupied in examining the pictures. Then, bowing to the ladies, she moved on with the crowd, which pressed toward the side room, stopping a few moments at the entrance to make sure that Reinhold was not following her; then, with quick steps and wearing the expression of a lady looking for her lost companion, giving only a quick nod to passing acquaintances, she went on through this room, the sky-light room, and the fourth room, from there turning into the long series of small rooms which extended along the larger, and into which but few visitors came, even in the first days of the exhibition.

Today it was comparatively empty, although here and there scattered visitors strolled past, scanning the pictures with hasty, feverish curiosity, not stopping long anywhere, but occasionally casting a glance of admiration at an officer who appeared to be absorbed in a few medieval landscapes. Now his interest seemed satisfied; he walked quickly up the passageway, until a picture at the far end again attracted his attention; it was the same one at which Ferdinande had been looking. The light fell so unfavorably upon the picture that it could be seen to advantage only from one place, and the officer had to approach very close to the lady—brushing her gown in doing so. "Pardon!" he said aloud, and then in a low tone, which reached her ear alone, "Don't turn round till I tell you to do so! Speak toward the corner; no one can notice it. First, thank you!"

"For what?"

"For coming."

"I only came to tell you that I can't bear it any longer."

"Do I have nothing to bear?"

"No—in comparison with me."

"I love you, as you do me."

"Prove it!"

"How?"

"By actions, not questions!"

"But if my hands are bound."

"Break the bonds!"

"I cannot."

"Farewell!"

She turned toward the entrance through which she had come; he forgot all rules of propriety and stepped in front of her. They stood face to face, looking into each other's eyes.

"Ferdinande!"

"I wish to proceed!"

"You must hear me! For Heaven's sake, Ferdinande, such an opportunity will not come again—perhaps for weeks."

She laughed scoffingly. "We have time enough!"

Again she tried to pass him; again he stopped her.

"Ferdinande!"

"Once more: Let me pass! You need an opportunity? Such a good one to get rid of me may never come again."

He stepped aside with a bow; she might have gone unhindered, but did not do so; hot tears filled her large eyes; she did not dare to go into the throng, but turned again toward the picture, while he took the same discreet pose as before.

"Be gracious, Ferdinande! I looked forward eagerly to this moment—why do you embitter for both of us the precious minutes? You know, you must know, that I am resolved upon the last extremity, if it must be. But we cannot take the final step without considering everything."

"We have considered for six months."

"Over the garden wall, in words which were only half understood; in letters, which never say what we mean to say. That is nothing. You must give me an appointment, for which I have so often asked. Shall my hand never rest in yours, my lips never touch yours? And you ask for proofs of my love!"

She looked at him with a side glance, gazed into his beautiful, light-brown, nervous eyes. Two more beautiful, two darker eyes, had looked at her an hour before with passionate fervor; she had resisted them, but she did not resist these. Her eyelids dropped. "I cannot do it," she stammered.

"Say: 'I do not wish to do it.' I have made countless proposals. I asked to be presented to your brother at the club, recently. He was delighted to make my acquaintance—gave me a pressing invitation to call upon him—to see his pictures. How easily we could meet there!"

"I am not allowed to visit my brother—have not been allowed to do so for a long time—and now, since last evening!"

"Then your cousin! He will surely come to see us; I shall return his call—your father certainly cannot show me the door!"

"I have thought of that, and prepared him for it. It would, in any case, be only a few minutes."

"Then I shall consider farther; if I only know that you wish it, I shall find a way and write you, or rather tell you as soon as you give the sign."

"I no longer dare to do it."

"Why not?"

"Some one is watching me at every step; I am not secure in his presence for a moment—Antonio—I told you about it; I am afraid."

"Yes, you are always afraid."

He made a quick, uneasy movement toward the recess of the window near which he was standing. At the same moment a strikingly handsome, well-dressed young man vanished through the door at the other end of the gallery, in which he had been standing for some time, so concealed that, by bending a little to the left, he viewed the recess of the window and the strange couple there with his falcon-like black eyes, without running great risk of being detected. In an emergency he needed only to spring into the throng which filled the larger side rooms. He had seen enough, and darted back.

When Ottomar, after looking out of the window a few seconds, turned to speak to Ferdinande a conciliatory word which was on his lips and in his heart, the place was empty.

Ferdinande had not been able to do otherwise. Her lady friends, with whom she had conversed a little while before, had just passed the door of the side room next to which she stood, fortunately without noticing her. But they had stopped close to the door—the dress of one of them was still in sight.

[While viewing the pictures, Madame von Wallbach asks her husband, Edward, who the striking figure is coming toward them. It is Count Golm, who is presented and converses with them about Italy and Paris. Else and Ottomar are referred to. Golm asks who Ottomar is. In the course of the conversation Carla intimates her relations with Ottomar, whom Golm wishes to meet. Princess Heinrich August comes along with her suite, speaking with Else, and, recognizing Golm, inquires about his island.

Philip comes upon Reinhold at the exhibition and converses with him in a friendly way, mentioning Bismarck as his great hero, much to Reinhold's delight. He then refers to his father in severe words and points out a nouveau riche, who but two years ago was a dabbler, and is today thrice a millionaire. Philip says that he himself is rich and is expecting large dividends soon. He asks Reinhold to share with him, but Reinhold declines, having saved a small sum himself. They step aside as the princess comes along with Else, Golm, and her suite. Philip meets Ferdinande again and talks with her. Ottomar is in the crowd, also talking to Carla, in close proximity to Ferdinande. Antonio is spying on Ferdinande and Ottomar, with curses on his lips.

Count Golm and Privy Councilor Schieler are at the Hotel Royal discussing the new projects for a north or an east harbor of the Sundin-Wissow railroad. The Count wants the east harbor; Schieler says he is no longer an official and has no influence. The Count speaks of his debts—fifty thousand thaler, due in October, and his account not particularly good with Lübbener. Schieler tells him he should marry a rich woman; suggests Else von Werben, mentioning the fact that Wallbach, a director of the railroad, is also trustee of the Warnow estates, and that Ottomar is engaged to Wallbach's clever sister, Carla. Wallbach calculates that half of the estate, if sold to the railroad, would be worth three or four times as much as the whole of it is now, but he hesitates to give advice in the matter. The Count proposes to buy the property at a lower rate and to sell it to the railroad. But they are reckoning without their host, Valerie, Baroness Warnow, who has, with her fifty years, acquired the right of a voice in administering the affairs of the estates; but Giraldi, her chamberlain, companion, and what not, is the power behind her. Schieler then tells Golm the history of Valerie, gives him an account of the will of her husband, and convinces the Count that the interests of the railroad and of Golm are identical. Schieler and Golm then go to call on Philip Schmidt, the general promoter of the railroad.

Schieler has prepared Philip for the visit, and told him that Golm must be won over. Philip shows Schieler and Golm his pictures. The Count is pleased and flattered, and offers Philip the hospitality of Golmberg. Golm learns how Philip, a plain master mason, has come up by his intelligence, inventive genius, energy, and speculation, especially as promoter of the railroad scheme. Lübbener, previously notified by Schieler, drops in at Philip's to see Golm. Refreshments are served, and Philip, as a bluff, pretends to banish business. Victorine, a mezzo-soprano, and Bertalde, a dancing girl, and, later, Ottomar come in, and make a breezy scene. The company, as a jest, constitutes itself a committee of promoters.

General von Werben is at work in his study, Aunt Sidonie is working on her book on Court Etiquette, Ottomar has not returned from drill, Else is reading Mieting's letters—one saying that Mieting will fall in love with Reinhold if Else does not want him, and that she is coming to make conquest; the second that Mieting has misunderstood Else's letter at the first reading, and having re-read it, is not coming. Sidonie and Else discuss the question of inviting Reinhold to the ball, and decide that Ottomar is to deliver the invitation in person. Else is worried at Ottomar's disturbed state of mind, and charges him with not loving Carla. Ottomar admits that he intends to marry Carla for her five thousand income, and taunts Else with having acquired her wisdom in love matters from Count Golm. Else resents this, and then tells Ottomar that his father wishes him to deliver the invitation. Ottomar demurs, and, going to his room, finds a letter on the table from his father, saying that he has paid twelve hundred thaler of Ottomar's debts—the last he will pay.

Reinhold tries to change Uncle Ernst's attitude toward his socialistic workmen. Kreisel comes in to tell Uncle Ernst that he is going to his own funeral, and to ask for his discharge, for he too is a socialist. Philip interviews his father in the interests of the railroad, offering to buy out his plant, but, meeting with a rebuff, goes away.

Cilli asks Reinhold how Uncle Ernst received her father's resignation, and then gives Reinhold an account of her blindness. Philip finds Reinhold with Cilli and accuses him with strengthening Uncle Ernst's prejudice against the railroad. Ottomar comes in to give Reinhold the invitation to the ball, and then views the work in the studio. Philip tells Justus that he will have half a street to his credit for his sculpture. Ottomar seizes an opportunity to kiss Ferdinande and make an appointment with her in the Bellevue Garden at eight o'clock. Antonio enters and takes in the situation.

Ferdinande tells Aunt Rikchen that she is to take supper with Miss Marfolk, a painter, to meet Professor Seefeld of Karlsruhe. Reinhold prepares to go to the Werben ball. Aunt Rikchen suggests to Ferdinande that she marry Reinhold herself, greatly to her astonishment. Antonio heightens the embarrassment by coming to give Ferdinande the lesson, which was to come on the following morning. Ferdinande sends him off, takes a cab to the Grosser Stern, while Antonio follows her in another cab. Ottomar, clad as a civilian, meets Ferdinande at the Grosser Stern.]

Meanwhile the cab had gone only a short distance, as far as the entrance to Bellevue Garden. "It is entirely safe here, I swear it is," Ottomar whispered, as he helped Ferdinande alight. The cabman put his dollar contentedly into his pocket and drove off; Ottomar took Ferdinande's arm and led the confused, anxious, dazed girl into the garden; he heard plainly her deep breathing. "I swear it is safe here," he repeated.

"Swear that you love me! That's all I ask!"

Instead of answering he placed his arm about her; she embraced him with both arms; their lips touched with a quiver and a long ardent kiss. Then they hurried hand in hand further into the park till shrubbery and trees inclosed them in darkness, and they sank into each other's arms, exchanging fervent kisses and stammering love vows—drunk with a bliss which they had so long, long dreamed, but which was now more precious than all their happy dreams.

So felt Ferdinande, at least, and so she said, while her lips met his again and again, and so said Ottomar; and yet in the same moment in which he returned her fervent kisses there was a feeling that he had never before known—a shuddering fear of the fever in his heart and hers, a feeling as of fainting in contrast to the passion which surrounded and oppressed him with the violence of a storm. He had sported with women before, considered his easy victories as triumphs, accepted the silent worship of beautiful eyes, the flattering words of loving lips, as a tribute which was due him and which he pocketed without thanks—but here—for the first time—he was the weaker one. He was not willing to confess it, but knew, as a practised wrestler knows after the first grip, that he has found his master and that he will be overcome if chance does not come to the rescue. Indeed, Ottomar was already looking for this chance—any event that might intervene, any circumstance which might serve to his advantage; and then he blushed for himself, for his cowardice, this base ingratitude toward the beautiful, precious creature who had thrown herself into his arms with such confidence, such devotion, such self-forgetfulness; and he redoubled the tenderness of his caresses and the sweet flattery of words of love.

And then—that anxious feeling might be a delusion; but she, who had done what he so often, so beseechingly asked, had at last granted him the meeting in which he wished to set forth his plans for the future—she had a right, she must expect, that he would finally unfold the plan for that future with which he seemed to have labored so long, and which was just as hazy to him as ever. He did not believe, what she declared to be true, that she wished nothing but to love him, to be loved by him, that everything of which he spoke—his father—her father—circumstances which must be considered—difficulties which must be overcome—everything, everything, was only a mist which vanishes before the rays of the sun, trifles not worth mentioning, causing them to waste even a moment of the precious time, even a breath of it! He did not believe it; but he was only too willing to take her at her word, already releasing himself silently from the responsibility of results, which such neglect of the simplest rules of caution and prudence might have, must have.

And then he forgot the flying moment, and had to be reminded by her that his time was up, that they were expecting him at home, that he must not reach the company too late.

"Or will you take me along?" she asked. "Will you enter the reception-room arm in arm with me and present me to the company as your betrothed? You shall not have cause to be ashamed of me; there are not likely to be many of your friends whom I cannot look down upon, and I have always found that to be able to look down on others is to be half noble. To you I shall ever have to look up; tall as I am, I must still reach up to you and your sweet lips."

There was a strange proud grace in the jest, and tenderest love in the kiss, which her smiling lips breathed upon his; he was enchanted, intoxicated by this lovely grace, this proud love; he said to himself that she was right—he said so to her—and that she could compare with any queen in the world; that she deserved to be a queen—and yet, and yet! If it had not been a jest, if she had demanded it seriously, what—yet she some time would demand it!

"That was the last kiss," said Ferdinande; "I must be the more prudent one, because I am so. And now give me your arm and conduct me to the nearest cab, and then you will go straight home and be very fine and charming this evening, and break a few more hearts in addition to those you have already broken, and afterwards lie at my feet in gratitude for my heart, which is larger than all theirs together."

It was almost dark when they left the silent park. The sky was all covered with clouds from which heavy drops of rain were beginning to fall. Fortunately an empty cab came along which Ferdinande could take to the Brandenburgerthor, there to step into another and thus obliterate every trace of the way she had gone. Ottomar could throw a kiss to her once more as he lifted her into the cab. And she leaned back into the seat, closed her eyes, and dreamed the blissful hour over again. Ottomar looked after the cab. It was a wretched nag, a wretched cab; and as they disappeared in the dark through the faint light of the few street lamps, a strange feeling of awe and aversion came over him. "It looks like a hearse," he said to himself; "I could hardly take hold of the wet doorhandle; I should not have had the courage to ride in the rig—the affair puts one into a strangely uncomfortable situation, indeed. The road home is no joke, either—it is nearly nine o'clock—and besides it is beginning to rain very hard."

He turned into the Grosser-Stern-Allee, the shortest way home. It was already growing dark so fast among the great tree trunks that he could distinguish only the hard walk upon which he was moving with hurried steps; on the other side of the broad bridle-path, where a narrow foot-path ran, the trunks of the trees were scarcely distinguishable from the blackness of the forest. He had ridden up and down this beautiful avenue countless times—alone, with his comrades, in the brilliant company of ladies and gentlemen—how often with Carla! Else was right! Carla was a skilful horse-woman, the best, perhaps, of all ladies, and certainly the most graceful. They had both so often been seen and spoken of together—it was, in fact, quite impossible to sever their relationship now; it would make a fearful fuss.

Ottomar stopped. He had gone too fast; the perspiration rolled from his brow; his bosom was so oppressed that he tore open his coat and vest. He had never known the sensation of physical fear before, but now he was terrified to hear a slight noise behind him, and his eyes peered anxiously into the dark—it was probably a twig which broke and fell. "I feel as if I had murder on my soul, or as if I myself were to be murdered the next moment," he said to himself, as he continued his way almost at a run.

He did not imagine that he owed his life to the breaking of that twig.

Antonio had lain in wait all this time at the entrance to the avenue as if bound by magic, now sitting on the iron railing between the foot-path and the bridle-path, now going to and fro, leaning against the trunk of a tree, continually engrossed in the same dark thoughts, projecting plans for revenge, exulting in imagining the tortures which he was to inflict upon her and upon him as soon as he had them in his power, directing his glance from time to time across the open place to the entrance of the other avenue into which the cab had disappeared with the two people, as if they must appear there again, as if his revengeful soul had the power to force them to come this way. He could have spent the whole night like a beast of prey that lies sullenly in his lair in spite of gnawing hunger, raging over his lost spoil.

And what was that? There he was, coming across the place, right toward him! His eye, accustomed to the darkness, recognized him clearly as if it had been bright day. Would the beast have the stupidity to come into the avenue—to deliver himself into his hand? Per bacco! It was so and not otherwise; then—after a short hesitation—he turned into the avenue—to the other side, to be sure; but it was all right; he could thus follow him on his side so much the more safely; then there was only the bridle-path to leap across, in the deep sand in which his first steps would certainly not be heard, and then—with a few springs, the stiletto in his neck, or, if he should turn, under the seventh rib up to the hilt!

And his hand clutched the hilt as if hand and hilt were one, and with the finger of the other hand he tested over and over the needle-point, while he stole along from tree to tree in long strides—softly, softly—the soft claws of a tiger could not have risen and fallen more softly.

Now half of the avenue was passed; the darkness could not become more dense now; it was just light enough to see the blade of the stiletto. One moment yet to convince himself that they were alone in the park; he over there, and himself—and now, crouching, over across the soft sand behind the thick trunk of a tree which he had already selected as the place!

But quickly as the passage was made, the other had now won a handicap of perhaps twenty paces. That was too much; the distance would have to be diminished by half. And it could not be so difficult; he still had the soft sand of the bridle-path to the right of the trees, while the other one was going to the left on the hard foot-path, where his footsteps would drown any slight noise. There! Maledetto di Dio—a dry twig broke with a crack under his stealthy foot. He crouched behind the tree—he could not be seen; but the other must have heard it; he stopped—listened, perhaps expecting his antagonist—in any case now no longer unprepared—who knows?—a brave man, an officer—turning about, offering his front to his antagonist. So much the better! Then there would be only a leap from behind the tree! And—he was coming!

The Italian's heart throbbed in his throat as he now, advancing his left foot, held himself ready to leap; but the murderous desire had dulled his otherwise sharp senses; the sound of the steps was not toward him but toward the opposite side! When he became aware of his mistake the distance had increased at least twofold—and threefold before he could determine in his amazement what was to be done.

To give up the chase! Nothing else remained. The beast was now almost running, and then a belated cab rattled down the street which intersected the avenue, and beyond the street were crossways to the right and left. It was not safe to do the deed; there was no certainty of escape afterwards—the moment was lost—for this time! But next time!—Antonio muttered a fearful curse as he put his stiletto back into its sheath and concealed it in his coat-pocket.

THE LOAN-OFFICE
From the Painting by Michael von Munkacsy
PERMISSION CH. SEDELMEYER, PARIS

The other had vanished; Antonio followed slowly along the same road, out of the park across the Thiergartenstrasse into the Springbrunnenstrasse to the front of the house in which the hated one lived. The windows were brightly illuminated. An equipage came up; an officer and richly gowned ladies, wrapped in their shawls, alighted; a second equipage followed—he was laughing and reveling up there now, and whispering into the ear of one of the fair ladies who had alighted what he had whispered ten minutes before to Ferdinande. If only he could inspire her with the poisonous jealousy which consumed his own heart! If he could bring about something between her and him which would be insurmountable! If he could betray the whole thing to the grim signor, her father, or to the proud general, his father, or to both——

"Hello!"

A man coming along the pavement had run into him as he leaned on the iron railing of a front yard, arms folded, and had uttered the exclamation in a harsh voice.

"Scusi!" said the Italian, lifting his hat. "Beg your pardon!"

"Hello!" repeated the man. "Is it you, Antonio?"

"O Signor Roller! Mr. Inspector!"

"Signor Roller! Mr. Inspector! That's enough Signoring and Inspectoring," said the man, with a loud laugh—"for the present, at least, till we have given it to the old man—to him and his nephew and his whole brood! If I could only get at the throat of all of them—could only play them a real trick! I'd be willing to pay something for it! Only I have no money! It's all up!"

The man laughed again; he was evidently half drunk.

"I have money," said Antonio quickly, "and——"

"Then we'll take a drink, Signor Italiano," exclaimed the other, slapping him on the shoulder. "Una bottiglia—capisci? Ha! ha! I have not entirely forgotten my Italian! Carrara—marble oxen—capisci?—capisci?"

"Eccomi tutto a voi," said the Italian, taking the man's arm. "Whither?"

"To business, to the devil, to the cellar!" exclaimed Roller, laughingly pointing to the red lantern above the saloon at the corner of the Springbrunnenstrasse.

[The three upper rooms of the General's villa are arranged for a ball. Else appears in a blue gown, but is quite displeased with herself. All looks blue. It is Ottomar's fault, as usual; he has gone out and not returned. And then Wallbach doesn't love Luise, nor Luise him. The men spend so much money. Ottomar is deep in debt; Wartenberg can't get along with his twenty thousand, and Clemda with his fifty thousand spends twice that much every year. Aunt Sidonie comes in, and is charmed with Else's tarletan; she tells Else she looks just like her princess in the book she is writing, and then refers to Count Golm as a good match for Else. Else is infuriated, says she would not marry Golm if he laid a crown at her feet. The General comes in and Schieler enters and gives the General an account of the railroad project, touching upon the sale of Valerie's estates to Golm, and suggests Golm as a prospective husband for Else.]

The Count had entered a few minutes before in his provincial uniform with the order of St. John. The reception-room had become almost filled with guests meanwhile, and it was with some difficulty that he made his way to the hostesses. Else had not spared him this trouble, to be sure; at this moment, when he caught sight of her at the door, she was eagerly continuing the conversation, which she had begun with Captain von Schönau, so eagerly that the Count, having spoken to Sidonie, stood behind her for half a minute without being noticed, till Schönau finally thought it his duty to draw her attention to the new guest with a gesture, and the words, "I think, Miss Else——"

"I think myself fortunate," said the Count.

"Oh! Count Golm!" said Else, with a well feigned surprise. "Pardon me for not seeing you at once! I was so absorbed. May I make the gentlemen acquainted: Captain von Schönau of the General Staff—a good friend of our family—Count von Golm. Have you seen Papa, Count? He is in the other room. Then, dear Schönau——"

The Count stepped back with a bow.

"That was a bit severe, Miss Else," said Schönau.

"What?"

Schönau laughed.

"You know, Miss Else, if I were not a most modest man I should have all sorts of possible and impossible silly notions in my head."

"How so?"

"Why, my heavens, didn't you see that the Count was on the point of extending his hand and stepped back with a face as red as my collar? Such things a young lady like Miss Else von Werben overlooks only when she wishes to do so, which is hardly the case, or if she—I shall not venture to finish the sentence. Who is that?"

"Who?"

"The officer there—yonder to the left, next to the Baroness Kniebreche—see, at the right!—who is speaking to your father, a stately man—has a cross, too. How did he get here?"

Else had to decide now to see Reinhold, though her heart throbbed quickly and she was vexed at it. She was already vexed that, in her conduct toward the Count, she had exposed and almost betrayed herself to the sharp eyes of Schönau; now it was to happen again!

"A Mr. Schmidt," she said, pressing more firmly the rosebud in her hair. "Sea captain. We made his acquaintance on the journey; Papa was greatly pleased with him——"

"Really a fine looking man," repeated Schönau. "Splendid manly face, such as I like to see, and not without carriage; and yet one recognizes the officer of the reserve at the first glance."

"By what?" asked Else, as her heart began to throb again.

"That you should know as well and better than I, as you associate more with the Guard than I do! Compare him with Ottomar, who seems to have been late again and wishes to atone for his sins by being doubly amiable! Just see with what perfect form he kisses the hand of old Baroness Kniebreche, and now turns on his heel and bows to Countess Fischbach with a grace which the great Vestris himself might envy! Allons, mon fils, montrez votre talent. And now he converses with Sattelstädt—not a line too little, not one too much! To be sure, it is a little unfair to compare the gentlemen of the reserve with the model of all knightly form. Don't you think so?"

Else gazed straight ahead. Schönau was right; there was a difference! She would have preferred to see him as he strode up and down the deck in his woolen jacket; then she had envied him the steadiness and freedom of his movements—and when afterwards he sat at the helm of the boat, and steered it as calmly as the rider his rearing steed! If only he hadn't come just at this time!

Then Reinhold, who had been conversing with her father, excused himself with a friendly nod, and catching sight of Else, turned about and came straight toward her. Else trembled so that she had to steady herself with her left hand against the arm of the chair, for she wished to remain entirely cool and unconscious; but as he stepped up to her, his beautiful honest eyes still aglow from the gracious greeting accorded him by her father, and a certain shyness in his open manly face, which seemed to ask, "Shall I be welcomed by you, too?"—her heart grew warm and kind; even though her hand remained on the arm of the chair, she extended to him the other at full length; her dark eyes sparkled, her red lips laughed, and she said, as heartily and frankly as if there had not been a fairer name in the world—"Welcome to our house, dear Mr. Schmidt!"

He had grasped her hand and said a few words which she only half heard. She turned around to Schönau; the Captain had vanished; a flush came to her cheeks. "It doesn't matter," she muttered.

"What does not matter, Miss Else?"

"I shall tell you later, when there is to be some dancing after dinner; to be sure I don't know——"

"Whether I dance? Indeed I am passionately fond of it."

"The Rhinelander, too?"

"The Rhinelander, too! And, in spite of your incredulous smile, not so badly that Miss von Werben should not give me the honor."

"The Rhinelander, then! All the rest I have declined. Now I must mingle with the company."

She gave a friendly nod and turned away, but turned quickly again.

"Do you like my brother?"

"Very much!"

"I wish so much that you might become intimate with each other. Do make a little effort. Will you?"

"Gladly."

