There is an invisible something, on which human happiness depends. We have soul organs, by means of which we receive and impart the inner world of sensuous feeling,--organs which we call organs of the heart; and those of Henri were very active when passion was once aroused. We have also organs to unite us with the spiritual world,--organs of thought,--and Heinrich possessed them in the highest perfection. But we have besides these an organ that forms the bond between the other two, like a connecting vein, through which the streams of thought and feeling flow into each other, and which carries the mingled tide through the entire being. This is the emotional nature. Where the heart and intellect are not peculiarly disunited, the emotional nature must exert an influence; it is the organ by means of which we make our simple every-day life pleasant, endurable, if possible poetical. This tie between the heart and intellect was of course torn asunder by the division that had taken place in Ottmar, and thus he not only felt painfully the eternal dissatisfaction of both natures, but quiet every-day life lost all charm and value, and found him cold and unsympathizing. He desired great contrasts, great passions, or great problems. It was only when these occupied his thoughts that the two extremes of his nature could assert themselves. Then only he felt at ease.
Henri sought the material pleasures, which are always the same, and always result in emptiness. Heinrich unceasingly pursued the course of ambition, which is ever renewed just as we believe we have reached the goal. Between the two Ottmar found nothing but satiety. He now had what he had so eagerly desired,--two lives, two natures, in one person. True, he could no longer suffer, but neither could he enjoy; he could neither love nor hate. Henri's feelings were only instincts, and his thoughts the refinement of sensuality; to which Heinrich sometimes lent a loftier language when in the presence of noble women, in whom his shallow frivolity would have excited only repugnance. Ottmar, as on the night of his delirium, fancied, with vain satisfaction, that he had been born again; but he had, in truth, only divided himself. It seemed to him as if he possessed a twofold nature, and must now enjoy life doubly. But the law of true humanity cannot be denied without rebuke. He had erred. Instead of two natures there were only two disjointed halves; instead of enjoying a double share, he enjoyed but half, for what pleased Henri Heinrich did not feel, and what Heinrich obtained was useless to Henri.
This was not yet clear to Ottmar. He only knew that the apparitions had given what he desired, and did not understand why he was not happy. He had not comprehended their sneers, like all who, in the impetuous whirl of life, hear the prophetic voices of their own breasts, and first understand them when their predictions begin to be fulfilled.
In Paris, Ottmar gave free course to his inclinations, and for some time lived in intimate relations with Madame d'Anneaud. But the beautiful woman soon became wearisome to him, and he deserted her for a fairer face, for faith, as a matter of course, had become an impossibility to this nature.
Then he hurried from face to face, exhausting one empty pleasure after another, until at last, after a year of idle dissipation, ambition obtained the upper hand, and intellect asserted its claims. He would, as he said, try philosophy for a time, and returned to Germany. Another life now began. "Quick! You must do something,--accomplish something," he said to himself. "But how? of what nature?" In the whirl of empty pleasures he had become too superficial and frivolous to recommence his neglected scientific studies with the redoubled industry which, after so long an interruption, they required; he could no longer adopt any regular profession. By means of his great ability, favored by his position, he did and learned what and where he pleased. As he began too much at the same time, he acquired nothing thoroughly, and obtained that so-called cosmopolitan education which dabbles in all colors, is skilled in all branches, whose variety often excites admiration, but cannot be of any practical value. For five years he visited universities, heard lectures from the most distinguished professors, and passed in review the various sciences. None satisfied him, for none aided him to reach the goal of his ambition with sufficient rapidity.
At last the years of his early youth passed away, and he had as yet obtained nothing. Insignificant fellow-students went out into the world to enter upon the honorable career of government service, while he did not even know to what branch it would be best to devote himself in order to become a man of mark.
He wrote several semi-scientific, semi-poetical works. The critics acknowledged their merit, but they were not read. The scientific portion was too commonplace for learned men, the poetry too dry for ordinary people; for, in spite of his genius, Heinrich was no poet. His nature lacked that which alone can carry away the masses, and which no thought can supply,--heart impulse; and he did not succeed in becoming popular. An earnest, uninterrupted course of study would, in a very short time, have made him competent to enter upon some settled career; but too frequently Heinrich's assiduous industry yielded to Henri's pursuit of pleasure, and the wearied frame threatened to give way under this constant change from one extreme to the other.
When he had at last exhausted all the intellectual and material treasures of his native land without the slightest profit to himself, some secret power again drove him forth to seek in a foreign country the happiness he could not find at home. He went to Italy.