"That is because you suffer of the same disease as I do; what makes others speechless with amazement appears to us perfectly natural; and what the good people and bad musicians consider a matter of course, seems to us nothing less than fabulous. You will, for instance, readily believe that I have met this same child now for the third time in my life, and that I am superstitious enough to see in this threefold meeting much more than a mere accident. Besides, like Wallenstein, I believe in no accident."
"And where and when do you think you have seen Czika?"
"The first time, four years ago, in England. I was riding with a couple of English friends in a distant part of Hyde Park. As we turned round a corner at full speed, a child was standing before us--a brown child, with big black eyes, raising its tiny hands imploringly. I scarcely noticed it, being engaged in an animated conversation. After we had gone on perhaps a hundred yards, I felt suddenly as if spirits were drawing me back. I cannot describe the sensation. I felt, however, as if my riding past the sweet, helpless creature had been a crime, which made me perfectly wretched. I turned round; I raced back to the place like a madman. The child was gone. I called after her; I searched the shrubbery all around; my friends aided me, in spite of my madness, as they called it; but all in vain.
"The next time, I saw the child in Egypt. It is now two years. We--I mean a small caravan of Nile travellers, who had met by accident,--were riding on our little donkeys through the narrow winding streets of Asqut. By the side of an open door, through which we could look into the silent shady court of a mosque, stood, in a niche in the wall, a child, older than that in Hyde Park, and younger than that here in my arms, but the same brown child, with the bluish-black curls, and the bright gazelle eyes. Again she stretched out her little hands towards the passers-by, and called the cry you hear everywhere in Egypt: Bakshish! howadjee, bakshish! I saw the child, and yet I did not see it; for I was in those desperate fits of humor which occasionally overcome me, when eyes and ears are wide open, and yet neither see nor hear. As we turned round the next corner, I felt precisely the same sensation as in Hyde Park. I left my donkey; I ran back as fast as I could.--The niche was empty. The door leading to the mosque was open, as I said. The yard had on the other side a second door, which was also open, and which led upon one of the main streets, where, at this hour,--it was towards sunset,--men, camels, and donkeys were closely crowded together. The child was gone, and I returned to my companions with a heavy heart; as usual, they had explained my sudden disappearance by assuming a fit of madness.--Do you think it possible that this child, which I first saw amid English mists, and next under the bright sky of Egypt, should cross my path a third time in a German beechwood?"
"And even if it were not the same child,--and, to tell the truth, I consider it highly improbable that it is the same,"--replied Oswald, "it would be the same to you. I believe in an eternal, ever-changing, ever-constant world-spirit. I believe that that lark which there rises from the heath, and wings its way singing to the sky, is the same lark which I followed, enchanted, as a boy, until it was lost in the blue ether even to my sharp eyes. I believe that all heroes are brethren, and that every sufferer is that neighbor whom heart and reason alike command us to love like unto ourselves.--It matters little whether this child is the same which you have twice sought in vain, it matters only that the appeals of the poor forlorn creature every time pierced through the triple brass around your bosom into your very heart.... You will pardon, I am sure, such language in a man who is so far inferior in experience and intelligence, and who draws courage to speak them only from the regard he feels for you, almost instinctively. And allow me to add one word: if you could make up your mind to love this child, it would be a gift to you more precious than Aladdin's marvellous lamp. Love is everywhere except in hell, says a deep word of one of the Minnesingers; it means, where there is no love, there is hell. Love is the fragrance of that Blue Flower, which, as you said just now, fills the whole world, and you will find the Blue Flower, which you have sought in vain all your life long, in every being which you love with all your heart." A strange melancholy smile played around the baron's lips as Oswald spoke these words.
"You cannot solve the riddle," he said sadly, in a low voice; "for this very condition, that we must love with all our heart, if we wish to get rid of the torment which makes life a hell, is the impossible thing. Which of us can love with all his heart? We are all so driven, so weary, that we have no longer the strength nor the courage which true, real love requires. I mean that love which knows neither rest nor repose till it has made its own every thought of our mind, every sentiment of our heart, and every drop of our blood. If you are still young and ingenuous enough for such a love, I congratulate you! For my part, I can only repeat: I have given it up to find the Blue Flower, that wondrous flower which blooms only for the happy one who is still able to love with all his heart.--But here we are at the gates of Grenwitz, and must break off a conversation which I trust we shall very soon continue. Farewell, and come and inquire as soon as you can after the well-being of the little creature who is your protégée almost more than mine."
The carriage rolled off. Oswald followed it long with his eyes; then he crossed the bridge, bowing his head, and went up to the château. The sun had risen, and was flooding the gray walls with rosy lights; in the dewy garden the birds were singing their carols--but Oswald saw a dark gray veil drawn over the charming morning, for in his ear sounded yet the baron's words: Which of us is still able to love with all his heart? Which of us has yet a whole heart?
CHAPTER IV.
"Do you fell refreshed by your nap, dear Grenwitz?" asked the baroness.
"I thank you, dear Anna Maria, very much!" replied the old baron. It was the afternoon after the eventful ball at Barnewitz; the speakers were in the same room, looking out upon the garden, in which, a week before, the conversation between Melitta and the baroness had taken place. The baroness was again sitting, as then, near the open glass-doors which led upon the great lawn, on which Melitta's eyes had for the first time fallen upon Oswald, and again the admirable lady was sewing industriously, as if she had to earn her daily bread by her needle. The baron sat opposite to her, in the same rocking-chair which Melitta had occupied. He was just awaking from an afternoon nap, and looked, with his old glazed eyes, through the open door upon the lawn, where his pet, the peacock, displayed his gorgeous plumage in the bright sunlight.