She was now really much occupied. Reinhold, too, mingled with the company, without any of the misgivings which he had felt upon entering the brilliant circle of strangers. For he had now been received by the hostess as a dear friend of the family! Even the eyes of her stately aunt had glanced at him with a certain good-natured curiosity, formal as her bow had been; on the other hand, her father had shaken his hand so heartily and after the first words of welcome, drawing him aside with evident confidence, said to him: "I must first of all make you acquainted with Colonel von Sattelstädt and Captain von Schönau, both of the General Staff. The gentlemen will be eager to hear. Please express yourself with entire freedom—I consider that important. I have yet a special request in the matter, which I wish to communicate to you as soon as I get that far. Then I shall see you later!"

"That was already flattering enough for the simple Lieutenant of the Reserve," Reinhold had thought to himself, as he went up to Else. And she! her kindness, her graciousness! He felt like a Homeric hero, who hoped, silently indeed, that the goddess to whom he prayed would be gracious to him, and to whom the divinity appears in person, in the tumult of battle, beckoning with immortal eyes and words which his ear alone hears. What mattered it to him now that the gold lorgnette of old Baroness Kniebreche was turned upon him so long with such an unnecessary stare, and then let drop with a movement which only too plainly said, "That was worth the effort!" What did he care that Count Golm looked past him as long as it was possible, and, when the manœuvre once utterly failed, slipped by him with an angry, snarling, "O, O, Captain—Very happy!" That the bow of young Prince Clemda might have been a little less indifferent when he was introduced! What difference did it make to him? And those were the only signs of unfriendly feeling which he had encountered in a quite numerous company during the hour just passed. Otherwise, amiable, natural friendliness on the part of the ladies, and polite comradeship on the part of the gentlemen, officers almost without exception, had been the rule throughout; even Prince Clemda seemed to wish to atone for his coolness, suddenly coming up to him and speaking through his nose a few phrases from which Reinhold heard with some clearness: "Werben—Orléans—Vierzon—Devil of a ride—sorry——"

The acquaintance of von Sattelstädt and von Schönau was the most agreeable to him. They came up to him almost at the same time and asked him if he was inclined to give them his views concerning the practicability and value of constructing a naval station north of Wissow Hook. "We both know the locality very well," said the Colonel; "are also both—the Captain a little more than I—opposed to the project. We have conferred frequently with the gentlemen of the Ministry, of course; but nevertheless, or, rather, now in particular, it would be of the greatest interest and most decided importance to hear the view of an intelligent, entirely unprejudiced and unbiased seaman, who is fully acquainted with the conditions—if he has in addition, as you have, Captain, the military eye of a campaign officer. Let us sit down in this little room—there is another chair, Schönau! And now, I think it is best that you allow us to ask questions; we shall come most easily and clearly to the point in that way. We do not wish to tax you long."

"I am at the service of the gentlemen!" said Reinhold.

The gentlemen intended to make only the most modest use of the permission thus granted; but as Reinhold had to go more into detail at times in order to answer the questions put to him, the conversation lasted much longer than anyone had intended, and, as it appeared, than he himself had realized. Flattering as was the respectful attention with which the two officers listened to his explanations, sincerely as he admired the keenness, the exactness, and the extent of the information exhibited by each of their questions, each word—nevertheless he could not resist casting a glance through the door of the room into the reception-room where the company was still mingling freely in the accustomed manner; and through the reception-room into the smaller room on the other side of the reception-room, in which a group of younger ladies and gentlemen had collected, among whom Reinhold noticed Ottomar and the lady who had been pointed out to him at the exhibition as Miss von Wallbach, and Count Golm, and, finally, Else too. A lively discussion was going on there, so that one could hear it across the reception-room, although only an occasional word could be understood. And Schönau's attention also was finally attracted to it. "I'll wager," he said, "that they are disputing about Wagner; when Miss von Wallbach is presiding, Wagner must be the subject of discussion. I would give something, if I could hear what ideas she is bringing forward today."

"That is to say, dear Schönau, if I am not mistaken, 'I would give something, if Sattelstädt would finally stop,'" said the Colonel with a smile. "Well, to be sure, we have tried the patience of our comrade longer than was right or proper."

He rose and extended his hand to Reinhold, Schönau protested; he had thought least of all of that which the Colonel imputed to him. The Colonel shook his finger. "Shame on you, Schönau, to betray your mistress! That is, you must know, comrade, the noble Dame Musica—for her he goes through fire and flood, and lets the naval station go to the dickens! March, march, Schönau!" And off they went.

Schönau laughed, but left, taking with him Reinhold, who followed without reluctance, as he would thus have the best opportunity of coming into the presence of Else and Ottomar, the latter of whom he had seen and saluted hastily a few minutes before.

[Ottomar returns and quite outdoes himself in his attentions to the ladies, much to the disquietude of Baroness Kniebreche and Carla. The Baroness finally brings Ottomar and Carla together, and delivers a little homily to them but without improving their relations. Ottomar thinks to himself that the four charming girls with whom he is talking would not make one Ferdinande from whom he has just parted. And suppose he did have a hostile encounter with Wallbach, it would only be the fourth in four years; and if the bullet did hit him, it would only be the end of his debts and his amours! Ottomar is asked to introduce his friend Reinhold. Clemda tells Ottomar that he is to marry Antonie in a month, and that they wish Carla to be a bridesmaid. Colonel von Bohl tells Ottomar that he can hardly begin his furlough before spring, as Clemda's time is to be extended, and then speaks of a possible post at St. Petersburg for Ottomar. Ottomar is embarrassed and runs into a group of ladies gathered around Carla, who is discoursing about Wagner. Count Golm is shrewd enough not to express his opinion about Wagner as a great musician, but Ottomar, to the great confusion of the Baroness and Carla, says he thinks the whole Wagner business is a humbug!

Supper is announced. Else implores Ottomar to take Carla to supper and repair the injury he has done, but Carla has taken Golm's arm. Else urges Ottomar not to let Golm beat him out. The polka starts. The General, seeing Reinhold disengaged, asks him whether he dances? Reinhold says he does, but is waiting for the chat which the General had requested. The General proceeds to unfold the railroad scheme, and elicits Reinhold's opinion. At the close of the ball, the General finds a letter telling of Ottomar's escapade with Ferdinande.]

The last carriage had rolled away; the servants were cleaning up the rooms under the direction of Sidonie; Else, who had usually relieved her aunt of the duties of the house, had withdrawn with the excuse that she felt a little tired, in order to allow the pleasant echo of the delightful evening to pass through her thoughts again while she sat in the quiet of her room, undisturbed by the clatter of chairs and tables. It would not have been at all necessary for him to dance the Rhinelander with such grace; she would have given him in the waltz, also, the great flaming favor which she had placed at the bottom of the basket, and which she drew, luckily, with a bold grab, when it came her turn to fasten it with her trembling hands next to the iron cross on his breast. Yes, her hands had trembled and her heart had throbbed as she accomplished the great work and now looked up into his beaming eyes; but it was for joy, for pure joy and bliss. And it was joy and bliss also which now let her fall asleep, after she had laid her greatest treasures, the sketch-book with his picture and the little compass, upon her dressing-table, and put out the light—but again lighted it to cast a glance at the compass-box and assure herself that "it was always true" and "sought its master," and then opened the sketch-book at the place where it always opened of itself, to look at his picture once more—no, not the picture—it was horrible!—but at the signature: "With love!" Secretly, very secretly to impress a kiss upon it, and then quickly, very quickly, to put out the light, to press her head into her pillow, and, in her dreams, to look for him to whom she was ever true, dreaming or waking—who, she knew, would ever be true to her, waking or dreaming.

Ottomar, too, had taken leave of the ladies, as the last guests left, with a hasty, "Good-night! I'm tired enough to drop! Where is Father?" and had gone downstairs without waiting for an answer to his question. In the hall which led to his room he had to pass his father's room. He had stopped a moment. His father, who had gone down a few minutes before, was certainly still up, and Ottomar had, on such occasions, always knocked and said at least, through the open door, "Good night!" This time he did not do it. "I am tired enough to drop," he repeated, as if he wished to excuse himself for the violation of a family custom. But, on reaching his room, he did not think of going to bed. It would not have been any use as long as the blood was raging through his veins "as if I were crazy," said Ottomar, opening his uniform covered with cotillion favors, and throwing it down. He opened his vest and collar, and got into the first piece of clothing that came to his hand—his hunting jacket—and seated himself with a cigar at the open window. The night was perceptibly cool, but the cool air was grateful to him; lightning flashed from the black clouds, but he took no notice of it; and thus he sat looking out on the black autumn night, puffing his cigar—revolving his confused thoughts in his perturbed mind, and not hearing, because of the throbbing of his pulse in his temples and the rustling of the wind in the branches, that there had twice been a knock at his door; shrinking like a criminal, as now the voice sounded close in his ear. It was August.

"I beg your pardon, Lieutenant! I have already knocked several times."

"What do you want?"

"The General requests the Lieutenant to come to him at once."

"Is Father sick?"

August shook his head. "The General is still in his uniform and doesn't look sick, only a little——"

"Only a little what?"

The man ran his fingers through his hair. "A little strange, Lieutenant! I think, Lieutenant, the General——"

"The devil! Will you speak?"

August came a step nearer, and said in a whisper, "I think the General received a bad letter a while ago—it may have been half-past eleven. I didn't see the one who brought it, and Friedrich didn't know him, and he probably went away immediately. But I had to take the letter to the General myself, and the General made a curious face as he read the letter——"

"From a lady?"

August could not suppress a smile in spite of the genuine concern which he felt for his young master. "I—he said—they looked differently—one will get over that in time—a highly important letter——"

"These damned Manichæans!" muttered Ottomar. He did not understand the connection; the next note was not due for eight days—but what else could it be? His father would make another beautiful scene for him! Oh, pshaw! He would get engaged a few days earlier, if he must get engaged, if it were only finally to put an end to the disgraceful worries from which he had no rest at night in his room, and couldn't smoke his cigar in peace!

He threw his cigar out of the window; August had taken his uniform and removed the cotillion favors. "What's that for?"

"Does the Lieutenant prefer to put on his uniform?" asked August.

"Nonsense!" said Ottomar. "That was just lacking to——"

He broke off; for he could not tell August—to make the tedious story still more tedious and more serious. "I shall simply explain to Papa that in the future I do not intend to molest him further with such things, and prefer to have my affairs finally arranged by Wallbach," he said to himself, while August went on ahead with the light—the gas lights in the hall were already extinguished—down the hall, and now stopped at his father's door.

"You may put the light on the table there, and as far as I am concerned, go to bed, and tell Friedrich to wake me at six o'clock in the morning."

He had spoken these words more loudly than was necessary, and he noticed that his voice had a strange sound—as if it were not his own voice. It was, of course, only because everything was so still in the house—so still that he now heard the blood coursing in his temples and his heart beating.

"The damned Manichæans!" he muttered again through his teeth, as he knocked at the door.

"Come in!"

His father stood at his desk, above which a hanging lamp was burning. And the lamps were still burning on the brackets before the mirror, there was an uncanny brightness in the room, and an uncanny order, although it was just exactly as Ottomar had seen it as long as he could remember. He ought really to have put on his uniform after all.

"I beg pardon, Papa, for coming in négligé. I was just about to go to bed, and August was so insistent——"

His father still stood at the desk, resting one hand on it, turning his back to him without answering. The silence of his father lay like a mountain on Ottomar's soul. He shook off with a violent effort the sullen hesitation. "What do you want, Papa?"

"First, to ask you to read this letter," said the General, turning around slowly and pointing with his finger to a sheet which lay open before him on his desk.

"A letter to me!"

"Then I should not have read it; but I have read it."

He had stepped back from the desk, and was going up and down the room with a slow, steady step, his hands behind him, while Ottomar, in the same place where his father had stood without taking the sheet in his hands—the handwriting was clear enough—read:

"Highly Honored and Respected General:

"Your Honor will graciously excuse the undersigned for venturing to call your Honor's attention to an affair which threatens most seriously to imperil the welfare of your worthy family. The matter concerns a relationship which your son, Lieutenant von Werben, has had for some time with the daughter of your neighbor, Mr. Schmidt, the proprietor of the marble works. Your Honor will excuse the undersigned from going into details, which might better be kept in that silence in which the participants—to be sure, in vain—strive to preserve them, although he is in a position to do so; and if the undersigned requests you to ask your son where he was this evening between eight and nine o'clock, and with whom he had a rendezvous, it is only to indicate to your Honor how far the aforementioned relationship has already progressed.

"It would be as foolish as impermissible to assume that your Honor is informed of all this and has winked at it, so to speak, when your son is on the point of engaging himself to the daughter of an ultraradical Democrat; on the contrary the undersigned can picture to himself in advance the painful surprise which your Honor must feel on reading these lines; but, your Honor, the undersigned has also been a soldier and knows what a soldier's honor is—as he for his part has respected honor his whole life long—and he could no longer look on and see this mischievous machination carried on behind the back of such a brave and deserving officer by him, who more than any other, appears to be called to be the guardian of this honor.

"The undersigned believes that, after the above, there is no need of a special assurance of the high esteem with which he is to your Honor and your Honor's entire family

"A most faithful devotee."

The General allowed his son some minutes; now that Ottomar still stared motionless before him—only his teeth bit nervously against his pale lower lip—he remained standing, separated by the width of the room, and asked: "Have you an idea who wrote this letter?"

"No."

"Have you the least suspicion who is the lady in question——?"

"For Heaven's sake!" exclaimed Ottomar in anguish.

"I beg pardon; but I am in the painful situation of having to ask, since you seem inclined not to give the information which I expected."

"What shall I explain in the matter?" asked Ottomar with bitter scorn. "It is as it is."

"Brief and to the point," replied the General, "only not just so clear. There still remain some points which are obscure—to me, at least. Have you anything to object to the lady—I may so express myself?"

"I should have to request you to do so otherwise."

"Then have you anything, even the slightest thing—excepting external circumstances, and of that later—which would prevent you from bringing her into Else's company? On your honor!"

"On my honor, no!"

"Do you know anything at all, even the slightest, concerning her family, excepting external circumstances, which would and must prevent another officer, who is not in your exceptional position, from connecting himself with the family? On your honor!"

Ottomar hesitated a moment before answering. He knew absolutely nothing touching Philip's honor; he maintained toward him the native instinct of a gentleman who, in his eyes, was not a gentleman; but it seemed to him cowardice to wish to conceal himself behind this feeling.

"No!" said he solemnly.

"Have you acquainted the lady with your circumstances?"

"In a general way, yes."

"Among other things, that you are disinherited as soon as you marry a lady who is not of noble family?"

"No."

"That was a little imprudent; nevertheless I understand it. But in general, you said, she does understand the difficulties which will accompany a union between her and you in the most favorable case? Did you have her understand that you neither wish nor are in a position to remove the difficulties?"

"No."

"But led her to believe, perhaps assured her, that you could and would remove them?"

"Yes."

"Then you will marry the lady?"

Ottomar quivered like a steed when his rider drives the spurs into its flanks. He knew that would be, must be, the outcome of it; nevertheless, now that it was put into words, his pride revolted against any one forcing his heart, even his father. Was he to be the weaker one throughout—to follow where he did not wish to go—to allow his path to be prescribed by others?

"Not by any means!" he exclaimed.

"How? Not by any means?" returned the General. "I surely have not to do here with an obstinate boy, who breaks up his plaything because it does not amuse him any longer, but with a man of honor, an officer, who has the habit of keeping his word promptly?"

Ottomar felt that he must offer a reason—the shadow of a reason—something or other.

"I think," he said, "that I cannot decide to take a step in a direction which would put me into the position of necessarily doing an injustice in another direction."

"I think I understand your position," said the General. "It is not pleasant; but when one is so many sided he should be prepared for such things. Besides, I owe you the justice to declare that I am beginning to inform myself, now, at least, as to your conduct toward Miss von Wallbach, and I fail to find the consistency in that conduct which, to be sure, you have unfortunately never led me to expect. According to my conception, it was your duty to retire, once for all, the moment your heart was seriously engaged in another direction. In our close relations with the Wallbachs it would, indeed, have been very difficult and unpleasant, but a finality; one may be deceived in his feelings, and society accepts such changes of heart and their practical consequences if all is done at the right time and in the right manner. How you will make this retreat now without more serious embarrassment I do not know; I only know that it must be done. Or would you have pursued the wrong to the limit, and bound yourself in this case as you did in that?"

"I am not bound to Miss von Wallbach in any way except as everybody has seen, by no word which everybody has not heard, or at least might have heard; and my attachment for her has been so wavering from the first moment on——"

"Like your conduct. Let us not speak of it further, then; let us consider, rather, the situation into which you have brought yourself and consider the consequences. The first is that you have forfeited your diplomatic career—with a burgher woman as your wife, you cannot appear at St. Petersburg or any other court; the second is that you must have yourself transferred to another regiment, as you could not avoid the most objectionable conflicts and collisions in your own regiment, with a Miss Schmidt as your wife; third, that if the lady doesn't bring you property, or, at least, a very considerable sum, the arrangement of your external life in the future must be essentially different from what it has been heretofore, and, I fear, one that may be little in accord with your taste; the fourth consequence is that you by this union—even though it should be as honorable in a burgher moral sense as I wish and hope—by the simple letter of the will lose your claim to your inheritance—I mention this here once more only for the sake of completeness."

Ottomar knew that his father had not said everything, that he had generously kept silent about the twenty-five thousand thalers of debts which he had paid for him in the course of the last few years—that is, his entire private fortune except a very small residue—and that he could not pay back this money to his father in the near future as he had intended to do, perhaps would never be able to pay it back. His father was now dependent upon his salary, ultimately upon his pension; and he had repeatedly spoken recently of wishing to retire from the service!

His glance, which had been directed in his confusion toward the floor, now passed shyly over to his father, who was pacing slowly to and fro through the room. Was it the light? Was it that he saw him differently today? His father appeared to him to be ten years older—for the first time seemed to him an old man. With the feeling of love and reverence, which he had always cherished for him, was mingled one almost of pity; he wanted to fall at his feet, embrace his knees and exclaim, "Forgive me for the mistakes I have made!" But he felt riveted to the spot; his limbs would not move; his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; he could say nothing but—"You still have Else."

The General had stopped in front of the life-size portraits of his father and mother, which hung on the wall—a superior officer in the uniform of the Wars of the Liberation, and a lady, still young, in the dress of the time, whom Else strikingly resembled about the forehead and eyes.

"Who knows?" he said.

He passed his hand over his forehead.

"It is late in the night, two o'clock, and the morrow will have its troubles, too. Will you be good enough to put out the gas lights above you? Have you a light out there?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Very well! Good-night!"

He had extinguished one of the lamps in front of the mirror, and taken the other.

"Can you find the door?"

Ottomar wished to exclaim, "Give me thy hand!" but he did not venture to do so, and went toward the door saying, "Good-night!"—which had a sound of resentment, because he had almost broken into tears. His father stood at the door of his bedroom. "One thing more! I forgot to say that I reserve the right to take the next step myself. As you have so long hesitated to take the initiative, you will have to grant me this favor. I shall keep you informed, of course. I beg you to take no further step without my knowledge. We must act in conjunction, now that we understand each other."

He had said the last words with a melancholy smile that cut Ottomar to the heart. He could bear it no longer, and rushed out of the room.

The General, too, already had his hand on the latch; but as Ottomar had now vanished he drew it back, took the lamp to the writing-desk, a drawer of which he unlocked, and drew out, where, among other ornaments of little value belonging to his deceased wife and mother, he kept also the iron rings of his father and mother from the Wars of the Liberation.

He took the rings.

"Another time has come," he muttered, "not a better one! Whither, alas! have they vanished? And your piety, your fidelity to duty, your modest simplicity, your holy resignation? I have honestly endeavored to emulate you, to be a worthy son of a race which knew no other glory than the bravery of its men and the virtue of its women. What have I done that it should be visited on me?"

He kissed the rings and laid them back into the box, and from the several miniatures on ivory took that of a beautiful brown-haired, brown-eyed boy of perhaps six years.

He looked at it for a long time, motionless.

"The family of Werben will die out with him, and—he was my favorite. Perhaps I am to be punished because I was unspeakably proud of him prematurely."

[Old Grollmann, the servant, finds a similar letter directed to Uncle Ernst, and delivers it. Uncle Ernst reads it, drinks a bottle of wine, and falls asleep, after having rung for his afternoon coffee. He is found in this condition by Grollmann. Reinhold has been casting longing glances toward the Werben house over the wall. The General calls to speak with Uncle Ernst about the letter.

The General gives Uncle Ernst a brief story of his life and his social point of view, so far as they touch the family of von Werben, disclosing his aristocratic attitude. Uncle Ernst replies that he has no family history to relate, but gives a brief sketch of his own life, recalling vividly the incident in which he spared the General before the barricade, and was taken captive by him in return, and shut up in Spandau. It is a struggle between the aristocrat and the democrat of '48; a sullen silence prevails between the two men. The General finally asks, in the name of Ottomar, for the hand of Ferdinande. Uncle Ernst starts back in amazement.]

The night had had no terrors and the morning no gloom for Ferdinande. In her soul it was bright daylight for the first time in many months—yes, as she thought, for the first time since she knew what a passionate, proud, imperious heart throbbed in her bosom. They had told her so, so often—in earlier years her mother, later her aunt, her girl friends, all—that it would some time be her undoing, and that pride goes before a fall; and she had always answered with resentment: "Then I will be undone, I will fall, if happiness is to be had only as the niggardly reward of humility, which always writhes in the dust before Fate, and sings hymns of thanks because the wheels of grim Envy only passed over it but did not crush it! I am not a Justus, I am not a Cilli!"

And she had been unhappy even in the hours when enthusiastic artists, Justus' friends, had worshipped, in extravagant words, the splendid blooming beauty of the young girl; when these men praised and aided her talents, and told her that she was on the right path to becoming an artist at last—that she was an artist, a true artist. She did not believe them; and, if she were a real artist—there were much greater ones! Even Justus' hand could reach so much higher and farther than hers; he plucked fruits with a smile and apparently without effort for which she had to strive with unprecedented efforts and which would ever remain unattainable to her, as she had secretly confessed to herself.

She had expressed her misgivings to that great French painter upon whom her beauty had made such an overwhelming impression. He had evaded her with polite smiles and words; then he finally told her seriously: "Mademoiselle, there is only one supreme happiness for woman—that is love; and she has only one gift of genius in which no man can equal her—that again is love."—The word had crushed her; her art life was thus a childish dream, and love!—Yes, she knew that she could love, and boundlessly! But her eye was yet to see the man who could kindle this love to the heavenly flame, and woe to her if she found him! He would not understand her love, not comprehend, and most certainly not be able to return it; would shrink back, perhaps, from its glow, and she would be more unhappy than before.

TWO FAMILIES
Permission Ch. Sedelmeyer, Paris
Michael von Munkacsy

And had not this dismal foreboding already been most sadly fulfilled? Had she not felt herself unspeakably unhappy in her love for him who had met her as if the Immortals had sent him, as if he were himself an Immortal? Had she not declared countless times in writhing despair, with tears in her eyes and bitter scorn, that he did not comprehend her love, did not understand it—would never comprehend or understand it? Had she not seen clearly that he shrank back, shuddered—not before the perils which threatened along the dark way of love—he was as bold as any other and more agile—but before love itself, before all-powerful but insatiate love, love demanding everything!

So she had felt even yesterday—even the moment after the blissful one, when she felt and returned his first kiss! And today! Today she smiled, with tears of joy, at her dejection. Today, in her imagination, she begged her lover's pardon for all the harshness and bitterness which, in thought and expression, she had entertained toward him, but now, with a thousand glowing kisses pressed upon his fair forehead, his loving eyes, his sweet mouth, would never again think, never again express!

She had wished to work, to put the last touches on her "Woman with the Sickle." Her hand had been as awkward and helpless as in the period of her first apprenticeship, and it had occurred to her, not without a shudder, that she had sworn not to finish the work. It was a fortunate oath, though she knew it not. What should she do with this hopeless figure of jealous vengeance? How foolish this whole elaborate apparatus for her work appeared—this room with high ceiling, these easels, these mallets, these rasps, these modeling tools, these coats-of-arms, hands, feet, these heads, these busts, after the originals of the Masters, her own sketches, outlines, finished works—childish gropings with bandaged eyes after a happiness not to be found here—to be found only in love, the one true original talent of woman—her talent which she felt was her only one, that outshone everything which men had hitherto felt and called love!

She could not endure the room this morning; now her studio had become too small for her. She went out into the garden, and passed along the walks between the foliage, under the trees, from whose rustling boughs drops of rain from the night before fell down upon her. How often the bright sunshine and the blue sky had offended her, seeming to mock her pain! She looked up triumphantly to the gray canopy of clouds, which moved slowly and darkly over her head; why did she need the sunshine and the light—she, in whose heart all was pure light and brightness! The drizzling mist which now began to fall would only cool a bit the inner fire that threatened to consume her! Moving clouds and drizzling mist, rustling trees and bushes, the damp dark earth itself—it was all strangely beautiful in the reflection of her love!

She went in again and seated herself at the place where he had kissed her, and dreamed on, while in the next room they hammered and knocked and alternately chatted and whistled.—She dreamed that her dream had the power to bring him back, who now slowly and gently opened the door and—it was only a dream—came up to her with a happy smile on his sweet lips, and a bright gleam in his dark eyes, till suddenly the smile vanished from his lips and only his eyes still gleamed—no longer with that fervid glow, but with the dismal melancholy penetration of her father's eyes. And now it was not only her father's eyes; it became more and more—her father, great God!

