There were, indeed, many countenances in which great dejection was visible. “Look at that picture of melancholy,” resumed the Englishman, pointing to the figure of Sophia Mansfeld—“observe even now, whilst the overseer is standing near her, how reluctantly she works! ‘Tis the way with all slaves. Our English manufacturers (I wish you could see them) work in quite another manner—for they are free—”
“And are free men, or free women, never ill?” said Laniska; “or do you Englishmen blame your king, whenever any of his subjects turn pale?—The woman at whom you are now looking is evidently ill. I will inquire from the overseer what is the matter with her.”
Laniska then turned to the overseer, and asked him in German several questions, to which he received answers that he did not translate to the English traveller; he was unwilling that any thing unfavourable to the cause of his sovereign should appear; and, returning to his companion, he changed the conversation. When all the company were occupied round the furnaces, attending to the Englishman’s experiments, Laniska went back to the apartment where Sophia Mansfeld was at work. “My good girl,” said he to her, “what is the matter with you? The overseer tells me, that since you came here you have done nothing that is worth looking at; yet this charming piece (pointing to a bowl of her painting, which had been brought from Saxony) is of your design, is it not?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Sophia, “I painted it—to my sorrow. If the king had never seen or liked it, I should now be—” The recollection of her home, which at this instant rushed full upon her mind, overpowered her, and she paused.
“You would now be in Saxony,” resumed Laniska; “but forget Saxony, and you will be happy at Berlin.”
“I cannot forget Saxony, sir,” answered the young woman, with modest firmness; “I cannot forget a father and mother whom I love, who are old and infirm, and who depended on me for their support. I cannot forget every thing—every body that I have ever loved: I wish I could.”
“Sir,” whispered a Prussian workman, who stood by—“sir, she has a lover in Saxony, to whom she was just going to be married, when she was carried off from her cottage, and brought hither.”
“Cannot her lover follow her?” said Laniska.
“He is in Berlin, in concealment,” replied the workman, in a whisper; “you won’t betray him, I am sure.”
“Not I,” said Laniska; “I never betrayed any one, and I never shall—much less the unfortunate. But why is her lover in concealment?”