Only a Girl: or, A Physician for the Soul.

by Wilhelmine von Hillern

"You are puzzled, and do not know how to interpret my words," he continued. "You cannot dream how far beyond reality my fancy soars. But you must feel that I am not a man to play the bel-esprit for my amusement,--to find any satisfaction in measuring my wits to advantage with a woman's,--to take delight in hearing the sound of my own voice. Before I seriously approach a woman, I must be clear in my own mind as to what I can be to her and she to me. You, Fräulein von Hartwich, cannot be to me much or little,--you can be to me everything or nothing. Our natures are both too real to admit of our passing each other by pleasantly, politely, but without enthusiasm, like ephemeral acquaintances in society. We have already, in defiance of conventional rules, formed an intimacy in which character is revealed, and the aim of our intercourse must be a higher one than that of mere amusement. Otherwise I were a boor and you are greatly to blame for enduring me. Only a deep personal interest in you could warrant my relentless treatment of you. I acknowledge that I feel this deep personal interest. More I will not say now, for all else depends upon the development of our relations towards each other, in the increase or decrease of accord in our views of life and its purposes."

Ernestine was silent. She began to have some suspicion of what she might be to this strong, upright character, and what he might be to her. But it was not that tender emotion that the first approach of love awakens in the heart of every woman, even the coldest; she was troubled and anxious. The decision with which he spoke convinced her at once that he never could be converted to her views,--that she must mould herself according to his,--that a transformation must take place in one or the other of them, if she would not lose what was already of such value to her. She was not accustomed to self-sacrifice, for her cunning uncle had so educated her, so trained her inclinations to accord with his wishes, that she always supposed she was having her own way, when in reality she was following his. She felt that this hour was a crisis in her life, that she was brought into contact with a will which would require of her great self-sacrifice, and of which she was almost in dread, because it was backed by superior strength.

Johannes waited for an answer, but none came. He saw what was going on in Ernestine's mind, and that his words had chilled her, kindly as they were meant. He took her hand and looked into her eyes. "Ah, you will not call me 'kind sir' any more?"

Ernestine was conscious of the true kindliness of his look, she felt the gentle clasp of his hand, and involuntarily she held out to him her disengaged hand also, and said almost in a tone of entreaty, "No, you will not be cruel, you will not hurt me."

He stood silent for an instant, looking into her clear, confiding eyes, holding both her hands in his, and was for the moment unspeakably happy.

"I promise you I will not give you more pain than I shall suffer myself," he said gently. "But we must buy dearly the happiness that is to content us. We are not of those who innocently and artlessly take upon trust whatever the present throws into their laps. Constituted as we are, we must needs make conditions with Heaven, and accept its gifts only when we have proved them. For we cannot be satisfied with what many would call happiness,--we can take no delight in what would charm thousands of others. It is the curse of natures like ours that they erect a standard of happiness far above what if usual,--and how many are there upon whom Providence bestows unusual happiness!"

Ernestine smiled bitterly at Johannes's last words. "Providence!" she murmured, "we are our own providence. We shape our own destiny, create our joy or our misery,--the conditions of either are in ourselves!"

"And because we are so mysteriously gifted beyond other creatures, because we are mentally freer and more conscious of ourselves than other beings, our responsibility as regards ourselves and those whom we see around us is all the greater. There are natures that are eternally wretched, because they demand more of life than it can possibly afford them, and undervalue all that it offers them, although it makes their lot enviable in the eyes of all. Then we say, 'Their unhappiness is their own fault, they have everything to make them happy, no one injures them; why are they so exorbitant in their longings?' But this is wrong. They are not insatiate, they would perhaps be contented with a far more moderate lot. What fault is it of theirs that the demands of their innermost nature are such that they require just what fate has not bestowed upon them? Of what use is a glittering gem to the traveller in the desert languishing for a drop of water? How willingly would he exchange the bauble for what he longs for! Who would say to him, 'You have a precious treasure, why are you not content?' Who would reproach him with being a human creature that cannot live without drinking? The most one can say to him is, 'Since you know that you cannot live without water, why go into the desert?' There is the point where we are responsible. If we know what are the conditions of our existence, we must see to it that what we choose in life accords with those conditions, always provided that Providence gives us the right of free choice. If this right is ours and we choose falsely, it is our fault if we are wretched. I call it an unusual boon, therefore, when Providence permits us to choose a lot that harmonizes with our nature. If this is denied us, the man of the greatest freedom of thought is not responsible for his fate,--he is under the ban of a higher power."

Ernestine listened to him with undisguised interest. He saw it, and continued:

"We, Fräulein Hartwich, are free to choose, and are therefore responsible to each other, and it is incumbent upon us to be on the watch. A kindly Providence, you too must admit this, has brought us together, and left the decision as to what we will be to each other in our own hands. Let us show ourselves worthy of the trust; let us try ourselves. I am sure you feel with me that the moment must be a glorious one in which two human beings recognize each other as their embodied destiny. But it must be celebrated not by gushes of sentimentality nor by would-be transcendentalism, but in perfect peace of mind!"