She had started out of her dream, but sank back into her seat and grew rigid again. She had seen, with half-opened eyes, from the look in his eyes and the letter which he held in his hand, why he had come. So in half-waking, confused, passionate words, she told him. He bowed his head but did not contradict her; he only replied, "My poor child!"

"I am no longer your poor child, if you treat me so."

"I fear you never have been my child at heart."

"And if I have never been, who is to blame for it but you? Did you ever show me the love which a child is justified in demanding of a father? Have you ever done anything to make the life you gave me worth while? Did my industry ever wrest from you a word of praise? Did what I accomplished ever draw from you a word of recognition? Did you not rather do everything to humiliate me in my own eyes, to make me smaller than I really was, to make me dislike my art, to make me feel that in your eyes I was not and never could be an artist? Am I to blame that you never considered all this anything better than a big play house, which you bought for me to dally and play away my useless time in? And now—now you come to wrest from me my love, simply because your pride demands it, simply because it offends you that such a useless, lowly creature can ever have a will of its own, can wish something different from what you wish? But you are mistaken, Father! I am, in spite of all that, your daughter. You can cast me off, you can drive me into misery as you can crush me with a hammer, because you are the stronger; my love you cannot tear away from me!"

"I can, and I will!"

"Try it!"

"The attempt and success are one. Do you wish to become the mistress of Lieutenant von Werben?"

"What has that question to do with my love?"

"Then I will put it in another form: Have you the courage to wish to be like those wretched foolish creatures who give themselves up to a man, out of wedlock or in wedlock—for wedlock does not change matters—for any other prize than the love which they take in exchange for their love? Von Werben has nothing to give in exchange; von Werben does not love you."

Ferdinande laughed with scorn.—"And he came to you, knowing that you hated him and his whole family with a blind hatred, in order to tell you this?"

"He could not come; his father had to do the difficult errand for him, for which he had not the courage, for which his father had to enforce the permission of his son."

"That is——"

"It is not a lie! By my oath! And still more: He did not even go of his own will to his father; he would not have done it today, he would perchance never have done it, if his father had been content with asking him whether it was true, what the sparrows chatter from the roof and the blackmailers wrote to the unsuspecting father anonymously, that Lieutenant von Werben has a sweetheart beyond the garden-wall or—how do I know!"

"Show me the letters!"

"Here is one of them; the General will be glad to let you have the other, no doubt; I do not think the son will lay claim to it."

Ferdinande read the letter.

She had considered it certain that Antonio alone could have been the betrayer; but this letter was not by Antonio—could not be by him. Then other eyes than the passionate jealous eyes of the Italian had looked into the secret. Her cheeks, still pale, flared with outraged modesty.—"Who wrote the letter?"

"Roller; he has not even disguised his hand to the General."

She gave the letter back to her father quickly, and pressed her forehead as if she wished to remove the traces of emotion. "Oh, the disgrace, the disgrace!" she muttered; "oh, the disgust! the disgust!"

The dismissed inspector had taken up his residence in her family till Ferdinande had noticed that he was audaciously beginning to pay attention to her; she had made use of a pretense of a disagreement, which he had had with her father, first to strain the social relations, then to drop them. And the bold repulsive eyes of the man—"Oh, the disgrace! oh, the disgrace! oh, the disgust!" she muttered continually.

She paced with long strides up and down, then went hurriedly to the writing-desk which stood at one end of the large room, wrote hastily a few lines, and then took the sheet to her father, who had remained standing motionless in the same spot. "Read!"

And he read:

My father wishes to make a sacrifice of his convictions for me, and consents to my union with Lieutenant von Werben. But, for reasons which my pride forbids me to record, I renounce this union once for all, as a moral impossibility, and release Lieutenant von Werben from all responsibility which he may consider he has toward me. This decision, which I have reached with full freedom, is irrevocable; I shall consider any attempt on the part of Lieutenant von Werben to change it as an insult.

Signed, Ferdinande Schmidt.

"Is that correct?"

He nodded. "Shall I send him this?"

"In my name."

She turned away from him and, seizing a modeling stick, went to her work. Her father folded the sheet and went toward the door. Then he stopped. She did not look up, apparently entirely absorbed in her work. His eyes rested upon her with deep pain—"And yet!" he murmured—"Yet!"

He had closed the door behind him and was walking slowly across the court through whose broad empty space the rain-storm howled.

"Empty and desolate!" he murmured.—"All is empty and desolate! That is the end of the story for me and for her!"

"Uncle!"

He started from his sullen brooding; Reinhold was hastily coming from the house toward him, bareheaded, excited.

"Uncle, for Heaven's sake!—The General has just left me—I know all.—What did you decide?"

"What we had to."

"It will be the death of Ferdinande!"

"Better that than a dishonorable life!"

He strode past Reinhold into the house. Reinhold did not dare to follow him; he knew it would be useless.

[Giraldi and Valerie have just returned from Rome and put up at the Hotel Royal in Berlin. Valerie writes her brother, the General, a note, which Else answers. Valerie thinks the friendly answer a trap. Giraldi has another interview with Privy Councilor Schieler, "the wonderworker," about the Warnow estates and about enlisting the interests of Count Golm. The Count snaps eagerly at the bait held out by the company—namely, the sale of the Warnow estates through him to the company. Giraldi plans to have Golm get Else's part of the estate by marrying her. Giraldi discovers that Antonio is the original of the "Shepherd Boy" in the exhibition, and identifies him as the son of himself and Valerie. Justus had discovered Antonio in Italy and brought him home with him to Berlin. Antonio remains with Justus to be near Ferdinande. Jealousy leads Antonio to the discovery of the relation between Ferdinande and Ottomar. Ottomar's betrothal to Carla and Else's relations with Reinhold are touched upon. Giraldi goes out to receive His Excellency, tossing a few sweet phrases to Valerie, enough to show her that she is still in his grip, and that she will never be able to break his spell over her. Else calls and finds her in this frame of mind.

Aunt Sidonie calls to see Valerie and chatters long about the family and the betrothal of Ottomar and Carla. Else has thus been able to reestablish friendly relations between Valerie and her father's family.]

Giraldi had not intended to stay away so long. It was to have been only a formal call, a return of the one he had made on His Excellency yesterday morning—but that loquacious gentleman still had much to say about the things they thought they had settled yesterday—much to add—even when he was standing at the door with one hand on the knob, and the other, which held his hat, passing before his half-blinded eyes, covered by gray spectacles, in an effort to shield them from the light that came in too brightly from the window opposite.

"It seems foolish to try to warn the wisest of men," said he with a cynical smile which, on his strange face, turned into a tragic grimace.

"Especially when the warning comes from the most courageous of men," answered Giraldi.

"And yet," continued His Excellency, "even he is wise—you underestimate his wisdom; even he is courageous—almost to foolhardiness. He gives proof of it every day. People like him, I think, cannot be appreciated par distance at all; at least half of the charm which they have for their associates is in their personality. You have to be close to them, personally—come into contact with them in the same room—see them going to a Court soirée, to understand why the other beasts grovel in the dust before such lions, and, even when they wish to oppose, can do no more than swish their tails. Believe me, honored friend, separation in space is just as unfavorable to the appreciation of such truly historic greatness as is separation in time. You Romans think you can explain by the logic of facts everything that depends solely upon overpowering personality, just as our all-wise historians construe the marvelous deeds of an Alexander or a Cæsar, even to the dotting of an "i," all very coldly, as necessarily following the bare situations in the case, just as though the situations were a machine that turns out its product, whether master or menial set it going."

Giraldi smiled. "Thanks, Your Excellency, in the name of His Holiness; for you probably intended that brilliant little sermon for him anyway. It is a good thing, too, for His Holiness to be shown the other side of the medal once in a while, so that he may not forget fear, which is the foundation of all wisdom, and may remain mindful of the necessity of our advice and support. Only, at this moment, when the shadows of clouds that threaten all around our horizon lie dark on his soul, I would rather not represent the case to him as more troublesome, nor the man in the case more dangerous, than we ourselves see them from our knowledge of them. That is why I diligently used my very last interview to raise his dejected spirits a little. May I give Your Excellency an instance to show how very necessary that was? Very well! His Holiness was speaking in almost the same words of the demoniac power of the arch-enemy of our most Holy Church; he calls him a robber, a Briareus, a murderer, a colossus, that plants his feet on two hemispheres, as the one at Rhodes did on the two arms of the harbor. This, Your Excellency, was my answer to His Holiness—that I could see even now the stone falling from on high, the stone which would crush the feet of the colossus. His eyes gleamed, his lips moved; he repeated the words to himself; soon he will proclaim it urbi et orbi, as he does everything with which we stuff him. Our enemies will laugh, but it will reassure the weak hearts among us as it visibly reassured that poor old man."

"I would it were as true as it is reassuring," said His Excellency.

"And isn't it true?" cried Giraldi. "Doesn't the colossus really stand on feet of masonry? What good is all this bloated boasting of the power and the majesty and the cultural mission of the German Empire? The end of the whole story, which he carefully avoids mentioning—or at most has added very obscurely—is ever the strong Prussian kingdom. What good can it do him to change restlessly from one rôle to another, and proclaim today the universal right of suffrage, to thunder against socialism tomorrow, day after tomorrow, in turn, to censure the bourgeoisie as though they were rude schoolboys. He is, and will always be, the major domus of the Hohenzollerns, whether he will or not, in moments of impatience at his most gracious lord's wise hesitation on some point, of anger at the intrigues of the court camarilla, or whatever else may stir up his haughty soul. Believe me, Your Excellency, this man, in spite of the liberalism which he wears most diligently for appearances' sake, is an aristocrat from head to foot, and, in spite of his oft-vaunted broad-mindedness, is full of medieval, romantic cobwebs; he can at heart never desire anything, and will never desire anything, but a kingdom by divine right, and, while desiring a kingdom by divine right, he works away at one by the people's right. Or what else is it, when he uproots respect for the clergy in the people—not only for the Catholic clergy!—The interests of all sects have always been common, and the sympathy which a maltreated Catholic clergy awakens in the Protestant will soon enough come to light. But without clerics there will be no God, and no king by divine right—that is to say, he cuts off the branch to which he clings. Now if he were not to take the thing nearly as seriously as he does, if he were to be—which is incredible to me—so narrow-minded and frivolous as to regard it all only in the light of a question of etiquette, a dispute over precedence of the major domus and grandees in the state of his own creation, which he wishes to justify in the eyes of the church, then history would lead him back ad absurdum, for it teaches on every page that a priest never accepts this subordination; at the most, he endures it if he must. We are what we always have been, and always shall be. And, Your Excellency, that is his Achilles' heel—not to understand this, to believe that he can intimidate us by threats and frights, and make us into creatures of his will. When he sees that he will not get anywhere that way—and I hope he will not see it very soon—he will try to compromise with us, and compromise again and again, and be driven step by step into the camp of the reactionaries; he will be forced to express more and more openly the contradiction of his purpose—the kingdom by divine right and his methods which he has borrowed from the arsenal of the revolution; and this contradiction into which he is hopelessly driving, and from which the revolution must come—for no people will long endure a self-contradictory régime—is the stone which is already rolling, and will let loose the avalanche and crush the colossus."

"Serve him right, and good luck to him!" said His Excellency with a sarcastic smile, and then—after a little pause—"I am only afraid sometimes that we too shall take the salto mortale with him, and——"

"And stand firmer than ever on our feet," interrupted Giraldi quickly. "What have we to fear from the revolution, the people? Nothing, absolutely nothing! If people dance around the golden calf today, they will grovel so much the lower in the dust before Jehovah tomorrow. If today they enthrone the Goddess of Reason, tomorrow they will flee, like a child that has frightened itself, back to the bosom of the Mother Church. And if, as you said, Darwinism is really to be the religion of the future for Germany—very well; then we shall be Darwinians par excellence and proclaim the new doctrine with holy zeal from the rostra of the universities; we know well enough that Nature wraps herself the more closely in her veil the more impatiently the inquisitive pupil pulls at it, and then, when he has looked into the hollow eyes of nothing, and lies crushed on the ground, we come and raise up the poor knave and comfort him with the admonition, 'Go thy way and sin no more'; and he goes his way and sins henceforth no more in the foolish thirst for knowledge, for the burden of ignorance is lighter and her yoke is easier—quod erat demonstrandum."

The corners of His Excellency's mouth were drawn apart as far as possible. Even Giraldi was smiling.

"I wish I had you here always," said His Excellency.

"To tell Your Excellency things which you have long worn off on the soles of your shoes with which you mount the rostrum."

"I generally speak from my place."

"And ever at the right place."

"It's often enough nothing but sound, and no one knows that better than I myself. One has to consider how things sound."

"And not for naught. To us across the mountain the little silver bell is the huge bell of the cathedral, whose bronze voice calls the tardy to their duty and spurs on the brave to fiercer fight."

"And that reminds me that I myself am a tardy one this moment, and that a fierce fight awaits me today in the Chamber."

"His Excellency will not forget my little commission," said Giraldi.

"How could I!" exclaimed His Excellency. "I hope, indeed, to have a chance before the day is over to mention the matter. Of course they won't do it without a little baksheesh—they don't do anything there for the love of God; fortunately we always have such stuff on hand. The promise to drive the screw one turn less tight in Alsace-Lorraine and not to disturb rudely the childish pleasure of the old Catholic gentlemen in Cologne, and not to beat the drum quite so loudly in the coming discussion about the brave Bishop of Ermeland—every single one of these kindnesses is worth a General, especially if he has such antediluvian, unpractical ideas concerning the state, society and the family."

"And such a thing passes without éclat?"

"Absolutely without éclat. Oh, my honored friend, you must not consider us any longer the honest barbarians of Tacitus; we really have learned something since that time!—God help you!"

"Will Your Excellency permit me to accompany you to your carriage?"

"Under no circumstances; my body-servant is waiting for me in the hall; have him come in, please."

"Grant, Your Excellency, that now, as ever, I be your humble servant."

Giraldi was about to offer his arm to the half-blinded man, when a new caller was announced.

"Who is it?" asked His Excellency with some anxiety; "you know I must not be seen here by every one."

"It is Privy Councilor Schieler, Your Excellency."

"Oh, he!—By the way, don't trust that old sneak any more than is necessary! He is a box that contains many good wares, but is to be handled with care. Above all things, don't trust him in the matter in question; it is quite unnecessary; his high protector can do nothing about it."

"That is why I took the liberty to turn to Your Excellency."

"One is always too late with his advice to you. Another thing: In this little clan war, as you have to carry it on here with the North German centaurs, you need what is known to be thrice necessary in real war. Are you sufficiently provided with that?"

"I was ever of the opinion that war must sustain war. Besides, I can draw on Brussels at any time for any amount, if it should be necessary."

"Perhaps it will be necessary. In any case, keep the party in hand. There is, in spite of your sanguine hopes for the future, which I, by the way, share fully, a period of lean years ahead of us first. We shall have to lead the life of a church mouse, and church-mouse precaution behooves us now more than ever. You will keep me au courant?"

"In my own interest, Your Excellency."

The Privy Councilor had entered; His Excellency extended him his hand. "You come as I am leaving—that's too bad. You know that there is no one with whom I would rather chat than with you. Which way does the wind blow today in Wilhelmstrasse? Did they sleep well? Did they get out of bed with the right foot or the left first? Nerves faint or firm? Is country air in demand or not? Good Heavens! Don't let me die of unsatisfied curiosity!" His Excellency did not wait for the smiling Privy Councilor to answer, but shook hands again with both gentlemen, and, leaning on the arm of his body-servant, who meanwhile had come in, left the room.

"Isn't it wonderful," said the Privy Councilor,—"this prodigious versatility, this marvelous ready wit, this quickness in attack, this security in retreat. A Moltke of guerilla warfare. What an enviable treasure your party has in this man!"

"Our party, my dear sir? Pardon me, I really must first stop and think each time that you don't belong to us. Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you, no. I haven't a moment to spare, and I can only tell you the most essential part in flying haste. First, in the Department of Commerce they are beside themselves over a just reported vote of the great General Staff on the Harbor matter which, as a colleague has informed me—I myself have not been able to get a look at it—is as much as a veto. The finished report is by a certain Captain von Schönau—but the mind behind it—it is an unheard of thing—is there, right in the War Department, and is, of course, none other than our friend the General. That sets us back again I don't know how far or for how long. I am beside myself, and the more so because I am absolutely at a loss in the face of this obstruction. Good Heavens! A man may have influence and could use this influence if he had to, even against an old friend, but he surely would not do that sort of thing except in the last extremity. Now what is your advice?"

"The purity of our cause is not to be clouded by intermingling with such repugnant personalities," replied Giraldi.—"If you think that you must spare an old friend, then there is, as you know, an old feud between the General and myself, and everything which I personally might do against him, or cause to be done, would properly seem to every one to be an act of common revenge—which may God Almighty forbid! If he will, he can have some incident occur which will disarm our enemy, and which doesn't need to be an accident because people call it so."

"You mean if he should die?" questioned the Privy Councilor with a shifty look.

"I don't mean anything definite at all, and certainly not his death. As far as I am concerned he may live long."

"That is a very noble sentiment, a very Christian sentiment," replied the Privy Councilor, rubbing his long nose.—"And it is my heart's wish, of course; and yet his opposition is and always will be a stumbling block. I wish that were our only obstacle! But Count Golm tells me now—I have just come from him—he will give himself the honor immediately after me—I have just hurried on ahead of him because I have another little bit of information about him to give you, which I'll tell you in a moment—Count Golm tells me that his efforts with the President in Sundin—he had come over in his semi-official capacity as president of the board of directors in spe—that they had been fruitless, quite fruitless; that he had been convinced, and unalterably, much as he would like to do it for the Count, for a thousand reasons—regard for a fellow countryman, and personal friendship, and so on. Golm, who, between you and me, is crafty enough and by no means a fool, finally hinted at the great sacrifices which we had decided to make—but all in vain. In fact, Golm says that he rather made matters worse than better by that."

"As ever when one does things by halves," said Giraldi.

"By halves, my dear sir! How do you mean that? What did they offer him?"

"Fifty thousand thalers as compensation, and the first position as director of the new road, with six thousand a year fixed salary, besides customary office rent, traveling expenses, and so forth."

"Well then, that, I suppose, is just half of what the man demanded himself!"

"He didn't demand anything."

"One doesn't demand such things; one has them offered him. Authorize the Count to propose twice as much, and I'll wager the deal is closed."

"We can't go as far as that," replied the Privy Councilor, scratching his close-cropped hair.—"We haven't the means to permit that; and the rest of us, too—and then, for the present, Count Golm is satisfied with fifty thousand; we could not offer the President twice as much without insulting Golm. He is already not so very kindly disposed toward us, and that is the point that I should like to settle with you before he gets here. Is it really impossible for you to—I mean for us: the Board of Trustees of Warnow—to sell directly to us: I mean the corporation?"

"Over the Count's head?" cried Giraldi.—"Goodness, Privy Councilor, I think that you are bound by the most definite promises, so far as the Count is concerned, in this respect!"

"Of course, of course, unfortunately. But then even Lübbener—our financier, and at the same time——"

"The Count's banker—I know——"

"You know everything!—Even Lübbener thinks that one could get a little assistance from a man who, like the Count, falls from one dilemma into another, and is always inclined or compelled to sell his birthright for a mess of pottage. Only we do not wish or intend to act contrary to your plans, and if you insist upon it——"

"I insist upon nothing, Sir," replied Giraldi; "I simply follow the wishes of my mistress, which, on this point, are identical with those of von Wallbach."

"Good Lord," exclaimed the Privy Councilor impatiently, "I quite understand that, to keep up appearances, one would rather sell to an equal in rank than to a committee, even though the man concerned be a member of this very committee; but you ought not to forget, too, that we should have to pay direct to you just as much, or about as much, as we shall hereafter have to pay the Count."

"The Count will not get off so cheaply as you say, either——"

"He will sell to us so much the higher," said the Privy Councilor. "Matters will only be worse for us thereby."

"And yet I must, to my great regret, hereby refuse my support," replied Giraldi decidedly.

The Privy Councilor made a very wry face. "It will be best," he said grumblingly, "if he can't find the money—not even the hundred thousand, to say nothing of the million, or whatever sum we may agree upon in family council as the price of the estates. For he has to yield to us; I do not know any one else in the world who would advance him so much, at once or in instalments. I can say in advance, of course, without being Merlin the Wise, that he will not get the money from us cheaply, and so it will be evened up again at the end.—But now, my honored patron, I must give place to the Count, and take leave of you. My regards to Madame, whom I have not had the pleasure, unfortunately, of meeting, but for whom I have felt the profoundest respect and have gallantly shattered many a lance, after the manner of a knight. Not in vain, for this family visit—I met Miss Sidonie down in the hall; Miss Else had already gone on ahead—is a concession which I, without immodesty, may consider the fruits of my persuasive art. Apropos, my dear old friend Sidonie—she wanted to know yesterday what had really been the deciding element in the matter of the engagement, which had broken Ottomar's stubborn resistance."

"Well?" asked Giraldi with unfeigned curiosity.

"I do not know," said the Privy Councilor, laying his finger on his long nose—"that is to say, my dear friend knows nothing, or she would have told me. From what the servant says—that was all she could tell me—an interview took place the night before between father and son. I have every reason to think the subject was by no means a romantic one—on the contrary, one as prosaic as it is inexhaustible, that of Ottomar's debts.—Farewell, my dear, honored patron; you will keep me informed, will you not?"

"Be assured of that!"

The Privy Councilor had gone; Giraldi kept his dark eyes fixed on the door, a smile of profoundest contempt played about his lips. "Buffone!" he muttered.

[Wallbachs and Ottomar call on Valerie. Giraldi asks François about the interview between Valerie, Sidonie and Else. Count Golm is announced, and speaks with Giraldi in the outer room about the advance of the loan, and the impossible conditions which Lübbener, the banker, has made him, and mentions his visit to Philip. Giraldi confuses Philip with Reinhold, to the disgust of Golm, who informs Giraldi that Philip is a promoter of the Sundin-Berlin railroad; that he is to build the road, and is, besides, a graceful, companionable, immensely rich man. Giraldi offers Golm half a million as advance loan for a four per cent. mortgage, under promise of secrecy, telling him it is the hand of a friend, not of a usurer, that is extended to him. The Count then goes into the other room to meet the ladies.

Carla is eager to make the acquaintance of Giraldi, but Ottomar conceives a dislike for the Count, and is alarmed at the power of Giraldi; but Giraldi wins his confidence by flatteries and assurances of friendship. During the conversation Valerie compares the studied manner of Carla with the naturalness and ease of Else, and is convinced that Carla is not suited to Ottomar. The company departs, and a scene follows between Giraldi and Valerie.

The General speaks frankly with Reinhold about Ferdinande and wishes that her father would relent as he has, but Uncle Ernst is still obdurate. Justus and Reinhold converse about Uncle Ernst, and Justus asks Reinhold to sit as model for one of his reliefs. The conversation turns upon love, which Justus declares is a strange drop in the artist's blood; Reinhold begs Justus not to express his opinions of love in Cilli's hearing.

Cilli's father speculates in the railroad stocks on the sly. Cilli is to be modeled by Justus, and tells Reinhold how her friends look, although she cannot see them. She asks Reinhold if he loves Else, and when he confesses he does, Cilli tells him that she was afraid at first that he was in love with Ferdinande. Reinhold tells Cilli that he thinks Else unattainable; Cilli replies that love is always a miracle, and that Reinhold must be himself if he would win Else. Reinhold goes away greatly encouraged, and finds in his room a letter from the President telling him that his appointment as Pilot Commander has been ratified, and that he shall appear at the ministry at his earliest convenience.

Mieting comes unannounced to visit Else, and makes conquest of the entire circle of Else's friends; even the stern old General and Baroness Kniebreche are captivated by her spritely, impulsive personality; but Mieting is not pleased with Carla as Ottomar's prospective bride. Mieting refers to the evening at Golmberg, and tries to find out Else's relations to Reinhold. She finally discovers the compass in one of Else's gowns, and finds, in conversation with Else, that she and Reinhold are in love. Justus models Mieting, who describes the meaning of artistic terms to Else in her own naïve way. She tells Else that Justus has made a model of Reinhold, which Else is to wear in the form of a medallion as big as a cart-wheel.]

Mieting followed her hero without allowing herself to be deterred by anything, even Aunt Rikchen's spectacles.—"And that is not a matter for jest," said Mieting, as she related that evening the experiences of the session; "I would rather face the lorgnette of Baroness Kniebreche. For behind that is nothing but a pair of dimmed eyes, for which I feel anything but fear; but when Aunt Rikchen lets her spectacles slip down to the point of her nose, she only begins to see clearly, so that one might become anxious and uneasy if one had not a good conscience—and you know, Else, something unusual must have happened between you and the Schmidts, has it not? It is, to be sure, still mysterious, for the good lady mixes up everything, like cabbage and turnips; but she had nothing good to say of the Werbens, like my Papa about the Griebens, who continually dig away his line, he says; and you have dug away something from the Schmidts, and that, you will find, is the reason why Reinhold has become distant. We shall not learn it from him, but Aunt Rikchen can't keep anything secret, and we are already the best of friends. I am a good girl, she says, and can't help being so; and the dove that brought the olive branch to the earth did not know what it had in its beak, and I saw that Reinhold, who was in the studio, winked at her, and Mr. Anders also made a really wry face and looked at Reinhold—the three know something; that much is clear, and I mean to find it out, depend upon it!"

