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

by Wilhelmine von Hillern

Ernestine placed herself in his way. "You must not do that!"

"And why not?"

"You will not attempt to avenge what I have forgiven. You will not so intrude into my life as to make it impossible for me to decide whether I will punish or forgive a crime that affects me alone. You are about to publish abroad my affairs, and I demand for myself the right to regulate my own private affairs as it may seem to me best. I cannot allow a stranger--yes, I say, a stranger--to meddle thus with the concerns of two human beings, as if he were an emissary of the Holy Vehm!"

"Ernestine!" gasped Johannes.

"I repeat it," she continued, "I am grateful for your kind intentions. But the best intentions result in unwelcome violence when they would rob a human being, of the right of free choice. I insist upon this most sacred of all rights, and forbid you any further interference with my fate, and, as my uncle's lot is so closely allied to mine that in striking him you would harm me, I hope you are sufficiently chivalric to desist from further persecution of him." Almost fainting, she leaned against the door.

"Fräulein von Hartwich," replied Johannes, controlling himself with difficulty, "you propose a hard trial for my patience. But I can forgive you, for you are a true woman." Ernestine started at these words, but he entreated silence by a gesture. "You are a woman, and, as such, easily aroused, easily deceived. Your uncle has taken advantage of this fact. You do not dream what you are doing in following the fortunes of this bad man. I thought I had opened your eyes yesterday, but I was mistaken. You saw, but I did not teach you to understand what you saw. I will retrieve my error. I will explain to you the motives for your uncle's course of action."

"I have already told you," replied Ernestine, "that I know them. I need no further explanation. He has sinned, grievously sinned,--who can deny it? Not he himself. But his life has been dedicated to me with a devotion rare enough in our selfish world. He has lived for me ever since I was a child, and all his errors sprang from the dread of losing me. This is, perhaps, incredible to you, because from your point of view it is inconceivable that a man should entirely give himself up to the training of a woman's mind. To you a life spent solely in intellectual association with a woman seems impossible, and of course you would accuse of falsehood a man who professes to prefer such a life to all others. Therefore I know beforehand all you would say, and would be spared the listening to it now."

"Ernestine," cried Johannes, fairly roused, "you must hear me, or, by Heaven, I do not know you!"

He paused for one moment. Ernestine looked down, and apparently awaited what he had to say.

"Yes, then, yes,--you are perfectly right. It does seem to me an impossibility that a man should make it the sole aim of his existence to develop the intellect of a woman. I can love as deeply as man can love. You know that I love you, and, were you mine, I would adore you, and you only, with my whole heart and soul, truly and unchangeably, until death separated us. But, in my love for you, to forego all other interests and duties in life, to idle away in delicious intercourse with you all opportunities for true manly exertion,--that I could not do, truly and warmly as I love you. It would be the part of a woman,--not of a man, who has public as well as private duties to fulfil. I have no confidence in a man who pretends to lead such a life out of simple affection for a relative. He must have some other purpose in view, and I believe that your uncle's purpose in this matter was a detestable one, leading him to sin against you in a way that God alone can justly punish. He would sacrifice everything for money--he would murder alike body and soul. Stay--be calm for a few moments. I will justify these terrible accusations. The theft of your fortune has been the purpose that he has kept steadily in view ever since he was your guardian. The possession of this property seems to have been the fixed idea of his life, for he induced your father at one time to bequeath it to him, leaving you, notwithstanding his boasted affection for you, only what the law accords to you. Heim prevailed upon your father to destroy this will and to reinstate you in your rights. But he was not sufficiently prudent, for the will that your father then dictated left too much margin for your uncle's administration. He longed to recover what he had lost, and circumstances favoured his desire. Your father, in his will, as you can see from this copy of it, stated that in case of your dying unmarried your entire fortune should go to Gleissert or his children. When your father died, matters looked propitious for Leuthold, for little Ernestine was such a frail, sickly child that he cherished a hope almost amounting to a certainty that the delicate cord of life that kept him from his inheritance would soon break, and give him all that he coveted. But the pale, quiet child confounded his plans by recovering her health Und strength. Hers was a rare nature, and recuperated quickly, both physically and mentally. The hope that she would die grew fainter and fainter, but he could not so easily relinquish the prospect of possessing her fortune. If he might not secure the inheritance, he could at least secure the person of the heir, and contrive to keep you, Ernestine, from marrying, since the money could be his only in the event of your dying single. To this end, you must be secluded from the world, and, that you might not miss its amusements, your restless spirit must be introduced to a new realm,--the realm of the intellect. Therefore he studiously concealed from you your coming of age, lest it should occur to you to break the bonds of the strict control to which you were subjected, and mingle with your kind. This was the plan of your education, this the reason of your uncle's tender solicitude for you. The time and trouble expended upon you were all in the way of business, a fair exchange for the ninety thousand thalers and the contingent advantages that he trusted to obtain thereby. He could never have attained such a competency as a German professor. This is criminal legacy-hunting. And now for my accusation of murder. I do not mean by it a murder with poison or dagger,--he is too cowardly and too prudent for that,--but he made use of a poison which, if it were not as quick in its effects as arsenic, at least possessed this advantage over it--no chemist could detect it, and no law punish its use. The body was to be destroyed through the mind. He knew how to foster in your passionate heart an ambition that dreaded no labour, that, in its burning desire to attain its ends, pursued them with a feverish haste that never heeded whether the physical frame were equal or not to such unceasing exertion. Oh, the plan was ingenious, but there were eyes, thank God! that saw through it. It is true he did not stand at your back with a rod, like a severe schoolmaster, to urge you on,---he did not compel you to work all night long, denying yourself the only refreshment that could strengthen your shattered nerves,--sleep,--but he contrived that you should do all this voluntarily. He saw you droop, and took no notice of it. He would not kill you with his own hand, but he put into yours the poison with which you should do it yourself, and, when the natural love of life in you spoke out and entreated aid, he forbade you to summon a physician, lest he should save you by an antidote! Thus, consciously and voluntarily, he has let you sicken and languish, and now he would carry you to America to bury you there. So much for the grounds of my accusation of physical murder. And now as to his murder of your soul. I said before that your uncle had secluded you from the world to make sure of your never marrying. How could he do this? By making you an object of aversion to society at large--by hardening your heart, so that you might never feel the desire for loving intercourse and companionship stirring within you. He accomplished these ends by making you a skeptic. And were this the only crime that he is guilty of towards you, it would justify any punishment, however severe,--any contempt, however profound."