But Mieting did not find it out, and could not, for Aunt Rikchen herself did not know the real situation and the others did not let her into the secret. Mieting's communications contributed by no means to Else's pacification, even though Else had at least had the pleasure during the first few days of hearing about Reinhold through Mieting—how he had come into the studio and kept them company for a while, and how he had looked; but even this source of consolation flowed less freely and appeared gradually to dry up entirely. One day he had been there scarcely five minutes; another day he had only gone through the studio; a third, Mieting had not seen him at all; on the fourth she did not know whether she had seen him or not. Else supposed she knew what to think of this apparent indifference—that Mieting had learned something which she did not wish to tell her, or had convinced herself otherwise of the hopelessness of her love, and that the detailed account which she gave of her other experiences and observations, in the studio, were only to serve to conceal her embarrassment.

It was, accordingly, with only divided interest that Else listened to these accounts—how Mieting rose daily in the favor of Aunt Rikchen, who was really a fine old lady and had her heart in the right place, even if her spectacles did always sit crooked on the point of her nose; and how the kind old woman had something specially touching for her, for she too would look like that in fifty years. But a pretty young blind girl, who came every day, had touched her still more deeply, because Mr. Anders wanted to model them side by side on the same relief; when she spoke, it was just as if a lark sang high, high up in the blue air on a Sunday morning, when all is quiet in the fields; and Justus said that Nature had never but once brought forth a contrast like her and Cilli, and if he succeeded in reproducing that, people would be permitted to speak to him only with their hats in their hands.—There was another, next to Justus' studio, which aroused her curiosity, because the occupant never showed herself, and she could form no idea of a lady who kneaded clay, or hammered around on marble—least of all of a marvelously beautiful, elegant lady, such as Justus says Miss Schmidt is.—"For you know, Else, a sculptor differs in appearance from a baker only in that he has clay instead of dough in his fingers, and is powdered with marble-dust instead of flour, so that one can hardly consider such a queer human child as a decent gentleman, much less as an artist, and the only one who always looks so clean and neat, in spite of his working jacket, and is more wonderfully handsome than any one I have ever seen in my life—that one is not an artist, Justus says, for he cannot do anything but point and carve—but you, poor child, possibly do not know at all what pointing means? Pointing, you know, is that which one does with a bill-stork or a stork-bill——"

And now followed a very long and confused explanation, from which Else understood nothing but Mieting's wish to talk of anything but what was engrossing her heart.—"The work will be finished," said Else to herself, "and the entire success of the beautiful plan will consist in my not being able to consider Reinhold's reserve as accidental."

But the work seemed not likely to be finished.—Such a face he had never seen, said Justus; one might just as well model clouds in springtime, which changed their form every moment.—And, again, when the relief was done—"you can't believe how horrible I look, Else, like a Chinese girl!"—Justus had set himself to finish his "Ready to Help," and—"then I cannot leave the poor fellow in the lurch, who tortures himself so; for you know, Else, it is not simply a question of the head, but of the whole figure—the posture, gestures—of new motives, you know—but I think you, poor child, do not know at all what a motive is. Motive is when one does not know what to do, and suddenly sees something, in which, in reality, there is nothing to see—let us say, a cat or a washtub——"

It was the longest, and also the last, explanation which Mieting drew from the abundance of her newly acquired wisdom for her friend. During the next few days Else had more to do about the house than usual, and another matter urgently claimed her attention. After two months of negotiation the final conference was held at her father's house to consider the future management of the Warnow estates, in which, with the three votes of von Wallbach, Privy Councilor Schieler, and Giraldi, against the vote of the General, who had his dissenting view with his reasons recorded in the minutes, it was decided that the whole complex should be sold as soon as possible, and Count Golm be accepted as purchaser, in case the conditions of the sale arranged by the family council were agreed upon.

He came from the council pale and exhausted as Else had never before seen him. "They carried it through, Else," he said. "The Warnow estates, which have been in the possession of the family for two hundred years, will be sacrificed and bartered.—Your Aunt Valerie may answer for it if she can. For she, and she alone, is to blame for letting an old respected family ignominiously perish. If she had been a good and true wife to my friend—what is the use of lamenting about things that are passed! It is foolish even in my eyes, not to say in the eyes of those to whom the present is everything. And I must admit they acted quite in the spirit of our time—wisely, reasonably, in the interest of all of you. You will all be at least twice as rich as you are, if the sale turns out as favorably as the Privy Councilor prophesies. It is very unlike a father, Else, but I hope he may triumph too soon. The Count, whom he mentions as purchaser, can only pay the silly price—for the actual total value of the estates is scarcely half a million, much less a whole million—in case he is sure they will take the enormous burden from his shoulders immediately—that is, if the scandalous project, the perilous folly of which for the State I so clearly demonstrated with the aid of the General Staff and Captain Schmidt, should go through. If it did go through, if the concession were made, still it would be a violation of the little bit of authority to which I lay claim, and I should regard it as if I had been passed over in the recent advancements. I should ask for my discharge at once. The decision is pending. For Golm it is a vital question; he will either be ruined or a Crœsus; and I shall be an Excellency or a poor pensioner—quite in the spirit of the times, which plays va banque everywhere. Well, as God wills it! I can only gain, not lose, for the highest and best; my clear conscience, the consciousness of having stood by the old flag, of having acted as a Werben must act, nothing and no one can take from me."

So Else's father spoke to her, in a state of agitation which appeared in every word, in the vibrant tone of his deep voice, although he sought to compose himself. It was the first time he had thus taken her into his personal confidence, and made her the witness of a strife which he formerly would have fought out himself in his proud silent soul. Was it chance, or was it intended? Had the vessel, already too full, only run over? Or did her father have an intimation—did he know her secret? Did he wish to say to her: "Such a decision will perhaps confront you; I wish, I hope, that you, too, will remain true to the flag which is sacred to me—that you will be a Werben?"

That was in the forenoon; Mieting had accepted an invitation for dinner, by way of exception, from a friend of her mother, after she had had her sitting. She would not return before evening. For the first time Else did not miss her friend; she was glad to be alone, silent, busy with her own thoughts. They were not cheerful—these thoughts; but she felt it her duty to work them out to the last particular, to become clear in her own mind, if it were possible. She thought that it would be possible, and felt, in consequence, a silent satisfaction, which, to be sure, as she said to herself, would be the sole compensation for all that she had secretly given up.

And in this spirit of resignation she received with calm composure the news which Mieting brought to her when she came home, and which would have filled her with sadness under other circumstances—Mieting had to go away; she had found a letter from her Mama at the house of the lady from whom she came, in which her Mama so bitterly complained of her long absence that she could not do otherwise than leave at once—that is, early in the morning. How she felt about it she would not and could not say.

It was a strange state of mind in any case; while she seemed one moment about to burst into tears, the next she broke into laughter which she tried in vain to suppress, until the laughter turned to tears again. And so she went on the rest of the evening. The next morning the feeling had reached such a height that Else was seriously concerned about the strange girl, and urged her to put off the journey until she should be quieted to some extent. But Mieting remained firm; she had decided, and Else would agree with her if she knew all, and she should know all—but by letter; she couldn't tell her verbally without laughing herself to death, and she mustn't die just now for reasons which she again could not give without laughing herself to death.

And so she went on until she got into the carriage in which August was to take her to the station. She had declined all other company most positively—"for reasons, Else, you know, which—well! You will read it all in the letter, you know, which—Good-by, dear, sweet, my only Else!"

With that Mieting drove off.

In the evening August, not without some formality, handed Else a letter which Miss Mieting had given him at the last moment before her departure with the express direction that he should deliver it promptly at the stroke of nine in the evening, twelve hours later. It was a letter in Mieting's most confused hand, from which Else deciphered the following with some difficulty:

Six o'clock in the afternoon.

Dear Else!

Don't believe a word of all that I told you when I came home.—Oh, that won't help you any! You first read this letter—I am writing it right here at Madame von Randow's in order to lose no time—August is to give it to you when I am gone—thus, not a bit of it is true; my mother hadn't written at all; I lied; I have been lying to you and deceiving you most monstrously for a week, for I have not been going there during that time on your account, and that would have been the most injudicious procedure, as I am convinced that your Reinhold has long since noticed how matters stand with us and has kept out of the way even before we had an idea of it, and you may believe, Else, that two such men, when they are such good friends, stand by each other in such matters in a way that we girls couldn't improve upon. And for dear, blind Cilli we thought we needed to have no further concern, because she always smiled so cheerfully when we teased each other, and then, too, she couldn't see, and the eyes play such an important part in a matter of that kind, you know! Indeed, it began with the eyes, for up to that time all went well. But when he came to them he said: "At this point I shall have to determine what the color of your eyes really is; and I was puzzling my brain about that all those days." I declared they were yellow; Aunt Rikchen thought they were green; he himself thought they were brown—and Cilli, who was to decide the matter, said she was convinced that they were blue; she was so cheerful, and cheerful people must have blue eyes. So we jested to and fro and each day he began again with my eyes and, because one can't speak of eyes very well without looking into them, I looked into his eyes while he looked into mine, and I don't know whether you have ever had the same experience, Else—when one has done that a few days, one begins to see more clearly what is going on back of the eyes—very curious things. I tell you that a shudder goes over one; one doesn't know sometimes whether to laugh at the one who is looking, and give him a snip on the nose, or to take to crying and fall on his neck.

So I had felt a few times, and this noon again—only a little worse than before. The assistants were off at dinner, and Aunt Rikchen had gone to look after the house; only he and I and Cilli were there, and Justus wanted to work on, if we were willing, to finish the work. But he didn't work industriously, as was his custom, and I noticed that, and didn't sit as quietly as usual, and we—that is, he and I—played all sorts of pranks with Lesto, who had to pretend that he was dead, and bark at me as if he were mad, and I pretended to want to hit his master, and other nonsense, till suddenly we heard the door which leads into the garden close and—Heavens! Else! how shall I describe it to you—Cilli had gone away without our noticing it; we must thus have been a bit boisterous, and for that reason became quiet now, still as mice, so that one could have heard a pin drop, if one had dropped, and I was so embarrassed, Else, so embarrassed, you know! And still more embarrassed when all of a sudden he kneeled close before me—I had seated myself, because my knees were shaking—and then looked me again in the eyes, and I looked at him, you know I had to, Else!—and asked, but very gently, what that meant. That means, he said—but also very gently—that you must once for all declare yourself. I'll give you a snip on the nose if you don't get up, said I, but still more softly—I'll get up—but so close to my ear that I could not strike his nose, but had to fall in all seriousness upon his neck, whereat Lesto, who thought the life of his master was at stake, began to bark dreadfully, and I, to pacify Lesto and to get Justus up from his knees, said yes to everything he wished, that I loved him, that I'd be his wife, and whatever else one says at such a dreadful moment.

And now, just think, Else!—When we had spent five minutes in pacifying Lesto, and were about to leave—for I said I had sworn to be sensible, and to be a credit to you, and not to remain a second with such a dangerous man in such a lonesome spot, with all the horrible marble figures—and we went to the rear arm in arm—suddenly, Cilli came toward us from among the marble figures, as white as marble herself, but with a heavenly smile on her face, and said that we must not be angry, that the door had shut and she could not get it open, and she had heard everything—she heard so easily—and it sounded so loud in the studio. Oh, Else! I was so ashamed that I could have sunk into the floor, for I'm sure we didn't stop with words, but the heavenly creature blushed as if she had been able to see, took me by the hand, and said I should not be ashamed—one need not be ashamed—of an honorable, true love, and I didn't know at all how happy I was, and how proud I should be, but I would gradually find it out, and should be thankful for my proud joy, and love Justus very much, for an artist needs love very much more than other people. Then she took Justus' hand and said, "And you, Justus, you will love her as much as the sunshine without which you cannot live!" And, as she said that, the sunbeam fell from the high window of the studio directly upon the sweet girl, and she looked transfigured—so supernaturally beautiful, with her poor blind eyes turned upward, that at last I couldn't keep from weeping, and had great difficulty in composing myself. And she said, "You mustn't stay here in this disturbed condition; you must go home at once and tell your mother about it, and no one else before her; for the fact that I know it is an accident, for which you are not to blame." And I promised her everything that she asked of me, and I now realize that the angel was perfectly right, for I am entirely out of my senses with joy, and can't talk anything but nonsense for very joy, and that I don't dare to do, because I have sworn to be sensible, and to do credit to you. Tomorrow morning I leave—tomorrow evening at eight o'clock I shall be home, at half-past eight I shall have told my mama, and at nine o'clock August will give you this letter, for after Mama you come next, of course. That I told Cilli outright, and she agreed to it, and her last word was: Ask God that your friend may be as happy as you are now. That I will do, Else, depend upon it, and depend in every other respect, too, upon your friend, who loves you above all else.

Your sensible Miete.

P. S. In "all," "he" is of course excepted! I'm dreadfully sorry, but it can't be helped, you know!

"The dear, foolish child!" exclaimed Else with a deep sigh, when she had finished the letter—"I grant it with all my heart." And as she thus sat and thought about it—how wonderfully it had all come about, and how happy the two would be in their love—her eyes became more set, her breathing more difficult, and then she pressed her hands to her eyes, bowed her head upon Mieting's letter, and wept bitterly.

[It is the day of the sale of the Warnow estates to Count Golm, Giraldi is busy with letters, business papers, political matters from Paris and London, and church affairs from Cologne and Brussels. The papers are in English, French, Italian and German, and he makes his comments on each document in the language in which it is written. Among the letters is one from a priest in Tivoli, referring to his child. Bertalde is announced, and says she is tired of having Ottomar in her arms yearning for Ferdinande. She tells Ferdinande of Ottomar's love. Giraldi assures her of his good will toward Ottomar, to whom he has given a hundred thalers. She caresses and kisses Giraldi for it. Antonio is announced, Bertalde is led out by François, but in the confusion Antonio recognizes the girl as the lady in black, whom he had seen in Ferdinande's studio. Antonio gives Giraldi a letter from Justus' desk, which Giraldi notes and returns, asking him to show him other such letters. Giraldi impresses Antonio with his marvelous power to accomplish what he wishes.]

"You shall see, Carla, he won't come today, either," said Madame von Wallbach, trying to get a more comfortable position in her armchair.

"Je le plains! Je le blâme, mais——"

Carla, who sat on the right, shrugged her shoulders, and made a pianissimo gesture with her right hand.

"Miss von Strummin has left, too, without making us a farewell call."

"The silly little thing!" said Carla, making the return motion with her hand.

"And Else has not even been here to excuse this rudeness."

"So much the worse for her," said Carla.

"I wash my hands in innocence," said Madame von Wallbach, rising slowly and going into the reception room, which one of the dinner guests had entered.

Carla was also just about to rise, but remained seated when she heard that it was a lady, and one, too, of little importance. She dropped her hands into her lap and looked down thoughtfully.

"He's not half so clever; sometimes he doesn't understand at all what I say.—I even believe he's un peu bête; but he—worships me. Why should I renounce all my admirers for the sake of a betrothed who does not trouble himself about me? Of late he has scared them all away."

The door into the vestibule opened behind her; only more intimate friends entered this room, her room, when there were small parties; the one who entered must be either Ottomar or the Count. She had not heard anything, but, as the steps approached over the rug, she passed her fingers dreamily over the piano: "The Grail is already sending for the tardy one——"

"My dear Miss Carla!"

"O dear Count!" said Carla, glancing up and extending her left hand half over her shoulder to the Count, while her right played "My Dear Swan." "Don't you want to say good-day to Luise? She is with Madame von Arnfeld in the reception room."

The Count had drawn the hand extended to him so carelessly to his lips.—"And then?" asked he.

"You may come back here—I have something to tell you."

The Count came back in half a minute.

"Bring up your chair—not so near—so—and don't be disturbed by my drumming.—Do you know, dear Count, that you are a dangerous man?"

"But, my dear lady!" exclaimed the Count, twirling the ends of his mustache.

"You must be, if Luise thinks so. She has just given me a most charming curtain lecture."

"Great Heavens! What shall I do! Everybody worships you! Why shouldn't I be allowed to do what everybody does?"

"Because you are not everybody, because"—Carla raised her eyes; the Count was always as if intoxicated when he was permitted, unhindered by the lorgnette, to look into those blue eyes, beneath whose languid drooping lids a mysterious world of tenderness and coyness seemed to be hidden.

"Because I came too late?" he whispered passionately.

"One must not come too late, dear Count; that is the worst mistake in war, politics, everywhere. You must bear the consequences of this mistake—voilà tout!"

She played: "Only one year at thy side could I have wished to be, as witness of thy joy."—The Count gazed before him in silence.—"He is taking that seriously," thought Carla; "I must give him a little encouragement again."

"Why shouldn't we be friends?" she asked, extending her left hand while the right intoned: "Come dwell with me! Let me teach thee how sweet is the bliss of purest love!"

"Gladly, gladly!" exclaimed the Count, pressing a long, fervent kiss upon the extended hand. "Why shouldn't we be friends!"

"Isn't it true?—'Friendship of pure souls is so sweet!' But the world is not pure; it likes to besmirch that which shines; it demands, guarantees; give it the only possible lead in this case; get married!"

"And you advise me to do that?"

"I do; I shall have an incalculable advantage from it; I shall not lose you altogether. I cannot ask more; I do not ask more."

And Carla played with both hands: "Let thyself be made to believe there is a joy that hath no pang!"

"Great Heavens, Carla—my dear lady, do you know that something like that, in almost the same words——"

"You have just heard from Mr. Giraldi," said Carla, as the Count grew embarrassingly silent. "Just express it frankly; it will not offend me; he is the wisest of men, from whom you can conceal no secrets even if you would and—I don't wish to; you—should not wish to, either. He loves you very much; he wishes the best for you.—Believe me! Trust him!"

"I believe it," said the Count—"and I should trust him unconditionally if the union in question had not also a little bit of business flavor in it. You know I bought the Warnow estate today. I should hardly have been able to assume such a great risk, should not have assumed it at all, if they had not intimated that I should have at least half of the purchase price in the form of a dowry."

"Fi donc!" said Carla.

"For Heaven's sake, dear lady, don't misunderstand me!" exclaimed the Count. "It is understood, of course, that this intimation could have come from no one else in the world but Mr. Giraldi, as attorney of the Baroness——"

THE LITTLE THIEF
Permission Ch. Sedelmeyer, Paris
Michael von Munkacsy

"Spare me such things, dear Count!" exclaimed Carla; "I don't understand anything at all about them! I only know that my sister-in-law is a charming creature, and that you are a terribly blasé man, before whom every honorable girl must shudder. And now let us go into the reception room. I hear Baroness Kniebreche; she would never forgive you if you did not kiss her hand within the first five minutes!"

"Give me courage for the execution," whispered the Count.

"How?"

The Count did not answer, but took her hand from the keys of the piano, pressed a few passionate kisses upon it, and, with a movement half feigned and half real, hastened into the other room.

"But he is such a fool!" whispered Carla, looking after him over her shoulder with her lorgnette as he hastened out.

"That he is," said a voice near her.

"Mon Dieu! Signor Giraldi!"

"As ever, at your service!"

"As ever, at the proper moment! You have not yet been in the reception room? Of course not! Come! Let us chat a few minutes longer. A tête-à-tête with you is a much envied distinction, which even Baroness Kniebreche appreciates."

"And, besides, this respectable tête-à-tête is not so dangerous as the preceding," said Giraldi, taking a seat on the sofa by Carla at the far end of the room, under a cluster of lights.—"Have you spoken to him?"

"Just now!"

"And what did he answer?"

"He understands everything, except——"

"Not all, then?"

"Stop that ironical smile; he is really not so insignificant. He is clever enough, for example, to inquire what special interest you can have in his union with Else."

"Don't be angry if I smile a little bit longer," said Giraldi.—"What did you say! The Count inquired what interest I have in the matter—he, upon whose side the entire advantage lies. Very well, I grant that the sale would have been long delayed, as the General, from pure obstinacy, and your brother, for reasons of propriety, are not willing to sell directly to a committee of speculators, and demand a go-between; I admit, further, that the Count is not only the most convenient and appropriate, but also, for us, the most profitable person, because as a neighbor he can really pay more than anybody else. But that is an advantage for us which we can most profitably equalize by other advantages which we concede to him, and with the details of which I do not wish to trouble you. Believe me, Miss Carla, the Count knows all this as well as I do; and he is only pretending to be ignorant, and consequently to be hesitating for reasons which I shall mention in order: First, it is always well that one should not see the hand which tosses fortune into one's lap—one can then be, on occasion, as ungrateful as one wishes; second, he is in love, and—who could blame him—doesn't yet consider the matter entirely hopeless, so long as you are unmarried; third, he is not at all certain that Miss von Werben will accept him, and for this uncertainty he has well-founded reasons, which his philosophy and vanity can easily fabricate."

"You have already repeatedly referred to the fondness which Else was supposed to have for the handsome sea captain. Much as I admire your penetration, dear Giraldi—this is the limit of my credulity."

"And if I produce indisputable proofs—if I have it in black and white, by the hand of Else's most intimate girl friend, that little Miss von Strummin, who left so unceremoniously in order to surprise us from the security of her island with the news of her engagement to the sculptor, Justus Anders? Please do not laugh; all that I tell you is positively true. Mr. Justus Anders, however, is the most intimate friend of the Captain; the two pairs of friends, it appears, have no secrets between them; anyhow, Miss von Strummin keeps none from her betrothed, and to him she wrote in a letter, which arrived this morning, literally——"

Giraldi had taken out of the pocket of his dress coat a dainty portfolio, and out of this a paper, which he unfolded.—

"If anybody should come, it is a letter from Enrico Braga, the sculptor, in Milan—thus writes literally as follows:

"One thing more, beloved artist, at which Lesto would bark himself to death with delight if he could understand it, and you will be as delighted as a child, which you are: My Else loves your Reinhold with all her heart and soul, and that means something, for one who knows, as I do, that she is all heart, and has the most heavenly soul in the world. I have not the permission, and least of all the commission, to tell you this; but we must no longer play hide and seek with each other, you know; and must also encourage our poor friends, which can be best done by telling them hourly that he, or in your case, she, loves you! I have at least found it successful with Else. Oh, beloved artist! we ought really to be ashamed to be as happy as we are, when we remember how unhappy our friends are, and simply because of these abominable circumstances. If I knew the one who invented these conditions, I should like to tell him a thing or two, you bet."

"That is indeed wonderfully interesting, and will interest the Count immensely!"

"No doubt," said Giraldi, putting the sheet back in his portfolio.—"By the way, what a noble soul you are, indeed, not to ask from whom I got the letter! But I think we will not make it known till we are sure of one thing."

"Of what?"

Giraldi leaned over to Carla and looked straight into her eyes.—

"That you would not finally prefer to make Count Axel von Golm happy by offering your hand to him instead of to Ottomar von Werben."

"You are horrible, Signor Giraldi, do you know it?" said Carla, striking Giraldi's hands with her handkerchief.

"If you say so!—For see, dear lady; that communication of Else's maritime affections and relations would finally induce the Count to give up his suit, and hitherto we have been of the opinion that it would be most convenient for all parties concerned to marry him to Else. If you want him yourself—and so it appears—now it can be brought about; only I should not be overhasty in your case. We can prolong the game as long as we wish. And why should you not wish to drain the sweetness of the betrothal period to the last drop—the more as Ottomar—the truth does not offend noble souls—hardly knows how to appreciate the true worth of the happiness which awaits him in the arms of the most charming and gifted of women."

"That is to say, if I am not mistaken," said Carla, "Ottomar must do as you wish; you have him in your power. Now, dear friend, I know how powerful your hand is; but I confess I do not understand where the power lies in this case. That Ottomar has had mistresses, presumably still has—well, I, too, have read my Schopenhauer, who says nothing of monogamy, because he was never able to discover it; and I do not wish to be the woman who finds her lover less interesting because he is interesting to other women. His debts? Grands Dieux! Tell me one who has none! And my brother says it is really not so bad. My brother insists upon hastening our wedding, and now my sister-in-law does, too. The General himself is, as you know, uncomfortably persistent in the pursuance of his plans, and society would be beside itself if we were not on our bridal tour by the beginning of March; on the fifteenth Ottomar is to take up his appointment in St. Petersburg."

"If we agree in other things, let us make our arrangements accordingly," replied Giraldi; "by the middle of February you will find that your delicately sensitive nature is no longer equal to the demands of the season, that you needs must have, before entering upon the new chapter of your life, composure and quiet which the city cannot give you, which you can find only in the seclusion of the country. And it fortunately so happens now that, at the same time, my dear friend, the Baroness, impelled by need of rest, is seeking quiet in the seclusion of Warnow. I have reserved the castle and park of the Count, who is the owner of the estates since this morning, for the months of February and March, expressly for this purpose. He will be delighted to learn that Miss von Wallbach wishes to share the retirement of the aunt of her betrothed. Not alone! The Baroness will be accompanied, at her urgent request, by Miss Else. Note that! The Count, whose business at this time—of first importance, the building of the harbor at Warnow—will make it necessary for him to sojourn in the country, will do all in his power to enliven the loneliness of the ladies. Your brother—I myself—we shall come and go. What a spectacle, to observe the awakening of spring in the country, on the shore of the sea, perhaps also dear Else's silent fondness for the man of her choice, who, in his new position—he has been for some days Pilot Commander—I believe that is what they call it—in Wissow, will be just as far from Warnow as the Count is from the castle! What do you think of my little plan?"

"Charming!" said Carla—"À deux mains! But can it be carried out?"

"Let that be my concern. Only give me your two pretty hands to assure me that you will support me."

"Here they are!"

"And I press upon both of them my lips as a seal of ratification."

"Now I must venture to interrupt your tête-à-tête," said von Wallbach, entering from the reception room.—"The company is complete; only Ottomar, whose companionship we must forego, and the Baroness are wanting."

"I forgot to state," said Giraldi, greeting von Wallbach, "the Baroness wishes me to excuse her—an indisposition—her overwrought nerves——"

"Oh!" said von Wallbach, "what a pity! Would you have the kindness, Carla, to tell Luise? It will make no further disturbance, as I was to conduct the Baroness; you, Mr. Giraldi, Baroness Kniebreche has requested to accompany her."

Giraldi bowed; Carla went out.

"One moment," whispered von Wallbach, drawing Giraldi back by the arm, "I am glad, very glad, that the Baroness is not coming. This is a day of surprises. This morning, Golm, to the unspeakable astonishment of all of us—Lübbener can't compose himself yet—paid down in one lump the half million; the concession, for whose publication we should have had to wait weeks, as there was always a question of the security, will be printed tomorrow in the Staatsanzeiger—yes, yes, my dear Sir, you may depend upon it! I have it with absolute certainty from Privy Councilor von Strumm, who only begs that we shall not betray him.—It is to be a delightful surprise for us, coming from the Minister; and—and—dear friend!—I am not easily disconcerted, but c'est plus fort que moi—from the same absolutely reliable source I learn that the General does not appear in the Army promotions, which are likewise to be published tomorrow."

"That means?" asked Giraldi.

"That means that he has been passed over, that he—according to our notions—must retire for the sake of appearances."

"How strange!" said Giraldi.

"So it is, and can't be otherwise," continued von Wallbach with emotion; "I should be able to understand the step, indeed, the necessity of it, if only by removing him our matter could be put through; as it is, however, as we have the concession in our pocket without that——"

"An unnecessary cruelty," said Giraldi.

"Isn't it? And one that will have other consequences. I prophesy that Ottomar will not go to St. Petersburg."

"That would be more than cruel—that would be ridiculous," said Giraldi.

"You don't understand our conditions; our people are very consistent in such things."

Giraldi was spared the answer. In the door of the reception room appeared, leaning on Carla's arm, the bent form of an old lady, who moved to and fro a gigantic black fan, and exclaimed with a loud metallic voice: "If Mr. Giraldi doesn't come to old Kniebreche, old Kniebreche must come to Mr. Giraldi."

"I come on wings!" said Giraldi.

[Reinhold comes to take leave of the Werbens, hears the news that the General has not been promoted, finds Else depressed. Else pours out her heart concerning Ferdinande, her father and Ottomar, and his betrothal to Carla. Reinhold declares he loves her, and holds her in his embrace. Else kisses her compass, her talisman, and slips it back into her pocket.

Reinhold starts for Sundin to report and take his post at Wissow. At the railroad station Justus tells Reinhold of his betrothal to Mieting, but fears that Mieting's father may change his mind. Reinhold assures Justus that there is no danger of Strummin getting rich from the concession, that the railroad must be a failure, and Strummin will be glad enough to have him as a son-in-law. Justus declares that he has produced nothing worth while since he has been in love—"Oh! this love, this love!" Uncle Ernst has been elected to the city council and will be elected next year to the Reichstag. Reinhold's train moves off. Ottomar is on board, and expects to be the guest of Golm in the spring. The President enters the coupé where Reinhold is. He is much excited, having been in Berlin protesting against the concession. The whole railroad situation is ventilated. The President recalls Reinhold's first prophecy of the storm flood.

Madame and Miss von Wallbach, Else and Golm, are at dinner at Castle Warnow as the guests of Valerie. Golm's advances to Else are repelled, and he makes slighting remarks about Reinhold. Else defends Reinhold and leaves the room in disgust. Golm protests to Madame von Wallbach that Reinhold will probably object even to the removal of the dunes, because they are necessary for protection. Madame von Wallbach is disgusted at the failure of the match between Golm and Else, and threatens to go home. Golm now turns his attentions to Carla, asks her to take a ride, and steals a kiss. Carla and Else have an altercation about Ottomar and Golm, Carla having learned from Giraldi of Ottomar's relations to Ferdinande. Madame von Wallbach tells Carla she need not object to Ottomar's mistresses, for all men have them, nor to his debts, for Golm has debts too. Strummin asks Golm for the money he had loaned him, which is now needed to set up Mieting. Golm and Carla ride off alone.

Else, fatigued and disturbed, starts out for a walk in the open, while her aunt Valerie lies in a sleepy stupor in her room. Else comes through the portière just in time to see Golm kiss Carla. She now considers the bond between Carla and Ottomar broken. She contrasts their relations with her own to Reinhold, and longs to see Reinhold. She goes into the park whose regular lines oppress her. She wanders on till she comes to the Pölitz house, where she learns that little Karl, who was sick when she was there before, has died. The Pölitz family is in a bad plight, reflecting the evil character of the Count. Else listens to the sad stories of Mrs. Pölitz and her sister-in-law, Marie, whom Golm has seduced, and hurries on to Wissow Hook to see Reinhold.]

Mrs. Pölitz had said it was an hour's walk to Wissow Hook, but it seemed to Else as if the very winding way would never end. And yet she walked so fast that she left the little empty hay wagon just as far behind her as it was ahead of her at the start. The wretched vehicle was the only sign of human activity; otherwise the brown plain lay as bare as a desert as far as the eye could reach; not a single large tree was to be seen, only here and there a few scattered willows and tangled shrubbery on the ditches, which ran this way and that, and a broader, slowly flowing brook constantly widening, which she crossed on an unsafe wooden bridge, without a railing. The brook must have come from the range of hills to the right, at the base of which Else saw, in striking contrast, the buildings of the other two Warnow estates, Gristow and Damerow. Swinging around in a great bend, she gradually ascended to Wissow Hook, which lay directly before her, while the plain to the left extended without the least undulation to the lower dunes, lifting their white crests here and there above the edge of the heath. Only once a leaden gray streak, which must be the sea, although Else could scarcely distinguish it from the sky, appeared for a few minutes in an opening through which the brook may have had its source.

For the sky above her too was a leaden gray, except that it seemed somewhat darker above the sea. In the east, then above the hills toward the west, and along the leaden gray vault here and there, scattered white spots floated, like powder smoke, motionless in the still air. Not the slightest breeze was stirring, and yet from time to time a strange whisper crept through the waste as if the brown heath were trying to rouse itself from deep sleep, and a soft, long continued sound of sadness could be heard through the heavy murky air, and then again a boundless stillness, when Else thought she could hear her heart beat.

But almost more terrible than the silence of the waste was the cry of a flock of gulls, which she had scared up from one of the many hollows of the heath, and which now, flying to and fro in the gray air, with the points of their bills turned downward, followed her for a long time, as if in raging anger at the intruder on their domain.

Nevertheless she walked on and on, faster and faster, following an impulse that admitted no opposition to her determination, which was even stronger than the horror which seemed to come over her from the sky and ground, like the breath of spirits threatening and warning with demon voices.—And then yet another terrible dread! Even from the far distance—at the foot of the mountain promontory, rising higher—she had noticed dark, moving points, as she convinced herself, now that they were coming nearer—laborers, several hundred, who were carting dirt and filling in an apparently endless dam, which had already reached a considerable height. She could not avoid crossing the dam, and if she did not wish to make a détour she must intersect the long line of carters. This she did with a friendly greeting to those nearest to her. The men, who were already sufficiently bothered, stopped their carts and glared at her without returning her salutation. When she had gone a short distance further, shouts and coarse laughter resounded behind her. Turning involuntarily, she saw that a few of the band had followed her and did not stop until she turned—checked, perhaps, only by the noise which the others made. She continued her way almost running. There was now only a narrow path over the short parched grass and across the broad strips of sand with which the ascending slope of the promontory was covered. Else said to herself that she could be seen by the men until she reached the top, might be followed by them at any moment, or if she turned back—the twilight had settled about her, the men perhaps had stopped work for the day, and there was no overseer to hold their coarseness in check, the rude men having the whole endless plain as far as Warnow to insult, scare and annoy her—should she turn about at once while there was time, ask for an overseer to accompany her, perhaps try to have the hay wagon, which she had overtaken a while before and was now nearing the laborers, carry her on, or another wagon which from her elevation she discovered far in the distance and which must have followed her!—There was only the one way over the heath.

While Else was thus considering, as if drawn by magic she hastened with beating heart up the slope, the upper edge of which was clearly distinguishable from the vault of the sky by an even line rising toward the sea. With every step the sea and the chains of dunes extended farther to the left; now her glance swept out to where the misty sky met the misty sea, and beyond the beautifully arched curve of the coast to wooded Golmberg, which had a threatening look against the blue-black background. Above the tree-tops, huddled in a vague mass, loomed the tower of the castle. Between Golmberg yonder and the height on which she stood—inhospitable as the sea itself, from which she was separated only by the yellow border of the dunes—the brown plain she was traversing; the only habitation of man—the fisher village of Ahlbeck, which now, hard by the foot of the promontory, lay almost at her feet. Yonder too, on the broad beach between the houses and the sea, extended long moving lines of workmen up to the two moles which, with their ends pointing toward each other, extended far into the sea. At the moles were a few large craft which seemed to be unloading, while a fleet of fishing-boats all moved in the same direction toward the shore. They had reefed their sails, and were being propelled only by oars. The even position of the brown sails and the uniform motion of the oars of the fishing boats were in strange contrast with the confused disorder of the white gulls, which a while ago had circled above her and now flew ceaselessly at half the elevation between her and the shore.

All this she saw, however, with the keen eye of a falcon, as a traveler on the train mechanically observes the details of the landscape he is passing, while his thoughts have long been at home, tasting the joys he will experience at sight of the loved ones from whom he has so long been separated. She dared not hope to look into his dear eyes, to grasp his dear hands in hers, to hear the sound of his strong, yet gentle voice. She wished only to see the place where he lived.

And even this slight consolation, she thought, should be guarded. She had already gone in the same cross direction, some distance on the ridge of the hills, without obtaining a view of the other side where Wissow must be located—only a view over the edge of the plateau, a leaden gray. Perhaps if she followed the broader road which she was now approaching, and which, coming from the right, led to a pile of great boulders, whence a tall signal staff arose, and which must have been built on the top of the ridge—presumably also on the extreme edge of the promontory——!

As a matter of fact, as she ascended higher and higher a pale streak appeared over to the right—the coast of the continent—then again the leaden gray surface of the sea, upon which a sail could be discerned here and there; finally, on this side, immediately below her, a white point of dunes, which gradually grew wider in the shape of a wedge toward the promontory, till it became a small flat peninsula, in the middle of which a dozen small houses lay on the brown heath among the dunes—that was Wissow! That must be Wissow!

And now that she stood on the point which she had striven with all her physical and mental strength to reach, and, however longingly she extended her arms, the goal of her longing still lay so far, so unattainably far from her—now for the first time she thought she understood the silent dreadful speech of the waste, the loneliness about her, the rustling whisper of the heath, the voices of spirits wailing in the air: Alone! Alone! Unspeakable sorrow arose in her heart; her knees shook, she sank near the boulders upon a stone, covered her eyes with her hands and broke into loud crying, like a helpless, abandoned child.

She did not see a man, who was leaning against the signal staff observing the sea, startled by the strange sound near him, come from behind the boulders; she did not hear him coming up to her with hurried steps across the narrow grass plot.——

"Else!"

She started up with a stifled shriek.

"Else!"

And then she cried aloud—a cry of wild joy, which echoed strangely through the noiseless stillness—and she lay on his breast, clung to him, as one drowning.

"Reinhold! My Reinhold!"

She wept, she laughed, she cried again and again, "My Reinhold!"

Speechless for joy and astonishment at the precious miracle, he drew her to him upon the rock on which she had sat; she pressed her head upon his breast.

"I so longed for you!"

"Else, dear Else!"

"I had to come, I could not do otherwise; I was drawn hither by spirit hands. And now I have you, you! O never leave me again! Take me with you down to your house yonder. There is my home! With you! With you! Do not thrust me out again into the dreary, loveless, false world there behind me! Only with you is joy, rest, peace, truth, fidelity! O your dear, true heart, how it beats; I feel it! It loves me as I do you! It has yearned for me as my poor shattered heart has for you, for you!"

"Yes, my Else, it has yearned for you, unspeakably, beyond measure. I climbed up here, because it had no peace; I only wished to cast a glance out there where I knew you to be—a last look, before——"

"Before? For Heaven's sake!"

He had led her the few steps to the boulders and now stood, throwing his arm about her, close to the edge of the promontory, whose sullen front was so steep that she seemed to be floating in the air above the gray sea.

"See, Else, that is the storm! I hear it, I see it, as if it were already let loose! Hours may yet pass, but it will come, it must come—as all signs indicate—with fearful violence. The metallic surface there below us, stirred into raging waves, will dash its foam up to this height! Woe to the ships which have not sought shelter in the harbor, perchance there to be secure against its wild fury! Woe to the lowlands down there below us! I wished to write to you about it this morning, for I saw it even yesterday, and tell you it would be better for you to leave Warnow; but you would not have gone if I had."

"Never! I am too proud that you trust me, that you have told me this! And when the storm breaks loose, and I know that your precious life is exposed to danger—I will not tremble; and, if I fear, surely I will not despair. I will say all the time: 'He could not fail to do his duty, or to be the brave man whom I love; what if he thought that I were weeping and wringing my hands, while he has to command and steer as on that evening!' Do you know, my love, do you know that I loved you then? And do you know that you said to me that I had eyes like a seaman? O how well I remember every word; every look! And how happy I was that I did not have to give the compass back to you at once; I did not wish to keep it, you were to have it back again——"

"Then you were more honorable than I, dear! I was determined not to give the glove back to you. You had taken it off when you looked through my telescope; it lay on the deck. I picked it up; it has accompanied me so faithfully ever since—do you see? It has been my talisman! Seamen are superstitious; I swore not to part with it till I held your hand in mine forever, instead of the glove." He kissed the little blue-gray glove before he put it back into his breast-pocket.

They had again seated themselves upon the rock, caressing, whispering fond words, jesting in happy phrases, pressing heart to heart and lips to lips, forgetful of the desolate waste in the blissful paradise of their young love, forgetful of the darkness which became more dense, forgetful of the storm which was brewing in the leadlike air over the leadlike sea, like the angel of destruction brooding over a world which he finally hopes to destroy forever and to hurl back into primeval chaos.

A sullen, rolling, trembling sound in the distance caused them to stop and listen; suddenly a roaring sound penetrated the air, without their noticing, even at this elevation, any motion, and this was again followed by an absolute stillness. Reinhold jumped up.

"It is coming faster than I thought; we have not a moment to lose."

"What are you going to do?"

"Take you back."

"That you must not do; you must remain at your post of duty; on that account you did not go to Warnow today; how could you now go so far, when the peril is so much nearer? No, no, dear; do not look at me with such concern! I must learn to live without fear, and I am going to do it; I have determined to do it. No more fear from this moment on, not even of men! I can no longer live without you, and you can no longer live without me. If I did not know it before, I know it now; and, believe me, my noble father is the first that will understand it. Indeed, he must have felt it when he told me what he wrote to you: 'I place your fate in your own hands.' Ottomar and your aunt share my inheritance; my proud father would not take anything from me, and you—you take me as I am, and lead me down there forever! One more glimpse of my paradise, and one more kiss! And now, farewell, farewell!"

He embraced her fondly, and was about to let her go; but he held her hand fast in his.

"It is impossible, Else; it is growing dark up here; in half an hour it will be night down there. You are not safe on the road, which cannot be distinguished from the heath, and the heath is full of deep moors—it is simply impossible, Else!"

"It must be possible! I should despise myself if I kept you from your duty; and how could you love me and not feel your love a burden if I did so? How do you know that you will not be very soon, perhaps are even now, needed down below? And the people are standing helpless, looking for their commander! Reinhold, my love, am I right or not?"

"You are indeed right; but——"

"No but, dear; we must part."

Thus speaking, they went hand in hand, with hasty steps, down the path by which Else had ascended, and stood now at the cross-path which led in both directions—to the Warnow heath over here, and to the Wissow peninsula over there.

"Only to the foot of the hill, till I know you are on the right road," said Reinhold.

"Not a step farther! Hark! What was that?"

He, too, had heard it—a noise like that of horses' hoofs, which struck in swiftest pace upon the hard ground behind the hill rising in their rear and making impossible a further view of the ridge of the promontory, which sloped more rapidly at that point. The next moment a rider came in sight over the hill. He was now at the top, stopped his horse, stood up in his stirrups and appeared to be looking about him.

"It is the Count!" said Else.

A deep flush came into her face. "Now, you will have to accompany me for a little distance," said she. "Come!"

She took his arm. At that moment the Count, who had looked beyond them, to the hill, turning his eyes downward, saw them both. He gave his horse the spurs, and, galloping down the slope, was with them in an instant. He had already seen Reinhold, doubtless, but as he checked his horse and lifted his hat his face did not show the slightest trace of astonishment or wonder; he seemed rather not to notice Reinhold at all, as if he had met Else alone.

"That I call good fortune, Miss Else! How your aunt will rejoice! She is waiting over there; the carriage couldn't go farther——"

He pointed with the butt of his whip over the hill.

"My Heavens, Miss Else! Even if you look at me twice as astonished! Your aunt is worried because you have been away so long.—Messengers in the neighborhood heard of Pölitz that you had come hither—strange notion, Miss Else, by Heavens!—your aunt insisted upon coming herself—stayed behind with Miss von Wallbach—offered to accompany her—most despairing—astounding luck! Beg permission to accompany you to the carriage, not two hundred paces."

He leaped from the saddle and took his horse by the bridle-rein.

Reinhold looked Else straight in the eye; she understood and answered the look.

"We're very grateful to you, Count," said he, "but shouldn't like to try your kindness a moment longer than is necessary. I shall accompany my betrothed myself to the Baroness."

"Oh!" exclaimed the Count.

He had rejoiced in advance over the utter confusion which, in his opinion, the discovered lovers must have felt in his presence, and which would shock the Baroness if he could tell her in whose company he had the good fortune to find her niece. For, that the fellow would traipse down to Wissow with an expression of stammering embarrassment, he assumed as a matter of course, now that he had gone so far. And now! He thought he had not heard aright, he could hardly believe his eyes, when Else and the fellow, turning their backs upon him as if he were not there, walked on arm in arm. With a leap he was back in the saddle.

"Then allow me, at least, to announce the happy event to the Baroness!" he exclaimed ironically, lifting his hat as he passed, and hurrying ahead of them up the hill, beyond which he soon vanished.

"The wretch!" cried Else. "I thank you, Reinhold, that you understood, that you have freed me forever from him, from all of them! You cannot imagine how thankful I am and why I am so thankful to you! I will not now burden you, dear heart, with the hateful things which I have experienced; I shall tell you another time. Come what may, I am yours and you are mine! This joy is so great—everything else is small and insignificant compared with it!"

An open carriage was standing a short distance from them and by it a rider. They thought it was the Count, but coming nearer they saw that it was a servant. The Count had vanished with a scornful laugh, after communicating the great discovery to the Baroness, and receiving only the answer, "I thank you, Count, for your escort thus far!" The two last words had been spoken with special emphasis and, lifting his hat again, he rode off at a gallop from the road over the hills.

The Baroness left the carriage and came to meet the lovers. Else released Reinhold's arm and hastened to meet her aunt; she told all that was necessary by impulsively embracing her. As Reinhold came up the Baroness extended her hand to him and said in a voice full of emotion, "You bring me the dear child and—yourself! Then have double thanks!"

Reinhold kissed the trembling hand.—"It is not a time for many words, Baroness," said he, "and what I feel your kind heart knows. God's blessing upon you!"

"And upon thee, my Reinhold!" exclaimed Else, embracing him; "God's blessing! And joy and happiness!"

He helped the ladies into the carriage; one clasp of her dear hand, and the company was off, the servant riding ahead.

Notwithstanding the hilly ground, as the road was good and the ground firm, they could ride sufficiently fast even here upon the hill, and Reinhold had urged all possible haste. Only a few minutes had passed when the carriage had vanished from his sight behind the hills; when it reached the plain below, and became visible again, half an hour had elapsed. He had not time to wait for that; he must not lose a minute more.

Down in Wissow the beacons were already lighted; at this moment the signal for a pilot blazed up from the sea. They would answer promptly—he knew they would; but a new situation might come any moment which would require his presence; and it would take him a quarter of an hour at a full run to get down there.

He ran down the hill in long bounds, when a rider appeared right before him in a hollow of the ground, which extended to the right in a deep depression along the length of the promontory, and stood on the path. It happened so suddenly that Reinhold almost ran into the horse.

"You seem to be in a very great hurry, now," said the Count.

"I am in a great hurry," replied Reinhold, breathless from his rapid running—and was about to go past the head of the horse; but the Count pulled the horse around so that his head was toward Reinhold.

"Make room!" exclaimed Reinhold.

"I am on my own ground," replied the Count. "The road is free, and you are for freedom of all sorts."

"Once more—Make room!"

"If I wish to do so."

Reinhold seized the bridle of the horse, which reared high from the sharp spurs in his flank; Reinhold reeled backward. The next moment he drew his long knife, which as a seaman he always carried with him.

"I should be sorry for the horse," he exclaimed, "but if you will not have it otherwise——"

"I only wished to say 'Good evening, Commander'—I forgot it a while ago; Good evening!"

The Count lifted his hat with scornful laughter, turned his horse about again, and rode off to one side of the valley from whence he had come.

"That kind won't learn anything," muttered Reinhold, shutting his knife again. It was a word that he had often heard from his Uncle Ernst. As he felt now, so must Uncle Ernst have felt in that moment when the dagger came down upon him—the dagger of her father. "Great Heavens!" he reflected. "Is it true then that the sins of the father are visited upon the children? That this combat, handed down from generations, was to continue forever? That we ourselves, who are guiltless, must renew it against our will and our convictions?"

A sound of thunder, still in the distance, but clear, louder and more threatening than before, rolled through the heavy air; and again a gust of wind followed it—this time no longer in the upper air, but raging along the hill and the slopes of the promontory, echoing with screeches and groans in the ravines. The next gust might strike the sea, letting loose the storm which would bring the flood.

There was another storm for which human machinations appear as child's play, and human hate as an offense, but one feeling remains victorious—love! That Reinhold felt in the depth of his heart, as he hastened downward to redeem the minutes which had been foolishly lost, to risk his life if it must be, in spite of it all, for the lives of other men.

[Valerie having heard of the reason for Else's absence starts out to look for her. Golm discovers Else and Reinhold and spreads the news of their betrothal. Else writes a hasty note to her father, telling him all. Upon Else's return, Valerie expresses her sympathy, and tells her the long sad story of her life. Valerie had loved her deceased husband with a boundless love, but was carried away by a passion for Signor Giraldi, before she was married to von Warnow. The early years of her married life had been spent largely in travel; but still her heart was ill at ease. On their journeys they came to Rome, where Valerie met Giraldi again, coming hopelessly under the spell of his magic power. In the midst of it all her husband dies, leaving a strange, complicated will, which disinherited the children of the General, her brother, in case they should marry outside of the nobility. After her husband's death she had Giraldi as counselor and companion, and manager of her affairs.

The storm has raged all day through the streets of Berlin, and a financial storm, still more fierce, has been raging in the Exchange, shaking many a proud countinghouse to its foundations by the wild speculation in stocks. The Berlin-Sundin railway has been the storm centre, and Philip Schmidt, the great promoter, has been making full use of the French proverb, sauve qui peut. It is the evening of the ball at Philip's new house; guests, many and mighty, throng the burgher palace of the young promoter, whose democratic motto is to bring together poets and kings, artists and speculators. Even the venerable Baroness Kniebreche was all curiosity to see the luxury and the motley throng. The Wallbachs, the Werbens, Golm, Lübbener, Justus and Mieting, Krethe and Plethe, all are there. Toasts are drunk, speeches are made, wine flows freely, and spirits run high. The air is charged with financial and social gossip. Giraldi expects Ottomar's engagement with Carla to be broken. A duel between Ottomar and Wallbach is impending. If Valerie consents on the morrow to Giraldi's plans, there will not be left one stone of the Werben fortune upon another—dallying, temporizing, diplomatizing are the order of the day. Antonio watches Ottomar and disturbs Giraldi's mind. Schieler declares Golm a ruined man, and engages with Lübbener, who is pale with concern, in conversation about Philip. Giraldi has just drawn the last fifty thousand from Haselow, making it impossible for Haselow to help Lübbener.

Philip excuses himself to Baroness Kniebreche for a few minutes, to move around among the guests. He comes upon Lübbener and Schieler in a corner, addresses Lübbener as "Dear Hugo," and tells him that this splendor is all due to him. At the close of a laudatory speech in honor of Philip, an officer, whom Lübbener has ordered, comes in to arrest Philip. Philip seizes Lübbener by the wrist, telling him he shall pay for it. Philip and the officer, Müller, leave the company and go upstairs, that Philip may change his clothes. They pass through one room after another until they reach Philip's bedroom. While Philip changes the officer sits and waits; he hears a rustle, but suddenly all is quiet. The time grows long. He goes to the door, only to find Philip gone and himself a prisoner. It is announced that Philip has had a stroke. The police rescue the officer. The ball breaks up. Ottomar quarrels with Wallbach, and is to give notice in the morning. Antonio is in evidence and threatens to stab Ottomar, but Bertalde interposes.

Von Wallbach writes to the General that he cannot accept Ottomar's challenge to a duel until Ottomar can clear his record of the reported scandal. Captain von Schönau offers to help the General pay Ottomar's debts, but Colonel von Bohl comes to inform the General that Ottomar's notes are all forged, that Giraldi had been paying Ottomar's notes as they came due, and promised to pay the twenty thousand, but had drawn the half million from the bank, and left during the night for Warnow. The General, instead of signing the order to pay Ottomar's debts, tears it up, sends Ottomar one of his brace of pistols, and loads the other to shoot the devil who lured his son into shame.

Ottomar is at the lodging of Bertalde, who goes to fetch Ferdinande. Ottomar plans to go to America, which Bertalde says is all nonsense. She declares Ottomar is not going to leave her room, and that Ferdinande shall stay with him—"these men act like children with their silly honor." Ferdinande writes a note to her father, and gives it to Cilli to deliver.

Cilli finds Uncle Ernst in a bad state of mind, but his heart warms as he sees the blind girl, who delivers the letter and pleads for Ferdinande. She starts home by way of the studio, and kneels down before Justus' statue of Mieting.

Justus and Mieting are looking for furniture to set up housekeeping, and find a bargain at Isaac Lobstein's. On the way back they chat of all sorts of things, and speak of Cilli, for whom, Mieting says, they must provide, because Justus would have married her if she hadn't been blind and he so ugly! They return to the studio and find Cilli dead before Mieting's bust.

The General is at the station to take the train for Sundin on the way to Warnow. The storm has interfered with traffic, and the General is frantic. Uncle Ernst is likewise waiting for a train to Sundin. He has engaged a special, and invites the General to ride with him. Uncle Ernst pours out his soul to the General, and pleads for the children; but the General replies that all are biased by tradition in judging their fellowmen. The special train for Uncle Ernst is announced. A message from Else is handed to the General: "Come by the next train. Fearful storm. Shall perhaps have to go to Reinhold. Aunt will then be left alone with the terrible man. Come for my sake, for Ottomar's sake, for Aunt's sake, who has thrown herself on our protection. Everything is at stake. Else."

Madame von Wallbach insists upon going home, as Carla is committed to Golm, and they can no longer be the guests of Ottomar's friends. But Valerie cannot send them, because she wishes to accompany Else to Wissow Hook. The tenant, Damberg, repeats Reinhold's statement that "if the wind comes from the east there will be a bad storm flood." Valerie starts for Wissow. As they hear the surf breaking on the dunes, Else shrinks at the thought of Reinhold being in such peril. Valerie comforts her.

Giraldi arrives at Warnow, much the worse for the stormy journey. Madame von Wallbach tells him what he is, and what she thinks of him, and informs him that Valerie is going to look out for Else and Ottomar and will them her property. He is disconcerted by the calm disclosure of his schemes by what he has hitherto thought an insignificant woman. He bribes François to spy for him secretly, and sends him to Valerie in Wissow with a letter, charging her with having fled from him, and demanding that she return by six o'clock. Giraldi rages about the weather, "made for barbarians," while the storm shakes the castle. Count Golm sends back his jockey to get a handkerchief for Carla, while he and Carla ride on over the dunes toward the sea. The jockey declares that they will not be heard from before tomorrow, as he knows the Count and his wiles.

As the jockey rides back the Count begins his game, kisses Carla, and disarranges her hat; he excuses his conduct, as this is the first time he has been alone with the prettiest girl in the world. Carla is intoxicated with delight, and, as the Count suggests they may have to remain alone, she replies: "An eternity—with you!" She makes him swear that he will declare their engagement in the presence of Valerie, Else, and Giraldi, and will marry her within four weeks. He swears, with reservation, by his honor, but begins to ponder the bargain. Carla throws herself impulsively into his arms exclaiming: "With you. With you! Take me, take me! I am yours, yours, yours!" The Count is now bent on the boldest plunge of all; he rides for the inn at Ahlbeck, where they can spend the night. As they reach the village, all is confusion in the streets. The people are rushing from the houses, crying, howling, raging. The Count rides over a woman; the mob rush after him with curses, clubs, sticks, and knives, while Carla rides on over the dune. When the Count finally reaches her she has discovered his character, and is silent. They seek shelter at the house of Pölitz, who shouts to the Count—"Away with your butchery!" Carla finally falls to the ground and cries—"Wretch! Go away with your butchery!" The Count is undone, and weeps like a child.]

"It is half-past four o'clock," said Else; "we must go. Stay here! I am not sure that Father has arrived yet; even if he left by the noon train, he can't be in Warnow yet; but that dreadful man is certainly there, waiting for you, will perhaps go away again without waiting for your return—"

"I must speak with him," muttered Valerie.

"And you must speak with him alone, though I don't wish you to do so; and so we must go——"

"Without taking along any consolation for you, poor child!"

"I am consoled; I am quite calm.—You must know that from the way I talk and look."

Else bent down to her aunt and kissed her pale lips.

They were sitting at the window of Reinhold's study, to the right of the entrance of the one-storied house—a rather large one in comparison with the other houses. Else had been in almost all of them—in the houses of the two chief pilots, and in five or six of the twelve houses occupied by the other twenty-four pilots; and she would have gone into the houses of the other pilots, also, and the fisher-houses, of which there might have been several dozen, but it was not necessary, because the people were standing in the doors and stretching out their hands wherever she came—wrinkled hairy hands of a few worn-out tars, who had crept out from behind the warm stove; brown strong hands of brown strong women; small hard hands of rough, flaxen-haired children, who looked up with blue eyes to the beautiful lady and did not believe their mothers when they said that she was not a princess, but the Commander's betrothed, who was to live here always, and was so happy about it! And the Commander would come back, the women said, even if it were a worse storm, the worst which Claus Rickmann had ever seen—and he was ninety-two years old, so his word must mean something! The Commander understood his business, and had six with him who also understood their business, and he had already been out three times in the new life-boat without once upsetting, so it would not upset today, especially since his dear betrothed herself had come to meet him on his return.

So the women spoke, one after another, almost the same words, as if they had previously arranged what they should say; and then they had all said so many good things about the Commander, to the effect that he was better than the old commander, though he, too, had been a good man; and they had all said the same thing over again, one after the other, almost in the same words, with the same frank expression, and in the same tone; but Else could have heard it a thousand times more, and thanked each one individually, as if she heard it for the first time and as if it were a message from Heaven.

And then a whole host of women and girls, with a still larger number of children running beside them and after them, accompanied her to the place near the end of the peninsula, where signal-staffs and great light-buoys were placed on a high dune; and behind the dune, which offered at least some protection, a dense mass of men, in high wading boots and strange oilskin hats reaching far down behind, were looking out upon the raging sea; and, as the young lady slipped into their midst, they raised their oilskin hats, and left it to Claus Janssen, the oldest of them, to answer the young lady's questions, and listened and nodded eagerly, and, when they turned away to spy out over the sea, were careful that it was to the leeward.

And Claus Janssen related that, in the early morning, when it had grown light enough, a yacht, now anchored, had run in and brought the news that a ship was aground at the Gruenwald Oie, and was flying a signal of distress. There was such a high surf at that point that they could see only the masts and occasionally the hull and that there were people on it, hanging to the riggings. The ship—a small Dutch schooner—seemed to be well built, and could hold out a few hours or so, as it was on smooth sand, if the waves didn't wash the men overboard in the meantime. From the Oie no one could get to the ship—an ordinary boat would capsize immediately in the surf; half an hour later the life-boat was launched by the Commander, and they could follow it for three hours as it held its course against the storm, and they had finally seen it in the surf off the Oie. But the surf must have been very heavy, and the fog too dense, for they had lost sight of it then—even from the crow's nest, with the strongest glass—and they didn't know whether the Commander had got aboard—it was certainly a hard bit of work, because it had lasted so long; but the Commander—he would pull through. And now the young lady should go in and have Mrs. Rickmann make her a cup of tea; they would give her notice when the boat was in sight, and so far as the others were concerned the young lady should be quite at ease; the Commander understood his business, and the six who were with him understood their business, too!

And Else smiled, but not because the man said the same thing over again in the same words that the women had said, but because, after the assurance from the mouths of experienced men, a sweet peace came into her heart! she shook the hands of the speakers, the others, and then returned home with the escort of women and children, and repeated to herself, while she spoke to them in words which the storm for the most part dissipated—"He understands his business, and the six who are with him, they understand their business, too!"—as if it were a petition which she dared not express, and a song of joy which she was ashamed to sing aloud.

Then she had been in the house which was soon to be her home; had drunk tea with her aunt and pacified the exhausted creature in a room where they heard as little as possible of the storm, and had gone through the entire house with a throbbing heart, like a child led by its mother to the Christmas dinner, accompanied by Mrs. Rickmann—the granddaughter, no longer young—of old Claus Rickmann, a pilot's childless widow, who kept house for Reinhold. It was a modest house and modestly furnished; but she marveled at it all, as if she were wandering through an enchanted castle. And how orderly and neat it was! And how tasteful, where Mrs. Rickmann's domain in the kitchen and rooms stopped and that of the Commander began; the furniture, as if she had been asked for advice in the selection of each piece! And the great study table covered with books and carefully arranged documents and papers, and the large bookcases with glass doors, full of beautifully bound books, and another case filled with mysterious nautical instruments, and a third with beautiful shells, corals, and stuffed birds! And then Mrs. Rickmann opened a little room adjoining the study of the Commander, and Else almost shouted aloud! It was her room, next to the great salon—the same carpet, the same blue rep covering of the same sofa, the same chair, the same high wall-mirror, with gilded mantel! And it had only one window, too, in which a small armchair stood, and a sewing-table before the chair—so pretty! And Else had to sit down in the chair, because her knees shook, and lay her head on the table to weep a few tears of joy and give the table a kiss for him whose gentle concern enveloped her here as in a soft mantle, and who was now being tossed about out there on the raging sea, of which one had a full view from the window, risking his precious life for the lives of others!

Meanwhile the clock had struck four—although it was already as dark as if it had been six—and Mrs. Rickmann thought it was high time to get dinner for the Commander, if the ladies would not take anything but tea and zwieback. She spoke as calmly as if the Commander had been a little belated in his row-boat on a smooth sea, instead of hearing the storm raging more violently than ever at that moment and shaking the little house to its foundations. Aunt Valerie, not having slept a wink, came terrified from her room, to learn from Mrs. Rickmann that there was no reason to fear, as the house could withstand such a shock and that Wissow Hook broke the worst of it; and, as for the flood, the house lay like the others, forty feet higher than the sea, and they would wait to see if the flood could rise that high! Then Mrs. Rickmann went out into the kitchen, after paying her respects to the ladies in the Commander's study, and here they sat at the window, which also looked out on the sea, each trying to direct her thoughts upon the subject that each knew was agitating the heart of the other, exchanging from time to time a cheering word or pressure of the hand, till Else, noticing the increasing uneasiness in the face of her aunt, insisted upon immediate departure, because the darkness was rapidly thickening and they could not possibly find their dangerous way home by night.

Mrs. Rickmann came in with her frank face red from the kitchen fire, and took a modest part in the discussion. The ladies could still wait another short hour, it would not be any darker before sunset, and the Commander must return at any moment, if his dinner was not to burn.

Mrs. Rickmann had hardly said this when a heavy hand rapped on the window, and a harsh voice cried, "Boat in sight!"

And now Else ran, as if in a confused happy dream, to the strand by the side of a man in high wading boots and a queer hat, who told her all sorts of things which she did not understand, and then was at the place where she had been on her arrival, and now up on the dune, upon which the beacons flickered in the evening air, in the midst of many other men in wading boots and queer hats, who pointed toward the sea, and addressed her, though she did not understand a word, and one of whom threw a woolen jacket around her shoulders, although she did not ask him for it, nor thank him. Then suddenly she saw the boat quite close, which she had looked for somewhere in the thick atmosphere, God knows where, and which was then at quite another place, where the shore was flat and the surf did not rage so furiously; then she saw the boat again, looking twice as large as before, rise with its entire keel out of the white foam, and sink again in the foam and rise again, while some dozen men ran into the white foam which broke above their heads. And then one of them came through the rolling swell, in high wading boots, with such a queer hat on his head, and she gave a cry of joy and rushed toward him and clung to him, and he lifted her up and carried her a short distance till she could again set her foot on the sand; but whether he carried her farther, or they flew together, or walked, she did not know, and did not really see him till he had changed his clothes and was sitting at the dinner table, and was laughing because she filled for him one glass of port wine after another, while her aunt sat by smiling, and Mrs. Rickmann came and went, bringing mutton chops, steaming potatoes, scrambled eggs, and ham; and he, without taking his eyes from her, devouring it all with the hunger of one who had not eaten a morsel since seven o'clock in the morning. There had been no time to eat; it was hard work to get to the stranded ship; still harder to bring the poor sailors from the midst of the breakers; but it had been accomplished; they were all rescued, all eight of them. He had to put them ashore at Grünwald, which, too, was a difficult feat, and detained him long; but nothing else was to be done, as the poor sailors, who had hung in the rigging all night, were in a wretched condition; but they would survive.

Intoxicated as by the blissful fragrance of a marvelous, beautiful flower which they had plucked from the edge of an abyss, they only now noticed that Aunt Valerie had left them. Else, who kept no secret from her Reinhold, told him in hasty words what was the matter with the most miserable woman, and how they must now not lose a moment in taking the bad road homeward.

"Not a moment!" exclaimed Reinhold, rising from the table; "I shall make the necessary arrangements at once."

MILTON AND HIS DAUGHTERS
From the Painting by Michael von Munkacsy
PERMISSION CH. SEDELMEYER, PARIS

"It is already arranged," said Valerie, who had overheard the last words as she entered; "the carriage is at the door."

The happy lovers had not heard the noise of wheels in the deep sand, nor had they heard the hoofs of the horse of the rider whom Aunt Valerie had seen through the window, and whose message she had gone out of the room to receive.

He was there; he had commanded her to come!—She knew it, before she opened the letter which François handed her. She read the letter in the little room to the left, standing at the open window, while François stood outside, and then in the inclosure, and she had laughed aloud as she read it, and torn the sheet to pieces and hurled them out of the window into the storm, which carried them away in an instant.

"Madame laughs," François had said—in French, as usual when he wanted to speak emphatically.—"But I assure Madame that it is not a laughing matter, and that if Madame is not at the castle by six o'clock it will be a great misfortune."

"I shall come."

François bowed, mounted his horse again—he still held his bridle in his hand—and, giving his horse the spurs and bowing almost to the saddle, hurried away to the breathless astonishment of the children of the pilots, who had been attracted by the unusual spectacle of a horseman—while Valerie asked Mrs. Rickmann to have the carriage brought from the stable of the chief pilot in the village, and then—with heavy heart—went to separate the happy lovers. But she decided upon the last meeting with the detestable despised man, only because of those she loved and for whom she wished to save, in the impending catastrophe, what remained to be saved! It would not be much—she knew his avarice full well—but yet perhaps enough to secure the future for Else and free poor Ottomar from his embarrassments. And she smiled as she thought that even Else could believe that all this was for her sake, for her future!—Great God!

Else was ready at once, and Reinhold did not try to detain her with a word or a look. He would have been so glad to accompany them, but that was not to be thought of. He could not now leave his post an hour; duty might call him any moment!

And Else hadn't her wrap on when a pilot came in, bringing news of a boat which had gone out at two o'clock to a steamer signaled from Wissow Hook and flying the signals of distress. They were launched in ten minutes, and in half an hour were past the Hook, but they hadn't found the steamer, which had reached the open sea around Golmberg, as they had seen after passing there on their return—it was half-past four; they had been terrified at the surf, which had risen along the dunes between the Hook and Golmberg, and held to as long as possible to ascertain whether the sea had broken through as Reinhold had predicted. They were not able to determine that at first because of the heavy surf; but as they came nearer, in order to be sure about it, Claus Lachmund first, and then the others, saw two persons on the White Dune, one apparently a woman, who did not stir, the other a man who made a sign. But, in spite of all efforts, they had not been able to get over there—indeed they were lucky to get afloat again after sailing so close to the White Dune—and had then seen that the breach had been made by the sea—certainly to the north and south of the White Dune, and possibly at other places—for they had seen nothing but water landward—how far they could not say—the fog was too dense. It must be bad in Ahlbeck, too; but they did not approach nearer, because those there, with the Hook near by, could not be in peril; but the situation of the two on the White Dune would be very serious if they were not rescued before night.

"Who can the unfortunate ones be?" asked Valerie.

"Shipwrecked sailors, Madame—who else!" replied Reinhold.

"Farewell, my Reinhold," said Else; and then with her arms around his neck, half laughing, half crying—"Take six men again who know their business!"

"And promise me," said Reinhold, "that the carriage shall not go down from the village to the castle unless you can see the road clearly through the hollow when you are on the height!"

The ladies had gone; Reinhold prepared for his second trip. It was not really his duty—any more than it had been in the morning; but none of the sailors—even the best of them—quite understood how to manage the new life-boat.

The two people on the Dune—he did not wish to tell Else about it—were certainly not shipwrecked, because a ship, if stranded, would have long since been signaled from the Hook. They could hardly be from Pölitz's house, although that was nearby, because Mrs. Rickmann had told him, when he went to change his clothes, that Pölitz had sent back word by the messenger that he was dispatching little Ernst and the men with the stock to Warnow; that he himself could not leave, nor could Marie, and least of all his wife, who during the night had given birth to a boy; and that it probably wouldn't be very bad, after all.

But now it had become serious, very serious; and even though the chief pilot, Bonsak, might have exaggerated a little, as he sometimes did on such occasions, in any case, there was peril—peril for the poor Pölitz family, whom the most sacred duties confined to the house; greater peril for the two of whom he knew nothing except that they were people who must be lost unless he rescued them.

In the great bar-room of the inn at Warnow, filled with the smoke of bad tobacco and the foul odor of spilt beer and brandy, were the boisterous carters who had come that morning, and a few cattle traders who had joined them in the course of the afternoon, and who were now bent upon remaining. The innkeeper stood near them, trimming the tallow candles, and was talking more boisterously than his guests, for he must know better than anybody else whether a railroad direct from Golm past Wissow Hook to Ahlbeck, rather than by way of Warnow, was nonsense or not. And the Count, who had ridden out himself in the afternoon, would open his eyes when he saw the fine kettle of fish; but if one is determined not to hear, he must learn to feel. In Ahlbeck there is said to be a horrible state of things, and murder and slaughter, too; that didn't matter to the Ahlbeckers; they had lately put on airs enough with their shore railroad station, naval post. Now they would have to creep back into their hole again!

The innkeeper spoke so loud and heatedly that he did not see his wife come in and take the keys of the guest-chamber from the board by the door, while the maid took the two brass candle-sticks out of the wall cupboard, put two candles in them, lighted them, and followed her mistress. He did not turn around until some one tapped him on the shoulder and asked him where he should put his horses; the servant had said there was no more room.

"And there isn't any," said the innkeeper. "Where did you come from?"

"From Neuenfähr; the guests whom I brought are already upstairs."

"Who are the guests?" asked the innkeeper.

"Don't know. A young gentleman and a lady—persons of quality I think. I couldn't drive fast enough for them; how is one to drive fast in such weather, step by step, two mares or one—it didn't matter! A one-horse rig that came up behind me could have passed me very easily; it must have been somebody from Warnow; he turned off to the right before reaching the village."

"Jochen Katzenow was in Neuenfähr this morning," said the innkeeper; "he has a devil of a mare! Now come along; we will see; don't believe it is possible."

The man from Neuenfähr followed the innkeeper into the court, where they met the gentleman whom he had brought. The gentleman took the innkeeper aside and spoke to him in a low tone.

"That may take some time," thought the man from Neuenfähr. He went out of the door, unhitched his horses from the carriage, led them under the protecting roof of a shed, where they were protected from the worst of the storm, and left the carriage, a light, open Holsteiner, standing outside.

He had just thrown the blankets over the steaming horses, when the gentleman stepped out of the house and came up to him.

"It is possible that I shall not remain here long," said the gentleman; "perhaps only an hour. We shall then go on."

"Whither, sir?"

"To Prora, or back to Neuenfähr; I don't know yet."

"That isn't possible, sir!"

"Why not?"

"The horses cannot stand it."

"I know better what horses can stand; I shall tell you later."

The man from Neuenfähr was vexed at the domineering tone in which the gentleman spoke to him, but did not reply. The gentleman, who now had on a great-coat with white buttons—on the way he had worn an overcoat—rolled up his collar as he now went around the shed toward the street. The light from the bar-room shone brightly upon his figure.

"Aha!" cried the man from Neuenfähr; "I thought so! One gets to be a bully when he has been in the Reserves a while. Let the devil drive the Lieutenant's carriage."

Ottomar had obtained exact information from the innkeeper; the road which led directly through the village was not to be mistaken. He walked slowly and stopped repeatedly—a few times because the storm which was blowing directly in his face prevented him from proceeding, and again because he had to ask himself what business he had in the castle. His brain was so dazed by the long journey in the open carriage through the dreadful storm, and then his heart was so disturbed; it seemed to him as if he no longer had the strength to call him a rascal to his face. And then—it had to be, must be, in the presence of his aunt, if the wretched man was not afterward to deny everything and entangle his aunt further in his web of lies, as he had entangled them all. Or was this all a preconcerted game between him and his aunt? It was, indeed, very suspicious that she had left the castle this very day so early to call the rascal to account, when they were expecting him to come. With Else, to be sure. But could not the love which she seemed to cherish for Else secretly—as everything was done in secret—could it not also be love after Giraldi's prescription; the aunt had undertaken to entice and deceive Else, just as Giraldi had deceived him. And they had both gone into the net, and the sly bird-catchers were laughing at the stupids. Poor Else—who must certainly have depended upon the fair promises, and must now contrive how she could get along as the wife of a pilot commander with a few hundred thalers, over there somewhere in that wretched fishing hamlet! That was not the cradle-song to which she listened!—These—that was to be our inheritance—the castle by the sea, as we called it, when we described our future to each other. We would occupy it together—you one wing, I the other; and, when you married the prince and I the princess, we would draw lots to see who should have it all—we couldn't both occupy it longer, because of the great retinue. And now, dearest, best of maidens, you are so far from me, awaiting your lover, who, perchance, has gone out into the storm to rescue the precious lives of a few herring fishermen, and I——

He sat down upon a rock where the road, passing by the first houses of the village, descended into a narrow ravine, and then rose again through the depression to the castle. The rock on which he sat was on the extreme edge of the ravine, above the depression. It was held firm in its socket by the roots of a fine stately fir-tree, which must once have stood further back from the edge and now bent backward, groaning and creaking under the force of the storm, as if it would avoid falling into the abyss.

"There is no help for either of us," said Ottomar.—"It has gradually crumbled away, and we stand like trees with their roots in the air. The rock which would gladly have held us cannot do so. On the contrary—one more heavy storm like this, and we shall both be lying down below! I wish to Heaven we were lying there, and that you had broken my skull in falling, and that the flood had come and washed us out to sea, and no one knew what had become of us!"

And she—she, whom he had just left in the wretched, squalid room of the inn, whose kisses he still felt on his lips, and who, as he went out of the room—she thought surely he would not see it—threw herself upon the sofa, buried her face in her hands, weeping! About what? About her wretched lot, which bound her to one who was weaker than she. She had the power; she would hold out through it come what might, but what could come for her? She had told him a hundred times on the way that he should not worry about the wretched money, that her father was much too proud to deny her request, the first that she had made of him so far as she could remember, the last that she should ever make of him.

And thus she had written to her father from Neuenfähr, where they had to wait half an hour for the carriage. "The matter is all settled," she said, brushing the hair from his brow as a mother from her son who had played pranks while in school.

She was stronger; but what did she lose? Her father?—She appeared never to have truly loved him! Her pleasant life in the beautiful luxurious house?—What does a girl know what and how much belongs to life? Her art?—She took that everywhere with her; she had said with a smile—It is enough for both of us. Of course, she would now have to support him, the dismissed lieutenant!

The fir-tree against which he was leaning creaked and groaned like a tortured beast; Ottomar saw how the roots rose and strained, and the marl wore away the steep slope, while the wind whistled and howled through the cracked branches, like shot and bullets, and a roll of thunder came from the sea as from a ceaseless volley of batteries.

"I had it so easy then!" mused Ottomar. "My father would have paid the few debts I had and would have been proud of me, instead of now sending me a pistol, as if I didn't know as well as he that it is all over with Ottomar von Werben; and Else had spoken often and fondly of her brother, who fell at Vionville. Dear Else, how I should like to see her once more!"

He had heard from the innkeeper that the carriage with the ladies must pass here, along the only still passable road, if they came back in the evening as the coachman had said they would; the shorter way down through the lowlands was no longer intact. Ottomar wondered what the man could have meant by the lowlands. The situation was so entirely different, as he knew it, from the description; the sea appeared to break immediately behind the castle, even though he could no longer distinguish particular objects in the wet gray mist which beat upon him. The castle itself, which certainly lay close below him, seemed to be a quarter of an hour distant; he would hardly have seen it at times if lights had not continually flickered from the windows. Also among the indistinguishable mass of buildings to the left of the castle, which were probably in the court, lights flashed up occasionally, changing their position as when men run to and fro with lanterns. A few times it seemed to him as if he heard human cries and the lowing of cattle. It might all be a delusion of the senses, which began to fail the longer he sat unprotected in the raging storm that froze the marrow in his bones. He must be off if he would not perish here like a highwayman by the roadside!

And yet he remained; but the visions passed in greater confusion through his benumbed brain. There was a Christmas tree with glittering candles, and he and Else went in at the door hand in hand, and his father and mother stood at the table upon which were dolls for Else, and helmet and sabre and cartridge-boxes for him; and he rushed with joy into the arms of his father, who lifted him up and kissed him. Then the Christmas tree became a tall fir, and its crown a gleaming candelabrum beneath which he danced with Carla, scorning the Count, who looked on with anger, while the 'cello hummed and the violins played, and the couples whirled in and out—Tettritz with Amelia von Fischbach, tall Wartenberg with little Miss von Strummin; and then followed the bivouac fires, and the trumpets of Vionville, which sounded the assault upon the batteries thundering a reply, and he called to Tettritz and Wartenberg, laughing—"Now, gentlemen, the bullet through the breast or the cross upon the breast!" and gave his steed the spurs; the horse reared in his onset with wild neighing.——

Ottomar started up and looked, dazed, about him. Where was he? At his feet roared and hissed a wide whirling stream; and now he heard a neighing quite clearly, very close to him—in the deep road on the edge of which he stood, a carriage, pushed backward against the side of the road by backing horses. With one leap he was in the rear of the carriage and at the coachman's side, up to the snorting horses, to help the man turn them about, there was just room.

"Where are the ladies?"

He saw that the carriage was empty.

"They got out—up above—were in such a hurry—over the path in the lowlands, toward the park—Good Heavens! Good Heavens! If only they got over! Good Lord!" A wave of the stream which had broken through between the hills and the castle, and into which the coachman had almost driven, broke into the deep road and leaped up under the feet of the horses, which would no longer stand still, and dashed up the road, with the coachman, who had fortunately caught the lines and was trying to stop the animals, at their side.

Ottomar had only understood this much from the coachman's words, which the storm had drowned for the most part, that Else was in dire peril. What sort of a path was it? Where was the path?

He ran after the coachman, calling and shouting. The man did not hear.

[Else and Valerie return from Wissow Hook and reach the terrace of Golmberg. Giraldi, who has wandered out to look for them, seizes Valerie by the hand and rescues her, leaving Else on the terrace at the mercy of the storm.]

Ferdinande sprang up as Ottomar's step was heard across the hall down the creaking stair, and paced to and fro in the little room a few times, wringing her hands; then she threw herself upon the sofa again, when she finally saw Ottomar, resting her head in her hands on the arm of the sofa. But she had not been weeping, and she was not weeping now; she had no tears. She no longer had any hope, any wish but to be allowed to die for him, as she could not live for him, and as her life would be another burden, another torture, for him.

If she had only believed the officer with the smooth brow and the wide sympathetic eyes, when he said: "You deceive yourself, young lady; your flight with Ottomar is not a solution, it is only another complication, and the worst one of all! The difficulty for Ottomar lies in his wretchedly compromised honor as an officer. The appearance of things here at least, must be saved, and that is in accordance with the preliminaries which I have arranged. His life will be at the best a life in death, and I don't know whether he will be able to endure it; indeed, I doubt it; but in cases like this it is permissible to silence one's better convictions. But there is no doubt that, if you fly with him now and the affair becomes known, as it must, for us his friends there remains no possibility of saving appearances. An officer who must resign his position because of debts, whose engagement is annulled in consequence, who, in this critical predicament, gives up also the right to call to account slanderers and tale-bearers—that can happen, unfortunately happens only too often. But thus—pardon the expression—free course is given to scandal. The man who, in such a moment, can think of anything but saving from shipwreck as much of his honor as he can, or, if nothing more is left to be saved, does not at least resign with dignity, perhaps—perhaps even to give up his life—who, instead of this, involves another being in this shipwreck, whom he declares he loves—an innocent girl, a respectable lady—that man has lost all claim to interest or sympathy. Ottomar himself must see that sooner or later. This journey of his to Warnow has, to my mind, absolutely no point. What will he do there? Call Giraldi to account? The Italian will answer him: You are not a child; you were not a child; you must have known what you were doing.—Challenge the Count? For what, when he accompanies you? Well, let him go; but alone—not with you! I entreat you, not with you! Believe me!—Love in whose omnipotence you so firmly believe, which is to help Ottomar over all difficulties as with a divine hand—it will prove itself absolutely impotent—yes, worse than that; it will completely shatter the little strength that Ottomar might have summoned. For his sake—if you will not think of yourself—do not go with him!"

Strange! While he was speaking to her with hurried yet clear words—drawing her aside even in the last moment while Ottomar and Bertalde were arranging a few things in the next room—it all passed over her like an empty sound—she scarcely knew what he was talking about. And now it all came back to her mind—word for word—it had all been fulfilled—word for word!

All-powerful Love! Great Heavens! It was a mockery! What else had he for the visions of the future, which she had painted to him in glowing terms fresh from her overflowing breast, than a melancholy, dismal smile, dispirited monosyllabic replies, which he only made in order to say something while his heart was weighed down by the thought of his angry father, his sympathetic or scoffing comrades, or the question whether he would be able after all to force von Wallbach to fight a duel. His caresses even, when she held him in her arms with her heart full of untold anxiety, as a mother who rescued her child from the flames—she shuddered when she thought of them: as if she were a girl in love whom one must humor—a mistress whom one takes along on a journey and whom one must not allow to feel that she is a burden at the first station.

She, she—who once had dreamed that her love was an inexhaustible fount, and had reproached herself for having been so niggardly with it, for having turned her lover from her door, for having left him out in the dreary waste of life, where he must perish in anguish and despair! She, who was so haughty because she knew that she had all the world to give; that her love was like the storm which surges on, overriding everything that is not stronger than itself—like a flood which rolls on, destroying everything that does not rise into the clouds.

That had been her fear all along; he too—even he would not understand her entirely; there would be a yawning breach between her ideal and the reality, and she must not on that account sacrifice her ideal, even though her heart throbbed with even greater longing and the blood coursed through her veins even more imperiously. She had only this one greatest thing to lose in order to be poorer when it was lost than the poorest beggar—she whose implacable mind destroyed once and forever the fair dream of many years of being a true artist!

How she had fought! How she had struggled through so many dreary days, so many wakeful nights, in gloomy brooding and racking despair to the horror of which, strong though she was, she would long ago have succumbed, had not his dear illusive image flitted through her morning dreams, luring her on to other dreary days, to other nights of torture.

Now it was no longer his image; it was he himself—illusive no longer, and yet still dear! Oh, how deeply she had loved—more than ever, infinitely more in his helpless misery, than in the days of his prosperity!

If she could help him! For herself she had no wish, no longer any desire. God was her witness! And if she rested tonight in his arms, he in hers—she could think of it without feeling her pulses quicken, and without feeling that the despair which depressed her heart had vanished even for a moment. He will not draw any new strength or fresh courage from your embraces, your kisses, she said to herself. He will arise from the couch of love—a broken man, weary of life. How should she keep her strength and courage to live—no longer for herself alone—now for both of them? If not strength and courage to live—then to die!

If she could die for him! Dying for him could say: "Behold, death is a joy and a feast for me if I may hope that you will despise life from this moment on, and, because you despise it, will live nobly and well, as one who lives only to die nobly and well!" But for his weak soul even that would be no spur, no support—only one dark shadow more to add to the other dark shadows which had fallen upon his path; and he would continue to waver upon the steady path, inactive, inglorious, to an early inglorious grave!——

Thus she lay there, deep in the abyss of her woe, not regarding the howling of the storm which shook the house continually from garret to cellar, not hearing the boisterous tumult of the drunken guests directly below her room, scarcely raising her head when the innkeeper's wife came into the room.

The latter had intended to ask the young lady, as the guests would now certainly remain for the night, how she wished to have the beds arranged in the room; but, at the strange expression of the beautiful pale face which rose from the arm of the sofa and gazed at her with strange looks, the question had died on her lips and she had only asked the other question—if she might not make the young lady a cup of tea. The young lady had not appeared to understand her; at least she made no reply, and the innkeeper's wife thought: She will doubtless ring if she wishes anything. So she went with the light in her hand into the adjoining room, and left the door, which was hard to close, slightly ajar, in order not to disturb the young lady further, and then turned with her candle to the windows to see if they were closed; the upper bolt had stuck, and as she loosened the lower one, the storm, coming through the narrow opening, blew out the candle which she had placed upon the window-sill.

"I can find my way," the landlady murmured, and turned toward the beds in the dusk, but stopped as she heard the door adjoining open and the young lady utter a slight scream. "Good Heavens!" thought she, "people of quality are almost worse off than we are"—for the gentleman who had returned had begun at once to speak in a tone not exactly loud, but evidently excited. What could be the trouble between the two young people? thought she, slipping on tiptoe to the door. But she could not understand anything of all the gentleman was saying, nor the few words which the lady interjected; and then it seemed to the landlady as if it was not the clear voice of the gentleman and as if the two were not speaking German. She peeped through the crack and saw, to her astonishment and terror, a wild strange man in the room with the young lady, from whose shoulders a brown coat fell to the floor as she looked in; but he did not pick it up, though continuing to gesticulate and to speak more rapidly and loudly in his unintelligible gibberish like a crazy man, as the terrified landlady thought.

"I will not go back again!" cried Antonio, "after having run half the way like a dog behind his mistress, whom a robber has kidnapped, and ridden the other half cramped up in straw in a wagon, like an animal taken to market by the butcher. I don't intend to be a dog, worse than a beast, any longer, and I will no longer endure it. I now know everything, everything, everything!—How he has betrayed you, the infamous coward, to run after another, and again from her to you, and has lain before your door whining for favor, while those inside have been making a match for him. His wench and that infernal Giraldi, whom I intend to throttle whenever and wherever I meet him, as truly as my name is Antonio Michele! I know everything, everything, everything—and that you will yield your person to him tonight, as you have already yielded your soul to him!"

The desperate man could not understand the half contemptuous, half melancholy smile which played about the proud lips of the beautiful girl.

"Don't laugh, or I'll kill you!"

And then as she arose—not from fear, but only to ward off the furious man——

"Pardon, oh! pardon me—I kill you, you—you, who are everything to me, the light and joy of my life, for whom I would let myself be torn in pieces, limb by limb! I will give every drop of my heart's blood if you will only let me kiss the hem of your garment—kiss the ground upon which you tread! How often, how often, have I done it without your knowing it—in your studio—the place where your beautiful feet have rested, the implements which your hand has touched! And I demand so little! I am willing to wait—for years—as I have already waited for years; I shall not grow tired of serving you, of worshiping you as the Holy Madonna, till the day comes when you will hear my prayers."

He dropped to his knees where he stood, lifting his wild eyes and twitching hands to her.

"Arise!" she said; "you do not know what you say, and do not know to whom you speak. I can give you nothing. I have nothing to give; I am so poor, so poor—much poorer than you!"

She went about the room, wringing her hands; passed him still kneeling, and, when her garments touched his glowing face, he sprang to his feet as though touched by an electric current.

"I am not poor," he cried; "I am the son of a prince—I am more than a prince; I am Michelangelo! I am more than Michelangelo! I see them coming in pilgrim troops, singing songs in praise of immortal Antonio, bearing flowers, waving wreaths to decorate the marvelous works of the divine Antonio! Do you hear! Do you hear? There, there!"

Up the broad village street came a confused cry of many voices, of people terrified by the news of the flood, which had broken through the dikes, and running down to the scene of the disaster. From the tower of the church nearby the tones of the bell resounded, now threateningly near, now quavering in the distance, as the storm surged to and fro.

"Do you hear?" cried the madman—"Do you hear?"

He stood with outstretched arms, smiling with his dazed eyes fixed as in blissful triumph on Ferdinande, who gazed at him with horror. Suddenly the smile changed to a terrible grimace; his eyes sparkled with deadly hate, his outstretched arm drew back abruptly, his hand clutched his breast, as now, directly under the window, a voice in commanding tone sounded clear above the cries of the multitude, through the raging storm—"A rope—a strong rope, the strongest rope you have, and small cords, as many as possible.—There are some below already! I shall be down there before you are!" A hasty step, then three or four steps at a time, came up the stairs. The madman laughed aloud.

The landlady likewise had heard the clear voice below, and the hastening step upon the stair. There would be trouble if the young gentleman should come in while the strange, uncanny man was with the young lady. She rushed into the room at the moment when the gentleman from the other side threw open the door.

Uttering a cry of rage, with lifted stiletto Antonio rushed toward him—but Ferdinande threw herself between them, before Ottomar could pass the threshold, covering her lover with her outstretched arms, offering her own breast to the impending blow, collapsing without a sound of complaint in Ottomar's arms, while the murderer, the assassin, at the sight of the deed which he had not intended, and which, like a gleaming flash of lightning, rent the darkness of his insanity, rushed past them in cowardly, confused flight, down the stairs, through the midst of the multitude, which the tolling of the storm-bell and the cries of those passing by had frightened from the bar-room and the houses and which shrank back in terror at the strange man with his black hair waving in the wind and a bloody dagger in his hand—up the village street, running, crying, screaming, over everything that came in his way, into the howling darkness.

And—"Murder! Murder! Seize him! Stop him! Stop the murderer!" they shouted from the house.

[The driver from Neuenfähr is trying to find stable room for his horses in Warnow. A man in great haste rushes up to him and asks to be driven to Neuenfähr, offering whatever he may ask, while the mob clamors for the murderer of Ferdinande. The driver starts in the face of the flood and the storm. He is terrified and wishes to turn back. The passenger offers him five thalers, twenty thalers, a hundred thalers—anything—and tells him to drive on—anywhere to get away from the place. The driver wonders who the raving man can be—a tramp! The murderer of Ferdinande, or the devil? The horses plunge on through the flood; the driver curses, and then prays. Instead of one passenger there are now two, grappling like fiends at each other's throats. The horses are swimming. The driver unhitches them, mounts one of them, and leaves his uncanny passengers to perish in the flood, reaching at last the little village of Faschwitz.]

"That won't do," cried the Burgess. "Take it in again!" "Ho! Ho, heave ho!" cried the thirty who held the cable—"Ho, heave ho!"

In their haste they had constructed a kind of raft by tying together a few boards and doors from the nearest houses, and had now tentatively let it into the stream. The flood carried it away instantly and turned it upon end! the thirty had all they could do to get it back on shore again.

For the brow of the hill had become a shore by the stream which in its fury had dashed over it! And upon the brow of the hill half the village had assembled, and people still came running in breathless haste. The village was in no danger; the nearest houses were ten to fifteen feet above water; it did not seem possible that the water could rise much more, especially as it had dropped a foot during the last few minutes. The storm had gone somewhat to the north; the inrushing flood must flow in the direction of the Hook. It had also grown a little brighter, although the storm still raged on with unabating force. Those who had arrived first did not need to show the others coming up the scene of the calamity; every one could discern the white terrace over there and the female figures in black—at one time two, and now again only one, as before, who continually signaled with a handkerchief, and sat crouching in a corner as if she had given up hope and expected and awaited her fate.

And yet it appeared as if the rescue must be accomplished. The space was so narrow; one could throw a stone across. The best throwers had tried it, foolishly—with a thin cord attached to a stone; but the stone did not go ten feet, and blew away with the line like a spider-web. And now the huge wave rolled on into the park, dashing over the terrace, spending its force in the stream, in spite of the fact that it had washed up to the edge of the shore. The women cried aloud; the men looked at one another with serious, troubled expressions.

"Nothing can be done, children," said the Burgess; "before we can bring the raft around, the building over there will be broken to pieces. One more such wave, and it will break into a thousand bits—I know it will; the pillars are not six inches thick, and the wood is worm-eaten."

"And if we can get the raft over and move up toward it, we shall break it in two and upset ourselves," said Jochen Becker, the smith.

"There are ten lying in the water instead of two!" exclaimed Carl Peters, the carpenter.

"That doesn't help any," said the Burgess; "we can't let them drown before our very eyes. We will try to get twenty feet further up with the raft, and put the people right on it; I'll go along myself. Take hold, children, take hold!"

"Ho, heave ho! Ho, heave ho!"

A hundred hands were ready to draw the raft up stream, but thirty paces would not accomplish it; it must be twice that far. The half hundred brave men had been found ready to make the attempt; the Burgess would stay by—who else should command them that held the rope?—That was the important thing!

They stood on the raft with long poles.

"Ready!"

The raft shot from the shore into the stream like an arrow.

"Hurrah!" cried those on the shore. They thought they had reached the goal; they were already afraid that the raft would drive over into the park and upset against the trees. But it did not go any farther—not a foot; it danced upon the stream so that the six on the raft had to throw themselves flat and hold fast, and so go down the stream again, like an arrow, toward the shore on this side to the place where they were before. Only with the greatest exertion were the fifty able to hold it; only with the greatest difficulty and evident peril had the six come down again from the raft to the steep shore.

"That won't do, children," said the Burgess. "If only the Lieutenant would come back—they are his near kinsmen! First he chases us down here, and now he won't come himself."

The faint brightness which had appeared when the foaming spray had withdrawn a little had again vanished. While hitherto only the leaden gray sky and the dense storm had turned the evening into night, the real night now came on. Only the sharpest eyes could still see the black form on the terrace, though the terrace itself could still be descried by every one, and at the same time the wind was evidently growing worse and had shifted again from northeast to southeast. The water was rising fast in consequence of the counter-current setting in the direction of Wissow Hook. That would have aided them as the swiftness of the current diminished; but no one any longer had the courage to renew the hopeless attempt. If there were no way of getting a rope over and fastening it there, so that some of them could slip over the swaying bridge from here to the terrace, no rescue was possible.

So the Burgess thought, so thought the others, and so they shouted it into one another's ears; but in the dreadful tumult no one could understand a word that was said.

Suddenly Ottomar stood in their midst. He had taken in the whole situation at a glance.—"Give me the line," he cried, "and make a light!—The willows there!"

CHRIST BEFORE PILATE
From the Painting by Michael von Munkacsy
PERMISSION CH. SEDELMEYER, PARIS

They understood him instantly.—The four old, hollow willows, right there on the edge—they were to set fire to them! The village would be in danger, to be sure, if it could be done; but none thought of that. They hurried to the nearest houses, they brought back pieces of oakum and resinous wood by the armful and stuffed it all into the hollow trunks, which fortunately were turned toward the west. A few fruitless attempts—and then it flamed up—sparkling, flashing—now flaring and again subsiding—casting strange, shifting lights upon the hundreds of pale faces which were all directed toward the man with the line around his breast, struggling against the stream.—Would he hold out?

More than one pair of callous hands were clasped in prayer; women were on their knees, sobbing, moaning, pressing their nails into the flesh, tearing their hair, screaming as if mad, when another dreadful wave rolled up and on over him, and he vanished in the swell.—But there he was again! It had cast him back half the distance he had traversed; but a minute later he had retrieved the lost ground. He had been driven quite a distance down stream, but had chosen well his starting point; the terrace was still far below him. It seemed a miracle that he came through the stream!

And now he was in the middle of it! It was the worst place—they knew it from their previous experience! He seemed not to advance, but, instead, gradually to lose headway.—But the terrace was still below him; if he overcame the middle of the current, he could, he must succeed!—And now he was gaining ground perceptibly—nearer and nearer, foot by foot—in a diagonal curved line toward the terrace!—

Rough, quarrelsome fellows who had been enemies all their lives, had clasped hands; women fell sighing into each other's arms. A gentleman with short gray hair and heavy gray mustache, who had just run up from the village, taking his stand close by the burning willows, almost enveloped by their flames, had followed the swimmer with steady gaze and with fervent prayers and promises—that everything, everything, should be forgiven and forgotten, if only he should have him back again, his dear, heroic son!—He now cried out aloud—a terrible cry which the storm carried away and hurled down upon the shore where the men were standing who held the line, shouting to them to pull back—back—back!—It was too late!

Then down came the mighty fir-tree, at the foot of which the swimmer had sat an hour before—torn loose by the storm, hurled into the flood, rolling on in the whirlpool of the stream, like a giant emerging from the deep, now turning up its mighty roots which still held the rock in their grasp, and now the top; now rising erect as it had once stood in the light of the sun, and in the next moment crashing down upon the swimmer—then plunging with its top into the foaming currents and turning its roots upward as it hurried out of the light into the darker night.

They drew him back, as, strangely enough, the thin line had not broken—a dead man, at whose side, as he lay stretched out upon the shore (he had only a wide, gaping wound above his brow, like one who had died an honorable cavalryman's death) the old man with the gray mustache knelt down, kissed him upon the beautiful, pale lips, and then rose up.—"Now give me the line! It was my son! And over there is my daughter!"

It seemed madness! The young man—they had seen how he struggled!—But the old man!—Though he was old, he was nevertheless a large man, with broad high chest. He threw off his coat and vest.

"If you find, General, that you cannot hold out, give us the sign at the right time," said the Burgess.

And now something like a miracle appeared to those who, in this short hour, had passed through such strange, horrible, fearful experiences!

The willow torches, which were all blazing at once from the roots to the spreading branches, cast a brightness almost like that of day upon the shore, upon the multitude, the stream, the terrace beyond—far into the flooded park, up to the castle, the windows of which here and there flashed red in the reflection of the fire.

In this light, along the narrow stream upon the bottom of which the village children had formerly played, rolling like balls from the edge of the slope to the bottom—along this foaming water-course down which the spreading fir-tree was still tossing like a monster of the sea; seizing its prey with a hundred arms, sped a slender beautiful boat, which had disembarked a strange cargo at the rear landing-place of the castle, as at a dock. There they had heard how matters stood, and the man at the helm had said: "Children, it is my betrothed!" And the six with him had cried: "Hurrah for the Commander!" and "Hurrah for his betrothed!" So they now shot past with lowered mast, while the six seamen held the oars in place as in a flag-boat which brings an admiral to shore. And the flag fluttered behind the man at the helm, as with the gentle pressure of his strong hand he steered the obedient craft through the mighty swells to the point which his clear unfailing eyes kept in view, as an eagle does his prey, although his courageous heart was beating furiously in his breast.

And they shot past—on, past the multitude, which gazed breathlessly at the miracle, on, by the terrace—but only a short distance; for the man at the helm brought the boat about like an eagle in its flight, and the six seamen dipped their oars all at one stroke—and then—Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!—the oars shot up again, and the boat lay alongside the terrace, over which and the boat a gigantic wave rolled its foaming comb toward the shore, and there, subsiding, dashed the foam into the burning trees, enveloping the breathless observers on the shore in a cloud of spray; and, as the cloud dissipated, they saw, in the dim light of the extinguished fire, no longer the terrace—and the boat only as it were a shadow, which disappeared to the right in the darkness.

Then they breathed freely again, as from a single troubled soul, relieved from its anxiety; and "Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!" was heard as from a single throat, so that it sounded above the howling storm. The boat might vanish in the dark! But they knew that the man at the helm understood his business, and the six at the oars understood their business, too; it would come back again, bringing with it those rescued from the storm and flood!

The setting sun was just above the hills. In its magic light gleamed the surface of the water which covered the great semicircle between Golmberg and Wissow Hook. The slanting golden rays sent their blinding light into the eyes of Reinhold, who was just steering his boat from the sea into the bay, close past the White Dune, upon the steep side of which the long in-rolling wave was curling, while the boat swept past by its broad crest, and the points of the uniformly rising and falling oars almost touched the edge. The glances of the men who plied the oars were directed toward the Dune as they glided on, and the scene of rescue on the night of the storm was surely in the minds of all; but not one of them said a word.

Not because it was against discipline. They knew that the Commander allowed a modest word at the right time, even when he was, as today, in full uniform, and wore the iron cross on his breast; but he had drawn the three-cornered hat far down over his face, and, if he lifted his eyes quickly once more to examine the course, they did not look threatening today; they had not yet seen threats in his eyes, any more than they had heard harsh words from his lips—but lips serious and sad. They did not wish to disturb the Commander in his thoughts—more serious and sad than the brave men might entertain or could comprehend. What were the two people to them whom they had rescued from the peril of death on this Dune, with unspeakable effort and hundredfold mortal peril to each one of them—what were the few people to them whom they had rescued because it was their duty, or the others whom they had already rescued during the day! How the Count and the noble lady got there, what relation the two sustained to each other—why should they ask about that?

But he!

What a shudder went through him when he found the brilliant Carla von Wallbach, whom he had seen dancing and coquetting a few days before, under the light of the candelabra, through the reception room at Warnow—now a picture of extreme misery, her clothes drenched with water, her delicate limbs trembling from the icy cold, with half dazed senses, curled up in a heap scarcely like a human form, and bore her to the boat; with horror he recalled the moment when he laid her down in the boat—how she, awaking from her stupor and recognizing him, had cried out as if mad, "Save me from him, from him!"—and held him, the strange man, anxiously in her grasp, as a child its mother, so that he had to release himself by force! And when the Count, who was in a scarcely less lamentable condition, having been carried by two pilots into the boat and placed near Carla, suddenly staggered up again at the risk of falling overboard, tottered to the bow of the boat and there sat brooding in sullen disdain, disregarding everything that went on about him, until they worked their way to the Pölitz premises and made ready to bring the wretched people through the window of the garret to which they had fled, into the boat—then he sprang up and shrieked like a madman that he did not wish to be packed in with those people, that he would not have it so!—And he belabored those about him until he was deterred by the threat that they would bind him if he did not obey the orders of the Commander—at which he covered his face with his hands, and sullenly swallowed his wrath.

There was the garret, and there was the window opening—they had torn out the window and knocked out a piece of the wall to make room—and Reinhold remembered that he himself had succeeded in rescuing wretched people from this dreadful desolation, that he had been able to carry frail human forms through the storm and blackness into the safe port of the castle, where all danger was over.

The passage from the inundated court to the castle lasted only a few minutes—the storm had hurled the boat before it like a snowflake—but those had been the only moments when his own heart trembled, not with fear, but with tender solicitude. His eyes grew moist as he now recalled it all—the mother who lay in the boat with her little one at her breast, her head upon the knees of her husband, while poor Marie, full of compassion, held the fainting Carla in her arms. How must the wretched man in the bow of the boat have felt at this sight if he once raised his eyes! The raging haste with which he jumped out and rushed away when they touched the landing of the castle to conceal himself somewhere in the darkness—it was Cain fleeing from the dead body of his slain brother.

And Reinhold's thoughts grew still more sad. He had succeeded in the greatest effort of all; he had been permitted to rescue his betrothed from certain death—and with her the unfortunate woman who loved them both, as if they had been her children and whom both loved and honored as a mother. It was indeed such a supreme joy—and yet, yet——?

How dearly this joy had been bought! Was there other joy which must be bought just as dearly? Was there everywhere happiness, with unhappiness so near at hand in its pitiless form, like the blue-black shadows yonder between the turrets and the battlements of the castle, bordered on the brightly illuminated surface? Did not even the apparently firmest ground shake, as here the wave undulates above the fields through which the ploughman formerly drove his plough, over the pasture upon which the shepherd formerly drove his flocks? Did they have to die so young, so beautiful, so richly endowed with the most splendid gifts and talents? And if they had to die because they could no longer live, no longer wished to live, death was for them only a release from inevitable destruction. What a questionable good did life appear to be, when with it is born the possibility of such a horrible fate? How could the two fathers bear it?—With fortitude no doubt—and yet, and yet——?

They had rowed around the castle in the park, and approached the shore where the willows had burned that night, the charred ends of which still rose from the sands. Several larger as well as smaller boats already lay there, which had come from Ahlbeck, and even from the distant villages along the coast. From every direction—from miles around—they had come, for in every quarter the tragic story of the youth and maiden who loved each other, who both had fled from home and found neither happiness nor a happy star, and now had died and were to be buried today, had passed from mouth to mouth.

Reinhold turned from the shore and went to the village. The President had written him that he would arrive at Warnow at a certain hour, and wished to speak to him before he presented himself to the family. Reinhold was well aware of the punctual habits of the worthy man, and had scarcely reached the place in front of the inn, where a barricade of vehicles had already assembled, when an equipage rolled up from which the President descended, and, seeing him, at once came to meet him with outstretched hand. There was something almost paternal in the silent greeting, for the President was too much moved to venture speech until they had stepped aside a few paces. He then began, with a melancholy smile:

"Prophets to the right, and prophets to the left! Yes, yes, my dear young friend! What would we give, indeed, if we had all proved to be false prophets, and our storm floods had not come! But they have come; yours has subsided quickly enough, thank God; mine will yet long rage on, Heaven pity me! Would that such brave St. Georges might appear in this case, to charge so boldly at the body of the dragon, and wrest from him his victims! I am proud of you, dear friend; there are not many who can truly rejoice in such splendid deeds as you have been permitted to perform with the help of a gracious God. To rescue so many lives, even if your betrothed had not been among them—how happy you must be! It will not add to your joy, I think; it will not increase the bliss which fills your heart; but it is right and proper that such noble, divinely inspired conduct find recognition also in the eyes of the world. Your treatise, which at the time aroused bad feelings, has not been forgotten; if your counsel had been followed the unfortunate military port would at least never have been begun, and millions and millions would have been saved for our country, not to speak further of the disgrace. Such minds should not celebrate, the Minister thinks; in answer to my report of events here, he has sent an order by telegraph to confer upon you a medal for bravery, with a ribbon, in the name of His Majesty, and to ask you, in his own name, whether you are inclined to enter his Ministry in some capacity to be agreed upon in a personal interview with him—as reporting member to the ministry, I suppose, or even the marine ministry—it appears that the two gentlemen are competing for you. I think I know what you will answer me—that you prefer to remain here for the present. I should not like to lose you just now; but keep your future open in any case; you owe it to the general weal, and you owe it to yourself. Am I right?"

"Certainly, Mr. President," replied Reinhold; "it is my ardent desire and my firm determination to serve my King and country by land and sea whenever and however I can. Every call which comes to me will find me ready, although I will not deny that I should leave here reluctantly, very reluctantly."

"I can easily imagine so," said the President. "A man like you puts his soul into everything, devotes himself to the fulfilment of his duty, be it great or small; and that one can perform great things in a comparatively small sphere you have shown. Nevertheless the matter has also a sentimental side which it would be false heroism to overlook. The high recognition which your services have received from the King will be a pleasing satisfaction for your so sorely tried father-in-law, and he would feel himself quite lonely in Berlin without the presence of his daughter."

"How kind you are!" said Reinhold, with emotion. "How you think of everything!"

"Isn't it so?" rejoined the President, returning the pressure of Reinhold's hand with a friendly grip. "It is admirable! Have I not the honor to be a friend of the family? And did you not recognize me in that capacity when you communicated everything privately to me in your official report of the events of the days of the storm flood? What concerned you and the family to whom you now belong? I feel myself honored by your confidence; I do not need to tell you that it is all buried in my breast. But you are right—in such complicated circumstances one must not depend upon himself, one must call to his aid experience, the wisdom of his friends. And who would be better able than I to offer assistance in this case? I have considered everything, I have made it all clear to myself, indeed have even laid some few first lines, and have found most ready response from every quarter. We will discuss that in detail when you come to Sundin in the next few days, as you will do, I hope. For today—I must go back to the funeral at once—only this much: I am sure that the estates of your aunt, the Baroness, are intact; inasmuch as both Golm and the Society are bankrupt and must be content with any condition, even if it be only moderately acceptable. I shall not make any that are favorable to the parties, you may be sure of that! These people who have brought such unspeakable disaster upon thousands deserve no pardon. To be sure, there will remain then, at the best, only fragments of the proud fortune, for the greater part of it, I fear, has forever disappeared with that horrible man, Giraldi. Or do you think not?"

"Most certainly, Mr. President," said Reinhold. "I assumed it from the beginning, and the report of the man who drove for him and with whom I afterward spoke in detail myself and cross-questioned, confirmed my assumption. The inundation between Wissow Hook and Fachwich came with such fearful violence that the first water must have been washed out more than once by that coming in from the bay, which was formed as from a bowl, together with everything in its current. Then the water which was forced out formed a monstrous stream, which surged between the continent and the island, westward into the open sea, and if the corpses are ever driven ashore after weeks, perhaps after months, anywhere——"

"Too bad, too bad!" sighed the President. "The proud, proud fortune—according to my estimation and accounts—which the dreadful man made in his last interview with the Baroness, a whole million! How much good could have been done with that! And in your hands, too! Nevertheless, on the other hand—it is a dreadful thought—such an inheritance, and now even the Baroness! Are you acquainted with the horrible details?"

"She knows that Antonio was the assassin of my poor cousin; she knows, also, that the two Italians were together in their flight, that they perished together. I hope the unspeakable horror which the man's report contains for us will ever remain a secret."

"She doesn't believe in the son?"

"Not at all! It is as if God in his mercy had blinded in this direction her otherwise clear vision. She considers the whole matter a fabrication, a downright lie of Giraldi's. You can imagine, Mr. President, that we uphold her in her belief, and are grateful to fate even for that reason which swallows up in its depths what should never have seen the light of day."

"Of course, of course!" said the President; "that is a consolation withal. The unhappy woman has really already suffered enough. Toward your poor uncle fate has been less gracious. It is dreadful to lose such a daughter, so fair and so highly endowed. But for a man such as your uncle must be, to judge from all I have heard of his generosity, his sense of honor, to be pursued by the ghost of a son who is followed wherever he goes by warrants and bailiffs—against that, I think, no magnanimity and no philosophy can avail—that is pitilessly horrible, without the slightest breath of atonement! Such suffering, even time, which is almighty in other things, cannot diminish; here death alone can bring relief—but the man will take good care not to die."

"I don't know," said Reinhold. "He is from a family which does not fear death; however differently the unfortunate man may look at life, I can easily imagine that even to him the question comes in a form which he understands, and that he will then not hesitate a moment in forming his decision."

The fugitive ripple of an ironical smile played about the lips of the President; he was about to say, in a happy turn of phrase, that he could understand the pride of family, even when, as in this case, it overshot the mark; but a loud cry in a heavy voice in the immediate neighborhood prevented him. The one who shouted was von Strummin, who came down the short cross street leading from the main street of the village to the parsonage in such haste that Reinhold, who had already heard of the arrival of his friend in the early morning, had no time to tell the President of the relation of the two men. On the other hand, von Strummin shouted, before he extended his hand to the President—"I have the honor, Mr. President, to present to you my son-in-law, Mr. Justus Anders, renowned sculptor—the grand gold medal, Mr. President!—came this morning with my daughter from Berlin, accompanied by your aunt, Commander—he took the arrangements in hand at once, as your aunt wished it so—had the whole lower floor cleared out—looks now like the church in Strummin! Yes, my honored President! Such an artist! The rest of us must all stand with open mouths.—And now just think, Mr. President—the pastor cannot, or rather will not, preach the funeral sermon—declines at the last moment! We—my son-in-law and I—have just seen him—didn't even receive us—can't see any one—can't speak at all—beautifully hoarse. The parish of Golm, which the Count has promised him, still sticking in his throat!"

"Pardon, Strummin," said Reinhold, interrupting the zealous man, "I differ widely from the pastor in his belief, but here I must take his part. He is really ill, very ill, and his illness has a justifiable cause. I know it; for my men, and, as it happened, I myself—we have had the feeble old man with us everywhere as a volunteer wherever there was need of giving help or consolation, and you know that was the case on not a few occasions."

"Well, if you say so!" exclaimed von Strummin; "and it may be, too, that I have become suspicious, if I think I scent only a trail of our fine Count. But the Parish of Golm——"

"Dear von Strummin," whispered the President, "why all that so loud!—And you have heard——"

"Well, for all I care!" cried Strummin; "I am only saying that the Parish of Golm——"

The two friends could not hear what Strummin, now lowering his voice at the repeated request of the President, said further in support of his theory. They remained some distance behind, shaking hands repeatedly, while tears stood in their eyes.

"Yesterday at this time we buried Cilli," said Justus.—Ferdinande's Pietà, which I am finishing, will stand over her grave, and declare to the world what a treasure of goodness and love and mercy lies buried there; and to these two here I will erect a monument—I showed Mieting a plan of it on the way.—She says it will be great; but how gladly I would break stone, literally, for the rest of my life, as my father-in-law said, if I could thereby awake the good, noble, brave souls to life again!—The naval uniform is very becoming to you, Reinhold! I should have modeled you that way; we must try it again—the big gold epaulettes are fine for modeling!—And who is going to preach the funeral sermon? The General and Uncle Ernst have directed that they shall both be buried in one grave. I find that beautiful and right, and the objection that they were not even publicly betrothed entirely without basis and genuinely philistine. And here it occurs to me—Uncle Ernst must speak at the grave; he speaks so well, and it will do him good to express his thoughts!—And the General, too; they both stand together, now, like brothers. A dispatch came a while ago for Uncle Ernst; I was present when he opened it, and saw how he winced; I am convinced that it is about poor Philip; they probably caught him; it is horrible that Uncle Ernst must bear that, too—on a day like this! But he didn't tell any one except the General. I saw how they went aside, and he showed the General the dispatch, and they conversed together for a long time, and then shook hands.—Uncle Ernst! who swore that the hand which he should extend to the General would shrivel up, and who asked me, half a dozen times today, whether I thought Ottomar's comrades, who had said they were coming, would really come; it was for that reason we set the funeral so late—it would be very painful for the General if they didn't come!—As if he had no sorrows of his own! He is a heroic soul!—But your Else, too, is admirable. How she loved this brother, and how quietly and calmly she orders everything now, and has a willing ear and a cheerful kindly word for every one! 'That's more than I could do, you know,' said Mieting; 'there's only one Else, you know.'—Of course I know that! But there's also only one Mieting! Am I not right?"

"My dear son-in-law!" said Strummin, turning away.

"He has called me that two hundred times today," said Justus with a sigh, lengthening and quickening his steps.

They had reached the upper end of the deep narrow cut, where they saw the castle directly before them. A strange sight for the President, who was very well acquainted with the situation from former days, and whom Reinhold had led a few steps up to the now very steep slope. For the stream had washed away and carried off the slope to such an extent that here and there the edge projected, and Reinhold was enabled to find and show to the President the place where the fir-tree had stood, whose fall had been so disastrous to Ottomar. Below them, between the steep slope and the castle, a stream still surged—no longer in the foaming waves and roaring whirlpools of that night of terror, but in quiet, smooth eddies, which merged to form new ones and to splash up against the keels of five large boats across which the wide temporary bridge had been made from the mouth of the ravine to the ancient stone gate of the court.

The turrets of the gate, down to the great coat-of-arms of the Warnows above the opening, gleamed in the evening sheen, and so, too, glittered the round tower of the castle and the roofs above it down to the sharply defined line of the blue-gray shadows, which the hill cast over the lower land. And farther on to the right gleamed the tree-tops of the flooded park, and beyond castle and park the still waters that entirely filled the great inlet and seemed to merge into the open sea beyond. Before the slanting, shimmering sunbeams even Reinhold's sharp eyes could not distinguish the few tops of the dunes which still towered above the water; he could scarcely make out the roofs of the Pölitz premises, or here and there on the wide surface a clump of willows on the banks of the dikes.

The President stood absorbed in deep thought; he seemed to have forgotten even Reinhold's presence.—"Some time the daylight will come," Reinhold heard him mutter.

They walked over the pontoon bridge—the water gurgling and splashing against the sharp keels; out of the wide opening of the gate came a sullen murmur. Entering the gate they saw for the first time why the village had looked so deserted. The very large court, particularly the part next to the castle, was filled with a multitude of perhaps a thousand people, who were huddled together in dense groups, and made room, with respectful greeting, for the gentlemen as they approached the portal. They curiously scanned the newcomers, making observations, in low tones, after they had passed. "The man who walked with the Commander was the President!" they who knew him remarked (and there were many) to the others.—"If the President—who is the chief official in the whole district, and, besides being a kind gentleman, is well disposed to every one—would come and be present at the funeral, then the Count might stay at home, Heaven willing!"—"And if the Count wants to play the rôle of gentleman among them—they would make him sorry for it."—"But Mr. Damberg says that is not to be thought of; the Count may be thankful if they spare his life, and, in any case, he would be ostracized."

The gentlemen entered the castle. A still larger and more brilliant group now appeared upon the bridge, and drew the attention of the throng thither. It was a group of officers in full dress uniform, followed at some distance by a larger number of subalterns—from the regiment of von Werben, said they who had served, and had seen Ottomar in the casket.—And the Colonel in the front was, of course, the commander of the regiment!—That he could command, those who had served in France could tell by his eyes and nose. And the Captain, who marched at his side, had been sent by the General Staff by Field-Marshal von Moltke himself; and the tall Lieutenant, also in the uniform of von Werben's regiment, was young von Wartenberg, of the von Wartenbergs of Bolswitz; and as for the old families of von Bolswitz—they had come over an hour before in their equipage, with an outrider, from their castle, three miles away. And the idea that a word of all that stupid talk about young von Werben could be true, that they didn't take him to Berlin because he couldn't have an honorable burial there, and that they came all the way from Berlin to help bury him!

Justus, who had undertaken the direction of the funeral ceremonies with the greatest willingness, and had seen the officers come across the courtyard, waited in the vestibule until he could receive them and conduct them into the room on the right, where the company was assembled. Then he beckoned to Reinhold to follow him, and led him to the door at the end of the hall, which he quietly opened and immediately closed behind him. No one else would be allowed to enter, he declared,—"What do you say, Reinhold?"

The high magnificent rooms, with windows all closed, were flooded with soft light from countless tapers, hung from the walls and ceiling; and among baskets of evergreen plants and young fir-trees which stood in a beautiful ellipse, opening toward the door, rested the two caskets upon an elevated platform, covered with tapestries and flowers. The walls were decorated with old arms which Justus had taken from the armory of the castle—beautiful casts of antiques, and even originals, which a former art-loving occupant of the castle had collected, and which Justus had brought from the halls and rooms, and groups of ornamental plants and evergreens—with lighted candles among them.

"Haven't I made it look beautiful!" he whispered; "and all in the few morning hours. They would both be delighted with it—he with the arms, and she with the sculptures. But they themselves are the most beautiful of all! I must now call the family, Reinhold, before we close the caskets; meanwhile, take your last look. You haven't had as much opportunity as the others."

Justus vanished through the door leading to the apartments. Reinhold ascended the steps and went between the caskets in which the two were sleeping their eternal sleep.

Yes, they were beautiful—more beautiful than they had been in life. Death appeared to have removed every trace of earth from them, so that noble Nature might reveal herself in all her splendor. How fair, how noble, the face of this girl, and how beautiful the face of the youth, as if their souls had been truly united in death, and each had fondly given to the other what was fairest in life! So, around their lips, once so proud, a sweet, blissful, meek smile rested, for, along with the restless shifting of the nervous eyes and the impatient trembling of the fine mouth, death had blotted out all that was incomplete, imperfect, from the young man's clear features, and had left nothing but the expression of heroic will with which he had gone to his death, and of which the broad red wound on his white brow was the awful seal.

There was a slight noise in the firs behind him; he turned and opened his arms to Else. She laid her head on his breast, weeping. "Only for a moment can I feel your dear heart beating, and know that you are still left me—you, my sweet solace, my unfailing treasure!"

She arose. "Farewell, farewell, for the last time, farewell, dear brother, farewell! Fair, proud sister, how I would have loved you!" She kissed the pale lips of the two corpses; Reinhold took her in his arms and led her from the platform, down to where he saw Justus and Mieting standing, hand in hand, at a respectful distance, among the shrubbery; while, following the General, Valerie and Sidonie, Uncle Ernst and Aunt Rikchen appeared upon the platform to take leave of the dead.

Solemn, yet nerve-racking moments, the details of which Reinhold's tearful eyes could not grasp nor retain! But to Justus' keen artist's eye, one touchingly beautiful picture followed another—but, none more touching or beautiful for him, who knew these persons and their relations so well, than the last—the General almost carrying the exhausted Valerie down the steps, her head shrouded in a heavy veil of lace—she had come down from her sick room only for this occasion; while Uncle Ernst's strong form, still standing there, bent over to kind little Aunt Rikchen, and, to quiet her, stroked with his strong hand her pale, troubled, tear-stained face.

"Do you know," whispered Mieting; "they now feel what we felt when we stood before the dead angel—that they must love each other, you know."

Half an hour later the funeral procession moved out of the castle gate, from one of whose turrets a large German flag, and from the other a black one, fluttered in the evening breeze; over the bridge of boats it passed, up the deep road, turning to the right along the gently sloping road to the cemetery which extended from the highest point to the chain of hills that formed the shore, a few hundred steps distant from the village—a long solemn procession!

The village children, strewing the way with evergreen, went on before the caskets—before the one decked with palms, where lay the maidenly form of the beautiful heroic girl, borne by strong pilots and fishermen who would not surrender the honor of carrying their Commander's kinswoman to her last resting place; before that of the man, decorated with emblems of war, for whom she had died, and whom a kindly fate had allowed to die as a brave man, worthy of the decorations which he had won in battle, and which the Sergeant-Major of the company bore on a silk cushion after him—worthy he, that the trim warriors who had seen him in the days of his glory should lift him now on their shoulders, so often touched by his friendly hand in the hot hour of battle, and by the flaming bivouac-fire on the wearisome march to the great rendezvous.

After the caskets, the two fathers; then Reinhold with Else, and Justus with Mieting—Sidonie and Aunt Rikchen remaining with Valerie; the President and Colonel von Bohl, Schönau and the brilliant company of the other officers, and neighboring noblemen with their ladies; von Strummin and his spouse, the Wartenbergs, the Griebens, the Boltenhagens, the Warnekows, and the rest, the descendants of the old hereditary families; the endless train of country folk and sea folk, with the heroic form of brave Pölitz, and the stout figure of the chief pilot, Bonsack, at their head.

A long, silent procession it was, accompanied step by step by the monotonous cadences of the rising and falling waves along the steep shore, and now and then by the shrill cry of a sea-gull, which, soaring above the gleaming water, might have regarded the strange spectacle with wonder, or by a word whispered from neighbor to neighbor, which those immediately preceding and following did not hear. Thus were uttered the low words which the General spoke to Uncle Ernst as the head of the procession reached the cemetery—"Do you feel yourself equal to the task?" And Uncle Ernst's answer was—"Not until now have I felt myself equal to it." Even Reinhold and Else, who walked behind them, would not have understood it if they had heard, nor had Uncle Ernst shown to any one but the General the dispatch of which Justus had spoken. The dispatch of serious content in the dry, matter-of-fact style of the police: Philip Schmidt recognized tonight when about to embark on the steamer Hansa, bound from Bremerhafen to Chile, shot himself with a revolver in his stateroom, leaving the embezzled money untouched; will be interred tomorrow evening at six o'clock.

There, under the broad hand which he slipped under his overcoat, lay the paper, and his great heart beat against it—beat again truly strong and truly proud, now that he could say to himself that his unfortunate son did not belong to the cowards to whom life is everything; that for him, too, there was a measure of disgrace which must not overflow, because in that moment he drained the beaker of life—a draught too insipid and loathsome even for his unhallowed lips.

The caskets were lowered into a common grave. At its head stood Uncle Ernst, bareheaded, and, before him in a wide semicircle, the throng, bareheaded, silent, looking up to the powerful man whose almost gigantic figure towered above the hills against the ruddy evening sky. Now he raised his piercing eyes, which seemed to take in at a glance the whole assemblage: and now his deep voice sounded, its clear tones making every word distinct, even to the outer edge of the circle.

"My friends, one and all—I may call you so, for in the presence of such a great misfortune, such a fearful catastrophe, all are friends who have human faces.

"My friends! This—it had to be! It had to be! It had to be, because we had so basely, so utterly forgotten love; because we had lived on so long through the hopeless years, in barren selfishness, drowning the longing cry of our hearts with the empty sound of our iron conceit, ceaselessly keeping up the vain struggle for mine and thine—the fierce, wild struggle—without a blush and without mercy, wishing no peace, giving no pardon, regarding no right but that of the victor, who scornfully treads the vanquished under foot.

"Yes, my friends: it had to be, it had to be, that we should learn again to love one another! It is this certainty—this, and this alone it is—which can soothe our sorrow for the dear ones whom we now commit to the sacred lap of Earth; the tender blossoms which the storm has broken.

"The storm! The fearful storm, which raged through German hearts and minds and through German lands, breaking so many hearts, darkening so many minds, covering so many fields of young green crops with the horrors of destruction, filling the air with poisonous mists, so that even the brave man might ask—Has the bright German sun set forever! But no! It shines upon us again! It sends us, as it sets, its last golden beams, promising a new, bright day, full of honest toil and true, golden harvest!

GOLGATHA
From the Painting by Michael von Munkacsy
PERMISSION CH. SEDELMEYER, PARIS

"Oh; thou, serene light of Heaven, and thou, Sacred Sea, and thou, life-giving Earth—I call you to witness the vow which we make at the graves of these who parted from us all too soon: To put from us, from now on, all that is small and common, to live in the future in the light of truth, to love one another with all our hearts! May the God of truth and love grant that to the honor of humanity, and to the glory of the German name!"

The voice of the speaker ceased. But the echo of his words quivered in the hearts of his hearers, as they silently stepped forward to show the last honors to the dead. The rays of the setting sun spread over the sky, lighting up the scene, and the sky lovingly reflected them back to earth.

[THE GERMAN CLASSICS]Masterpieces of German LiteratureTRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH

[CONTRIBUTORS AND TRANSLATORS]

[CONTENTS OF VOLUME XI]

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN

THEODOR STORM

WILHELM RAABE

[ILLUSTRATIONS—VOLUME XI]

[EDITOR'S NOTE]

[THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN]

[FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN]

[STORM FLOOD][1] (1877)

[THE GERMAN CLASSICS]
Masterpieces of German Literature
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH