{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_26360/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_26360","id":"gutenberg_26360","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/26360","summary":null,"tags":["Category: German Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","German fiction -- Translations into English"],"text":"E-text prepared by Delphine Lettau\n\n\n\nTHE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN,\nTHE LOVECHARM,\nAND\nPIETRO OF ABANO.\n\nTales from the German of Tieck.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLondon:\nEdward Moxon, 64, New Bond Street.\n1831.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.\n\n\nThe name of Herr Balthasar was well known throughout the whole\nhill-country: not a child but had heard of his vast riches, and had\nsome story to tell of him. Everybody too loved and honoured him; for\nhis bounty was as great as his wealth: but at the same time he was\nviewed with fear; for he harast both himself and others by a number of\nstrange whims which no one could understand; and his moodiness, his\nsilent reserve, were especially irksome to those who were nearest\nabout him. No person had seen him smile for many years; he scarcely\never came out of his large house on the hill above the little\nmountain-town, nearly the whole of which belonged to him: its\ninhabitants too were almost all his dependents, whom he had drawn\nthither to work in his manufactories, his mines, and his alum pits.\nThus through his means this small spot was very thickly peopled, and\nenlivened by the greatest activity. Waggons and horses were\ncontinually moving to and fro; and the clatter of the working\nmachinery was mixt up with the roar of waters, and with the various\nnoises from the pounding and smelting-houses. The smoke of the coals\nhowever, the steam from the pits, and the black heaps of dross and\nslag piled up on high all around, gave the gloomy sequestered valley a\nstill more dismal appearance; so that no one who travelled for the\nsake of seeking out and enjoying the beauties of nature, would have\nany mind to linger there.\n\nAmong the multitude of persons who in consequence of his large\nundertakings and the variety of his concerns were employed by old Herr\nBalthasar, none seemed to enjoy his confidence in so high a degree as\nEdward, the head overseer of his mines and manufactories, and the\nmanager of his accounts. He was about thirty years old, tall and of a\nfine figure, had always something sprightly and good-humoured on his\nlips, and thus formed a striking contrast to his morose monosyllabic\nmaster, who had grown old before his time, and whose withered,\nwrinkled features, with the faint sad look from his hollow eyes, were\nno less repulsive to all, than Edward's cheerful frankness was\nattractive of confidence and affection.\n\nIt was still very early on a summer morning when Edward was looking\nthoughtfully down into the smoking valley: the sun lay behind a thick\nmass of clouds; and the mists that were travelling along the bottom,\nand mingled with the black vapours from the steaming pits, checkt his\nview, and wrapt the landscape in a kind of grey veil. He mused over\nhis youth, over the plans he had once formed, and then thought how,\ncontrary to them all, he had become fixt in this melancholy solitude,\nwhich, as he was already verging on the maturity of manhood, he\nprobably would never quit again. While he was thus losing himself in\nhis meditations, young William hurried by him, fully equipt as it\nseemed for a journey, without even bidding him goodbye. The young man\nstarted as in passing he observed Edward standing there, and he looked\nvery loth to meet his questions.\n\n\"How now?\" said Edward; \"are you already leaving us again, young man,\nafter all the entreaties and persuasions it cost us both but three\nweeks ago to prevail on our master to take you into his house, and\nafter he has just forgiven you your sudden departure the other day?\"\n\n\"I must begone!\" cried the young man: \"do not stop me! I must submit\nto appear ungrateful; but I cannot help it.\"\n\n\"Without speaking to our master?\" replied Edward; \"without leave of\nabsence? What are we to think of you? Besides Herr Balthasar will want\nyou; for there is no one here just now to take your post of\nsecretary.\"\n\n\"My dearest sir,\" exclaimed the young man uneasily, \"if you knew my\nsituation, you would not blame or think ill of me.\"\n\n\"Has our master offended you? have you any ground of complaint?\"\n\n\"No, no! quite the contrary!\" cried the young man impetuously; \"the\nold gentleman is kindness itself; I appear to be base and\ngood-for-nothing; but I have no other choice. Make the best excuse for\nme that your good nature and your conscience will let you.\"\n\n\"Be a man!\" said Edward, giving him his hand and holding him fast:\n\"you may earn a maintenance here, and may lay the foundations of your\nfortune hereafter: do not a second time thus wantonly trifle away your\nmaster's confidence and mine. We took you in, when you came to us\nwithout a character, without any recommendation, almost without a\nname: Herr Balthasar departed for your sake from all his rules, which\ntill then had always been inviolable; I have in a manner pledged\nmyself for you: are you resolved to reward our confidence in this way,\nand to run thus rashly into suspicion? And can you hope that a month\nhence or later you will be received among us again?\"\n\nThe young man was much distrest, but tore himself forcibly away, and\ncried: \"I know it too well, that I am closing this home, in which\neverything has gone so well with me, in which I have felt so happy,\nfor ever against me. Misery and want await me, and the bitterest\npunishments for the thoughtlessness of my youth. But who can avoid his\ndestiny? When a chariot is rushing headlong down a precipice, no human\nstrength can arrest it.\"\n\n\"But if you have any sense of honour,\" answered Edward, \"if you would\nnot leave us all at a loss what to make of you, you ought to stay now\nat all events; for I am quite unable to conceive what power can be\ndriving you away from us thus suddenly. You know, the most expensive\nand valuable cloths in our magazine have been purloined day after day;\nand though this has been going on so long we have not been able to get\nany trace of the offender.\"\n\n\"I must put up even this suspicion,\" said William with a quick blush.\n\"There is no saving me now, and I have nothing more to lose: nor do I\ndeserve the good opinion of any honest man, be he even the meanest of\nmy brethren.\"\n\nAfter these mysterious words the young man hurried away, without even\nlooking round again. Edward followed him with his eyes, and observed\nhow he bent his steps hastily toward the little town, ran almost at\nfull speed through the streets, and turned into a footpath on the\nother side, to climb up a steep rock. He there lost sight of him in\nthe mountain solitude.\n\nThe mist meanwhile had somewhat broken, and the little dells with\ntheir trees and bushes were seen rising out of it, like green ilands,\nillumined by the morning sun, with ever and anon a house or hut half\nhidden by leaves leaning against the side of the hill.\n\nAn old miner, who worked a good way off in the pits belonging to the\nprince, came up now very much out of humour to Edward. \"Another run\nover here to no purpose!\" he cried peevishly: \"I wanted to speak to\nthe young shatter-brained jackanapes; and now I hear from the\nsmelting-lads down in the town, that he has just been scampering\nthrough it, and not a soul can tell where he is gone.\"\n\n\"What business have you with him, friend Conrad?\" asked Edward.\n\n\"What business should one have with young chaps such as he!\" replied\nthe cross old man. \"There have I had to buy him a wonderful book about\nmines over yonder, of the white-headed master miner who is as old as\nthe hills, and who has been blind these three years: the marvellous\ngrey-beard copied the book ages ago, when he was young and had a\nyounker's itching for knowing more than his neighbours, from the\nmanuscript of a travelling Tyrolese, and took the trouble of\nscratching likenesses of all the foolish pictures in it. Now however\nthat he is blind, he can't see to read it; so I have bought it for\nyoung master Lorenz, our William here; and lo! the coxcomb is clean\nover the mountains.\"\n\n\"What does the little book contain?\" said Edward.\n\n\"Only look into it yourself,\" continued the other: \"all sorts of\nstories about ghosts and spectres; clews for finding out the places\nover there in the high mountains, where one meets with gold and\ndiamonds at the bottom of caves and sand pits in spots which mortal\nman has seldom set foot in. There are a number of marks, they say,\nwhich in ages of yore were carved on the hard rocks or written on the\nbanks of the brooks: certain knowing Italians notcht and scored the\nplaces some two or three hundred years ago, and stuck in pieces of tin\nand pebbles which they laid after a fashion of their own: now however,\nthe old man tells me, they are hard to find; for the mountain-spirits\nand goblins, who hate being disturbed, have shoved away many of the\nstones that might have served for signposts, and have utterly deranged\ntheir order.\"\n\nEdward laught as he turned over the leaves of the strange book.\n\n\"None of your scoffing, young gentleman!\" cried the old man: \"so you\ntoo are one of their super-clever new-fangled wiseacres. But if you\nwere once to see what I have seen, when all alone far down\nunderground, cut off from the heavens and the whole world, with no\nlight but my lamp, and no sound but my own hammer within hearing, and\nthe terrible tall spirit of the mountain came to me; I'd wager you\nwould twist your face into some other look, and would not laugh as you\ndo here where the merry morning sun is shining on you. Everybody can\ngrin; but seeing is the lot of few; and still fewer can behave like\nmen, when their eyes are thrown open.\"\n\n\"I will pay you for the book, my good old man,\" replied Edward kindly,\n\"and keep it for our William till he comes back again.\"\n\n\"Ha ha!\" cried the miner, laughing heartily and putting up the money;\n\"and read it too, and pore over it by yourself, and go on Sundays and\nholidays to look out for the marks and the secret passages. Only don't\nlet them befool you, young man, or cajole, or frighten you; and when\nyou have found anything, keep a fast hold. Look you, the lord of these\nhills, or the old man of the mountain, as many choose to call him,\nknows all about the matter: he has thrust his hands into the pockets\nof all the richest ghosts and elves and goblins; and they have been\nforced to empty them out for him.\"\n\n\"Whom do you mean?\" asked Edward a good deal surprised; and at the\nsame time he wanted to give the besmeared book back again to the old\nman, saying with some irritation: \"since you cannot trust me, or\nrather hold me to be such a fool, keep the treasure-casket yourself\nfor our friend, and only give the master miner his money.\"\n\n\"No,\" exclaimed the old man; \"what has once been made over and paid\nfor, must stay in the hands of the buyer: that is a sacred law, and if\nwe break it, the maste rminer and I shall be under a ban. But whom do\nI mean, ask you, by the old man of the mountain, or by the lord of\nthese hills? Are you ignorant of that? and have already been here a\nround dozen of years and more. Why, this is the name all the world\ngives to your high and mighty manufacturer, mine-holder, merchant,\ngold-maker, ghost-seer, your all-powerful man of millions, your\nBalthasar. And perhaps you would make believe into the bargain that\nyou don't know how he comes by all his unnatural riches. Ay, ay,\nfriend, the pale old sour-faced growler has them all in\nleading-strings, the whole posse of spirits: he is often absent for\nweeks, and tarrying with them in their secret chambers: then they pay\naway to him; then they break their old crowns in bits, and pour out\nthe diamonds into his skinny hands; then they strike with their\nmagical rods against the stone walls, and the water-damsels must needs\nswim up from the bottom of the brooks, and bring him gifts, corals,\nand pearls, and turkisses. As for gold he scarce heeds it now: he has\na tribe of little elves that wash it out of the sand for him, and\ngather it up, like bees, into balls and grains, and then carry it like\nhoney, and stuff his cane with it. Ay, ay, my worthy smooth-faced\npedlar of all wisdom's small wares! this is why the old man is for\never moping so, and never dares laugh; this is why he loses his wits\nif he chances to hear music, which gladdens the heart of every godly\nman; this is why he never goes into company, and is always fretful and\ncross-grained: for he knows full well what end he must come to, and\nthat all his earthly grandeur cannot buy him off; because he has\nforsaken his God, and no human being ever saw him in a church.\"\n\n\"This is the hateful part of superstition,\" exclaimed Edward\nindignantly, \"which otherwise would only deserve our contempt, and\nwhich, if it did not thus deprave the understanding and the heart,\nmight delight us by its poetical features, and furnish the imagination\nwith much fantastical amusement. Are you not ashamed, old man, to\nthink and prate in this way of the most virtuous, the most beneficent\nof men? How many human beings are fed and supplied with comforts by\nhis extensive transactions? is he not always giving the needy a share\nin the blessings with which heaven rewards his industry? He spends his\nlife in thought, in watching, in care, in writing, in toil, for the\nsake of nourishing thousands, who but for him would perish without\nemployment; and as whatever he undertakes with so much judgement is\nfavoured by fortune, fools are audacious enough to slander his\nunderstanding which they cannot comprehend, and his virtues which they\nare unable to appreciate, with their stupid impertinent\nextravagances.\"\n\n\"Fortune!\" laught the miner: \"you talk of fortune, and fancy that in\nusing the silliest word in the world you have said something: why, it\nis the very same thing that I mean and believe; only that you don't\nunderstand what you say, nor can anybody make any sense of it. My\njewel, the earth, the water, the air, mountains, forests, and vallies,\nare no dead lifeless dogs, as you mayhap think them. All sorts of\nthings dwell and bustle about in them, things that you call powers and\nthe like: these can't endure to have their old quiet abodes turned\ntopsy-turvy in this manner, and dug away and blown up with gunpowder\nunder their very feet. The whole country for miles and miles round is\nsmoking and steaming, and clattering, and hammering; people are\nshovelling and poking, and digging, and blasting, and laying waste\nwith fire and water even into the entrails of the earth; not a forest\nfinds mercy; there are glass-houses, and alum works, and copper mines,\nand bleaching-grounds, and spinning-jennies: look you, this must bring\nmishap or goodhap to the man who sets such a sight of things a-going;\nit can't all end in nothing. Where there are no human beings, there\ndwell the silent spirits of the mountains and woods: but if they are\ntoo much squeezed,--for when not prest for room and left in peace they\nwill live on good terms with man and beast,--but when one elbows them\ntoo close, and into their very ribs, they grow pettish and\nmischievous: then come deaths, earthquakes, floods, conflagrations,\nlandslips, and all the other things they bring to pass; or else you\nmust put a stiff yoke on them, and then they will serve you indeed,\nbut against the grain, and the more toll they have to pay to anybody,\nthe worse friends are they to him at the last. Now this, young master,\nis what you are pleased to call fortune.\"\n\nThe dispute would probably have lasted some time longer, unless an\nelderly man had now approacht them, whom Edward, whenever he was able,\nwas glad to avoid. On this occasion however Eleazar came too quickly\nupon him, and besides had so much business to talk over, that the head\noverseer was compelled to stay and hear what the manager of the looms\nhad to say. Eleazar was a little sickly man, self-willed and sullen,\neven more so than his master, the old man of the mountain, as Conrad,\nafter the custom of the neighbourhood, had called him.\n\n\"I heard yesterday,\" said Eleazar, \"of a carriage that was to stop the\nnight in the next town; as I went by I told William of it; and now the\nfellow, who seemed aghast at the tidings, is up and off. My master\nwill as usual have to endure loss and vexation from these vagabond\nknaves, whom he is so fond of trusting before his old tried friends.\"\n\nHis eyes fell on the curious book, he looked into it, and seemed\ndelighted. \"If you like the nonsensical stuff,\" said Edward, \"I will\nmake you a present of it, in case William, for whom I have bought it,\ndoes not return.\"\n\n\"Thank you, thank you, from my heart!\" cried Eleazar, sniggering, as\nhe lifted his sharp little eyes, and a strange smirking grin made his\nyellow crampt face still uglier than before.\n\n\"So you really meant what you said!\" exclaimed the old miner: \"well!\nthe revelations of the spirit of the earth are in better keeping under\nthe guard of that sickly gentleman, than with such a merry\ncare-for-nought.\" He then turned down the hill on the side opposite to\nthat which led toward the town, to betake himself to his mine; while\nEleazar seemed buried in thought as he read with great eagerness in\nhis newly acquired treasure.\n\nMeanwhile Edward was watching a carriage that was toiling up the hill\nfrom the valley, and had just come through the wood. \"Are we to have a\nvisit?\" he exclaimed with some surprise.\n\n\"Heyday! what!\" returned Eleazar: \"it is our old master's carriage to\nbe sure, which he has again been lending to the folks over yonder for\na wedding; and his other coach has been sent off to a christening in\nthe village at the further end of the mountains. Two such equipages!\nand he never uses either himself, since he never stirs out of the\nhouse; and coachmen and lacquies always on their legs to wait on some\nbeggarly strangers, who don't even thank him when his carriages and\nhorses go to wreck, and new ones are to be bought at the end of every\nfour years.\"\n\n\"Can you really find fault with this bountiful kindness?\" replied\nEdward: but Eleazar relieved him from the trouble of prolonging the\ndispute, by carrying off his book in great haste, without once looking\nat him. Edward breathed more freely when delivered from the presence\nof this odious misanthrope, who took every opportunity of loading his\nbenefactor with the bitterest abuse.\n\nThe coach meanwhile was labouring up the second hill; and from the\nslow and unsteady footing of the horses it was evident they must have\ncome out of the plain. The carriage too, Edward now saw clearly, was a\nstrange one, and must probably be bringing some unexpected visitant.\nWith much panting and straining at length the horses dragged the coach\nup the last slope; and an elderly lady got out at the door of the\ngreat house, and sent her maid and servant with the carriage to the\ninn in the town.\n\nEdward was surprised; for the lady, whose face still betrayed that she\nhad once been handsome, was entirely unknown to him. \"You will allow\nme,\" she said with a sweet-toned voice, \"to rest here under the\nportico for a moment; after which I should wish to speak to Herr\nBalthasar.\"\n\nEdward felt at a loss what to do, and led the lady with evident\nuneasiness to a chair in the entrance hall. \"If you will give me\nleave,\" he then said, \"I will attend you into the parlour, and order\nyou some breakfast.\"\n\n\"Thank you for all your kindness,\" she cried: \"the only thing I wish\nfor, is an interview with the master of the house. Is he up yet? In\nwhat room shall I find him?\"\n\n\"That none of us knows,\" answered Edward: \"until he himself opens his\ndoor, nobody ventures to go to him; and it is still shut. His wont\nhowever is to rise early, and he says he sleeps but little. Whether he\nemploys these early solitary hours in reading, or in prayer and\ndevotion, no one can tell; so great is his reserve toward everybody.\nBut as to announcing you--even by and by--I know not: for we all have\nthe strictest orders, never to let in any stranger to him: he speaks\nto no one, except his managers and servants on business at stated\nhours; and from this rule during the twelve years that I have known\nhim he has not once departed. Strangers who have anything to request\nof him must declare their wishes to me or to master Eleazar; and we\neither settle the matter directly ourselves, or, if it does not lie\nimmediately in our power, we make a report to him on the subject,\nwithout his ever setting eyes on the person. These whimsical rules, if\nyou choose so to call them, render his solitude unapproachable; and\nthat is the very thing he wishes.\"\n\n\"O God!\" cried the lady with a tone of anguish: \"and must this journey\nthen, this hard effort of mine, be all utterly in vain? For how could\nI ever find words to express my wishes and requests to a perfect\nstranger? O dear good Sir, your eye bespeaks and reveals the kindness\nof your heart: for my sake, for the sake of a miserable, deeply\nafflicted woman, make an exception this once to the strict custom of\nthe house, and tell your master that I am here.\"\n\nAt this moment they heard the sound of a large bell. \"That is the\nsign,\" said Edward, \"that we may go and speak to him, and that his\nroom is open. I will say everything for you that you wish; but I know\nbeforehand it is to no purpose, and I shall bring down his anger on my\nown head, without doing you any service.\"\n\nHe went dejectedly down the long passage: for it pained him that he\ncould not assist the lady whose noble form moved and interested him.\nOld Balthasar was sitting in deep thought, his head leaning on his\narm, at his writing-table: he looked up cheerfully and kindly at\nEdward's greeting, and held out his hand. When the young man, after\nmaking a long preface to excuse himself and conciliate his master,\nmentioned the wife of a privy-counsellor, whose maiden name was\nFernich, the old man started up suddenly from his desk as if struck by\nlightning, with a frightful cry.\n\n\"Fernich! Elizabeth!\" he then exclaimed, with fearful vehemence; \"she,\nshe here? in my house! O God, O heaven, quickly, quickly let her come\nin! O do make haste, my dear friend;\" he cried out again, and his\nvoice failed him.\n\nEdward was almost terrified, and went back to bring the stranger to\nBalthasar. In the mean time she had been joined by the young lady of\nthe house, an adopted child, but whom the old man loved with the same\ntenderness and treated just as if she had been his own. The stranger\ntrembled, and when she reacht the old man's apartment was near\nfainting: Balthasar dried his tears, and was unable to find words, as\nhe led the pale lady to a chair: he made a sign, and Edward left the\nroom, in great anxiety about his old friend, whom he had never seen so\nstrongly moved, and with whom owing to this singular scene he stood on\nan entirely new footing.\n\n\"It was very good of you, Rose,\" he said to the young blooming girl,\n\"to entertain the stranger lady while she was waiting.\"\n\n\"It was all to very little purpose,\" answered she, blushing: \"for she\nwas so faint and exhausted that, whatever I could say, she did nothing\nbut weep. She must surely be sick, or have some heavy load on her\nheart. It has made me quite sorrowful, and I too have been crying.\nThese eyes in our head are certainly very funny creatures, just like\nlittle children. They run about, and stare, and gaze at every thing\nnew, shining and twinkling with joy; and then they grow so serious and\nsad, and when the pain at one's heart is very sore, they bubble with\ntears and overflow, and anon they become bright and glad again. There\nmust be a vast number of sorrows in the world, my dear Edward.\"\n\n\"May heaven preserve you from any very melancholy trials!\" replied he:\n\"hitherto your young life has glided along as peacefully as a swan\nover a silent pool.\"\n\n\"You fancy,\" cried she laughing, \"that such a thing as I cannot have\nhad any sorrows of its own, much less very bitter and painful ones.\nYou are mightily mistaken.\"\n\n\"Well?\" asked Edward earnestly.\n\n\"One can't remember all in a moment what one's sorrows are,\" said the\ngood-natured girl: \"wait a little. When I think of sundry great\nmisfortunes in the world, about which I have heard people talking at\ntimes, then indeed there does not seem to be very much in what I have\nhad to go through: yet for little things like me a little misfortune\nis quite big enough. Now is not it a real grievance that I must never\nhear music? that I don't know how people look, or how they feel, when\nthey are dancing? Ah, dearest Edward, the other day, when we were\ntaking a drive, we passed by the little inn over yonder on the other\nside of the town, where the country folks were having a dance: their\njumping about, the sound of the fiddles, the strange glee in the airs\nmade such an odd impression on me, I cannot tell whether I felt glad,\nor sad to the very bottom of my heart. Here in our neighbourhood we\nmust never have any music, either in the inn or anywhere else. Then\nwhen I hear of plays and operas, I cannot quite persuade myself that\nsuch wonderful things are really and truly to be found in the world.\nThe lights, the numbers of finely drest people, and then a real stage,\nand a whole story acted upon it, which I am to believe to be true: can\nthere be anything more curious? And is not it then a grievous\naffliction, that I am to grow old here, without ever in my whole life\ncatching a single short glimpse of all these grand doings? Tell me,\ndear Edward, you too are a good man, is this wish of mine, are those\nsights themselves very sinful? Herr Eleazar indeed says they are, and\nmy dear fatherly uncle thinks the same of them, and hates everything\nof the sort: but the king and the magistrates allow them, and learned\npeople approve them, and write and compose the things that are to be\nacted: can all this then be so very wicked?\"\n\n\"My dear child,\" said Edward with the utmost friendliness, \"how sorry\nI am that I cannot procure you even this innocent pleasure! But you\nknow yourself how strict Herr Balthasar is in all these matters.\"\n\n\"O yes,\" she replied: \"why the miners in our town here must never even\nhum a tune; we must never drive more than just two miles from the\ngate; and no amusing book, no poem, no novel is ever let come into the\nhouse. And added to all this we are perpetually frightened with being\ntold that such a number of thoughts and fancies, and all that one is\nfond of dreaming about in many a lonesome hour, are impious sins. At\nsuch times I muse over all sorts of little stories about the loveliest\nspirits, and beautiful vallies, and how the miller finds his love in\nthe mill-stream, who by and by turns out to be a princess and makes\nhim a king, or how the fisherman jumps into the river, and at the\nbottom finds the most glittering and gorgeous wonders. Or a little\nshepherdess is playing with her lambs on the meadow, and a handsome\nprince, sitting upon a great horse, rides by and falls in love with\nher. And then, if the evening bells chance to peal through the dusk,\nand the wind brings the noise of the hammering and knocking from yon\nblack mountain, or I hear the sledge-hammer from afar, I could cry,\nand yet in fact am glad at my very heart. But our surly gloomy\nEleazar, one day that I was telling him of this, abused me bitterly,\nand said that busying oneself with such thoughts is the very pitch of\nsin and wickedness. And yet I can't help it; for it all comes into my\nhead just of its own accord.\"\n\n\"Dear innocent creature!\" said Edward, and seized the blooming girl's\nhand.\n\n\"To you,\" she went on, \"one may talk of all this, and you understand\neverything in the right way: but other people immediately begin\nscolding me, because they put a wrong meaning into everything. It was\njust the same with my old nurse, who is now dead. You had been a long\ntime in the house before I ever thought I could tell you anything or\ntrust you; I was so very little then and used to play with my doll.\nDear Heaven, it is now full ten years since the last time I dandled my\nClary, as we called her. To my old Bridget, and my father, and\nEleazar, and the cook, I thought I might say everything, because they\nwere so grave: you were always laughing; and this made me fancy that\nyou did not rightly belong to us. Now when prayer time came, they would\nnot let me look at Clary, or carry her with me; but she was shut up in\nthe cupboard. This made me very sorry; for I fancied she must be\ncrying after me. So I found out a way, and took her along with me hid\nunder my pinafore, and held her close to my heart to keep her warm;\nand when we came into the prayer-room I began by praying in private to\nGod that he would forgive me if I was too fond of my Clary, that he\nwould pardon me too, great and mighty as he was, for having brought\nher in secret into his high presence, and that he would not think I\nmeant to deceive him or to treat him with disrespect, for he knew it\nwas not so. After this preface I fancied I had made my peace, and\nrepeated my usual prayers very devoutly. Thus all went on well for a\nweek: then Bridget found me out. O gracious! then there was a great to\ndo: even my good father said, this shewed how the human heart from its\nvery infancy is so corrupt and wicked as to give itself up to the\nidolatry of worthless and contemptible things. I cannot understand\neven now what he meant by these words. Whenever one loves anything, is\nit not very beautiful and perfectly right that one does not pry into\nit and finger it too closely? What is a rose, when I pull it to\npieces? It is so perishable, and therefore so dear. Was it my poor\nClary's fault, that she was only a leather doll? Last week I was\nlooking at her again one day, and could not make out myself how I came\nto be so fond of her formerly; and yet I could almost have cried to\nthink that none of the feelings of those days will ever come back to\nme again. But surely this cannot be fickleness in me now, any more\nthan my love ten years ago was idolatry and wickedness.\"\n\n\"Dear angel,\" said Edward tenderly, \"our heart is trained by the love\nof visible perishable objects for the love of the invisible and\neternal. When I see a child playing thus fondly and innocently with\npuppets of its own making, and crying for love and delight over the\nlifeless toy, I could fancy that at such hours angels gather about the\nlittle creature and sport lovingly around it.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" exclaimed Rose, \"that is a beautiful notion!\"\n\n\"When however,\" continued Edward, \"heart truly bends to heart, when\ntwo souls meet and give up themselves to each other in love, this\nfaith and feeling of theirs invests the invisible with a palpable\nreality, and brings it for all eternity before them.\"\n\n\"That again I don't understand,\" said the maiden pondering; \"but if\nyou mean that sort of love which is necessary for a wedding, and to\nmake a truly happy marriage, I think very differently on that score.\"\n\n\"How so?\" asked the young man.\n\n\"That is a hard matter to explain,\" answered the girl, putting on a\nlook of deep thought.\n\n\"Supposing now,\" said Edward, forcing himself to laugh, that he might\nhide his emotion, \"you had to marry tomorrow, whom would you choose?\nWhich of all the men you have hitherto met with, do you like the best?\nHave you enough confidence in me to answer me this question honestly?\"\n\n\"Why should not I?\" she replied: \"for I need not even spend a moment\nin considering the point.\"\n\n\"And ... and the man you have already chosen?\"\n\n\"Is of course our Eleazar.\"\n\nEdward started back in utter amazement. \"A moment ago you did not\nunderstand me, he said after a pause; and now you have told me a\nriddle that terrifies me.\"\n\n\"And yet,\" she answered with perfect simplicity, \"it is the most\nnatural thing in the world. My father too, I fancy, has already made\nup his mind, that our honest Eleazar is to be my future husband. Were\nI to love and choose you, there would be nothing remarkable in it; for\nI like you, and so does every body else; no one can help feeling\nconfidence in you; and at the same time you are very handsome, and\nalways friendly and good-humoured, so that, when one has once become\nacquainted with you, one hardly knows how to live without you. Such\npersons as our William would find a thousand girls to grow fond of\nthem; and it is a pity that he has already run away from us again.\nEven old Conrad, and my father himself, must have been good-looking\nwhen they were younger: but only look at poor Eleazar, who is not so\nvery old yet, and whom not a creature in the house, nay in the whole\nworld can endure;--what is to become of him, if I do not marry him.\"\n\n\"How!\" said Edward interrupting her; \"is your fair life to fall a\nvictim to this fantastical delusion? Can the perplexity in which dark\nspirits involve themselves, entangle the purity of innocence in its\nsnares? and must love itself devise a robe to deck out the most\nfrantic extravagance as an act of noble self-sacrifice and reasonable\nresignation?\"\n\n\"We are quite at cross purposes today,\" she continued calmly. \"It is\nnot that I really love him: I have not even a notion yet what this\nlove they talk of is, or what it means. Let me tell you again about\nthe sorrows of my youth, with which we began. In the days when I was\nstill very fond of my Clary, I had also a cat in the house here, that\nwas no less dear to my childish heart. I even fancied to myself that\nthe doll and the little white playful creature must be very jealous of\neach other on my account. Now Herr Eleazar detested and persecuted\neverything that even looked like a cat; for he says they are\nmalicious. This seems to be a general superstition. Wherever the sleek\nanimals shew their faces, everybody, even the best-natured people,\nwill begin shouting, _puss! puss!_ and will worry and hunt them, as if,\nin pursuing the harmless things, they were driving away Antichrist\nhimself. And this it is that makes them, as no doubt they are, so\nmistrustful and wary. My cat had kittens, which were just nine days\nold, and opening their little blue eyes. What fun and pleasure it is\nfor children, to see the mother with her young ones, and the droll\nsports of the kittens, and their skipping and tumbling and jumping\nabout, nobody who is grown up can understand. On the very same day\nmaster Eleazar had just got a new airgun, which he wanted to try.\nComplaints had for some time been made to my father, that my cat used\nto hunt the singing birds and eat them. It was taking the air behind\nthe house, in the garden, and amusing itself by running up and down\nthe big orange-tree. On the sudden Eleazar shot at it and it fell\ndead; and now the kittens too were to be drowned. Never before had I\nthought him so brown and nasty, so unlike a human being. In the night\nI prayed that God would let him too die; but the very next morning,\nthough I was still such a mere child, it struck me to the heart, how\nvery, very unhappy he must be, that there was no creature he could\nlove, and neither man nor beast could love him; and so I think still.\nSuch an odious creature as he is, he will never find a heart on earth,\nif I were to blot him out of mine.\"\n\n\"Dear little Rose,\" said Edward, somewhat calmer, \"you must not be too\nhasty, and assuredly you will change your mind on this point by and\nby.\"\n\n\"My fate,\" she again began, while the tears mounted into her bright\neyes, \"has in fact been just like that of the poor little kittens;\nonly that God Almighty did not let me be drowned in the same wretched\nmanner. But I too never knew my mother; she had never the happiness of\nbringing me up; she died shortly after my birth. My foster-father here\nis very kind to me; still it must be quite a different feeling to have\na real father; but he too is in his grave. Now, reckoning up all this,\nmethinks we have here made out quite unhappiness enough for so young a\nthing.\"\n\n\"Dearest Rose,\" said Edward after a pause, \"would it give you any\npain, if you knew that I too was very unhappy? or if I too were gone?\"\n\n\"Alas! my dear good friend,\" she exclaimed, \"don't make me cry. I tell\nyou, I never liked anybody so well as you. But happy and gay as you\nare, with all the world so fond of you, you can do very well without\nmy love. But I cannot do without yours.\"\n\nA servant now came and called Edward away to the old man. The\nconversation must have been of deep interest; for Balthasar as well as\nthe stranger seemed dissolved in tears, though both were trying hard\nto collect themselves.\n\n\"My dear friend,\" said the old man with a broken voice, \"my good\ngentle Edward, will you conduct the stranger lady to the inn; but at\nthe same time take along with you four thousand dollars in gold and\nbills out of my strong-box. No human being however, I trust and charge\nyou, must know of this affair, least of all Eleazar. Only conceive,\nthe savage has left three letters of the highest importance from this\npoor woman to me without an answer. His not shewing them to me I can\nforgive, since on that point he has full powers from me.\"\n\nHis wishes were executed, and the stranger set off again in the\nafternoon in better spirits, without paying her old friend another\nvisit.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe next day Balthasar sent Edward a summons to his room. When he had\nlockt the door he began: \"You are the only person entrusted with a\ncircumstance and a connexion, which agitated me so deeply yesterday\nthat I was unable to tell you anything about it. As however I look\nupon you quite in the light of my son, I feel myself bound to disclose\nsomething more of myself and my story to you, than any mortal man has\never yet heard.\"\n\nThey sat down: the old man gave his young friend his hand, which the\nlatter prest cordially, and then said: \"You cannot doubt my affection\nand friendship; and what you confide to me will in my hands be as\nsecret as in the silent grave.\"\n\n\"I have watcht you this long time,\" said the old man, \"and know you\nwell. Hitherto we have had but little talk together; I am now forced\nto change and break through my usage with regard to you, and I am\nanxious besides that there should be a being who knows and understands\nme.\"\n\nEdward's curiosity was roused; and the old man went on with a\ntremulous voice: \"I am still so much moved, my whole frame is still so\nmuch disordered by yesterday's shock, that you must have patience with\nmy weakness. That my life is a cheerless one, that I have long\nrenounced all those recreations and enjoyments, which are in fact the\nonly things most men live for, you must long ago have remarkt. From my\nyouth up I have got out of the way of pleasure, with a feeling which I\nmight almost call dread. Educated by a rigid father, who lived in the\ngreatest penury, my childhood and youth were merely suffering and\nsorrow. When I grew bigger, my ripening understanding only enabled me\nmore distinctly to perceive the misery of my parents and the\nwretchedness of the whole earth. Often for many nights together no\nsleep visited my eyes, which were flowing with tears. Thus my\nimagination accustomed itself to view the whole world as nothing but a\nplace of punishment, where sorrow and need were the lot of all, and\nsuch as were raised above the sordid wants of life were but in a yet\nsadder state of silly delusion, in which they neither recognized their\nown calling nor the destiny of mankind, but giving themselves up to\nvapid pleasures and pitiful comforts reeled along toward the grave.\nOne single star shed its light through this dark gloom,--but it was as\nfar beyond my reach as if it had stood in the heavens,--my relation\nElizabeth, whom you saw: she was rich, highborn, and bred to a life of\nsplendour and luxury. A cousin of mine, Helbach, who was still richer\nand haughtier, was designed for her husband: our family scarcely ever\nsaw these proud relations of theirs; and my stern father had a special\nhatred for them, and never spake but with rancour of their\nextravagance. This hatred he also transferred to me, when he\ndiscovered my secret and strong affection. He gave me his curse, if I\never dared to think of that lovely and beloved being. Nor was it long\nbefore she was married to her overbearing kinsman; one stream of\nwealth flowed into the other, and produced such a splendid way of\nliving that the whole town felt envy at it. My mother's brother, who\ngave his son this large fortune, was so much ashamed of our poverty,\nthat he did not even invite my parents to the wedding; which so\ngreatly increast the vexation and annoyance of my father, already a\nprey to bitter mortification, that the after-throes of this insult\nbrought him to the grave. My poor mother soon followed him. Of myself\nI will say nothing. If life had hitherto worn a dark aspect in my\neyes, it now changed into a spectre, whose ghastly, distorted features\nand looks at first struck me with horrour, and afterward, when use\nmade me cold and indifferent, taught me to despise everything, above\nall myself. Elizabeth had known of my passion. Rarely as we saw each\nother, she had taken no pains to conceal the affection with which she\nanswered mine. Though she was not like me utterly dead to all joy, yet\na shade was cast over her whole existence, and heavy clouds covered\nit. She has suffered enough since. Her husband was a profligate\nspendthrift; he squandered thousands from vanity, and for paltry,\ncontemptible purposes. It would look as if a number of ill-starred\nmen bore a kind of malice and hatred against money, so that they have\nrecourse to the strangest devices to drive it away from them on every\nside, while the miser hugs and cherishes it with a blind devotion, and\nlets himself be crusht by his idol. Elizabeth was weak enough to give\nup her property to him unconditionally, and, when his credit had\nalready fallen, to declare herself bound by his debts; and thus the\nvery house into which all the gods of Olympus had seemed to enter,\nbringing eternal joy as their gift, became a scene of misery,\nconfusion, hatred, and strife. The wretched husband, counsellor\nHelbach, has sold his last shilling for an annuity, without a thought\nabout his wife and son. This son of his is as it were possest by the\nfuries, unruly, headstrong, and without feeling: he ran into debt,\nthen took to swindling, and finally, two years ago, when his weeping\nmother was trying to admonish him, abused and even struck her in his\nbrutal rage. After this grand feat he set off into the wide world. His\nfather meanwhile revels and laughs, devouring his income, which must\nstill be large, at well-stored tables. This made her come to me,\nsubduing her pride and her feelings, in order that I might relieve her\nfrom a debt, which would have brought her to shame and to a prison.\nThese twenty years past she has been longing to die, but still lives,\nan object of horrour to herself, and of pleasure to nobody.--Send her\na thousand dollars every quarter: she has promist me that her\nabandoned husband shall know nothing of this assistance either now or\nhereafter.\"\n\nEdward saw the old man's deep anguish, and was long silent: at last he\nbegan: \"But how could Eleazar be so cruel as not to tell you of those\nletters?\"\n\n\"I was in the wrong,\" replied the old man, \"to find fault with him for\nit yesterday. He acts in my name, and knows well that I am weak and\nsoft-hearted: the particulars he was not aware of, and so only did his\nduty. Indeed I know not myself after all whether I have done rightly\nin following my torn and deeply agitated heart: for perhaps still she\nmay have too little firmness to keep the wretch in ignorance of what\nhas happened; in spite of everything he is her husband, and of all her\nties his are the closest. You no doubt, because you love me, but are\nof a tender disposition so that distress affects you, would have acted\notherwise, and better; and yet probably were I to put myself entirely\nin your hands, you would spoil me and ruin me: for no quality a man\ncan have is so dangerous as vanity, which draws food from everything.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by vanity?\" asked Edward.\n\n\"All our feelings,\" answered the old man, \"the best and honestest, the\ngentlest and blissfullest, are rooted in this poisonous soil. But more\nof this another time. I only wanted to tell you briefly, how I\nacquired my fortune, how my character took that cast under which you\nhave learnt to know me. After my parents death I fulfilled my father's\nlast wish by uniting myself to a girl who was also a distant relation\nof our family. She was poor, unprovided, unprotected, had grown up\namid straits without any kind of education; at the same time she was\nhideously ugly, and her temper was so morose and quarrelsome, that I\nnever spent a pleasant hour with her, and had very few peaceful ones\nso long as she lived. My situation was horrible.\"\n\n\"But how came you to marry her?\" said Edward.\n\n\"Because I had given my word to my father,\" continued Balthasar; \"and\nbecause it is a principle of mine, that man must never gratify his\npassions, least of all that of love. My conviction is, that our life\nis a state of torment and woe; and the more we try to escape from\nthese feelings, the more awful vengeance do our terrours afterward\ntake upon us. As to why this is so, who can fathom that question?\"\n\n\"This belief,\" answered Edward, \"is extremely strange, and at variance\nwith all our wishes, nay with everyday experience.\"\n\n\"O how scanty then must your experience have been hitherto!\" replied\nthe old man. \"Everything lives and moves, only to die and to rot:\neverything feels, only to feel pangs. Our inward agony spurs us on to\nwhat we call joy; and all wherewith spring and hope and love and\npleasure beguile mankind, is only the inverted sting of pain. Life is\nwoe, hope sadness, thought and reflexion despair.\"\n\n\"And supposing all to be so,\" said Edward somewhat timidly, \"do we not\nfind comfort and help in religion?\"\n\nThe old man lifted up his eyes and gazed fixedly in his young\ncompanion's face: his dark look grew brighter, not however with\npleasure or any soft emotion; but so strange a smile ran across his\npale furrowed features, that it lookt very much like scorn; and Edward\ninvoluntarily thought of the miner's words.\n\n\"Let us turn aside from this theme for today,\" said the old man with\nhis usual gloomy air; \"we shall probably find time hereafter to speak\nof it. Thus I lived on in my state of damnation, and the thought of\nElizabeth shone with a friendly but heart-piercing light into the hell\naround me. Still the frenzy of life had laid fast hold on me, and made\nme too take my place in the vast bedlam, and go through my part under\nthe great task-master. People tell you that death cures all; others\nagain look forward to being transported from one workhouse to another,\nwhere they shall keep on playing the fool through all eternity and\nevaporating in an endless succession of illusions. With a little\nmoney--it would be ridiculous were I to mention the sum; many take so\nmuch merely to fill their bellies--I engaged in a small line of\nbusiness. It succeeded. I made a petty mercantile speculation. It\nturned out well. I entered into partnership with a man of considerable\nproperty. It seemed as if I had a talent of always guessing and\nforeboding where gain and profit were lying hid in distant countries,\nin uninviting, or hazardous undertakings; something like what is said\nof the divining rod, that it will hit upon metals and upon water. As\nmany gardeners have a lucky hand, so in trade I prospered in every,\neven the most unpromising speculation. It was neither strength of\nunderstanding nor extent of knowledge, but mere luck. One becomes a\nman of understanding however, so soon as one has luck. My partner was\nastonisht; and, as he had a small estate here, we removed into this\ncountry, where till the time of his death we went on enlarging the\nnumber of our houses of business and manufactories. When he died, and\nI had settled my accounts with his heir, I might already have been\naccounted a rich man. But a feeling of awe came upon me along with\nthis property as they call it. For how great is the responsibility for\nmanaging it rightly! And why were so many honest men unfortunate,\nwhile with me everything throve so unaccountably? After a number of\npainful years my wife also died: without children, without friends, I\nwas again alone. How singularly that blind being, that men call\nfortune, pampered me, you may see from the following story. I always\nfelt an aversion to play at cards or any other game for money. For\nwhat does a gambler do, but declare that he will exalt the wretched\nstuff, to which even as money he attaches such an inordinate value,\ninto an oracle and a promulgation of the divine will? And then he\nstakes his heart and soul on this delusion: the freaks of chance,\nthings utterly without meaning, are to calculate and make out for him\nby certain fantastical combinations, what he is worth, how he is\nfavoured: his dark passions start up when he supposes that this chance\nneglects him; he triumphs when he fancies it sides with him; his blood\nflows more rapidly, his head is in an uprore, his heart throbs\ntumultuously, and he is more wretched than the madman that is lying in\nchains, when every card, down to the very last, turns up against him.\nLook you, this is the king of the creation in his patcht beggar's\ngarb, which he takes to be a royal robe.\"\n\nThe old man almost laught, and Edward replied: \"Such is the case with\nall life; it runs along on a narrow line between truth and fancy,\nbetween reality and delusion.\"\n\n\"Be it so!\" cried Balthasar. \"But no more of this. I was only going to\ntell you how I let myself be persuaded by my partner in the last year\nof his life to put for once into the neighbouring lottery. I did so\nagainst my own feelings; because these institutions appear to me\ndeserving of the severest punishment. By them the state sanctions\nhighway-robbery and murder. Even without such things ill-fated man is\nimmoderately inflamed by the lust of gain. I had already forgotten the\npaltry concern, when I heard I had gained the great prize: after\nreceiving the payment it never let me rest. What the vulgar fable of\nevil spirits, had come into my house along with these money-bags. This\nunblest sum supplied the funds for the hospital for sick old women in\nthe valley a couple of leagues off, the building of which has been\nmade such a merit of by senseless newspaper-scribes. What had I\ncontributed toward it? Not even a stroke of the pen. Now you will\nunderstand how my perpetual gains, and the sums that flowed in to me\nfrom every venture, compelled me to plunge into fresh speculations,\nand how this has been going on year after year upon an ever-widening\nscale. And thus there is neither rest nor pause, until death will at\nlength put the last full stop to the matter for this bout. Then some\none else will of course begin to rave on just where I left off, and\nthe same invisible power will perhaps meet his folly under the shape\nof misfortune.\"\n\nEdward knew not what to say. \"You are not yet used,\" the old man\ncontinued, \"to my words and expressions, because we have never yet\ntalked upon these matters; you do not yet know my way of thinking; and\nas these feelings, these views of life are still new to you, you are\nsurprised. Believe me, my good fellow, the only thing that keeps one\nfrom going mad, is swimming silently along with the stream, letting\nfive always pass for even, and fitting oneself to that which cannot be\nchanged. At the same time there is also another remedy that may serve\nto keep one afloat. One may lay down certain fixt unshakable\nprinciples, a line of conduct from which one never swerves. Money,\nwealth, gain, the circulation and the flowing of property and of the\nprecious metals toward every quarter, through every relation of life,\nand every region of the earth, are one of the very strangest devices\nthe world ever hit upon. It is a creature of necessity like every\nthing else; and as there is nothing on which passion has seized with\nsuch force, it has bred it up to be a monster more chimerical and wild\nthan anything the fever of a heated fancy ever dreamt of. This monster\nis incessantly devouring and preying on all that comes within its\nreach; nothing satiates it; it gnaws and crunches the bones of the\ndestitute, and laps up their tears. That in London and Paris before a\npalace, where a single banquet costs a thousand pieces of gold, a poor\nman should die of starvation, when the hundredth part of a piece of\ngold might save him,--that families should perish in frantic\ndespair,--that there should be madness and suicide in the very room\nwhere a couple of paces off gamblers are rioting in gold,--all this\nseems so natural to us, such a matter of course, that we no longer\nfeel any surprise at it; and everybody takes for granted with\ncold-blooded apathy, that it all must be so, and cannot be otherwise.\nHow every state pampers this money-monster!--indeed it cannot help\ndoing so--and trains it up to be more ferocious! In many countries\nwealth can no longer increase except among the rich, whereby the poor\nwill be still more impoverisht, until at length Time will cast up the\ndismal sum, and then draw a bloody pen across the appalling amount.\nWhen I found myself thus rich, I held it to be my duty to keep this\nwealth in controul, so far as man can, and to tame the wild beast.\nUnquestionably the creation has been doomed to woe; else war, disease,\nfamine, pain, and passion would not run riot and lay waste so.\nExistence and torment are one and the same word: nevertheless every\none who does not mean wantonly to play the fiend, is bound to\nalleviate misery wherever he can. There is no property in the sense\nwhich most people put on the word; there ought not to be any, and the\nattempt to keep hold of it is godless. Still worse is it to spread\ncalamity by the influence of wealth. Thus then I administer mine, so\nas to help my neighbours, to find work for the poor, care and remedies\nfor the sick; and by an ever-increasing activity I strive to bring\nthings into such a state, that as many as possible shall eat their\nbread without tears and anguish, shall gather pleasure from their\nchildren and their occupations, and that, so far as my eye and arm can\nreach, the creation may not be the object of as many curses here, as\nin other villages and towns.\"\n\n\"The blessings you diffuse,\" Edward threw in, \"must make you also\nhappy.\"\n\n\"Blessings!\" repeated the old man and shook his head. \"It is all a\nmere drop in the ocean. How short is the time within which even the\nchild that is now sucking at the breast must needs die! This time,\nthese hundreds and thousands of years, how they mock at our frail\nedifices! how Oblivion triumphs in every part of the earth, with ruins\ncrumbling beneath her feet! and Destruction, while with unfeeling\nmalignity she tramples every form of life in the dust! I have just\nbeen comforting my good Elizabeth today. But can I really comfort her?\nShe is for ever haunted by the thought of her destiny, of her life, of\nher lost youth, of her having flung herself away on a worthless being,\nof her having brought a tiger as her son into the world. In her dreams\nshe is visited by the feeling, whether asleep or waking it pursues\nher, and thrills through every fibre, that she once loved me, perhaps\nloves me still; and so her heart has to bear my wretchedness along\nwith her own. True she may now and then relish a morsel somewhat\nbetter; she may now and then forget herself, perhaps over some silly\nbook, delighting in the good fortune of others, and feeling interest\nin afflictions which are merely faint shadows of her own; and this\nsentimental folly may help her over half a dozen minutes a little more\nat her ease. Verily it is a grand achievement that I have been able to\ndo this for her. The consciousness however, that neither her husband\nnor her son, the offspring of her own blood and body, and surely of\nher soul too, is to know anything of my bounty, as it would be called,\nor else her sufferings will increase--do you not perceive how pitiful\nthis, and the whole of life is? But let us break off, and tell me\ninstead what news you have heard.\"\n\nEdward informed him that William had again gone off suddenly and\nwithout assigning any cause. \"I am glad of it,\" answered the old man;\n\"I always took him for our thief, and winkt hard in looking at him,\nthat I might not ruin him utterly: this indulgence however must have\ncome to an end. I was exceedingly fond of him, and for that very\nreason only hated him the more.\"\n\n\"How do you mean?\" asked the young man.\n\n\"Why,\" replied the other, \"foolishly enough I felt charmed by his\ncountenance, by the soft sound of his voice, by his whole look and\nair: this perverse sympathy will keep following us everywhere. I took\na liking to him: and catching my heart in this piece of folly, I\npunisht myself by conceiving a downright aversion to the fellow, as we\nshould and must do to everything we are greatly delighted with.\"\n\nEdward wanted to ask further questions, but the striking of the clock\ncalled him to his business, and being dismist by the old man he went\naway, with a multitude of thoughts concerning this singular\nconversation, to meditate further upon it at leisure.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhenever Edward's thoughts now recurred, as they often did, to the\nnature of his situation, that and every thing connected with it, the\nappointment which had fixt him in this secluded spot, the business he\nwas engaged in, as well as the persons with whom he had to hold\nintercourse, appeared to him in a light totally different from before.\nHe was loth to acknowledge to himself how forcibly and singularly his\nimagination had been wrought upon by his late discourse with Rose.\nHitherto he had only lookt on her as a pleasing child; but now the\nlovely girl became an object to which expectations and silent hopes\nattacht themselves: he watcht her more attentively; he talked oftener\nto her and more at length; and the budding of her youthful soul, the\nfrank artlessness of her thoughts, interested his heart more and more.\nAnd then, when he recollected the hideous, sallow-faced Eleazar, with\nhis surly morose temper, and thought that this tender flower had\nalready in secret devoted herself as a sacrifice to so odious a\ncreature, his anger was moved by this absurd project, which at other\ntimes again he could not help smiling at. Eleazar had been absent for\nsome days past. He had not taken much pains to conceal that he was\ngoing into the lonely, remote parts of the mountains in search of\nthose marks which he had read of in the master miner's book. This\nabsurdity sorted well with his strange dreamy character; for he was\nperpetually poring over books of magic and alchemical treatises, had a\nlaboratory in his room, and would often boast in pretty intelligible\nhints that he had found the philosopher's stone. When Edward bethought\nhimself of his singular conversation with his old master, and of the\nsentiments he had given vent to during that confidential hour, he no\nlonger regarded it as improbable that Balthasar should have been led\nby his wild moody whims to design his blooming foster-daughter for the\nwife of the gloomy Eleazar. A shudder came over him to think with what\ndark and perplext spirits he was so closely linkt; his head went round\nwith the giddiness of all about him, and he seemed almost to lose his\nhold on himself. This made him still more regret the loss of young\nWilliam: at the same time his annoyances were increast by the\nrobberies of the warehouse, which instead of ceasing were carried on\nwith more audacity than ever. He himself had entertained a slight\nsuspicion of William, and was quite unable to make out how the crime\nwas perpetrated.\n\nIn this mood it was with no very friendly welcome that he met Eleazar\non his return from his wild-goose chace. Eleazar too grew highly\nindignant, when he heard that the robberies had been continued during\nhis absence with the greatest impudence; and as he could not justly\ncharge Edward with any negligence or supineness, this first\nconversation between them, little as they had ever been disposed to\nagree, took a tone of still more bitterness than usual. As soon as his\nhateful companion was gone, Edward determined to do what he now could\nnot help regarding as his indispensable duty, by speaking more\nseriously than ever to Herr Balthasar on this subject.\n\nThese depredations, which were prosecuted with so much security,\nexcited the wonder of the whole neighbourhood; and at the public-house\nin the town there was often much talk about them. Old Conrad was\nsitting in the wooden arm-chair beside the stove, and was just telling\nthe fat thriving landlord the details of the last robbery, when a\nstranger came in, who immediately gave himself out to be a travelling\nminer. The stranger was much younger than Conrad, and therefore at\nfirst modestly said but little, and merely asked a few questions,\ninsinuating however that there might probably be means of soon\nbringing the matter to light, if his advice were but to be followed.\nBy these hints the curiosity of some peasants who happened to be\npresent, having come with corn from the plain several miles off to\nthis town high up among the mountains, was vehemently aroused. Conrad,\nwho lookt upon himself as the wisest person in the company, became\ngrave and monosyllabic, waiting to hear what this new device or scheme\nfor detecting the thief, would end in.\n\n\"You must lay a charm,\" said the stranger, \"which the thief, when he\nhas once set foot within it, will not be able to escape from; and so,\nas soon as the sun rises, you are sure to find him.\"\n\n\"And what is such a charm to be made of?\" asked Andrew, who was the\nforwardest of the peasants.\n\nConrad laught aloud and scornfully, while he said: \"Clownish dolts,\ndon't thrust in your tongues, when people are debating about matters\nof art and science; stick to your straw and your chaff; they are\nthings you are better skilled in handling. Proceed, knowing sir,\" he\nadded, looking with suspicious graciousness toward the stranger; \"how\ndo you mean that such a charm or spell is to be prepared, so as to be\ncertain of its effect?\"\n\nThe stranger, whose pale face formed a singular contrast with the\nstout dusky-hued Conrad, the fat host, and the puffy cheeks of the\npeasants, said with a somewhat stifled voice: \"Yew twigs cut and\npeeled beneath the new moon, and then boiled at the first quarter in a\ndecoction of wolf's milk and hemlock, which itself must have been\npreviously made on the selfsame night, are to be stuck in the earth,\nwhile some words that I know are repeated, at certain distances round\nthe spot where the robbery is committed; and the thief, be he ever so\ndaring, and ever so learned in laying spells and breaking them, will\nbe unable to step out of this circle, and will stand in fear and\ntrembling, till the persons who set the magical trap pounce upon him\nin the morning. I have often seen this practist in Hungary and\nTransylvania, and it has always succeeded.\"\n\nConrad was about to answer, but the pert Andrew was beforehand with\nhim and cried: \"My grandfather, the smith, had a spell with\nabracadabra, which was to be repeated backward and forward, along with\ncertain verses of the Bible; and when he had said these words, every\nthief, whether he was in the wood, on the high road, or in the field,\nwas forced to halt on the sudden in the middle of his running,--or, if\nhe was riding on horseback, it was just the same--and to wait in\nterrour and affright, so that even children if they chose might seize\nhold of him.\"\n\nConrad gave the peasant a look of inexpressible contempt, and then\nturning with ambiguous courtesy to the strange miner, said: \"You are a\nman of experience and knowledge, as it seems; nevertheless your\nwell-meant advice will hardly meet with acceptance here. For first the\nold man of the mountain will never have anything to do with sorcery\nand witchcraft, because he hates every kind of superstition, even that\nwhich is pious and unavoidable, much more then one of this sort, which\nhe must needs hold to be utterly accurst. Besides you don't even know\nin what way the thief goes to work, so as to take proper measures\nagainst him.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" asked the stranger, somewhat abasht, but whose\ncuriosity was stirred.\n\n\"Have you never heard,\" continued Conrad, \"or read of those wonderful\npersons, or, as you have been such a great traveller, have you\nyourself never stumbled upon such, whose eyes can pierce through a\nboard, through wainscot and wall, nay down into the depths of the\nearth and into the heart of a mountain?\"\n\n\"In Spain,\" replied the stranger, \"there are said to be men, who\nwithout the help of a divining-rod can find out treasures and metals\nwith their bodily eyes, even though they should be lying ever so deep\nunder rocks or forests.\"\n\n\"Just so,\" proceeded Conrad; \"Zahori, or Zahuri is the name borne, as\nI have heard tell, by the people who have carried their power and\nknowledge to this pitch. Only nobody knows whether one man can learn\nthis of another, or whether it is a natural gift, or proceeds from a\nleague with the evil one.\"\n\n\"From the devil certainly!\" cried Andrew interrupting him, having been\ngradually poking in his face nearer and nearer.\n\n\"I am not talking to you, lowland lubber,\" said Conrad; \"you would do\nbetter to seat yourself behind the stove; that is your right place\nwhen people are canvassing grave questions of science.\"\n\nAndrew muttered, and angrily drew back his chair a little; whereupon\nConrad went on; \"Look you man, this art in many countries is not the\nonly one, nor even the highest, profitable as it may be for\ndiscovering veins of metal, or even gold and silver. Of much greater\nweight however, and far more formidable are those who have a power in\ntheir eyes to do one an injury, and with a single glance can infect\none with a disease, a fever, a jaundice, a fit of madness, or even\nlook one dead. The better and godlier part of these persons hence\nalways of their own accord wear a bandage before one of their\neyes--for this power will often exist only on one side--so that they\nmay walk about and deal with their neighbours, without harming them.\"\n\n\"Of these I have never heard,\" replied the stranger.\n\n\"That is matter of surprise to me,\" continued the old miner with the\nmost perfect gravity: \"for since you come from Hungary, and probably\nwere born there, where you have such a sight of vampires, or\nblood-sucking corpses, such swarms of goblins and manikins of the\nmountains, dwarfs and subterraneous creatures, that will often come\nacross you even by broad daylight, I fancied everything belonging to\nwitchcraft must be in high vogue there and generally notorious.\"\n\n\"No,\" answered the traveller, \"I never up to this present instant\nheard anything of these prodigies, much as I have seen and myself\nexperienced that by such as have not been so far from home may be\ndeemed remarkable enough.\"\n\n\"Now then,\" said Conrad taking up his word again, \"when the Zahori, as\nthey call him, has once got so far that with his naked eye, instead of\nquietly seeing the treasures beneath his feet, he can give anyone a\nfit of sickness or put him to death, he has only one step further to\nbecome perfect and a master in his art. Look you, my good stranger,\nwhen he has thus reacht the highest degree, he will set himself down\nbefore a dish of baked meat, while it is still standing in the oven\ncovered up and shut down, and without anybody being able to observe\nhim will with his mere eyes devour you a goose, or a hare, or whatever\nit may be, swallowing it up so clean and neat, that, if he chooses,\nnot a bone will be left. Place some nuts before him or melons, he will\neat up all the kernel or pulp out of them, without making even a\nsingle scratch on the shell or rind, but leaving them undamaged just\nas if everything was still within. He has had a good meal; nobody can\nprove, or even suspect what he has done; and others have nothing left\nthem but a fruitless search.\"\n\n\"The devil again!\" cried Andrew; \"that's the trick I should like, if I\ncould learn the art.\"\n\n\"An artist of this sort,\" continued the old miner, \"may however ascend\na great deal higher; for such things after all would be merely a jest.\nIf he has a spite against any one, he can pluck his heart out of his\nbody with a look, just as easily as his money out of his pocket. The\nenemy he sets eye on will waste away and die miserably, or will sink\ninto beggary, while he himself becomes as rich as ever he pleases.\"\n\n\"It makes ones mouth water!\" cried Andrew unconsciously, so completely\nwas he carried away by the visions presented to him.\n\nConrad turned his back upon him, drew his chair nearer to the miner,\nand then said: \"If we had not this rabble so close at our side, I\ncould explain the matter to you with greater tranquillity of mind. The\ntruth is this. When the Zahuri has been promoted from being an\napprentice or pounding-lad, to be a brother, and then a master or\nmine-surveyor, he will seat himself on his chair in his room, here\noverhead in this inn, or wherever it may be, will think of the\nwarehouse of our old man of the mountain, or of the London docks, or\nof some place down in Spain where he knows that some banker, jeweller,\nor ship-master has valuable goods in his hands, and so soon as ever he\nthinks of them with his eyes, he has them before him, and nobody knows\nof it or can hinder it. In like manner by merely willing it he can\nalso send them forthwith from the place whence he takes them, to\nRussia, or Calcutta, or anywhere else, and bring back the money he\nasks for them. Now should there be a man of this class living here, in\nthe neighbourhood, or even in America, and he took a fancy to rob the\nwarehouse, you will easily understand, with your unassisted reason,\nthat then your peeled and boiled twigs would be of just as much avail,\nas a basin of well-made water gruel to cure an earthquake.\"\n\nThe stranger had wit enough to perceive that Conrad was making a fool\nof him; but the peasants, though there were some things that puzzled\nthem, swallowed all these nonsensical stories. Conrad exulted in his\nsuperiority, and went on: \"Look you man, if there were no conjurers of\nthis kind, how would all the contraband goods get in, which we find in\nevery part of the world? and this is the reason why the preventive\nservice can do so little, however strict and vigilant they may be. The\nlearning the art indeed must probably cost some trouble; and this no\ndoubt is why so very few seem to reach any mastery in it.\"\n\n\"All that you have been telling me,\" answered the traveller, is mighty\nstrange; \"and perhaps the neatest way of winding up our dialogue would\nbe, if I were to affirm that I am one of the masters in this art.\nHowever you would immediately require some specimen of my skill; and\nat that indeed I might boggle a little. Nevertheless be it in earnest\nor in jest that you have been talking all this while, there is most\nunquestionably, as no rational being will dispute, a number of\nincomprehensible and marvellous things in the world.\"\n\nConrad, who in the mean time had been regaling himself with some\nstrong beer, and fancied he had gained a complete victory over his\nunknown antagonist, was irritated by this rejoinder, and the more so\nbecause the peasants, who had heard the conversation, were not capable\nof undertaking the part of arbitrators.\n\n\"Heyday!\" he now exclaimed; \"you seem to me to be one of those people\nwho have hardly a notion as to what is marvellous or what natural.\nHave you ever seen spirits with your own eyes, as I have? Have you\never held conversations with goblins, with the little creatures that\ngo into and come out of the mountain-lord's great house there? Have\nyou ever seen metals and precious stones a-growing? or gold and silver\ntrees waving and tossing about, all alive and vegetating?\"\n\n\"Do you believe then,\" asked the stranger, \"that stones grow and\ndecay, that metals shoot up and propagate their species? Do you fancy\nthat the beds under the earth sprout up just like a potatoe-field?\"\n\n\"I know nothing about potatoes and all such vermin!\" cried Conrad in a\npassion,--it being something new to him to have an unknown, and, as it\nseemed, an insignificant person lord it over him: \"But that metals and\nrocks have life and motion in them every body is aware, that they grow\nup and die away, and that, as there is sunshine and moonshine here\nabove, rain and mist, frost and heat, so there are vapours and blasts\nthere below, which burst in and rush out, and boil invisibly in the\ndark there, and mould themselves into shape. One of these blasts will\ncurdle into a mist, and then it trickles down, and intermarries with\nthe essences of the hills and of the regions under the earth; and\naccording to the course and form the steam takes then, it begets\nmetals or stones, it quickens into silver or gold, or runs along as\niron and copper branching out or cleft asunder in veins that strike\nfar and near.\"\n\n\"What then, are you so far behind all the rest of the world here!\"\nasked the stranger with every mark of astonishment. \"O my good friend,\nwith your leave, ever since the creation, or at all events ever since\nthe deluge, the mountains, and stones, and rocks, and metals, and\ngems, have been lockt up in their houses and never gadded abroad. We\ndig and delve in here at top, and hardly get even at deepest below the\nupper skin of the warts, as the mountains are in comparison to the\nwhole earth, much such a part as a nail-paring is of a man. Wherever\nwe can set foot, we grub up these primeval stores, so far as we need\nthem; and nothing ever shoots forth again, neither coal nor diamond,\nneither copper nor lead; and your notion of the matter is a mere\nsuperstition. In Africa, they tell us a story, people used from time\nto time to find little grains of gold in a sandpit, which they had to\ndeliver up to the poor black king as his property. With the help of\nthese he would then buy all sorts of things from foreiners. One day\ngoing a little deeper they fell in with two good-sized lumps of massy\nsolid gold. The slaves in great delight carried the fruit of their\nlabours to their black master, it being more than they had found for\nten years past, and they thought how overjoyed the poor man would be\nat becoming rich thus all at once. But they were mistaken. The wise\nold king said: 'Look ye, my friends, these pieces are the father and\nmother of that little brood of gold grains which we have constantly\nbeen finding for ages: carry them back immediately and set them in the\nvery same place, that they may be able to go on producing fresh ones.\nUnless you do so, we should get a vast gain for the moment, but should\nlose a lasting source of profit for ever hereafter.' The moor was a\ngoosecap, was not he?\"\n\n\"Very far from it,\" cried Conrad, growing more and more enraged; \"he\nwas quite right not to meddle with that which goes on in secret;\nalthough we, as miners, cannot see the matter exactly in the same\nlight as he did. Solid masses have grown like the rest of us; and who\ncan say whether they may not enliven and further the shooting and\ncoalescing of the metallic particles round about them?\"\n\n\"I tell you however,\" replied the stranger, \"that sprouting and\ngrowing, and spreading out into the regions of the air, or in the form\nof roots underground, are the properties of plants only. Stones rest\nin themselves; vegetables feed on light and warmth and moisture, and\ntransform the particles of the earth they stand on into means of\ngrowth and enlargement. Then animals start off and break loose from\nthe elements; but they move within them, and carry their roots about\nwith them in their entrails.\"\n\n\"No! no!\" screamed Conrad, still more violently: \"In this way the\nwhole world, and above all my glorious mountains, with their\nglittering subterraneous chambers, will be hocus-pocust into mere\nstore-houses, wretcheder ones than if they were made of wood, into\nmiserable wareshops and stalls. What then would the dwarfish sprites,\nand the mighty mountain-spirit, and all the goblins and elvish imps,\nand the swarm of gnomes there below have to do? and yet they are\nalways, some of them cleverly, some of them clumsily, putting their\nhands to the wheel. And the waters! and the vapours! O thou blind and\ndeaf generation, that wilt not see and understand, what is yet much\nmore easily comprehensible than your dead, lifeless world! If life and\ngrowth, and the workings by which life is propagated and multiplied,\ncan ever come to a standstill, then in your own realm too, in the\nplaces where you fancy you see life, it is a sheer illusion and cheat.\nThe solid earth is alive, but in a different manner; and when it\nhappens to draw in its breath, when the old giant yawns and stretches\nhis tired limbs, and tries to arrange them more comfortably, you are\nall aghast, and set up a howl about earthquakes, while your walled\nhovels are running after you for variety's sake, and your towers are\ntumbling into your pockets and slippers.\"\n\n\"You are a strange man,\" said the other, \"and much too hot-headed to\nlisten to reason. Surely we ought to love truth above our puerile\nprejudices. We do not make nature, but she is already such as she is,\nspread out before us, for us to watch her ways and learn from her\nteaching.\"\n\n\"Nature!\" exclaimed the old miner; \"that is just another of their\nstupid words! My mountain has nothing to do with nature; it is my\nmountain. About that I know everything; of your nature I know nothing\nat all. Just as if a tailor, who had a coat to make, were to keep on\nprating about nothing but wool, and merino sheep! To such a pitch have\npeople already brought matters, that they can't look at anything as\nwhat it is, but search out some great big generality to which they may\ntie it and slay it and embowel it. What say you to this? I once talked\nto a man out of Hungary, a fellow-countryman of yours, but he had his\nwits more about him; and he told me of a vine, I believe not far from\nTokay, which must have stood upon a vein of gold, and in which a\nstream of gold brancht out and ran through all the wood. He shewed me\na bit of this vine, and I could clearly see and distinguish the\ngleaming of the gold that had grown up with it. He gave me his word\nthat in some of the biggest and juiciest grapes seeds had been found\nat times which were of pure gold.\"\n\n\"Now only look!\" rejoined the stranger; \"Can one wish for more than\nthis? Gold not only grows as a mineral, but even as a plant. However I\nknow a still better story. Once upon a time, when the weather was very\ndamp, a man dropt some ducats in the rocky ground at a short distance\nfrom Cremnitz. In spite of every search they were not to be found.\nThey must have fallen down among the stones, and have been buried in\nthe rubbish. What came of it? Some years after, when no human being,\nnot even the owner himself, thought any more of the loss, a strange\nsort of shrub was seen, which not a soul in the country had over met\nwith. It flowered with wonderful beauty, and then formed a number of\nlittle pods. The pods soon after split like the fruit of the\nwinter-cherry; and, when people went to look at it closelier, every\nskin contained a bright new Cremnitz ducat. Some fifty came to\nperfection; a good many, that had been nipt by the frost, were mere\nthin gold leaf. The oddest thing of all was that the ducats were\nalways markt--for they took good care not to root up the beautiful\nweed--with the date of the year in which they ripened. Of late a wish\nhas been entertained, if it were but possible, to graft a branch of a\ntree which peradventure might bear doubloons, on this lucrative bush,\nwith a view of ennobling the fruit.\"\n\nThe very peasants laught at this; for they fancied they saw the jest:\nConrad, however, though he perceived it, misunderstood it so far that\nhe did not answer a single word, but drunk with beer and rage only\nlifted up his fist, and thrust it so violently into the storyteller's\nface, that he instantly tumbled from his stool to the ground, and a\nstream of blood gusht out from his mouth and nostrils. On getting up\nagain the stranger, though evidently the weaker, wanted to take his\nrevenge; but the peasants rusht in between, and brought about a peace\nat least for the moment. This was the easier, as some travelling\nmusicians were just come with their instruments into the inn, where\nConrad in his drunkenness immediately took them into his pay.\nNotwithstanding the remonstrances of the host and hostess, he made\nthem first play some songs, then some dances, and gave no ear to those\nwho admonisht and reminded him that the music might be heard up in the\ngreat house.\n\n\"Why should I trouble myself,\" he cried, \"about the old man of the\nmountain? He may for once let his evil conscience be sung to sleep a\nlittle.\"\n\nHe now began dancing, first alone, then with the hostess; and as the\nnoise soon got abroad, several men and girls walkt in, who were glad\nto take part in this unexpected public ball. When the younger peasants\nhowever also stood up, Conrad rusht suddenly upon them, shoved them\nviolently back, and imperiously commanded the musicians to be silent.\n\n\"When clod-hoppers and such scum mingle with their betters,\" he bawled\nout, \"one of us must retire from the foul contamination. But this I\ntell you, the first of you that budges, or even growls, I'll break\nevery bone in his skin.\"\n\nThe peasants, whether alarmed by his drunken fury, or perhaps only\nunwilling to incense him still more, drew back to their table. Conrad\nseated himself, after all the victories he had achieved, majestically\nin his armchair again, and rolled his eyes round with a look of\ndefiance. As nobody uttered a word, he said with a loud voice: \"Look\nye, fellow miners, I am one of the oldest men about the works here\nabove; see here, comrades, and ye ragamuffins there, host and peasants\nI mean, these dollars my prince and lord has gained from our pit.\"\n\nHe threw a handful of silver on the table.\n\n\"And old as I am, fellows, I was born and bred here in the mountains,\nand I never yet crawled down into the vallies and the plain. I can\nboast (and very few can say as much) I never yet saw any grain in the\nfield, never yet saw corn growing or ripe atop of its pitiful straw.\nWe work in gold and silver, are expert in mysteries and deep lore, hew\nblocks, amalgamate metals, fuse ores,--and the miserable louts there\nhave to go about, as people have told me, hand and glove with rank\ndung, and to carry the stinking stuff into the fields and spread it\nout; and therefore I have a right to look upon their foul frocks as\nscandalous and vile; at all events no miner should ever shake hands\nwith 'em, or drink out of the same mug. I am determined too to die a\nman of honour, as I have grown old, without ever setting foot under\ntheir thatch roofs, or on their threshing-floors; I have preserved\nmyself four and fifty years from this disgrace, and heaven will\ncontinue to guard me from it while I live.\"\n\nThus he went on prating, till at length he was so stupefied and\nexhausted that he fell asleep. The peasants, who now felt still\nsorelier affronted than before, had more than once cast significant\nlooks on their cudgels. With these feelings they listened the more\nreadily to the advice of the stranger, who had been washing himself in\nthe meanwhile, to lift their insolent enemy, as he was fast asleep and\nseemed quite senseless, upon the top of one of their waggons, and to\nlay him, when they got to the bottom, in a corn field, that he might\nfind himself there when he awoke from his fit. There was no difficulty\nin doing this, as the musicians had been paid and were gone, and the\nlandlord was busied in the kitchen.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the depths of the forest, where the iron forges were at work, and\nwhere in the midst of dark rocks by the side of a waterfall the shouts\nand the hammering of the workmen resounded far and wide in rivalry\nwith the roar of the torrent, Edward the next evening met the\ninspector of the mines, to talk over some business of importance with\nhim, and to give him some instructions from Herr Balthasar. The fire\nin the vast furnace glared wildly through the dusk: the brighter glow\nof the half-molten iron, the myriads of dazzling sparks that spurted\nup from the anvil beneath the sledges of the sturdy smiths, the dark\nforms moving through the large boarded shed, into which the trunk of a\ntree in full leaf had forced its way, overshadowing the bellows in the\ncorner with its branches--this singular night piece attracted all\nEdward's attention, when loud talking and laughter arose among the\nworkmen. Some one had just been telling them how Conrad, when he was\ndrunk, had been treated by the peasants the day before, and how to his\nextreme annoyance he had awaked that morning in the midst of a corn\nfield. The story seemed to interest everybody so much, that their work\nwas suffered to stand still for a while.\n\n\"It serves him right,\" cried one of the broad-shouldered journeymen,\n\"the vapouring coxcomb! He is the most insufferable and rudest miner\nin the whole country for miles round; and fancies he knows everything\nbetter than his neighbours, and is the cleverest fellow in the world.\"\n\n\"They say he is running about like a madman, and as if the fiend had\ngot hold of him,\" continued the narrator; \"for now the very thing of\nwhich he has bragged from morning to night, is at an end: he has not\nonly been forced to see corn growing in the field, he has lain in the\nmidst of it.\"\n\nEdward turned to the speaker and askt: \"Michael, are you quite well\nagain already, that you come out thus into the open air?\"\n\n\"Yes, Sir,\" answered the smith; \"thanks to you and our old master. My\neye is gone of course; but how many of us have to work with but one!\nThe spark of iron that burnt it out might have been still bigger. It\nwas great pain, to be sure: that could not be otherwise; but with\nGod's help I am become quite stout again after all. Herr Balthasar\nindeed has also done much toward helping me, and I owe a world of\nthanks to his care, his kindness, and his charity. And so we do all,\neverybody that belongs to him.\"\n\nAnother man with one eye chimed in with these praises, and added: \"It\nwill fall out now and then that one or other of us gets maimed in this\nway; for fire is not a thing to be jested with: but God has blest us\nin giving us our old master; for even if a fellow were to become stark\nblind, he would never let him starve or want.\"\n\nThe workmen were gone back to the anvil, and Edward then first\nobserved that Eleazar had come into the hut, and was talking to a\nstranger. This was the travelling miner, the planner of the disgrace\ninflicted upon old Conrad, which of all mortifications he could have\nendured was the bitterest. Eleazar was scolding vehemently, and said\nit was quite impious to drive an old man by such tricks into a\npassion, nay to the brink of despair; for he had heard that Conrad was\nrunning franticly about the mountains, utterly deaf to all advice and\nconsolation.\n\nThe stranger excused and defended himself as well as he could; and as\nthe sledges had now begun hammering again, while the roar of the\nbellows mingled with that of the waters, the quarrel was lost sound\nof, and only grew somewhat more audible, when Conrad himself in a fury\nrusht howling with swollen face and red starting eyes up to the\ndisputants.\n\n\"My honour!\" he screamed, \"my honour as a noble miner! my glory and\nmy pride! all are gone, irrevocably and for ever! And by a pack of\nbase boors, by a puny, cream-faced, chicken-breasted, outlandish\nstarveling, have I been robbed of it. Amid all the mountains round,\nand doubtless in many others likewise, there was not a miner nor a\nmine-surveyor who could boast that he had never in his life been down\nin the beggarly plain. I awoke in the straw, in the corn, such was the\nrascals plot to ruin me. The ears were sticking in my nose and eyes\nwhen I came to myself, the sorry, brittle, bristly stuff, that I had\nnever yet seen except in the pallet of my bed. Scandal and shame!\nMurder and house-breaking are not so detestable! and no law against\nit, no remedy, no mortal skill in the whole wide world.\"\n\nThe others had enough to do to tear the strong old man away from the\nweakly stranger, on whom he wanted to take personal vengeance.\n\nAs Conrad could not get satisfaction in this way, he sat down on the\nground in a corner of the hut; and it being a holiday evening, the\njourneymen lay down round about him, some trying to comfort him,\nothers jeering him. \"Be pacified,\" said the man with one eye, \"the\nwhole affair is mere child's play. Had the fire burnt out your eye,\nhad you had to endure unspeakable torments in your brain, and to toss\nthrough sleepless feverish nights, then indeed you would have\nsomething to complain of. But as it is, the whole matter is a sheer\ntrifle, and all fancy.\"\n\n\"That is your notion!\" cried Conrad: \"there never was a fool that\ncould not talk and chatter like one. Your having lost your eye in your\nvocation is an honour to you, and you may be proud of it, and glory in\nit. But their sticking me down in the middle of their dung, where I\nwas forced to lie like a tumble-down sheaf, or a truss of hay,--it has\nknockt half a dozen nails into my coffin. 'Conrad! Conrad! ninnyhammer!\nsack of straw!' so it seemed that everything was shouting in my ears.\nI have now seen the miserable, dirty ploughed land, in which the\nscurvy clowns have to breed up their bread. It's so flat down there,\nyou can see nothing, far as eye can reach; and one hears no\nsledgehammers, no rush of waters, not even a boy pounding. It looks\njust like the end of the world; and I could never have fancied that\nthe corn country and the plains, where more than half the world have\nto live, were so utterly mean and despicable.\"\n\nThus they went on talking and squabbling, till some one for the sake\nof starting another subject began telling about the robberies, which\ntheir master, the old man of the mountain, was so incomprehensibly\nallowing to go on, doing next to nothing to find out the offender,\nalthough his losses, rich as he might be, must have amounted to very\nlarge sums. The stranger miner again spoke of his contrivances for\nmaking sure of catching the thief; and Conrad, who recollected the\nformer conversation, shook his fist at him in silence.\n\nEleazar seemed to enter into these strange schemes, and exulted with\nvulgar glee at the thought of thus at length getting hold of the\nrascal. As Edward eyed him in the dusky glare of the hut, and saw his\nface with its brown and yellow features unsteadily lit by the\nflickering flames, he thought that this disgusting and to him hateful\nmonster had never lookt so hideous before: a secret shudder crept over\nhim when he thought of Rose, and that this was the confident and\nbosom friend of a man whom he could not but honour, although his\nweaknesses and caprices formed so strong a contrast with his virtues.\n\nThe smiths listened to the conversation with great earnestness: they\nbelieved the stranger; yet every one of them brought forward some\nsuperstitious device of his own, in which the speaker himself always\nput still greater reliance. Edward, in spite of the disgust this\ngossiping excited in him, was almost unconsciously held fast within\nthe circle. Ghost stories were told; the wild huntsman was talkt of,\nand several said they had seen him; others had met with mountain\nsprites and goblins; then they got to forebodings and omens; and the\nconversation kept on growing livelier, the storytellers more eager,\nand the hearers more attentive.\n\n\"Goblins,\" said Michael, \"there are assuredly: for I myself ten years\nago was well acquainted with one; and he was a very passable fellow to\nhave to do with. The urchin foretold too in those days that I should\nlose my right eye about this very time.\"\n\n\"What sort of a chap was that?\" cried one of his comrades; \"and why\nhave you never told us this story before?\"\n\n\"When I had got through my apprenticeship,\" said Michael, \"at the\nmountain-town twenty miles from here, and was now come to work at old\nmaster Berenger's forge, I used to be plagued at first and quizzed by\nthe other journeymen, as every younker is when he is fresh. When I\ngrew tired of laughing and grumbled, we came to blows; I gave and got\nmy share, as in such cases always must happen. Among the rest there\nwas a grizzly-bearded journeyman who worried and annoyed me most of\nall, a giant of a fellow, and all along with it so cunning, with such\na sharp sting in his tongue, that one could not possibly help being\nvext, however stedfastly one might have made up ones mind and\ndetermined with oneself at morning prayers, not to allow the gall to\nmount into ones throat. In my distress I often cried with anger; for\nin the town I had fancied myself a clever fellow, and my unruly tongue\nhad made many a one tremble. One night when I was thoroughly harast\nand woebegone, I was lying over there on the jutting crag all alone in\na little bit of a room--the only other person in the house was a woman\nas old as the mountains--on the sudden I heard something stirring and\nscraping near me. I opened the window shutter at my head a little, and\nas the half moon peept into the room, I saw a tiny creature brushing\naway at my shoes. 'Who are you?' I askt the mite; for he lookt much\nlike a boy of eleven years old.--'Hush!' said the little thing, and\nbrusht away busily. 'I am Silly, the good comrade.'--'Silly?' askt I;\n'he's one whom I know nothing of.'--'Dame knows him, Ursul knows him,'\nsaid the little one, and put my shoes on the floor.--'Leave my things\nalone,' cried I.--'Make 'em clean, dust 'em, brush 'em neat,' answered\nthe creature, and set to work at my Sunday hat.--'Is this farce never\nto end?' I called out to him; 'brush your own nose.'--He laught, and\nseemed to have no notion that I had any right to give orders in my own\nroom. 'Art afraid, he then giggled out, of big Ulric? Need not be\nafraid. Ask him to morrow, when he sets at you again, where he got the\nbrown fire scar atop of his head over the right eyebrow; he'll soon be\nmeek as a lamb.' The creature was gone. I listened; there was nothing.\nI closed the window shutter again and fell asleep. In the morning it\nseemed to me as if the whole had been merely a dream. My shoes however\nwere clean, my hat brusht. At length I askt old Ursul about the\nunknown boy. She was very deaf; and it was long before I could make\nher understand what I meant. 'Ah! she at last cried, has the little\nboy been with thee? Well, well, good betide thee, my tall lad. The\ntiny thing harms nobody, and brings luck to everyone he takes notice\nof. I have known him now well-nigh these forty years. He goes round to\nthe houses where he likes the folks, and helps them in their\nhousekeeping, now in one thing, now in another. Cleaning everything is\nhis darling employment. He can't bear dust; dirty sooty pots and other\nkitchenware are his aversion; and he will often scrub at 'em with all\nhis might. Bright brass vessels, shining copper pans, are things he is\nquite bewitcht with; pewter plates too he likes very well. Many a time\nhas he brought me a groschen, bright and new, as if it had come from\nthe mint.'--'But where does the imp live?' I cried.--'Where does the\nchild live?' she said: 'people choose to call it goblin, or manikin;\nhe himself signs himself Silly; that is his christen-name. But he is a\nkind good-natured sprite; and so thou must do nothing to hurt him,\nthat he may not fall out with thee.' I had heard of such fellows, but\nbefore this could never believe in them. In the smithy the baiting\nbegan as usual; old Ulric put me quite in a fury; for they had remarkt\nmy soreness, and this made them think it the better sport to badger\nme. I was just going to dash a redhot iron at the grizzly-bearded\nlubber's snow-white head, when Silly came across my thoughts. 'And the\nbrown fire scar up there!' I said; 'you know, Ulric!' Thus I cried,\nwithout thinking there was anything in it, when on the sudden the old\ngiant became so quiet, timid, and meek, that it made me stare my eyes\nout. From that moment forward the fierce fellow became my friend. Nay\nhe was so humble in his behaviour to me, that I rose mightily in\neverybody's opinion, and thenceforth stood near the top of the board.\nWhen we grew better acquainted, he told me in confidence that in his\nyouth he had once let himself be misled into engaging in an attempt to\nsteal with the help of a servant maid. He had already crept into the\nroom, supposing that everybody was asleep; but the smith being still\nawake had rusht against him with a fire brand snatcht up from the\nhearth; and thus his head and hair had been singed. He fancied that no\nmortal creature knew the story, of which he was heartily ashamed; and\ntherefore he entreated me by all my hopes of heaven never to tell any\none of it; indeed he was unable to make out how I could have learnt\nthe affair. On this point however he was mistaken; for without his own\nconfession I had never known a word of it. After this my life flowed\nalong very peaceably, and the little creature came every now and then,\nand helpt me in what I had to do. Before long however we quarrelled.\nHe often came upon me so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and many a time\nwhen nothing was further from my thoughts, that I was frightened to\nthe very core. Whenever I said a word to him about this, he grew very\npettish, and told me, I was an ungrateful fellow, not to acknowledge\nhis manifold services. Now I had heard a little before from an English\ntraveller, that the name of my goblin in his language meant _foolish_,\nand that in England such a creature was called Puck, or Robin\nGoodfellow; and when in the openness of my heart I told all this to my\nlittle guest, and at the same time, because he had just frightened me\nagain, wanted to hang a bell about his neck, that I might always hear\nhim when he was coming, the urchin became angry and furious beyond all\nmeasure, prophesied that I should lose my eye about this time, and\nvanisht with a great rumbling. Nor have I ever seen the brat again\nsince.\"\n\n\"Thou prince of all babbling braggarts!\" cried Conrad, when the story\nwas ended: \"Can't you open your mouth, man, without lying? and yet you\nare already come to years. Folks that hold traffic for any time with\nspirits, grow shar-pwitted. The dealings of these creatures are with\nsupernatural out-of-the-way things; and when they pay us a visit, the\nvery terrour they arouse, till one grows used to them a bit, gives one\nsomething impressive and dignified.\"\n\n\"More especially,\" cried Michael somewhat angered, \"when one has been\nsleeping a night in a potato field.\"\n\n\"That night,\" answered Conrad, \"and that abominable mischance, that\nfoul scandalous deed of a vagabond, will be the death of me; I know it\nas well as you. I shall not hold out much longer.\"\n\n\"May be so,\" said the pale stranger; \"yet you can't tell all this\nwhile whether I too may not be one of these goblins, who has been\ntrying to cure you of your follies. To be good friends with you, my\nrough-spoken, overbearing sir, it was verily requisite that you should\nhave treated me with a little more civility. Wisdom, experience,\nstrength of mind, may often be learnt from those in whom one is the\nslowest to look for them. If however, my good companions, you would\nlike to know which of you all will die first, I have a way of telling\nyou that in a moment.\"\n\nThey all seated themselves in a circle on benches and stools. The\nstranger pulled a plated box out of his pocket, while he continued:\n\"When this little chip which I am going to light is burning, you must\npass it quickly from hand to hand, and the person in whose hold it\ngoes out will be the first of us to see the next world.\"\n\nAll lookt at the stranger in anxious expectation. He thrust a little\nbit of wood down into the box, while he muttered some sounds, and then\nhe drew it out again burning and flickering. Eleazar, who sat next to\nhim, received it, gave it to his neighbour, and thus the match went on\nspitting sparks from one hand to another. It had finisht the round,\nand come back to Eleazar, who was very loth to take it, and was\nhastily passing it on, when on the sudden it flared brightly and then\nwent out between his fingers. \"Stupid stuff!\" he cried sulkily, as he\nthrew the bit of wood on the ground and jumpt up in a passion;\n\"Nothing but empty superstition! And we are so good-natured as to let\nourselves be made the tools of such nonsense.\"\n\nHe lookt sharply at the stranger with his glaring eyes, then slapt him\non the shoulder, and withdrew with him. Meanwhile the moon had arisen,\nand was pouring its bright light over the forests and rocks: the party\nwent each his own way, and Edward too bent his steps homeward. As he\nwas walking up the narrow footpath, he heard a warm discussion; it\nsounded like a quarrel; and when he drew nearer he fancied he\ndistinguisht Eleazar and the stranger. He struck off therefore into\nanother path, partly for the sake of avoiding them and not being\nforced to return in their company, partly too that he might not have\nthe air of wishing to overhear what they were disputing about; for\nEleazar was of a very suspicious temper, and mistrusted everybody,\nthough he took it extremely ill if any one did not place an unlimited\nconfidence in him.\n\nIn the house everything was quiet: except that Rose was singing a\nsimple air with a supprest voice, scarce audibly in her remote\nchamber. Edward was moved by it, and so strongly, that he could not\nhelp being surprised at his extreme susceptibility. Before he fell\nasleep, his melancholy had so increast, that he could hardly refrain\nfrom shedding tears.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA few days after this Edward observed the stranger coming out of Herr\nBalthasar's apartment. He wondered what such a person could have had\nto do there; and, when he entered the old man's room, he found him\nviolently disturbed and enraged.\n\n\"Always the same wild irrational feelings, the same superstitious\nfoolery, ruling over mankind!\" he cried, as Edward came in: \"That\nmiserable fellow there whom you met flatters himself he shall gain a\nlarge sum of money from me, if he can detect our thief by means of\nsome senseless artifice. He won't come back again, the blockhead! for\nI have at length given vent for once to my feelings. There is nothing\nin the world so insufferable to me, as when people try, by means of\ncertain phrases fabricated at random, or of certain traditional\nceremonies, most of them a misgrowth out of historical blunders, or\nout of ancient usages which formerly had a very different meaning, to\nput themselves in connexion with what they call the invisible world,\nnay fancy, though they deem it an object of terrour, that they can\nmaster it thereby. In fact the greater part of mankind are crazed,\nwithout choosing to confess it: nay, the very wisdom of thousands is\narrant madness.\"\n\nIt seemed as if the worthy old man himself felt ashamed of his\npassionate vehemence; for he immediately began talking on other\nsubjects. He made Edward sit down by him, and had some breakfast\nbrought, which was quite against his usual custom. \"Thus we shall be\nable,\" he then continued, \"to settle a number of matters this morning,\nwhich on other days we may perhaps hardly find leisure for.\"\n\nThe door was again lockt, and the servant was ordered not to interrupt\ntheir conversation on any account. \"I feel,\" Herr Balthasar then\nbegan, \"that I am growing old; I must take thought and provide for the\nfuture, as I know not whether I am doomed to die a slow lingering\ndeath, or a sudden unforeseen one. If I draw up no settlement of my\nproperty, if I die without a will, that spendthrift in my native town,\nwho has made the beloved of my youth so unhappy, will be my next\nnatural heir: and verily it appalls me to think that my large fortune\nmay hereafter be misused to maintain that despicable glutton in his\nrioting. All my poor people, all the hands now actively employed in\nthis spot, would again pine away and be condemned to beggary and\nsloth. It is a sacred duty to forestall this. What are your views, my\nyoung friend, for your future life?\"\n\nEdward was a good deal embarrast by this address. Some time back\nindeed he had formed certain plans, and had even meant to speak to the\nold man about them, in the hope of profiting by his experience: but\nsince his lovely foster-daughter had appeared to him in so different a\nlight, since he had felt so strongly attracted toward her, he was no\nlonger equally forward and confident. He could not make up his mind\nwhether to declare or conceal his affection; for notwithstanding the\nfamiliarity with which Balthasar treated him, by many of the old man's\nfeelings and views he found himself estranged and perplext.\n\n\"You are hesitating,\" said the old man after a while; \"you have not\nenough reliance in me, because you do not know me. I look upon it as\none of my duties to provide as a father for you: you are honest,\nsensible, diligent, and kind-hearted; you are perfectly verst in the\nvarious branches of my business; and I feel a confidence in you such\nas I have seldom been able to put in anybody. Your exertions for me\nand my establishments, your prudence and integrity, everything obliges\nme, even though I entertained no affection for you, to leave you well\nand very richly provided, since I have so much to thank you for. But I\nshould be glad to know, and I beg you to be perfectly candid to me,\nwhether you could be prevailed upon by the possession of a large\nfortune to fix your abode in this country, in this house, or perhaps\nwould prefer settling after my death as a rich man in the neighbouring\ntown, engaging in some other occupation, and marrying, or, it may be,\ntravelling about in search of the home which you may like the best.\nTell me your thoughts on this subject now with entire sincerity: since\nyou have a claim, which I will take care shall be a valid one, to a\nthird of my property, I cannot well make my final arrangements till I\nhave learnt your intentions: for my establishments here and up the\nmountains, my manufactories, machines, mines, and various\ninstitutions, I also look upon as my children, and they must not be\nleft orphans at my death.\"\n\nEdward sank still deeper in thought. Never could he have expected this\ngenerosity and fatherly love from the old man; never had it occurred\nto him that this friend might one day make him rich and independent.\nThis speech had changed the footing on which he stood with Herr\nBalthasar; he thought he should now be better able to confess boldly\nwhat for some days had been busying and disquieting his mind. He led\nthe way by an assurance of his gratitude, saying that what the old man\nmeant to do for him was far too much, that his relations after all had\nstill a title to his affection, and that a great deal less would make\nhim happy and as rich as he could desire.\n\n\"I am aware of all that you can urge to me on this score,\" said the\nold man interrupting him: \"these relations of mine, even the\nscapegrace son and the good-for-nothing father, will be taken care of,\nso that they shall not have any reasonable ground of complaint. But I\nknow that you have sacrificed the best years of your youth and\nstrength to me. To a gay spirit like yours, to a person of your lively\nfriendly temper, your long residence amid these joyless mountains must\nhave been anything but pleasant. You many years since bade adieu to\nevery sort of merriment and amusement: everything that charms youth,\nmusic, dancing, even society, plays, travelling, the literature of the\nday, you have given up for my sake; because you resolved, as I well\nmarkt, and that too very early, to suit yourself entirely to my\ninclinations. Scarce one man in a thousand could have done this; and\nyou were this one: you have done it too without losing anything of\nyour good nature, and kindly obliging disposition. If therefore you\nwould like to settle elsewhere hereafter and in a totally different\nline of life, I cannot have the slightest objection to it, nor will it\noccasion the least curtailment of your fortune. But you must tell me\nyour determination frankly, if you have already made up your mind, or\ncan make it up on the instant: for in case you choose to remain here\nand carry on my business, I must secure you the means of exerting\nyourself usefully, by a number of arrangements and explicit\nincontrovertible injunctions in my will; therefore speak.\"\n\nEdward replied with emotion: \"Heaven grant you may long remain as a\nfather amongst us! Whether however I am to look on this country as my\nhome or no, depends solely upon you: a word from you, and I can\nimmediately resolve to spend the whole of my life here, even if you\nshould be spared to us many years longer. But if you cannot or will\nnot speak that word, I must sooner or later seek out another home; and\nI fear that in that case even your noble bequest will fail to procure\nme that happiness, which I must needs value higher than riches.\"\n\n\"I don't understand you, my young friend,\" answered Balthasar; \"your\nwords are a riddle to me.\"\n\n\"Your generosity,\" continued Edward, \"and your affectionate\nbenevolence have brought up a poor orphan girl; you have behaved like\na father to her; and her fate must therefore be decided by you and\nnone else. Give me that dear maiden, give me Rose for my wife, and I\nwill live and die on this mountain, without a wish beyond it.\"\n\nThe old man's face suddenly darkened and put on an expression which\nmight be called terrific. He started up hastily, walkt several times\nup and down the room, then sat down again sighing, and began in a\nbitter tone: \"So! this is it! You are in love! Is it not so? I am\ndoomed again to hear this ill-omened, this calamitous word! I am\ndoomed to witness this frenzy, this dark, heart-rending, heart-sickening\nabsurdity, even in you, in a man of your sense! And all, all that one\nmight otherwise esteem, and look upon as reasonable, is swallowed up\nin this whirlpool, in which horrour, madness, wild passions, carnal\nlust, and capricious folly are frothing and boiling all at once. This\nmarriage however, Edward, can never, never be.\"\n\n\"I have said too much,\" answered Edward calmly, \"to be satisfied with\na bare refusal. Tell me what are your plans for the dear girl, and I\nshall learn to bear them with resignation.\"\n\n\"And she, the little fool!\" interposed the old man hastily, \"has she\ntoo tumbled in love with you? Has the luckless word already past to\nand fro betwixt you?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Edward; \"her pure youth is still hovering in that happy\nstate of simplicity, which only desires that tomorrow may be just like\ntoday and yesterday. She has no wishes but the simple ones of a\nchild.\"\n\n\"So much the better,\" said Balthasar; \"she will be ready to act\nrationally then, and will not throw any hinderance in the way of my\nplan. Surely you, who are tolerably well acquainted with me, ought to\nhave perceived long ago that I had designed the child for Eleazar. I\nmean her to marry, to live in sober wedlock, not to dream away and\ndote in what you call love.\"\n\n\"And will she,\" askt Edward, \"be happy with him for her husband?\"\n\n\"Happy!\" cried the old man, bursting into a kind of loud laugh;\n\"happy! What is a man to think of when he hears that word? There is no\nhappiness; there is no unhappiness; only pain, which we are to welcome\nto our arms, only self-contempt, beneath which we must bow our necks,\nonly hopelessness, which we must make the partner of our table and of\nour bed. Everything else is a lie and a trick. Life is a spectre,\nbefore which, whenever I pause to look upon it, I stand shuddering:\nand nothing but toil and activity, and straining all my faculties, can\nenable me to endure and to despise it. I could envy the loom and the\nspinning-jenny, if such a feeling, such a wish had any sense in it:\nfor what is our consciousness but a consciousness of misery? what is\nour existence but an unveiling of the madness, the frenzy of all life?\nto which we either abandon ourselves in chill patience, or weep and\nstruggle against it convulsively, or play through a caricature of\nhappiness and joy, while in our dreary heart we are fully aware that\nit is all a wanton lie.\"\n\n\"Neither then must I ask you,\" continued Edward quietly and\nsorrowfully, \"whether you love Eleazar as a friend, whether he is\ntruly worthy of friendship and esteem; for all freedom of will, every\nmovement of feeling is crusht by these dark thoughts.\"\n\n\"As if I had not felt,\" said Balthasar, \"and wept and laught, like\nother men. The difference is only, that I soon stript truth naked, and\nthat I acknowledged and felt my own baseness, and that of all mankind,\nof the world, and everything in it. Eleazar! he and you! If we are to\nmake use of such words, my friend, I love you; all the fibres of my\nheart twine fast around you; awake and in my dreams you stand before\nme: your being miserable might reduce me to despair. And this\nraw-boned, loathsome Eleazar! If I am to give a name to this folly of\nmy nature, I hate him; he is quite nauseous to me, whenever he stands\nbefore my eye or before my imagination: the bile which has tainted his\neyes and face, his squinting glances, the twitches of his nose when he\nis speaking, while his long teeth stare out as if he were grinning,\nhis shrugging up his shoulders at every word, whereby his odious\nsnuff-coloured coat is every moment dragged upward and lays bare the\nskinny bones of his wrists, all this, his way of drawing in his\nbreath, his hissing voice, is so revolting to my bodily senses, and\nalways excites my wrath so strongly, so painfully, that no other\ncreated being ever gave me the same torment; and for this very reason,\nbecause there is so much I have to make amends to him for, because\nheaven and nature have so utterly neglected him, must he become my\nchief heir, my son. Besides he has long known of it, and is pleased\nwith the prospect of this union.\"\n\n\"I only half understand you,\" answered Edward: \"you are fighting\nagainst your own feelings, you are wilfully putting yourself on the\nrack. I am not arguing now against your promise, since you have\nalready given it to that man: but why do you cling to this image of\nlife, that harasses and tortures you? Why not open your mind to those\njoyous feelings, to those sunny thoughts, which lie just as near, nay\nnearer?\"\n\n\"As you please,\" said the old man,--\"for you, but not for me. Day\nafter day has taught me that very few men really live. Most of them\nare in a state of ceaseless dissipation: nay what they call thought\nand reflexion is itself the very same thing, a mere attempt to raise a\nmist around the nature and inborn feelings of their hearts, and to\nkeep themselves from discerning them. And arrogance starts up, the\nconsciousness of their dignity and strength goads and spurs them on,\ntill they rave with ungovernable pride. This too I have known in my\nyouth, and outlived it. Then I loved, as I deemed. How clear and\nrosy-hued, how bright and smiling the world lay before me! My heart\ntoo was as it were bathed in pure ether, blue, boundless, with sweet\nhope, like morning clouds, floating and scattering freshness through\nit. And the primary stock of this love, what is it? Silliness, animal\npassion, which intertwines itself with our seemingly tender feelings,\nwhich tricks itself out with blossoms, and then eats canker-like into\nthem, to make them too shed their leaves, to trample that, which it\ncalled heavenly, in the mire, and--far worse than the comparatively\ninnocent beasts of the field, that are driven by a blind instinct\nwithout anything of volition--to deface and spoil everything which but\nnow it worshipt as holy. From this conflagration then shoot forth ever\nand anon those disasterous sparks, which again grow into children, and\nagain awaken to the consciousness of woe, if not of sin. And so the\nwheel goes evermore round and round, through a measureless viewless\neternity. And the charm, the beauty of the world! the fresh bloom of\nits appearances! Is not everything here again grounded upon that which\nnature teaches me to loathe and abhor? It is perhaps by this feeling\nalone, as an invisible inward prompter, that I understand what people\nmean by beauty. This, wheresoever it is found, in flower or tree, in\nhuman being, animal, or plant, takes its rise always out of filth and\nabominations. The lily and the rose falls to pieces in your hand, your\ntouch withers it, and it leaves only rottenness behind: the youth's,\nthe virgin's beauty and loveliness--look at it without any\nself-imposed illusion, without the brutish sting of the senses--is\nhorrour and putridity and everything we revolt from! a few hours of\ndeath, a corpse dug out of its tomb, make this woe manifest to\nall.--And I myself! what is there within me but death? a ghost and a\nskeleton! the stench of my own corpse haunts me; and in all my\nfeelings there is madness, in all my thoughts despair.\"\n\n\"Cannot religion then,\" replied Edward, \"cannot philosophy, cannot the\nsight of the happiness you spread around you, lighten this gloomy\nmood, this melancholy, which is wasting your life away?\"\n\n\"Alas, my dear good friend,\" continued the old man, \"I assure you that\nall I have read of those christian anchorets and self-tormentors, who\nout of overheated zeal transformed their life into a never-ending\nmartyrdom, for the sake of stifling every impulse and thought save the\nhighest of all, is less, far less, than what I have practist on myself\nsince I became conscious of the cheerlessness of my existence. I too\nhad once found a home for my whole soul in those regions in which the\nfaithful feel the presence and the love of the deity, full of\nconfidence and a blessed serenity. My spirit was transfigured; all my\nfeelings were purified; my whole nature seemed as it were unfolding\nitself in a single blossom; all within me was bliss and calm; and in\nthis heavenly tranquillity there was a sweet impulse to new\ncontemplations, a ravishing excitement to plunge yet deeper into the\nflood of joy. And what was the end of it?\"\n\n\"Pray go on,\" said Edward.\n\n\"I discovered,\"--thus the old man after a pause resumed his\nspeech--\"that here too sensuality, delusion, and folly, had again made\nme their captive. Those voluptuous tears which I often shed in my\nseemingly fervent devotion, which I took for the purest gush from my\nheart, even they sprang only out of sensuality and a state of bodily\nintoxication. My animal impulses had put on the mask of spirit; and\nthe deliciousness of those tears soon seduced me into endeavouring to\nstir up such emotions artificially, into abusing this mysterious close\nrelation to infinite love as a stimulus of the most refined sensual\nexcitement, which I then extinguisht in a rapture of tears. I was\nappalled by this lie in my soul, when I detected and could no more\ndeny it; and the fearfullest desolation of despair, the dismallest\nsolitude of death closed round me again, when the deception had been\nbroken, and the vision would no more descend among the apish toys of\nmy imagination. When after this I wisht to pursue my inquiries beneath\nthe light of truth, horrour itself met me in the very spot where but\nnow, like a scene-painting, my rapture had been standing. I no longer\nfelt doubt, for even in this there is still joy; I had no certainty,\nfor even in the most terrible there is life; but the dead blank of the\nuttermost indifference, a barren enmity to everything holy, a scorn of\nall emotion, as being sheer foppishness and silliness, lay like a large\nfield of snow in the wildernesses of my soul.--'Soul! spirit!'--thus\nI often cried to myself laughing, and even now I cannot refrain from\nlaughter,--'can there be anything else? And if this be so, in what\ndoes spirit differ from matter? where is the party wall between life\nand death?' In the spectral phantom of life, in the sphinx-born riddle\nof being, in that terrific fiat out of which the worlds sprang forth,\nto roll convulsively onward and evermore onward, till they can drop\nback into rest and nothingness--in this all contradictions and\ncontrarieties are mixt up and confounded, to petrify into an\nindissoluble curse.\"\n\nEdward was silent at first for a while: then not without emotion he\nspake the following words: \"I cannot understand what you say except in\npart; for the bent of your thoughts and feelings I am an utter\nstranger to. Whatever sorrows I have undergone, whatever unprofitable\nor cheerless meditations I have indulged in, still I have never\nstrayed into these deserts, which lie, it would seem, at the horizon\nof all such as abandon themselves with too passionate intensity to\ncaptious inquiries. I have heard and read of strong minds, who in the\nrecklessness of passion, or in the extravagancies of love, strove to\nburst the bolts of nature and of life, in order to become one with the\nuniverse and to possess it. Despair, self-loathing, hatred of God,\nhave often been the doom and the unhappy lot of men thus under the\nmastery of their impulses. We feel no doubt that reason is not\nabsolutely sufficient to reveal all that we wish to understand, to\nreconcile all that we wish to see in harmony with the workings of the\ndeity. But it may be dangerous to seek for help in the regions of our\nfeelings and imagination, to give ear to our visionary forebodings.\nThey try to set up their own supremacy, and may easily fall out with\nreason, though at the outset they seem to uphold her. If they gain\ntheir aim, and this noble mediatorial power, which seated in the\ncentre of all our spiritual powers, irradiating and swaying them,\nfirst converts them into true powers, is overthrown and cast into\nchains by them, then each of our higher impulses begets a giant as its\nson, that will war against God. For doubt, wit, unbelief, and scoffing\nare not the only faculties that fight against God: our imagination,\nour feelings, our enthusiasm do the same, though at first they seem to\nsupply faith with so safe and mysterious an asylum. Consequently, my\ndear, my honoured friend, since our life is surrounded on all sides by\nthese dizzying precipices, and every path, whatever course it takes,\nleads to them, what remains for us to do, except to trust with a\ncertain kind of light-heartedness, which perhaps is also one among the\nnoblest powers of our nature, with cheerfulness, gaiety, and humility,\nin the existence and the love of that infinite inexhaustible love, of\nthat supreme wisdom, which puts on every shape, and can weave into its\nwoof even what to us seems worthless and incongruous? so as to bear\nour life safely and easily, to take pleasure in our task-work, and to\nbe happy, which we cannot else be, in the midst of affluence itself,\nmaking others happy as far as we are able. Is not this too piety and\nreligion? I for my part have never met with them under any other\nform.\"\n\n\"All this might be so,\" answered the old man breaking off the\ndiscussion, \"if the root of life sprang out of love.\"\n\n\"Does not every flower tell us so?\" cried Edward, \"every smile of a\nchild, the meek thankful eye of the sufferer whom we relieve, the\nglance of the bride----\"\n\nHe stopt short suddenly; for Rose's bright childly glance beamed at\nthese words with all its might through his soul. When he lookt up\nagain, he was greatly surprised to see his old friend's eyes wet with\ntears.\n\n\"Edward,\" said he greatly moved, \"you shall know all. Rose is no\nadopted child; she is my own daughter, my own blood. Alas! this again\nis another deplorable story of human weakness and vanity. While I was\nliving here alone, a young beautiful girl came as a maid-servant into\nmy house. Her parents were exceedingly poor, but she had been well and\nreligiously brought up. She was honest and virtuous. She was so fond\nof solitude that, when she had done her work, she used to withdraw\nfrom all society, especially from that of the young. In a very\nsingular manner she attacht herself to me; her devotion or love had\nalmost a superstitious character. She revered me, wretch as I am, like\na supernatural being. Never yet had my passions been moved by any\ngirl, and least of all were they so by her, beautiful as she was: I\nwas an old man, and fancied I loved her like a father, and thought of\nlooking out a husband for her. How it happened, I should not be able\nto tell you; everything might seem so untrue. She became pregnant. I\nhad already long felt dismay at my own weakness and meanness. Shame,\ndespair, dread of the world, waged war within my soul, and made me\ntheir recreant slave. I sent her away in my distress, provided for\nher, richly, prodigally; but my heart was turned to stone. Grief,\nsadness, doubts in herself and in God, bitter mortification that she\nhad forfeited my love, or was unworthy of it, while she burst into\nfearful accusations against herself, as the most innocent are the\nreadiest to do, snapt the thread of her life. Had I seduced her? Did I\nnot really love her? No, a miserable seducer I was not; but I had not\nthe courage to acknowledge my sin, and to reward the love of her\ninnocent heart. And thus I was a base wretch. She died, and I regarded\nmyself with still more hopeless scorn. The poor creature's parents,\nwhom I placed in comfortable circumstances, blest me, old villain as I\nwas, for not punishing their daughter's shame, and for bringing up her\nchild in my house. This child, this fair girl, whom I love, beyond\nperhaps what is allowable--for her happiness is my thought day and\nnight--will now perchance also be sacrificed to woe; for a destiny\nstronger than I constrains me to give her to Eleazar as his wife. Go\nnow to him; he is to be my son-in-law; tell him the wedding will take\nplace in a week; and if you cannot stay with me afterward, my dearest\nEdward, whom I also love as my own son, the fortune I designed for you\nshall be paid to you ... and we too shall never meet again. Go now.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe sobbed so violently that he could not say more; and Edward went\naway in a most strange state of feeling, to look for Eleazar, who\nlived in a house by himself lower down in a narrow valley, carrying on\nhis favorite pursuits there.\n\nEleazar was sitting in a loose flame-coloured bed-gown before a small\nfurnace with a still. The room was but dimly lighted; the curtains had\nbeen let halfway down, and the lower panes were blockt up with large\nbooks. Everything was in the utmost disorder, so that Edward could\nscarcely find a place to sit down in. Vials and retorts, crucibles,\npans, hooks, cylinders, and all sorts of chemical instruments were\nstanding and lying about. A strange vapour from the fire filled the\nroom. With a surly air Eleazar put down the bellows, and came out of\nhis corner. He only half heard what Edward had to tell him, and said\nat length with his croaking voice: \"In a week? so soon? I shall never\nhave finisht my great work by that time. Could not the old fellow wait\npatiently for another month or two? Why the silly child has not even a\nnotion yet what marriage means.\"\n\nEdward was utterly disgusted with these peevish words, and with the\nheartless ingratitude displayed in them. He called to mind how much\nBalthasar had been saying to him about madness as the real groundwork\nand substance of life; and it seemed to him as if this were actually\nthe foundation on which both father and son-in-law were about to erect\ntheir melancholy dwelling. The fate of the innocent girl cut him to\nthe heart.\n\n\"Only lay your request before our master,\" he said indignantly, \"and\nno doubt he will allow you to enjoy your freedom some time longer. If\nyou were to be very pressing, perchance he might even give up the plan\nof the marriage altogether; for it seems to me, you have no very\nmighty anxiety about Rose's hand.\"\n\n\"Softly!\" said Eleazar, throwing off his bed-gown and putting on his\ncoat very much at his ease; \"softly!\" He seated himself again before\nthe furnace, and tasted the liquour while he clarified it: \"Be it so;\nfor then his fortune will all keep together, and thus I shall be able\nat length to carry on my operations on a grand scale. But the old man\nwill never listen to what anybody says; what he has once determined\nand pronounced must be fulfilled, though reason itself were to go to\nthe bottom. Still this should not annoy me a jot, unless that\noutlandish raggamuffin had put me out of all patience, and made my\ncholer boil over. One ought to have the right of knocking such\nmischievous scoundrels on the head.\"\n\n\"What is the matter with you?\" askt Edward somewhat surprised.\n\n\"Have you already forgotten that miserable vagabond,\" continued\nEleazar with a ferocious look, \"who played off his stupid trick upon\nus the other day at the forge? I am to die soon. This was the only\nthing wanting to set all our affairs in the most dismal confusion. But\nhere, here at this furnace, I have it already preparing, the only sure\nsafeguard against all such idle fears; and as I have succeeded with\nthe help of wisdom in turning unsightly things into gold, so I shall\nnot fail in producing that elixir for which so many mighty minds have\nheretofore sought and laboured, and often in vain.\"\n\nEdward went nearer to him. \"In truth,\" he exclaimed, \"you amaze me.\nYou talk about these mysterious matters with such a careless security,\nas I have never yet met with; and it perplexes me the more since my\nreason tells me that your pursuit is a mere chimera, and the discovery\nof such an art a fable.\"\n\n\"Reason!\" cried the little man, drawing up his withered face into\nnumberless wrinkles. \"This reason methinks is the true chimera, and\nnever spawned anything but fables. Take these gold bars, which I cast\nin this form yesterday, after extracting the metal last week from some\nlead: there lies a touchstone; scratch it; and then tell me whether it\nis not true genuine gold.\"\n\nEdward took up the bars, put them to the test, and found them genuine.\n\"You must either fancy,\" continued the alchemist, \"that I begin by\ngetting a heap of ducats, and then melt them down like a fool, or else\nyou cannot have another word to say. Will you keep these two bars as a\nremembrance? I make you a present of them.\"\n\nEdward lookt at the stunted figure with astonishment, then laid down\nthe bars on the table again, and said: \"No, I won't rob you; the\npresent would be much too valuable. But you should not let these vast\ntreasures lie about here at random thus mixt up with all the rest of\nyour things: it is holding out a lure to thieves and robbers.\"\n\n\"Nobody will look for gold in my house,\" answered the other, busying\nhimself again at his furnace: \"nobody will recognize gold under this\nungainly form. Besides there are means after all for keeping off\nthieves and house-breakers, which none of you have ever yet dreamt of.\nIf however you still doubt me, bring me a dollar next time, make a\nsecret mark on it, and I will give it you back turned into gold. But\nthe matter must not go further. And then you will no longer question\nmy chance of discovering the elixir of life. Only I should like to\npunish that beggarly vagrant, that rascally herb-culler, and pitiful\nconjuror, as he deserves. Let him only come for once into my quarters!\nWith all his contemptible jugglery, I would astound him! I am so\nenraged with the fellow, the blood runs into my head at the very\nthought of him.\"\n\n\"How,\" interposed Edward, \"came that paltry jest to make so deep an\nimpression upon you?\"\n\n\"Jest!\" screamed Eleazar; \"Heavens! is it a jest that I have ever\nsince been a prey all over to these hellish tortures, this ghastly\nfear of death? My own skeleton, my own rotting carcase is standing\nperpetually before my eyes. Old Conrad too over yonder has fallen\nsick, and is bewailing the loss of his reputation. Such a knave as\nthis stranger is just as bad as a murderer: nay worse: for he pours\nthe poison down ones throat in the midst of a large party without\nhimself risking life or limb.\" He jumpt up.--\"Hark you!\" he cried and\nthrew his arms round Edward: \"Yes! the old man is right; the wedding\nmust be very soon, as soon as possible, tomorrow, aftertomorrow, to\nmake all safe. I can go on discovering my life-preserving elixir after\nthe marriage: can't I? One shall not die all at once in a moment,\nfriend Ned; flesh and bone still keep pretty tightly together.\"\n\nHe laught so loud that he shook with it, and the writhings of his face\nsqueezed the tears out of his goggle eyes. Edward who had never yet\nseen the sullen creature laugh, shuddered at the sight. When the old\nman grew calmer, he told him that he could not possibly now\ncommunicate this wish of his to Herr Balthasar; and that the affair\nwould probably proceed in the way already settled. He felt glad, when\nhe had left the room and house behind him, and could again breathe in\nthe open air. His determination to quit the place was stronger than\never; he even resolved, if it would hasten his journey, to forgo the\ngreat reward which Herr Balthasar intended for him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter a restless and almost sleepless night, Edward next morning found\nthe lovely charming girl on the grass plot before the house. She was\nvery talkative, but he was in no mood to carry on a conversation.\n\n\"O dear mister Edward,\" said Rose at length; \"you don't seem to like\nme a morsel any more, you are making such sour faces at me.\"\n\n\"I shall soon be forced to leave you and this country,\" answered the\nyoung man; \"and that makes me so sorrowful.\"\n\n\"You be forced! you leave us!\" exclaimed Rose in dismay: \"Can there be\nanything that should force you? Good heavens! it never yet struck me\nthat such a thing could be possible. I always thought you belonged to\nus, just like the great house in which we live, or the steep green\nhill facing us.\"\n\n\"I have now heard from your father also, what I could not have\nbelieved, that you are to marry Herr Eleazar, and that very soon.\"\n\n\"Did not I tell you so?\" answered Rose: \"Ay, ay, that is to be my\nfate, and I only wish I could make the crabbed man a little merrier.\nTime will pass away terribly slowly with him. But perhaps I shall then\nbe able to go to the town some time or other, see a bit of the world,\nhear some music and have a dance; for I think at all events an old\nhusband must do something now and then to please his young wife. And\nfor all these matters I had counted very much upon you.\"\n\n\"No, my child,\" said Edward gravely and gloomily; \"I am the very last\nperson you must count upon; for to say the truth, this marriage of\nyours is the chief reason that forces me to quit the neighbourhood. It\nwould break my heart to stay here.\"\n\nEdward repented of having been hurried so far by his passion, as\nthoughtlessly to allow these words to escape his lips; the more so,\nwhen he saw the lovely girl go away from him, starting back as if in\naffright, and then relieve her opprest heart by a flood of tears. He\ntried to take hold of her hand and comfort her; but she pusht his\nangrily back, and then said after a while, when she had got the better\nof her violent sobbing and was able to speak again: \"No, leave me\nalone, for we are now separated from each other for ever. I could\nnever have thought that you would have behaved to me so ill; for you\nhad always been so kind to me. Oh God! how forlorn I am now! Yes I\nmeant to love my husband Eleazar with all my heart, and to do\neverything to please him; for heaven must grant him thus much, since\nhe is hated and shunned by all mankind just like a leper or an evil\nspirit. I too can't bear him, if I were merely to follow my own\nfeelings; for he is a thoroughly utterly odious creature. But for his\nsake, and out of love to my father, and for your sake too, Edward, I\nhad made up my mind so peaceably to all this; and therefore I thought\nthat you too would perhaps be very willing to stay here now, or might\neven do so a little for my sake, in case everything was not just as\nyou wisht it.\"\n\n\"How so, Rose? is it partly for my sake that you have come to this\ndetermination?\" askt Edward in amazement.\n\n\"O yes!\" answered the child, and her eyes had recovered their kind\nlook; \"but now I clearly see that I had reckoned without my host. You\ndon't deserve it, indeed you don't like that I should be so fond of\nyou. And now if you are really going away, it will then be indeed a\nshocking thing that I am to marry Eleazar: for in this lonely place,\nwithout you to help me and stand by me, he would seem just like a\nghost.\"\n\n\"But how is it possible?\"--said Edward interrupting her--\n\n\"Let me finish my speech!\" exclaimed Rose hastily; \"and then I will go\naway and cry again; for that will very often be the case now. I\nthought thus: if Eleazar is so cross, Edward is so goodnatured; and\nnow I shall never be a day without seeing him, and he will talk to me,\nand perhaps give me books; for my father, people tell me, won't have\nso much authority over me when once I am married. In this way I might\nbe better able to forget my woful husband, and might always think of\nyou when you were away, and be glad and happy as soon as you came back\nto me. For thus do people live, and the parsons all order us to do so,\nwith our hearts half in heaven, and the other half on this bad earth.\nThus I should have kept my strength and spirits, so as even to make my\nunhappy Eleazar more cheerful at times; but if you go away ... then ... oh\nwhere shall I find any comfort! Then I shall soon die ... or only wish\nthat my father ... or my plague of a husband would make haste and die.\nAlas! now that you don't love me any more, I am very very unhappy.\"\n\nShe began crying anew, and still more violently than before. Edward\neyed her for a long time with a searching glance, and lost himself in\na maze of thought. Whenever men, thus he mused to himself, give\nthemselves up to dark phantoms, and make caprices and extravagancies\nthe main stock of their life, mishap and horrour will spring up of\ntheir own accord under their feet. Life is so tender and mysterious,\nso pliant and volatile, and so easily takes every shape, that there is\nno seed it will not readily receive. Evil sprouts up and runs wild in\nit; and brings up the intoxicating grape from the nether world, and\nthe wine of horrour. Here in this childish innocence and simplicity\nare already slumbering the germs of the most fearful events and\nfeelings, if time and opportunity should but forward and ripen them;\nand close at my side stands the fiend tempting me to become the\ngardener in this beauteous garden of the deadliest fruits.\n\nHe awoke from his study and said mournfully; \"Dear child, thou dost\nnot yet understand thyself, thy destiny, or the world. I am not\nfrivolous enough to enter into thy plans, or to encourage thee in them\nin the innocency of thy youth. What thou wishest cannot, must not be;\nand in another year, or less perhaps, thou wilt see thyself how\nimpossible it is. We should both become wretched, and to deepen our\nmisery should despise each other. May heaven guide thy steps: but I\nlove and prize thee so much, that I cannot ruin thee. Pray to God: he\nwill support thee.\"\n\n\"He talks for all the world just like my father!\" cried Rose, and\nwalkt away, half in sorrow, half in anger; while Edward went musing to\nhis room.\n\n\"Is Balthasar right then after all?\" he said to himself; \"is human\nnature so utterly depraved? or is it not rather the business of\nenergy, resolution, and reason, to transform those very qualities in\nus as in all other things into virtues and excellencies, which else if\nthey are neglected would become malignant and base?\"\n\nHe then wrote a long letter to Herr Balthasar, and once more told him\npositively that he must quit his house and the country, if the\nmarriage of Eleazar and Rose was irrevocably fixt; and that he would\nreadily forgo his promist fortune, if Balthasar would only afford him\nsome degree of support in his plans for his future life. He again\nhowever called upon him as a father to consider the unsuitable, nay\nthe shocking nature of the projected match. He conjured him to look at\nthe happiness of his child with a steadier, more impartial eye. At the\nsame time he begged for another, a last interview, and said he had a\nrequest which the old man must needs grant him, if he would have him\nleave the mountains with honour, with peace of mind, and without\nrepenting of the years he had past there.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was with a very heavy heart that Edward went to his old master. The\nwhole destiny of mankind lay darkly and with a crushing weight upon\nhis breast. Anguishing was the conviction he felt, that in the very\nsweetest and purest innocence all the roots of evil and sin were\nalready lurking, and that there needed only chance and caprice to\nfoster their growth, for them to put forth their calamitous fruits.\nHis situation was so completely changed, his chief wish was that the\nhouse which had so long been his home, the country he was become so\nfond of, were but far behind him, that gradually and with a steady\nhand he might eraze all the recollections of the time he had spent\nthere. He was resolved that at all events he would not be a witness of\nthe disasters to which, he was persuaded, the dark spirits brooding\nthere must infallibly give birth; that he would not stay to behold\nthem; for he did not feel sure of being so firm, that his own passion\nand frailty might not lend a hand in bringing down the impending ruin.\nHeartily as at this moment he abhorred such a thought, he yet knew\nfull well from observation and experience that no man is always the\nsame, and that even the best are not braced with the same strength at\nall hours: he knew how the sophistry of our passions will come athwart\nall our good feelings and resolves, and that the more secure they feel\nthe more easily it trips them up and overthrows them.\n\nHe found the old man in a serious mood, but without the agitation he\nhad feared. \"Come and shake hands with me,\" cried Balthasar as he\nentered, \"although you choose to leave me. How I shall support your\nabsence I cannot yet conceive, anymore than I should know how I could\nlive without light and warmth: but nevertheless I shall be forced to\nlearn this lesson, if nothing can alter or upset your determination.\"\n\n\"My fatherly friend,\" Edward began, \"can you then persist in your\ndetermination, which to me is so utterly incomprehensible? Is it quite\nimpossible for you to consent to what alone will make me happy, and\nassuredly will make your daughter so too?\"\n\n\"I had hoped, my dear friend,\" answered the old man very mildly, \"you\nwould not have toucht on this string again, which thrills far too\npainfully through my whole frame. Pray convince yourself that this\nlong-formed resolution, which you if you please may term a whim, I\ncannot possibly revoke; it is much too firmly intertwined with my\nwhole being. What we do from conviction as we call it, from pondering\nabout a matter and balancing it first in one scale and then in the\nother, over and over again, is seldom worth much. Whatever is\npermanent, characteristic, genuine in our nature, is instinct,\nprejudice, call it superstition;--a conclusion without question or\ninquiry, an act because one cannot help it. Such is this of mine! You\nmay look upon it as a vow, a solemn oath which I have sworn to myself,\nand which I cannot violate without the most atrocious perjury against\nmy own heart. I owe my poor good Eleazar much amends for having let my\nsoul entertain and cherish disgust, bitterness, and aversion toward\nhim for so many years.--And as to the happiness of the pair!--on this\npoint my opinion is just the reverse of yours. He is wise, sensible,\nvirtuous; he is happy already, and will keep so, whether he marry or\nnot. It is an act of condescension in a person of his grave character\nto take up with my daughter. A man who has got the philosopher's stone\ncan never be harmed by any of earth's paltry troubles. And my Rose! O\nmy dear friend, the truly dreadful thing would be, if I were to give\nher to you to wife: this being, this child, that I cannot help loving\nso dearly, that I fold up with remorse and sorrow in my heart, would\ngo to wreck like others amid the pleasures of the world, in self-will\nand frivolity, in dissipation and recklessness. You would indulge her\nout of love in all sorts of follies, and so make her and yourself\nmiserable. No, it cannot be on any terms; and you yourself will thank\nme hereafter for my reasonable refusal. And now not a word more,\ndearest Edward, on this subject: let us come to your other request,\nwhich I can safely promise to grant you.\"\n\nEdward began, with a cheerless spirit, to reckon up the damage his\nmaster had sustained from the robberies that were carried on in such\nan inexplicable manner, and urged the absolute necessity that, before\nhe left the country, effective measures should at length be taken to\nget some trace of the thief. The old man wanted to break off the\ndiscussion; but Edward reminded him of his promise. Above all was\nBalthasar averse to a proposal made by his young friend, to set a\nspring-gun secretly in the warehouse, whereby the audacious robber\nmight at length be caught and punisht. The old man regarded such a\nmeasure as impious, unlawful, and nearly akin to wilful murder.\n\nEdward tried to refute these notions, and at last said: \"You owe it to\nyourself and to me to adopt this plan, which I too am far from\napproving unconditionally, but which in the present instance is the\nonly remedy. I need not again state the amount of the sums which have\nbeen stolen from you time after time during the last three years and\nmore; they would make a large fortune, so large a one that many a\nwealthy man would have been ruined by such losses. It is your\nunaccountable indifference that has thus emboldened the thief, who, it\nis clear, must be accurately acquainted with all our goings on.\nWhenever a watch has been set, nothing has happened. But as soon as we\nwere off our guard again, no bolts, no bars however strong, no\nprecautions however well-judged, availed us. William, and many other\npersons equally innocent, we have eyed with misdoubt. You cannot deny\nit; your suspicion must needs have lighted on everybody about you in\nturn. How can a heart so noble as yours hold fellowship with such a\nhateful feeling as to imagine now and then, for moments, that those on\nwhom you bestow your friendship and esteem, may be capable of the most\nscandalous baseness? You are guilty of the most glaring injustice to\nhundreds of honest and honorable men, for the sake of screening a\nsingle villain with an indulgence which I cannot but call weakness,\nand a weakness under these circumstances quite unpardonable. In a few\ndays I shall leave you. It is possible that the thief may not find any\nfavorable opportunities hereafter, that another overseer may be more\nsuccessful, that he may induce you to take stronger measures, and so\nto intimidate the offender: the robberies may cease: may not malicious\npersons, may not the offender himself perhaps, to secure himself\nagainst all chance of detection, and to frustrate every inquiry,\nspread a rumour that I am the heinous thief? Nay, might not such a\nreport carry with it a very great show of probability, since assuredly\nno one could have got at your goods with so little risk as I? What\nwill it profit me when far away, though you endeavour to vindicate me\nand to silence such a calumny? Will not your unwonted lenity, your\npresent preposterous supineness, make the detestable rumour wear a\nlook of the utmost speciousness, nay, of irrefragable truth? How, by\nwhat means, shall I then be able to clear myself? And, my loved, my\nhonoured friend, who do nothing but good to mankind, and think nothing\nbut evil of them, may not the same suspicion start up even in you, and\nstrike deep root in the dark places of your soul, and by little and\nlittle grow into a conviction that I am the person?\"\n\nBalthasar gazed at him, and walkt several times silently up and down\nthe room. He was evidently struggling with himself, and seemed totally\nlost in thought.\n\n\"You are not mistaken,\" he said after a long pause; \"or rather you are\nperfectly right. You know my notions about wealth and property. I look\non them with terrour. It seemed to me to be quite right, and to be a\nkind of slight amends to destiny for my incomprehensible luck, that\nwhat was flowing in so abundantly upon me from every side should at\nleast have one outlet by which a part of it might run off. At times I\nhave fancied that such a person or such another was thus making his\nfortune, who wanted it, and in a manner deserved it by his cleverness\nand sagacity in getting it. I took up a superstitious resolution to\nremain purposely in the dark, that I might not dissipate this strange\ndream and be deprived of this vague feeling. It gave me pain that I\nhad to misdoubt so many of my people, nay all of them; but at the same\ntime it was a pleasure that I could not feel certain about any. Yes,\nmy friend, you too, you too have I wronged. You now know me pretty\nwell, and I entreat your forgiveness. I have oftentimes thought in\nsecret, without however feeling the least anger against you: 'Well, he\nis taking beforehand what he has richly earned, by labour, by\nsleepless nights, by diligence of every kind ... he cannot know for\ncertain whether death may not snatch me away suddenly ... peradventure\nhe has some poor relations ... he may wish to marry and set up with a\nhandsome establishment ... he may perhaps have the same notions about\nproperty as I myself.' This has been the main ground of my lenity and\nweakness, as you call it; more especially when after the removal of\nWilliam and several other doubtful characters all still went on just\nas before. Even your great anxiety, Edward, your indignation, even\nthis turned my surmises against you. I have said to myself: 'Why does\nhe talk so much about it, and make such a piece of work? I have given\nhim the fullest powers in the matter: did he really take it so much to\nheart, he would have got hold of some clew long ago in one way or\nother by craft or by force. I could not possibly do otherwise than\napprove of whatever steps he took for my good.'\"\n\nAn overpowering pain seized on Edward during this speech; he felt on\nthe point of fainting. With a look of utter despondency he threw\nhimself into a chair, hid his face with his hands, and bent it down\nupon the table, till at length a flood of tears that streamed from his\nburning eyes, and a loud fit of convulsive sobbing a little relieved\nhis heart, which seemed about to break.\n\nThe old man was astonisht to see so great and unlookt for an effect\nproduced by a speech which he had uttered with perfect calmness, and\neven with kindliness. He endeavoured to comfort and pacify his young\nfriend, lifted up his head, and wiped the tears from his face, which\nstill stared at him with an expression of the deepest grief and\ndespair. He embraced him, he sought after words to heal the wound he\nhad inflicted, to lull the storm he had called up.\n\n\"O my heavens!\" he at length cried, when he saw that all his efforts\nwere in vain, \"what shall I do? Edward! I did not really mean any ill.\nI only think of others what I believe of myself. I love thee in truth,\nyoung man, above anybody I have ever known; thou art to me as a son:\nhence my perverse supineness under my unjust suspicions: thou must\nforgive me all, all, dearest Edward. I will do everything, everything\nyou ask of me.\"\n\nWhen Edward at length was somewhat recovered, he said with a broken\nvoice, which was often checkt by violent sobs: \"No, no, noblest, most\nupright of mankind, never, never could you have sunk down into a\nmiserable thief! No want, not even hunger and nakedness, no\nopportunity however tempting, could have degraded your lofty mind so\nlow. You only say it to quiet me. O heavens! this man, who treated me\nwith the warmest affection and with unbounded confidence, who placed\nlarge sums in my hands, without ever inquiring about them, that I\nmight become the dispenser of his bounty in feeding the hungry and\ntaking care of the sick, this same friend could at the very same time\ndeem me capable of such infamous wickedness. Observe now, observe what\na dangerous thing it is, to admit such dark spirits and phantoms into\nones soul, from which in time they utterly drive out all truth and\nlove, and strength and faith. O thou bright pure form of Truth! O thou\nspotless beauty of Virtue! How changed does this man seem to me since\nthat calamitous word, how changed am I myself! how fearfully, how\ndismally has the relation between us changed! It seems to me as though\nthe very belief in the possibility of anything like what this man has\nbelieved possible of me, had cast a shade of vice and depravity over\nmy whole life: for this noble being has hitherto been the mirror of my\nown worth, by looking at which I became conscious of my own\nwell-meaning and integrity. Can everything, everything in our heart be\nthus transformed in a single moment? Yes, my dear, my fatherly friend,\nI shall evermore honour and love you; I admire you while I mourn over\nyou; but even without any further cause this conversation would have\nparted us; this alone, without regard to my happiness or unhappiness,\nmust drive me from you into the wide world.\"\n\n\"So then we are now finally severed,\" said the old man very\nsorrowfully, \"by destiny, not by my fault. One may master everything,\nexcept ones own innermost self. Suspicion in me is not that bad thing\ninto which your overstrained sense of honour, such as I never saw in\nany man before, converts it by the meaning you assign to it. But, my\ndearest friend, without whom my life will long be a mere blank, you\nwill stay at least a few days, until you can take away the papers that\nwill secure your fortune to you. For this compensation you must accept\nfrom me as from a father, unless you would quite overwhelm me with\nshame.\"\n\nThey embraced, and the old man gave Edward an unlimited permission to\ntake whatever steps he thought proper for the sake of detecting and\npunishing the thief. Edward had regained his self-possession; and the\nold man was all kindness and gentleness. They talkt about other\naffairs; and Edward took some accountbooks under his arm to look over\nand correct.\n\n\"Embrace me once more with all your heart,\" said the old man, \"and\nforgive me too with all your heart.\"\n\nEdward turned back, and after embracing him said: \"My dearest friend,\nwhat have I to forgive you for, thinking as you do? It is not the\nright word. What I have just endured I can never forget; and this\nshock will thrill through me to the latest day of my life. The human\nheart and soul, man and God, seem to have become totally different in\nmy eyes since that terrific flash of lightning. Thinking as you do\ntoo, you cannot be angry with me, if I now say half in jest, that, had\nyou not allowed me to take my measures, I might have fancied after I\nwas gone that you had been thus ingeniously and cunningly robbing\nyourself, who knows with what subtle views, perchance for the very\nsake of throwing suspicion on some one or other.\"\n\n\"You are not altogether in the wrong,\" said Balthasar. Edward was\nagain standing at the door. \"Wait another moment, young man!\" cried\nhis master. Edward once more turned back. But when he drew nearer to\nthe old man, he was astonisht to find how totally his countenance and\nthe expression of his eyes were changed. A quick firy glance was\nsparkling restlessly upon him.\n\n\"You are fully convinced, I well know,\" the old man began, \"of the\ntruths of the Christian religion; you read your bible diligently and\ndevoutly. You also believe in the historical parts of it, and regard\nthe whole as an actual revelation: the rational, and allegorical, and\nlearned philological interpretations do not satisfy your mind. Is it\nnot so? you are a true Christian with all your heart and soul.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" answered Edward.\n\n\"The story,\" continued the old man, \"how the Saviour was tempted in\nthe wilderness by the Evil One, is not in your opinion a parable, or\nan allegory, or mythical legend, without any substance? but you\nbelieve that this event actually befell Jesus Christ, the Son of God,\nalong with the various circumstances and questions and answers\nrecorded?\"\n\n\"What are you aiming at?\" askt Edward hesitatingly after a pause.\n\"Yes, I believe this story like a sincere and orthodox Christian.\"\n\n\"Well!\" the old man went on, while his pale closed lips wrinkled into\na strange smile: \"I have a double aim, though I should hardly need to\nsay more, if you had ever thought deeply about this incident. In the\nfirst place, if our Saviour himself had to bear such things, if it was\npossible for him to be suspected though but by the Evil One, surely\nyou might forgive me with all your heart, if with half or a quarter of\nmine I have now and then half misdoubted you. Meseems, this\nmysterious, marvellous story with its fathomless, untold meanings does\nnot downrightly condemn my views of human nature. They are not mere\nspectres that have taken possession of my soul, unless indeed they\nbelong to one and the same family with spirits. In the second place,\ndo your eyes see much meaning in this wondrous story, if the success\nof the temptation was totally and absolutely impossible?--Now then\nwhat say you? appalling are the feelings that seize on one of us, and\nyou too cannot escape them, when all this is brought home to the heart\nand mind.--There is still a third remark that I would close\nwith:--what would have become of the world and of mankind, of heaven\nand earth, if the tempter had won the day? if love had faltered and\nbeen beguiled?--O young man, the doors are not closed in every place\nwhere we see them put to. You fancy you have made out everything, when\nyou have hardly counted up to five.--I too believed, I too inquired,\nwas absorbed in love and devotion, beheld love in my own soul and in\nthe souls of my brethren, and this is the very delusion the breaking\nup of which snap my heart and life asunder, never, never to revive and\nreunite. Cast away your pride in your feelings, think not to soar on\nthe wings of your imagination; but crawl along the ground like worms,\nand eat dust; for that is what befits you.\"\n\nThe old man squeezed Edward's hand, and then with a bitter smile, and\na sudden laugh that scared him, tore himself away. For a while Edward\ncontinued fixt in a stupour, and when at length he lifted up his eyes,\nBalthasar was again immerst in deep thought, and standing at his\nwriting table with the gloomy suffering look which he usually wore.\nEdward felt as if he was leaving a dying man when he went away, and\nshut the heavy oaken door slowly and carefully after him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEdward had taken his measures with no less secrecy than judgement.\nNone of the servants, foremen, or even of the overseers knew that he\nwas doing anything out in the warehouse. Every interruption had been\nguarded against. He was quite alone, nor did anybody even know of his\nhaving left the house, when he made his arrangements; and it was dark\nbefore he came back. He could not tell whether a fresh robbery might\nnot be committed on that very night, or not till a future one. All the\nwatchmen had been removed from the warehouse in such a manner as not\nto excite suspicion.\n\nAnd now amid the solitude of the night he sat down to the account\nbooks, for the sake of bringing all his thoughts to bear on a single\npoint, and thereby recovering from the agitation he had lately\nundergone. It was of importance to have these matters perfectly\narranged before he went away. At length he succeeded in banishing what\nhad happened from his thoughts for the time; and he became so much\nengaged in his employment, he forgot that these very hours might be\nunravelling that unpleasant affair, which had given them so much\nannoyance for years.\n\nWhen he had finisht and was turning over the leaves of an old book\nthat he had taken up along with the rest, some written papers fell out\nof it: they were in Balthasar's hand, and had evidently been written\nmany years. He read the following fragments.\n\n    Yes in truth weeping is a wonder, and, as they say, a gift sent\n    from heaven. A bliss spreads through our soul, as soon as our\n    flowing tears come, like the waters of a river, sweeping away\n    black sorrow, and disquietude, and trembling doubts. Ye are all\n    given back to me, ye spirits that once were mine, and that a cruel\n    destiny afterward severed from me.\n\n    For the sake of this, people will woo tears, and try to lure them\n    with coaxing when they will not come. Our day's work is over, and\n    now, as the rich man and the glutton will wind up his multifarious\n    meal with sweetmeats, so after our toil, after closing our\n    accounts, we court devotional thoughts and pathetical emotions, we\n    meditate on the dead, in order to entice this lifes-wine of tears\n    into our voluptuous eyes and our luxurious brain. Now a\n    sentimental melancholy inhaloes every ordinary object around us;\n    and amid the meek abasht feelings of a pining anguish and remorse,\n    suddenly starts up nauseous arrogance, vaunting the grandeur of a\n    spoilt capricious heart. O what poor wretches our fellow creatures\n    now seem to us in their commonplaceness, who yet all, as the\n    patient children and drudges of mother earth, are better than we.\n\n    But laughter! This earthquake which invisible powers heave up out\n    of the knotty entanglement of our dark enigmatical being! which in\n    boisterous senseless noises announces that within, in the unseen\n    world, the soul neither recks of nor knows truth or falsehood, and\n    has just been murdering the innocent herald who was bringing these\n    phantasms before it! These rude unmeaning sounds which will for a\n    long time distort even the best face, the most mechanically\n    regular mask!\n\n    How men long after this loathsome convulsion! While tears lie and\n    cheat by aping heavenly feelings, laughter is awkwardly trying to\n    let the craziness of evil demons skulk behind it, hides itself\n    from vulgarity for the sake of being seen, feigns terrour when our\n    unsubdued struggling feelings are detected, and saunters about in\n    the midst of whatever is disgusting and impure, perpetually\n    clapperclawing with some outcast among the rabble or other: one\n    moment our intelligent, and higher faculties, as they call them,\n    get the upper hand; the next they are beaten down and trod upon by\n    something base and profligate: and thus veering to and fro, now\n    toying now scolding, laughter clatters down the steps of idiocy,\n    which crumble with the decay of our bodily strength ... and man\n    grins, and is happy.\n\n    Blessed time, when there was a real existence, a life in life!\n    when the vast whole of eternity, being sufficient to itself, had\n    not splintered itself out into time! when the spirit did not need\n    a succession, measured out by the atoms of time and space, to\n    become conscious of its power and of its being! What a portentous\n    event was it, when eternity and life parted fellowship!--when the\n    band by which spirits were bound in one, burst, and that strange\n    creature, Death, rusht in through the chasm to domineer over all.\n    Now that which is firm, stedfast, enduring, has concentrated\n    itself in the depths of its own being, and has put on the\n    unvarying aspect of solid meditation. Stones, rocks, metals, bid\n    defiance to decay with their cold looks, and would make believe\n    that they know not of change. Drops of water dancing like tiny\n    elves along them, the sightless legions of the air, wherever they\n    spread, are eating into the limbs of the rigid haughty giant; the\n    dwarf, man, digs into his bones, and, if his strength were equal\n    to his fury, would reduce him to fleeting sand. May it not\n    peradventure be the same with the eternal stars? A little acid,\n    and the monster sneezes sillily, and roars, and yawns, and for the\n    moment remembers its spiritual nature.\n\n    And thou with thy butterfly wings in thy light summer garment,\n    thou that hoverest aloft, and flittest over the mountains, and\n    sweepest along the earth! from the airy changeling of the\n    caterpillar, up or down to the lion and to man, ye all of you,\n    fostering a brief momentary spark in you, like the glance from the\n    flint and steel ... gone is the red bubbling up of the spark ...\n    and again a mere slough is lying before us, after its short dream\n    of life and love, dust upon dust, rottenness upon decay ... the\n    great-grandfather beside his mouldering great-grandchild ... and\n    neither knows the other, neither has ever heard of the other.\n\n    The plants around you prick up their ears at you in a thousand\n    forms; the flowers smile roguishly and sadly, in the midst of the\n    masquerade; and dream mingles with dream, when the lover plucks\n    the rose, and blushing himself holds out the blushing blossom to\n    his blushing maiden.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    The beating of the pulse is not only a sign of life, it is life\n    itself. No feeling, no thought, no sight or hearing, no taste or\n    sensation flows along with a rushing stream, but all comes\n    skipping, wave upon wave, drop upon drop, and this is its being.\n    One thought is cast out by another; our feelings are only felt as\n    they shift between life and death: the kiss only thrills on our\n    lips when a chill void has already spread over them; our delight\n    in a picture, in music, merely gushes through us; one moment it\n    entrances us, the next it has vanisht. Thus the sea breathes in\n    its ebb and flow, time in its days and nights, its winters and\n    summers. If I do not forget myself this moment, I cannot recollect\n    myself the next.--And death....\n\n    Is this revulsion of the pulse, this alteration of strain, this\n    change of tune a prelude, a transition to a new piece of music?\n    Every living creature exists to be devoured by another; man alone\n    has apparently eluded these barrack-regulations, this military\n    duty, and fattens himself up for the earth, that shattered chaos\n    of stones and mould.\n\n    In love, in misfortune, in joy, in despondency, in labour and\n    rest, death has always been my uppermost, I might rather say my\n    only thought. Suicide in me would have been of all human actions\n    the most natural. I have never felt that any indescribable fear,\n    any overpowering shudder draws us back, and flings the knife from\n    our hands. If poor naked Joy, that is so meanly clad, she is\n    ashamed to walk about the earth, were once to enter our doors,\n    then the stab of the bright dagger would only be the last\n    glittering pinnacle of our joyous transport. For after that brief\n    pulsation is over, how bald is the earth, how black is life! It is\n    because I know not whither I am going, or whether I am going, or\n    whether there be a whither, that the act is so alluring. Only men\n    will not confess this, but give the name of cowardice and of\n    courage to what is neither the one nor the other. In dissipation,\n    in thoughtlessness, in indifference, the poor wretches lose both\n    life and death.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    A strange dream, that is to say, a dream, has visited me. The\n    commonest thing is quite as strange as the uncommonest, only habit\n    blunts our sense.\n\n    I was dead. I knew it distinctly; and yet I lived on in my\n    consciousness. All my forlorn doubts, my stiff-neckedness that\n    would not bow to the yoke, my hard heart that closed itself so\n    early against love, had shut me out, so my conscience told me,\n    from the place to which the good hope to go. The state in which I\n    found myself, and numberless others along with me, was one the\n    common ordinariness, the dull triviality of which was quite\n    appalling. I was utterly unable to recollect my friends and those\n    whom I had loved, however intensely I strained my memory and put\n    it to the rack. A longing, like that of one pining with thirst\n    after a stream of fresh clear water, tormented me, to call up the\n    forms and the ideas of those beloved beings in my imagination; I\n    felt a yearning after them like a heavy weight that was crushing\n    me in the hidden places of my heart. Just as little could I bring\n    back those actions which during my life I might have called good.\n    Every thing in this region of my thoughts was like a bare parcht\n    waste. But everything evil rolled in whirling circles wearyingly\n    and dizzyingly before my inward eye. My vices and errours, all the\n    faults and misdeeds of my life, every wretched moment of my\n    temporal existence gathered round me as it were with the cries and\n    croaking of fierce hungry birds of prey. O these sins how hugely\n    and gigantically they swelled out! How horrible it was to see\n    their consequences unfolding themselves far, far away in the\n    realms of the future! how they took root and grew up riotously in\n    after-generations! nothing but looks of anguish, of reproach, of\n    pain, of bitter despair was turned upon me from thence. In like\n    manner I easily called to mind all the persons who had ever been\n    objects of my hatred or dislike; every tedious hour, the\n    recollection of which tortured me afresh; all the folly and\n    absurdity that I had ever uttered myself, or heard from others.\n\n    In the numerous vast halls countless swarms of men were sitting,\n    standing, or walking about, all in the same state of deplorable\n    woe. And no variety, no division of time, no hour, no sun or night\n    disturbed or changed this melancholy monotonousness. One solitary\n    amusement was there. Now and then some one reminded us of our\n    former faith, how during our lives we had feared and worshipt a\n    God. Then a loud burst of laughter, as at a most portentous\n    absurdity, pealed through the hall. Afterward they all grew grave,\n    and I strove with all my faculties to call back the reverence, the\n    sanctity of my human feelings, but in vain.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\nEdward had not observed that the morning was already dawning, so\ncompletely had he been wrapt up in these singular papers. Without\ndoubt too he would have gone on reading much longer, unless he had now\nbeen interrupted by loud cries and a violent knocking at his door. He\nwent to see what it was, and Conrad rusht into the room, heated,\npanting, and with a ferocious look.\n\n\"Now we have him!\" cried the miner furiously: \"did not I say long ago\nthat this vagabond is wickedness itself? Only let him instantly be\nbound, master overseer, hand and foot in the heaviest chains you can\nget, and then have the dog flogged till he is cut to pieces, that his\nlife and his infernal soul may crawl out of him by inches.\"\n\n\"What is the matter with you?\" askt Edward. \"I am afraid you must be\nin a fever, and are stark raving.\"\n\n\"Hurrah!\" screamed Conrad; \"now my cruel illness will soon be gone,\nnow that the miscreant has been caught at his wicked tricks. He will\nnever carry me down again now into their rubbishy straw.\"\n\n\"Whom are you talking of?\" Edward again began: \"surely not of the\nHungarian miner?\"\n\n\"The very person,\" answered Conrad: \"the monster has been stealing,\nand is in league with a whole gang of thieves. Hark you, to cut the\nmatter short, I could not sleep last night, and so roamed about the\nwoods, in part to get myself some herbs to cure my ailing. It was just\nbeginning to dawn, when I heard something like wheels down below,\nalong the lonely lane in the thick of the wood, and at the same time\nthere was a moaning and groaning; for at night one hears and makes out\nevery thing much plainlier. Off I ran. Two fellows were drawing a cart\nin great tribulation and fear, and the pale rascal was walking\nalongside, and driving them on. 'Scoundrels!' I shouted in their\nfaces! and the word was hardly out of my throat, when the two thieves\nhad already scampered off; but the pale skinny mountebank I held fast;\nthe cart with the stolen goods is standing in the wood. They will soon\nbring it after me however; for I met a couple of workmen whom I sent\nfor it; and the Hungarian waivode I have dragged hither with my own\nhand.\"\n\nMeanwhile the whole house was in an uprore. The stranger was sitting\nhandcufft at the door; and miners, spinners, and weavers came\ncrowding; others flockt from the mills; and all were shouting, all\nwere staring with wonder at each other; everybody wanted to tell his\nstory, and nobody seemed to know what it was that had happened; so\nthat Edward and Conrad began with much perplexity and annoyance to\nquestion one after another, until the miner cried out with his\nthundering voice: \"Hold your jaws all of you. Not a soul shall speak\nanother word, except he whom your young master shall ask.\"\n\nOne-eyed Michael was standing near them, and, as Edward turned to him,\nhe said: \"It may have been about three in the morning when I set off\nfrom the forge to deliver a message betimes at the smelting house up\nin the mountains. I was walking along the path through the wood,\nthinking no harm, save that when I got pretty near to the warehouse\nall the nightly robberies came across me which have been going on this\nmany a long day there. 'I'd give the world to catch the rogue,' I said\nto myself, when all at once a gun went off. A gun! what ho! that put\nme to my wits. 'There are never any sportsmen hereabout,' I said, and\nbegan marching and bustling on with a little more haste and speed. In\na few moments I hear cries and yells and shouts, and a pothering and\nsquabbling. All this methinks can never be right. I get to the top,\nand now I see the whole business. The warehouse is open, several\nbarrows and men are before it, they are piling up the goods: a short\nfigure that I could not make out in the dark, panting and whining,\nscreaming and grumbling, is shuffling and tumbling about. I make up to\nthe fellows with the stolen goods. Then some of them seized me fast\nand prest down my eyes. The noise lessens, I can't cry out, nor would\nit do me much good. When they let me loose again, there was nothing to\nbe seen. Even the limper, in spite of all my search, had got off and\nwas not to be found. When I came nearer the houses I awoke every body\nwith my shouts, telling them to go and watch the warehouse, and scour\nafter the rogues.\"\n\n\"And I,\" cried Conrad, \"have lugged the commander in chief of the\ncutpurses by the throat, that sapient soothsayer that was playing off\nhis pranks with his match the other day at your forge.\"\n\nThen they all set off again telling their stories, shouting and\nscreaming, just as noisily as before. Edward however gave orders what\nall were to do; the stranger was to be watcht, the stolen goods to be\ntaken into the house, and everybody was to be quiet, not to disturb\ntheir old master's rest, should he be still asleep. He himself\nhastened with a few others to the warehouse, to arrange matters there,\nand, if possible, to find out more about the thieves.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEdward found marks of blood in the warehouse and on the ground\nwithout, and he and his companions followed them. Anon they lost sight\nof them, then discovered them again in a thicket on one side, and a\nlittle after in one of the bypaths. Edward walkt on with anxious\nfeelings; a boding prest upon his heart; he was unwilling to confess\nhis misgivings even to himself. Ere long however they turned to\ncertainty; for the traces led to the house of Eleazar, which lay on a\ngreen slope. When they got up to it they found all the neighbours\nalready in motion; people were coming from the town; the priest of the\nparish was just passing through the door. Within everything was in\nconfusion, and a physician and surgeon were busy upstairs.\n\nEdward left his companions without, and with a beating heart opened\nthe chamber door. Eleazar was lying pale and with ghastly features in\nhis bed. His wound had just been examined, and a bandage placed on it.\nEverybody in the room, the physician, surgeon, priest, and servants\nlookt frightened and distrest; for there was something in this\naccident so mysterious and terrible that no one could help being\nstruck with awe by it.\n\nThe surgeon, whom Edward took aside, shook his head, and assured him\nthat all assistance was in vain; the patient would hardly live through\nthe day. Eleazar now raised himself out of his stupour, lookt round,\nand perceived Edward. \"Aha!\" he cried with a strained and faint voice,\n\"You too are already there! Well! You have at last got the better of\nme. This is what you have been driving at this long time. I am now\nlying here, and all is over, all is found out; there are no more\nquestions and answers, no more todays and tomorrows. How it will fare\nwith you remains to be seen hereafter. Not well most undoubtedly. So\ndon't triumph in your imaginary virtue.\"\n\nHe beckoned and made the priest bring him a paper that was lying in\nthe window. \"Give this to the old man of the mountain,\" he then went\non; \"he will see from it how I loved him; for it is my will.\"\n\nThe priest now said a few words, begging to be left alone with the\nsick man. Edward was glad to leave the room and refresh himself in the\nopen air. Here Conrad again ran up to him out of breath, and cried ...\n\"Confusion worse confounded! Only think what he has been doing, our\nvirtuous Eleazar! his last loaf has already been baked for him. Look\nyou, this fellow, this lord and master of the country, this son-in-law\nof the old man of the mountain, is a scurvy thief ... Now I will\nforgive that white-faced Hungarian wretch for serving me as he did the\nother day; for what is all the reputation in the earth, all the honour\nin the world come to?\"\n\nThe whole neighbourhood, town and country, was in consternation at\nthis event. The most incredible thing in the world had taken place, a\ncrime that could neither be denied nor concealed, committed by a man\nwhom all had been forced to regard with respect, whom all had lookt\nupon as their future master and protector; and they could not recover\nfrom their astonishment, or fall back into their ordinary occupations;\nfor their minds in this turmoil had for a while lost every standard by\nwhich a man measures himself.\n\nThe old man amid the general tumult had already learnt the whole\nstory, in spite of the pains Edward had taken to prevent it. He had\nlockt himself up in his room and let nobody in.\n\nEdward now interrogated the stranger. This man had for a long time had\ndealings with Eleazar; he lived in a town a good many miles off, and\nhad often sent agents up the mountains and helpt in selling the stolen\ngoods. A tradesman in another small town was also a party in the\naffair. The Hungarian had quarelled with Eleazar, and had come up into\nthese parts with a view of going to old Balthasar, sounding him, and,\nif he found him inclined to pay well for it, disclosing the whole\nhistory of the abominable transaction. But as the old man had not\nshewn any mind to have recourse to superstitious devices, still less\nto give ear to his covert hints, so that the stranger might have\nbrought his own neck into the noose if he had betrayed too much, he\ndrew off and remained faithful to his confederate Eleazar, who had\nquieted him with a sum of money, along with large promises for the\nfuture.\n\nThe old man's great bell now rang, and Edward took up his papers and\nwent to him. \"You have lookt over and corrected all my accounts, my\ndear friend?\" he began with outward calmness. Edward said yes, as he\nset down the books; but he hesitated and knew not whether to give in\nEleazar's will along with them. The old man however took it himself\nout of his hand and cast his eyes over it.\n\n\"It is now three months,\" he began, \"since he made me heir to all he\nhas, in case he should die before me. He has drawn up a list of all\nhis effects, and points out where each thing may be found. The chief\narticle is a number of gold bars, which he says are of his own making.\nRead it.\"\n\nEdward took the papers with some embarrassment. \"Is it not true?\" said\nthe old man after some time, \"does any thing but madness animate and\nrule the whole world? Can you understand this man and his character in\nany other way? To be sure this word itself does not help us to\nunderstand it. O young man, young man, do you not feel now how\nthoroughly right I was? I trusted this man unlimitedly, because he was\nnot girt round with any delusive deceitful show; because nothing in my\nheart sallied forth to meet him, and I did not lie to myself in his\nbehalf for the sake of pampering my own vanity. Ay, my friend, now\neverything is detected and noised abroad; he is going ... and in this\nwill he gives me back what the lawyers would call my property. His\nwill! Now forsooth it must also be time to make mine, and a different\none from what I intended. Now your nice feelings of honour will no\ndoubt condescend to stay with me a little longer ... and my child, my\nRose! alas, how fearful it is that this darling of my heart is also a\nhuman being!\"\n\n\"At such an hour as this,\" answered Edward, \"which must needs strike\nyou with horrour, I will not again declare the wishes of my heart to\nyou; you yourself have toucht upon them, or I should have refrained\neven from these words. But undoubtedly I must now stay with you:\ndestiny compells me to do so, and imposes it as a sacred duty upon\nme.\"\n\n\"Destiny with a vengeance!\" said the old man with his bitter smile:\n\"you take a fancy to Rose; you hear she is already engaged; this\ndrives you away from me; but before you take leave, your honour must\nbe cleared and furbisht up; and as a remembrance you shoot my most\nintimate friend, the man after my own soul, and tear him from my side.\nNow Rose is at liberty, you are your own master, your rival is got rid\nof; and destiny has managed the whole matter admirably. But whether\nthis shot has not pierced through my heart, whether it has not rent\nand burst asunder the innermost sanctuary of my soul ... these\nquestions are never thought of. There is as it were a huge chasm\nyawning in my spirit ... confidence, faith ... everything ... did not\nI say so? good is the only real evil ... Edward! don't look so sad ...\nmethinks I am talking quite wildly.\"\n\nHe took the young man's hand. \"Bring me the mayor this evening, and\nthe priest and bailiff as witnesses. You are now my son, and this is\nthe spirit I shall now make my will in. I feel it is high time; for it\nwould be horrible if Helbach were to fling all my fortune to the dogs.\nO if I could but totally forget this shot and Eleazar! if such wild\nthoughts did not keep rushing about in my brain! Now you and Rose will\nstay with me.\"\n\nEdward withdrew. He went to look for Rose in her room. She burst out\na-crying, jumpt up from her chair, and threw herself into the young\nman's arms with an expression of the fondest affection. \"Alas Edward!\"\nshe cried sobbing, and hid her face on his breast: \"only look now at\nwhat I have to go through in my youth. This was never sung over me in\nmy cradle, that I should lose my husband in so shocking a manner, and\neven before our wedding. And the last thing I should have thought of\nwas that you were to shoot him dead, you, the dearest and kindest of\nall men.--Alas! poor, poor Eleazar! when he came from nature's hands,\nsuch an odious misshapen abortion of a man! And now into the bargain\nto steal, to lie, and to cheat! to rob my good father, who meant to\ngive him everything! What will become of his poor soul now? Oh yes, he\nhas perisht still more cruelly, he is much more unhappy than my cat\nwith her kittens, that he shot so barbarously on the orange tree. Alas\nEdward! are you then in real truth such a good creature, as I have\nalways believed you? or are you perchance very wicked too? You did not\nmean it, did you? that Eleazar should die so?\"\n\nEdward took pains to explain the nature of the whole affair to her.\n\"Be composed,\" he continued; \"the course of our lives here has suddenly\nundergone a violent change; we must all overcome this shock, to get\nback again into the path of our ordinary duty. A few days since you\nwere sorry that I was going away; if it can give you any comfort, let\nme assure you that for the present at least I shall and must stay\nhere. Do you still wish that I should?\"\n\nShe gazed at him affectionately and seemed comforted. \"So then that is\nsettled now!\" she exclaimed: \"ah yes, I always thought you would stay;\nfor I can't live without you; and my father can't live without you;\nand all our poor workmen and spinners, our good miners, for whom you\nare always saying and doing something, and who, when they come for\ntheir wages or for relief, look with their whole souls into your kind\neyes, these above all can never live without you.\"\n\n\"This calamity,\" said Edward, \"may hereafter make you, your father,\nme, and all of us happy. The discovery was inevitable; and perhaps, if\nit had not taken place now, it would have come at a time when it would\nhave plunged us all in misery.\"\n\n\"If my father now,\" said Rose, \"were to have no objection, I might\nperhaps in time accustom myself to look upon you as my future husband.\nIf I could but feel a little more respect and awe for you! If you\nwould behave very roughly to me now and then, not always so kindly,\nbut angrily and savagely at times, I might by and by grow reconciled\nto it.\"\n\nEdward went to his business. The uprore had ceast, and the whole house\nwas now quiet and silent: it seemed as if people were afraid of even\nbreathing: all walkt about softly and on tiptoe. News came that\nEleazar was dead.\n\nToward evening Edward went with the mayor and witnesses into old\nBalthasar's room. He was surprised to find him in bed. On being spoken\nto by his visitors he lifted himself up, stared fixedly at them, and\nseemed to know no one. \"Aha! reverend Sir,\" he cried out after a\nwhile, \"you are come to fetch away a second poor sinner today. It is a\nbusy time in your vocation. Is master Eleazar come with you?\"\n\nHe beckoned to Edward. \"Thou yellow blockhead!\" he whispered to him;\n\"what am I to do with thy gold bars that thou hast left me? don't\nthrust thy stupid cheat into men's eyes so ... it is far too glaring.\nBut beware of Edward, he is wise and good. If he should ever suspect\nthee, thou art lost.\"\n\nHe talkt to the others, but still quite at random, and was taken up\nwith the phantoms of his own brain. The mayor and witnesses retired,\nand Edward went after the physician. The business of drawing up the\nwill was put off, until the sick man should have recovered and be\nrestored to his perfect consciousness.\n\nThe physician found the patient's state very alarming. Edward was\ncalled up in the night; but when he entered the room Herr Balthasar\nhad already breathed his last.\n\nThe dismay, the sorrow was universal. The mayor sent to have\neverything sealed up. In the midst of this confusion, it seemed a\nmatter of very little moment that the Hungarian had found means to\nescape from his prison.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the town where the extravagant counsellor Helbach lived, there was\na great feast at which all the epicures famous for their love of good\neating and their knowledge of good dishes were assembled. The\ncounsellor himself was the soul of such parties: his word was law in\nthem; and he it was that had managed the present banquet.\n\nThe dinner was nearly over; some of the guests, who had business to\ncall them away, were gone: the company had grown quieter; and it was\nonly at the upper end of the table, where the counsellor and some of\nthe scientific eaters were sitting, that the conversation was carried\non with any spirit.\n\n\"Believe me, my friends,\" said the counsellor with great earnestness,\n\"the art of eating, the skill men may attain in it, has its epochs,\nits classical ages, and its decline, corruption, and dark ages, just\nas much as every other art; and it seems to me that we are now again\nverging to a kind of barbarism in it. Luxury, profusion, rarities, new\ndishes, overpeppering, overspicing, all these, my good sirs, are the\nartifices now commonly made use of to obtain admiration for a dinner;\nand yet these are the very things from which a thinking eater will\nturn away with contemptuous slight. In the whole of this department\nindeed much still remains to be done; and the stories we read of the\nold gormandizer, Heliogabalus, and others who lived during the\ndecrepitude of the Roman empire, stories at which many men stare with\nstupid astonishment, ought only to excite our pity.\"\n\n\"It must always be difficult no doubt,\" said one of the guests, \"to\nframe any distinct conception of the dishes and the delicacies of a\nformer age. If we dress them by such receits as remain, the result\nwill always have something absurd in it, like the dinner which\nSmollett describes so humourously in his _Peregrine Pickle_.\"\n\n\"That tact on which after all everything depends,\" answered the\ncounsellor, \"is sure to be wanting, that nice knowledge of the exact\nlimit between too much and too little which nothing but instinct can\nbestow; and even this instinct must be cultivated by studying the\nproperties of fire, the culinary powers of which can never be\ndescribed, and which a cook can only make himself master of by long\nexperience, judgement, and observation, nor even then unless he was\nborn a cook. The main point however is, that our tongue and palate\nhave been trained and fashioned from our childhood to particular\ntastes, likings, and antipathies; so that often the very best, most\njudicious, and admirable thing, if it come across us on a sudden as a\nnovelty, as something we have never set tooth on, and thus give a\nshock to all our prepossessions, will be disregarded and abused; until\nat length in course of time on our becoming familiar with the\nstranger's merits, he is naturalized: and then the new knowledge we\nhave acquired will often exercise the most salutary influence and\nthrow much light on other dishes, both old and lately invented ones,\nso that our palate is as it were strung with a new chord, which sends\nforth a variety of delicious notes. Moreover the ages that are gone\nand the ideas that prevailed among our forefathers are still acting\nupon this _tastature_ of mankind, as a race made to relish, to discern,\nand to enjoy; and as in philosophy and science, in politics and\ngovernment, so here too there is an unbroken chain; the accumulated\nexperience of centuries moulded us to be just such as we are; and this\nstate of our taste can and must only be modified by degrees; nor could\nanything be more ruinous than a sudden revolution which should throw\neverything topsy turvy. In every field of human action history is\nman's best master.\"\n\n\"You yourself,\" said the guest, \"should write a history of the\narticles of food, the art of eating, and the progress of the human\nmind in it.\"\n\n\"When one is oneself a practical artist,\" answered the counsellor,\n\"and so devoted a one as I am, so diligent in working at my art, and\nso ready to try every new experiment in it, one must leave such\nmatters to people of an idler and more contemplative turn. If you aim\nat doing everything, you will never do anything well and thoroughly.\"\n\n\"Why,\" resumed the other, \"do we hear this perpetual abuse of\nsensuality? why will men so seldom confess, and even then but\nreluctantly, the pleasure they take in eating and drinking?\"\n\n\"Because,\" said counsellor Helbach, \"they never know what they are\nreally at. It has always struck me as very remarkable and singular\nthat, in the little round box in which all our finer senses are ranged\nand stored up, and in the top of which moreover our thinking powers,\nand all the noblest intellectual products of our soul are deposited,\nwe should find that red-lined drawer close beneath, with the delicate\nlittle bosses set like jewels over the tremulous vocal tongue and\npalate, garnisht in front with teeth that toil and cut, and closed by\nthe graceful mouth. Eating is only another mode of thinking. Thus this\nbox is a coppel in which the essences of all created things, the\nfinest and the grossest, vapours and juices, the soft soothing oils,\nthe bitternesses and tartnesses which at first seem grating, the\nflavour which evaporates in a momentary enjoyment, are put to the\ntest. First the teeth begin chopping and grinding; the tongue, at\nother times so talkative, silently and busily rolls about and makes\nmuch of the morsels it receives, presses them affectionately and\nbenevolently against the palate, to double its pleasure by sharing it;\nand when this tender dalliance has been sufficiently indulged in, at\nlength pushes them back almost unwillingly to its friend that swallows\nthem down, and that indeed has the real enjoyment of them, the highest\nof all, though but for a moment, and then with heroic self-sacrifice\nmakes them over to another power. Straightway the same game is\nrepeated a second, a third, a thousandth time. I never yet heard it\nsaid that any self-tormenting anchoret had courage enough altogether\nto forgo the pleasure of eating, even though he stinted himself to\nbread. Indeed kind Nature has taken such good care of her children,\nthat it is next to impossible.\"\n\n\"A very just and profound remark!\" exclaimed his neighbour.\n\n\"We see too,\" continued the dissertator, \"what high importance nature\nhas attacht to these processes of devouring, eating, chewing, and\nswallowing, and how in every sphere of existence they have been her\nmain end and aim. What would become of all the animals upon the earth,\nof all the birds that roam through the air, and all the swarms of\ngreater and lesser creatures that people the waters and the sea,\nunless every one of them had received a bill, payable at sight, upon\nhis neighbour. What would they live on, if they did not live on one\nanother? or where forsooth would they find room to live? Is not the\nworld perpetually oscillating between the two great works of producing\nand of devouring? The king of the creation, man, stands at the summit,\nas the crown and the final object of all these multiform guests. Those\nhis subalterns, who have an assignment either one upon the other, or\nupon the vegetable world, look up to him with reverential awe: for it\nis not merely one thing or another, not merely beasts or vegetables,\nnot merely fishes or birds, no, almost everything without exception\nhe turns into food, making all classes of his subjects the sources of\nhis happiness. It is only from his own kind, and from a few which\nserve him as his immediate vassals, or the flesh of which, whether\nfrom prejudice or in reality, does not taste agreeably, that he\nabstains. By means of fire, that performs his bidding, out of strong\nessences, butter, oil, and spices, vegetables and flesh, all artfully\nmingled and chemically prepared, he concocts the most extraordinary\ncombinations to please his palate. While the eye is weeping at top,\nand the brain above it is brooding over touching thoughts, or kindling\nitself and the heart with inspiring ones, while the nose inhaling\nhyacinthine odours awakens visions of sweet desire in the imagination,\nthe mouth below is already lusting and licking its lips after the\nvenison or the liver pasty that is carried by. The sentimental young\nlady feeds her pigeons with pathetical grace; and the very mouth which\nlisps the prettiest verses and most moving idyls to them, will swallow\nthe same innocent creatures by and by with exquisite relish. Could\nanimals make observations as we do, and were a poet some day to rise\nup amongst them, in what strange colours would he represent man!\"\n\n\"Truly,\" said his friend, \"such a jest, thus retorted upon mankind,\nwould be extremely amusing.\"\n\n\"We are fond of boasting of our universality,\" counsellor Helbach went\non, \"and yet in the very art in which Nature herself has so manifestly\nintended us to be universal, I mean in that of eating, many people\nscorn to become so, and fancy it is more dignified to treat this whole\nbranch of knowledge with contempt. And yet the flocks of birds of\npassage, the shoals of wandering fishes, come from distant regions,\nflying and swimming into our nets, for the mere pleasure of our\npalates; and the fruits of every climate, of every soil, of every\nquarter of the globe, blend into enjoyment within us. Who does not\nperceive in an oyster, if at least he is gifted with a true sense for\nit, the might and the freshness of the sea! O asparagus, he that has\nnot the wit to enjoy thee, can know nothing of the mysteries which the\ndreaming world of plants reveals to us! Can one understand anything of\nthe history of the world or of poetry, if one is a stranger to all\nthese natural elementary feelings, and incapable of doing justice to\nthe worth of a snipe, or even of a turbot?\"\n\nThe other guests had already retired; the dinner was quite over; and\nonly counsellor Helbach and his two nearest and most intimate friends\nwere still sitting engaged in this and the like conversation.\n\n\"I am quite surprised,\" one of them began, \"at the buoyant youthful\nspirit which you still retain, at your jovial animation, your lively\npoetical playfulness. All the rest of us have grown so old, and the\nweight of years presses so heavily upon us, while you are still\njesting, and pleasure has lost none of its freshness or charms with\nyou.\"\n\n\"We are all alone now,\" said the counsellor, \"and I may therefore\nspeak more from my heart to such old friends. It is true, this sensual\nenjoyment gives me pleasure, and will console me at times for the want\nof much: but I am not the frivolous person you take me for, perhaps\nnever was so. Almost everybody has a mask; and this is mine. I move\nabout in it lightly and with ease, and so most people take it for my\nreal character. My youth was a very sad one: my parents displayed all\ntheir weaknesses, their extravagance and ostentation, so glaringly to\nme and to all the world, that I could not look upon them with esteem;\nand this to a young man is of all feelings the most terrible. Poverty\nand distress, privations of every kind may be borne much more easily:\nbut a calamity like mine crushes the heart before it is yet grown up.\nI had to play the part of a rich man, to squander money, to give\nmyself airs. When one puts on the semblance of anything for a time, it\nwill soon become a portion of our nature. Imitate a stutterer for a\nwhile, and you will have to keep diligent watch over yourself not to\nstammer in earnest. I fell in love, and was on the point of changing\ninto a totally different person; for my passion was sincere and\nardent. But new distress. The noble being who soon became my wife,\ncould never give me her heart. The strongest passion must die away\nwhen it finds no return; and in such a case a man has done enough, if\nthis finest feeling of his nature do not turn into hatred and malice.\nFor myself I was thrown back by this into my apparent frivolity: and\nnot to make a show of my unhappiness, like my wife, who, though\notherwise admirable, gave way too much to this weakness, I abandoned\nmyself to riotous conviviality, turbulent pleasures, and unprofitable\nsociety. There is often a spirit of defiance in us, having something\nof nobleness in it, and not utterly condemnable, which withholds\nstrong characters from reforming and improving, notwithstanding all\nthe admonitions of conscience. The more unhappy I felt myself, the\nmore I acted happiness. After my son was born, my wife began to shun\nme altogether, and would often wilfully misunderstand me. She devoted\nall her affection and care to her child, lived only for him, and\nbrought him up to be so capricious and headstrong, that she herself\nwas the greatest sufferer by his faults, and yet had not strength of\nmind enough to eradicate the fatal perverseness, which she herself had\nfirst fostered in him. My advice was not listened to: it had been\ntaken for granted that I could no more love the child, than appreciate\nand esteem the mother. My heart bled; and yet I could not interfere\nauthoritatively, unless I would consent to be regarded by her and by\nthe whole world as a monster, being already called a tyrant,\nunfeeling, and frivolous, and having been so long wont to give up the\npoint that I often lookt on myself as such. Thus my son was bred up as\na stranger to me, with all his feelings purposely and studiously\nalienated from me: but his over-weak, too passionately fond mother was\nno gainer thereby; for she likewise lost his depraved heart, over\nwhich, when the boy was grown up, she had not the slightest influence.\nHow reckless and unmanageable he has been, you well know; how wretched\nhis mother has become, is notorious; but my life too, my friends, is a\nlost one.\"\n\nA servant came hastily in, and told the counsellor he must go home\nimmediately: for something of great importance had happened.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe wife of counsellor Helbach was sitting in her bedroom, which only\nlet in a faint dim light from the court. Her tear-worn eyes were\nstedfastly fixt on an open gospel; she read devoutly, and prayed.\nSuddenly she heard a noise; her servant was pusht forcibly back by\nsome one whom he was trying to keep away; the door was thrust open,\nand a young man threw himself impetuously at her feet, seized her hand\nin her fright and covered it with kisses, while a hot flood of tears\ngusht from his eyes. It was not till after a while that the mother\nrecognized the son whom she had deemed lost. Her strong emotions\novercame her: she askt: \"Whence comest thou?... stand up ... my\nunhappy child come to my arms....\" More she could not say.\n\n\"You do not cast me off, you do not abhor me?\" cried the youth in a\ntrance of grief: \"Oh God! have I deserved that a single spark of love\nfor me should yet linger in this noble heart! Am I worthy of a single\nlook from her!\"\n\nThey continued long closely embraced, and quite unable to speak. \"But\nmother,\" the young man said at length, \"can you hold the monster in\nyour arms, to your heart, who, when he last saw you--\"\n\n\"No, my son, my beloved son, do not call back that horrible moment,\nwhich we must forget;\" so the mother stammered out. \"I too know now\nthat I did you injustice then; the girl you loved is worthy of your\nlove, as has been proved since. I myself had not taught you\nsufficiently to controul your passions. Let that hour vanish for ever\nlike a painful dream from our lives. But whence comest thou? where\nhast thou been living all this time?\"\n\nThey sat down; they both tried to regain their self-possession and\ncalmness in this sudden change from sorrow to joy. The young man\nrelated--while from time to time he again embraced his beloved mother,\nor kist her hands--how after that fearful moment he had roamed about\nin despair without any plan or view; how, when he was destitute of all\nmeans of subsistence, finding himself near the mountains, he had made\nup his mind to apply to Herr Balthasar, in the chance of obtaining\nsupport from him. Hearing however of his singular peculiarities, and\nhow difficult it was to gain admittance to him, he had altered his\nplan, formed an acquaintance with his overseer, Edward, under the\nassumed name of William Lorenz, and been taken into the house as\nsecretary. To see his beloved, who was travelling in the\nneighbourhood, he had left his post, returned, and again gone away on\nbeing alarmed by hearing that his mother was coming to visit her\nkinsman.\n\n\"This very day,\" he concluded, \"I met a traveller, a Hungarian, who\nwas come in haste from the mountains, and who told me a very important\npiece of news. I was on my way hither to throw myself at your feet,\nwhether you would forgive me or no, when I met him in the next town.\nDo not be too much shockt ... Herr Balthasar is no more ... he died\nsuddenly in a fit, without having made a will, as the stranger said he\nknew for certain. The house, the little town, the whole neighbourhood\nare in the utmost confusion. O my mother, we may all be happy, we may\nall live affectionately together, if you will believe in my repentance\nand reformation, if we can persuade my father to assent to the plan I\nhave to propose to him. I know you will now no longer refuse your\nconsent to my marriage with Caroline: the objection that we were both\nof us so poor, is now done away: we are become too rich, far too much\nso, to trust ourselves with all this wealth.\"\n\nWhen their spirits were grown calm, and every thing had been\nexplained, a servant was sent after the counsellor, who came home in a\nmore serious and susceptible mood than was his wont. How great was his\nastonishment at having to embrace his lost son, reformed and become a\nreasonable being! He was quite unprepared for so joyful a shock. His\nwife too received him with more confidence and affection: the death of\nthe beloved of her youth had affected her deeply.\n\nThus for the first time this family was united and happy, and amid\ntheir sorrow felt a pure joy in the prospect of a comfortable and\nprosperous future. The old man, who resolved to amend after the\nexample of his son, and to pass the remainder of his life more\ndecorously, agreed, even without any persuasion, to make over the\nuncontrouled management of the property legally to his son, who was\nnow of age. It was settled that the mother and son should go first to\ntheir new estate, to arrange every thing, and that Caroline should\nfollow soon after, and become his bride: the counsellor himself\npreferred living still in his native town, and merely visiting his\nfamily occasionally in the summer.\n\n\"Thus,\" he concluded, \"we may still restore a household that was\nalmost lost, and raise it above what it ever was by mutual affection\nand unity. My annuity is more than enough to support me; and should it\nfall short, as I think can hardly happen, my son will assist me with a\nsmall contribution.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nUp in the mountains everything was now quiet. Balthasar, as well as\nhis treacherous old friend, was in his grave. William, as he had\nformerly been called, arrived there with his mother to take possession\nof the estate. The mayor and Edward gave everything up to him; and\nwhen the surrender was completed, and Edward was left alone with the\nmother and son, William thus interrupted their silent meditations:\n\"Now we are all among friends, my dear Edward, and I may talk with\nperfect frankness to you, and shew my gratitude, if you choose so to\ncall it, for your former kindness. One night, when I was here, and had\nbeen copying papers till very late, I was lockt into the anteroom; the\ndoor had been fastened on the outside, and I did not like to make a\nnoise and call up the servants, more especially as Herr Balthasar used\nto be much annoyed and worried by any disturbance. During the night,\nwhile I kept perfectly still, I heard the unhappy old man walking to\nand fro in his room, sometimes sighing heavily, sometimes moaning and\nwailing as he talkt to himself. They were not merely broken sounds and\nexclamations; but it seemed to be his custom to talk over sundry\nevents of his life, as if he was speaking to some invisible person.\nThus I heard the story of his youth, of his intolerable woes, but at\nthe same time of his love for Edward, and what part of his fortune he\nmeant to leave him. The chief thing however, and what toucht me most,\nwas to learn that Rose was not his adopted, but his real daughter. His\nself-reproaches, his lamentations over her deceast mother, his bursts\nof pity for Rose, were heart-rending. Now then, my beloved mother and\nmy dear Edward, what remains for us to do? Our conscience, if we\nconsult it honestly, declares that Rose is his true rightful heir, and\nought to have the largest part of his fortune.\"\n\nAfter this declaration his mother treated the lovely girl as a beloved\ndaughter; and on the same day on which William celebrated his wedding,\nEdward had also the happiness of receiving Rose as his bride. The\nfortune was divided; Edward continued to manage all the most important\naffairs; and a happy joyful family inhabited and enlivened the old\nhouse, which lost its gloomy character, and often resounded with\nmusic, songs, and dancing, to the delight of all the inhabitants of\nthe little town.\n\n\n\n\n                            THE LOVECHARM.\n\n\nEmilius was sitting in deep thought at his table, awaiting his friend\nRoderick. A light was burning before him; the winter-evening was cold;\nand today he wisht for the presence of his fellow traveller, though at\nother times wont to avoid his society; for on this evening he purpost\nto disclose a secret to him and ask his advice. The timid, shy Emilius\nfound so many difficulties, such insurmountable hinderances, in every\naffair he was engaged in, and in every event that befell him, that it\nalmost seemed as if his destiny had been in an ironical mood when it\nthrew him and Roderick together, Roderick being in all things the\nreverse of his friend. Fickle, flighty, always determined and fixt by\nthe first impression, he attempted everything, had a plan for every\nemergency; no undertaking was too arduous for him, no obstacles could\ndeter him. But in the midst of the pursuit he wearied and broke down\njust as suddenly as at first he had kindled and sprung forward:\nwhatever then opposed him did not act as a spur to urge him more\neagerly onward, but only made him abandon and despise what he had so\nhotly rusht into; and thus Roderick was evermore thoughtlessly\nbeginning something new, and with no better reason relinquishing and\ncarelessly forgetting what he had begun just before. Hence no day ever\npassed but the friends got into a quarrel, which threatened to be a\ndeath blow to their friendship: and yet what to all appearance thus\ndivided them, was perhaps the very thing that bound them most closely\ntogether: each loved the other heartily; but each found passing\nsatisfaction in being able to discharge the most justly deserved\nreproaches upon his friend.\n\nEmilius, a rich young man of a sensitive and melancholy temperament,\nhad become master of his fortune on his father's death, and had set\nout on his travels for the sake of cultivating his mind: he had\nalready been spending several months however in a large town, to enjoy\nthe pleasures of the carnival, about which he never gave himself the\nslightest trouble, and to make certain important arrangements\nconcerning his fortune with some relations, whom he had scarcely yet\nvisited. On his journey he had fallen in with the restless,\never-shifting and veering Roderick, who was living at variance with\nhis guardians, and who, to get rid altogether of them and their\ntroublesome admonitions, had caught eagerly at his new friend's offer\nto take him with him on his travels.\n\nOn their road they had already been often on the point of separating;\nbut after every dispute both had only felt the more forcibly that\nneither could live without the other. Scarcely had they got out of\ntheir carriage in any town, when Roderick had already seen everything\nremarkable in it, to forget it all again on the morrow: while Emilius\ntook a week to study thoroughly whatever was said in books about it,\nthat he might not leave anything unnoticed; and after all out of\nindolence thought there was hardly anything worth going to look at.\nRoderick had immediately made a thousand acquaintances, and been to\nevery public place of entertainment; and he would often bring his\nnew-made friends to Emilius in his solitary chamber, where, as soon as\nhe began to be tired of them, he left him alone with them. At other\ntimes he would confound the modest Emilius by heaping extravagant\npraises on his talents and acquirements in the presence of learned and\nintelligent men, and by telling them how much information they might\nderive from his friend with regard to languages, antiquities, or the\nfine arts, though he himself could never find leisure to listen to him\non these subjects when the conversation happened to turn on them. But\nif Emilius ever chanced to be in a more active mood, he might almost\nmake sure that his truant friend would have caught cold the night\nbefore at some ball or sledge-party, and be forced to keep his bed; so\nthat, with the liveliest, most restless, and most communicative of men\nfor his companion, Emilius lived in the greatest solitude.\n\nOn this day he confidently expected him, having made Roderick give him\na solemn promise to spend the evening with him, in order to hear what\nit was that for several weeks had been depressing and agitating his\npensive friend. Meanwhile Emilius wrote down the following lines:\n\n'Tis sweet when spring its choir assembles,\n   And every nightingale is steeping\n   The trees in his melodious weeping,\nTill leaf and bloom with rapture trembles.\n\nFair is the net that moonlight weaves;\n   Fair are the breezes gambolings\n   As with lime-odours on their wings\nThey chase each other through the leaves.\n\nBright is the glory of the rose,\n   When Love's rich magic decks the earth,\n   From countless roses Love peeps forth,\nThose stars wherewith Love's heaven glows.\n\nBut sweeter, fairer, brighter far\n   To me that little lamp's pale gleaming,\n   When, through the narrow casement streaming\nIt bids me hail my evening star;\n\nAs from their braids she flings her tresses,\n   Then twines them in a flowery band,\n   While at each motion of her hand\nThe light robe to her fair form presses;\n\nOr when she wakes her lute's deep slumbers,\n   And, as at morning's touch updarting,\n   The notes beneath her fingers starting,\nTrip o'er the strings in playful numbers.\n\nTo stop their flight her voice she pours\n   Full after them; they laugh, and fly,\n   And to my heart for refuge hie:\nHer voice pursues them through its doors.\n\nLeave me, ye mischiefs! hence remove!\n   They bar themselves within, and say:\n   Till this be broken here we stay,\nThat thou mayst know what 'tis to love.\n\nEmilius stood up fretfully. It grew darker, but no Roderick came; and\nhe was wishing to tell him of his love for an unknown fair one, who\ndwelt in the opposite house, and who kept him at home all day long,\nand waking through many a night.\n\nAt length footsteps sounded on the stairs; the door opened without\nanybody knocking at it: and in came two gay masks with ugly visages,\none of them a Turk, drest in red and blue silk, the other a Spaniard,\nin pale yellow and pink, with a plume of feathers waving on his hat.\nWhen Emilius was losing patience, Roderick took off his mask, shewed\nhis well-known laughing countenance, and cried: \"Heyday, my good\nfriend, what a drowned puppy of a face! Is this the way to look in the\ncarnival? I am come with my dear young officer here to carry you off:\nthere is a grand ball tonight at the masquerade-rooms; and, as I know\nyou have forsworn ever putting on any other suit than that which you\nalways wear of the devil's own colour, come with us black as you are;\nfor it is getting somewhat late.\"\n\nEmilius felt angry, and said: \"It seems that according to custom you\nhave totally forgotten your engagement. I am extremely sorry,\" (he\nadded, turning to the stranger) \"that I cannot possibly be of your\nparty: my friend has been overhasty in promising for me; indeed I\ncannot go out at all, having some matters of importance to talk over\nwith him.\"\n\nThe stranger, who was well-bred and saw Emiliuses meaning, withdrew:\nbut Roderick with the utmost indifference put on his mask again, took\nhis stand before the glass, and exclaimed: \"Verily, I am a most\nhideous figure, am I not? After all my pains it is a tasteless,\ndisgusting device.\"\n\n\"That there can be no question about!\" answered Emilius in vehement\ndispleasure. \"Making a caricature of yourself, and stupefying your\nsenses, are among the pleasures you are the fondest of driving at.\"\n\n\"Because you don't like dancing,\" said the other, \"and look upon it as\na pernicious invention, not a soul in the world is to be merry. How\ntiresome it is when a man is made up of nothing but whims!\"\n\n\"Doubtless!\" replied his irritated friend; \"and you afford me ample\nopportunity for finding that it is so. I fancied that after our\nagreement you would have given me this one evening; but--\"\n\n\"But it is the carnival, you know,\" interposed the other; \"and all my\nacquaintances, and divers fair ladies are expecting me at the grand\nball tonight. Rely upon it, my dear friend, it is mere disease in you\nthat makes you so unreasonably averse to all such amusements.\"\n\n\"Which of us has the fairest claim to be called diseased,\" said\nEmilius, \"I will not examine. But I cannot think that your\nincomprehensible frivolousness, your hunger and thirst for\ndissipation, your restless chase after pleasures that leave the heart\nempty, are altogether the healthiest state of human nature. On certain\npoints at all events you might make a little allowance for my\nweakness, if you are determined to call it so; and you know there is\nnothing in the world that so sets my whole soul on edge as a ball with\nits frightful music. Somebody has said, that to a deaf person who\ncannot hear the music a party of dancers must look like so many\npatients for a madhouse: but to my mind this detestable music itself,\nthis twirling and whirling and pirouetting of half a dozen notes, each\ntreading on its own heels, in those odious tunes, which ram themselves\ninto our memory, nay, I might say, mix themselves up with our very\nblood, so that one cannot get rid of the taint for many a woful day\nafter,--this to me is the very trance of madness: and if I could ever\nbring myself to think dancing endurable, it would be dancing to the\ntune of silence.\"\n\n\"Bravo, signor paradox-monger!\" exclaimed the mask: \"You are so far\ngone, that you choose to think the most natural, the most innocent,\nand the merriest thing in the world unnatural, ay, and shocking.\"\n\n\"I cannot change my feelings,\" said his grave friend. \"From my very\nchildhood these tunes have made me unhappy, and have often all but\ndriven me out of my senses. They are to me the ghosts and spectres and\nfuries in the world of sound, and they come and buz round my head, and\ngrin at me with horrid laughter.\"\n\n\"Sheer nervousness!\" returned the other; \"just like your extravagant\nabhorrence of spiders and divers other harmless insects.\"\n\n\"Harmless you call them!\" cried Emilius indignantly, \"because you have\nno repugnance to such things. To him however that feels the same\ndisgust and loathing, the same unutterable shuddering, as I feel,\nstart up within him and shoot through his whole frame at the sight of\nthem, these miscreate deformities, such as toads, beetles, or that\nmost nauseous of all Nature's abortions, the bat, are not indifferent\nor insignificant: their very existence is a state of direct enmity and\nwarfare against his. In good truth one might smile at the unbelievers\nwhose imagination is too barren for ghosts and fearful goblins, and\nsuch births of night as we see in sickness, to grow up in it, or who\nstare and marvel at Dante's descriptions; when the commonest everyday\nlife is perpetually paralysing our eyesight with some of these\nportentous distorted masterpieces among the works of horrour. Yet how\ncan we have a real feeling and love for beauty, without detesting and\nrecoiling from such monstrosities?\"\n\n\"Why recoil from them?\" askt Roderick: \"why should we see nothing in\nthe vast realm of water, in lakes, rivers, and seas, but those dismal\nobjects which you have taught yourself to find there? why not rather\nlook on such creatures as queer, amusing, and ludicrous mummers? so\nthat the deep might be called a kind of large maskt ballroom. But your\ncaprices go still further; for while you love roses with a sort of\nidolatry, there are other flowers for which you have a no less\npassionate hatred: yet what harm has the dear bright tulip ever done\nyou? or all the other gay children of summer that you persecute? Thus\nagain you have an antipathy to sundry colours, to sundry scents, and\nto a number of thoughts; and you never take any pains to strengthen\nyourself against these moods, but give way to them and sink down into\nthem as into a luxurious feather bed; so that I often fear I shall\nlose you altogether some day, and find nothing but a patchwork of\nwhims and prejudices sitting at that table instead of my Emilius.\"\n\nEmilius was wroth to the bottom of his heart, and answered not a word.\nHe had now given up all thought of making his intended confession; nor\ndid the thoughtless Roderick shew the least wish to hear the secret\nwhich his melancholy companion had announced to him with such an air\nof solemnity. He was sitting carelessly in the armchair, playing with\nhis mask, when on a sudden he cried: \"Be so kind, Emilius, as to lend\nme your large cloak.\"\n\n\"What for?\" askt the other.\n\n\"I hear music in the church over the way,\" answered Roderick; \"and\nsome how or other I have mist this hour every evening since we have\nbeen here. Today it comes just in the nick: I can cover my dress with\nyour cloak, hiding my mask and turban under it; and so, when the music\nis over, I may go straight to the ball.\"\n\nEmilius muttered between his teeth as he went for the cloak to his\nwardrobe, and then, forcing himself to put on an ironical smile, he\ngave it to Roderick who was already on his legs.\n\n\"There, I'll leave you my Turkish dagger that I bought yesterday,\"\nsaid the mask, as he wrapt himself up: \"Take care of it for me; it is\na bad habit, this carrying about toys of cold steel: one can never\ntell what ill use may not be made of them, should a quarrel arise, or\nany other knot that it is easier to cut than untie. We shall meet\nagain tomorrow; good bye; a pleasant evening to you.\" He did not wait\nfor an answer, but ran down stairs.\n\nWhen Emilius was alone, he tried to forget his anger, and to look only\nat the laughable side of his friend's behaviour. His eyes rested on\nthe shining, finely wrought dagger, and he said: \"What must be the\nfeelings of a man who could thrust this sharp iron into the breast of\nan enemy! but oh, what must be his who should hurt a beloved object\nwith it!\"\n\nHe lockt it up, then gently folded back the window shutters, and lookt\nacross the narrow street. But no light was stirring; the opposite\nhouse was quite dark; the dear form that dwelt in it, and that was\nwont to appear there about this time engaged in divers household\naffairs, seemed to be absent. 'Perhaps she may be at the ball,'\nthought Emilius, little as it sorted with her retired way of life. Ere\nlong however a light came in: the little girl whom his beloved unknown\nhad about her, and with whom she used to pass a great part of the day\nand of the evening, carried a candle through the room and closed the\nshutters. A chink still let the light through, wide enough for\nEmilius, where he stood, to overlook a part of the little room: and\nthere the happy youth would often stay till after midnight as if\ncharmed to the spot, watching every motion of her hand, every look of\nher beloved face. It was a joy to see her teaching the child to read,\nor giving her lessons in sewing and knitting. On inquiry he had learnt\nthat the little girl was a poor orphan, whom his fair maiden had\ncharitably taken into the house, to educate her.\n\nEmiliuses friends could not conceive why he lived in this narrow\nstreet, in this comfortless lodging, why he was so little to be seen\nin society, or how he employed himself. Without employment, in\nsolitude, he was happy: only he felt out of humour with himself at his\nown bashfulness, which withheld him from trying to become nearer\nacquainted with this beauteous being, notwithstanding the friendliness\nwith which she had several times greeted and thankt him. He knew not\nthat she would often gaze over at him with eyes no less lovesick than\nhis own: he guessed not what wishes were forming in her heart, of what\nan effort, what a sacrifice she felt herself capable, so she might but\nattain the possession of his love.\n\nAfter walking a few times up and down the room, the light having gone\naway again with the child, he suddenly made up his mind, in spite of\nall his feelings and inclinations, to go to the ball; for it struck\nhim that his unknown might have made an exception for once to her\nusual secluded habits, for the sake of enjoying the world and its\ngaieties.\n\nThe streets were brilliantly lighted up; the snow crackled under his\nfeet; carriages rolled by him; and masks in every variety of dress\nwhistled and twittered as they passed him. Many of the houses\nresounded with the dancing music which he so much abhorred; and he\ncould not bring himself to take the nearest way to the ballroom, to\nwhich people from all quarters were streaming and flocking.\n\nHe walkt round the old church, gazed at its high tower rising\nmajestically into the dark sky, and enjoyed the stillness and solitude\nof this deserted place. Within the recess of a large doorway, the\nvaried sculptures of which he had often contemplated with pleasure,\nwhile calling up visions of the olden times and the arts that adorned\nthem, he now again took his stand, to give himself up for a few\nmoments to his musings.\n\nHe had not been there long, when his attention was attracted by a\nfigure that was pacing restlessly to and fro, and seemed to be waiting\nfor somebody. By the light of a lamp burning before an image of the\nVirgin, he distinctly made out the face, as well as the strange dress.\nIt was an old woman of the uttermost hideousness, which struck the eye\nthe more from her being grotesquely clad in a scarlet bodice\nembroidered with gold. Emilius fancied at first it must be some\nextravagant mask that had lost its way: but the bright light soon\nconvinced him that the old brown wrinkled face was one of Nature's\nploughing, and no mimic exaggeration.\n\nIn a few minutes two men made their appearance, wrapt up in cloaks,\nwho seemed to approach the spot with cautious steps, often turning\ntheir heads aside to see whether anybody was following. The old woman\nwent up to them.\n\n\"Have you got the candles?\" she askt hastily and with a gruff voice.\n\n\"Here they are,\" said one of the men: \"you know the price; let us\nsettle the matter and have done with it.\"\n\nThe old woman seemed to be giving him some money, which he counted\nover beneath his cloak. \"I rely upon you,\" she again began, \"that they\nare made exactly according to rule, at the right time and place, so\nthat they cannot fail of their effect.\"\n\n\"You need not be uneasy on that score,\" returned the man, and hurried\naway.\n\nHis companion, who staid behind, was a youth: he took the old woman by\nthe hand, and said: \"Can it be true, Alexia, that certain rites and\nspells, as those old wild stories, in which I could never put faith,\ntell us, can fetter the free will of man, and make love and hatred grow\nup in the heart?\"\n\n\"Ay forsooth!\" answered the scarlet woman; \"but one and one must make\ntwo, and many a one must be added thereto, before such mighty things\ncome to pass. It is not these candles alone, moulded beneath the\nmidnight darkness of the new moon, and drencht with human blood, it is\nnot the mere uttering magical words and incantations, that can give\nyou the mastery over the soul of another: there is much more belonging\nto such works, as the initiated well know.\"\n\n\"I may depend upon you then!\" cried the stranger.\n\n\"Tomorrow after midnight I am at your service,\" replied the old woman.\n\"You shall not be the first person that ever was dissatisfied with my\nskill. Tonight, as you have heard, I have some one else in hand, one\nwhose senses and soul our art shall twist about whichever way we\nchoose, just as easily as I twist this hair out of my head.\"\n\nThese last words she uttered with a half grin; and they separated,\nwalking off in different directions.\n\nEmilius came forth from the dark niche shuddering, and lifted his\nlooks to the image of the Virgin with the Child. \"Before thine eyes,\nthou mild and blessed one,\" he said half aloud, \"are these miscreants\naudaciously holding their market and trafficking in their infernal\ndrugs. But as thou embracest thy child with thy love, so doth heavenly\nLove encircle us all with its protecting arms; we feel their touch;\nand our poor hearts beat joyously and tremulously toward a greater\nheart that will never forsake us.\"\n\nClouds were rolling along over the pinnacles of the tower and the high\nroof of the church; the everlasting stars lookt down through the midst\nof them gleaming with mild serenity; and Emilius drew his thoughts\nresolutely away from these nightly abominations, and mused on the\nbeauty of his unknown. He again entered the peopled streets, and bent\nhis steps toward the brightly illuminated ballroom, from which voices,\nand the rattling of carriages, and now and then, when there was a\npause, the clamorous music, came sounding to his ears.\n\nIn the ballroom he was instantly lost amid the streaming throng:\ndancers ran round him; masks darted by him to and fro; kettledrums and\ntrumpets stunned his ears; and it seemed to him as if human life had\nmelted away into a dream. He walkt along one row after another, and\nhis eye alone was wakeful, seeking after those beloved eyes and that\nfair head with its brown locks, for the sight of which he yearned this\nevening more intensely than ever, at the same time that he inwardly\nreproacht their adored possessor, for allowing herself to plunge and\nbe lost in this stormy sea of confusion and folly. 'No!' he said to\nhimself; 'no heart that loves can willingly expose itself to this\ndreary hubbub of noise, in which every longing and every tear is scoft\nand mockt at by the wild laughter of pealing trumpets. The whispering\nof trees, the murmuring of brooks, the soft notes of the harp, and the\nsong that gushes forth in all its richness and sweetness from an\noverflowing bosom, are the sounds in which love dwells. But this is\nthe very thundering and shouting of hell in the frenzy of its\ndespair....'\n\nHe saw nothing like her whom he was seeking for; and he could not\npossibly give enterance to the notion that her beloved face might\nperhaps be lurking behind some odious mask.\n\nHe had already ranged up and down the room three times over, and had\nin vain run his eyes along all the ladies that were sitting and\nunmaskt, when the Spaniard joined him and said: \"I am glad you are\ncome after all; are you looking for your friend?\"\n\nEmilius had quite forgotten him; he said however somewhat embarrast:\n\"In truth I wonder I have not met him here, for his mask is not to be\nmistaken.\"\n\n\"Can you guess what the harum-scarum fellow is about?\" answered the\nyoung officer. \"He never danced at all, and hardly staid ten minutes\nin the ballroom: for he soon fell in with his friend Anderson, who is\njust come up from the country: their conversation turned upon books;\nand as Anderson has never seen the new poem, Roderick would not rest\ntill he had made them open one of the back rooms for him; and there he\nis now sitting beside a solitary taper, holding his companion fast,\nand declaiming the whole poem to him, not omitting even the invocation\nto the muse.\"\n\n\"It's just like him,\" said Emilius; \"he is always the child of the\nmoment. I have done all in my power, and even run the risk of some\namicable quarrels, to cure him of this habit of for ever living\nextempore, and playing out his whole life in impromptus, card after\ncard, as it chances to turn up, without once looking over his hand.\nBut these follies have struck such deep root in his heart, he would\nsooner part with his best friend than with them. That very same poem,\nwhich he is so fond of that he always carries it about in his pocket,\nhe wanted to read to me a few days ago, and I had earnestly begged him\nto do so: but he had scarcely got beyond the first description of the\nmoon, when, just as I had resigned myself to the enjoyment of its\nbeauties, he suddenly jumpt up, ran out of the room, came back with\nthe cook's apron round his waist, tore down the bell-rope in ringing\nto have the fire lighted, and insisted on broiling me some beefsteaks,\nfor which I had not the least appetite, and which he fancies nobody in\nEurope dresses so well, though, if he is in luck, he does not spoil\nthem above nine times in ten.\"\n\nThe Spaniard laught, and askt: \"Has he never been in love?\"\n\n\"After his fashion,\" replied Emilius very gravely; \"as if he were\nmaking game of love and of himself, with a dozen women at a time, and,\nif you would believe his words, raving after every one of them: but\nere a week passes over his head, they are all spunged out of it, and\nnot even a blot is left behind.\"\n\nThey parted in the crowd, and Emilius walkt toward the remote\napartment, from which, long before he reacht it, he caught his\nfriend's loud recitative.\n\n\"Ah, so you are here too!\" exclaimed Roderick, as he entered: \"you\nhave just hit the right moment; I am at the very passage where we were\ninterrupted the other day: sit down, and you may hear the remainder.\"\n\n\"I am not in a humour for it now,\" said Emilius: \"besides the time and\nplace do not seem to me exactly suited to such an employment.\"\n\n\"And why not?\" answered Roderick. \"Time and place are made for us, not\nwe for time and place. Is not good poetry just as good at one hour as\nat another? Is not it right to read it? and can that which is right\never become wrong? Or would you rather dance? There is a lack of men;\nand you need only jump about for a few hours, at the mere risk of\ntiring your legs, to lay strong siege to the hearts of as many\ngrateful beauties as you choose.\"\n\n\"Good night!\" cried the other with his hand on the door; \"I am going\nhome.\"\n\nRoderick called out to him: \"Only one word! I shall set off tomorrow\nat daybreak with my friend here, to spend a few days in the country,\nbut will look in upon you to say goodbye before we start. Should you\nbe asleep, as is most likely, you need not take the trouble of waking;\nfor, before a week is out, I shall be back again.--The strangest being\nupon earth!\" he continued, turning to his neighbour; \"so moping and\nfretful, such a splitter of thoughts, that he turns all his pleasures\nsour; or rather there is no such thing as pleasure for him. Instead of\nwalking about with his fellow creatures in broad daylight and enjoying\nhimself, he gets down to the bottom of the well of his fancies, in the\nhope of now and then catching a glimpse of a star. Everything must be\nin the superlative for him: everything must be pure, and majestic, and\netherial, and celestial: his heart must be always throbbing and\nheaving, even when he is standing before a puppet show. He never\nlaughs or cries, but can only smile and weep; and forsooth there is\nmighty little difference between his weeping and his smiling. When\nanything, be it what it may, falls short of his anticipations and\npreconceptions, which are always flying up out of reach and sight, he\nputs on a tragical face, and complains that it is a base and soulless\nworld. At this very moment, I make no doubt, he is requiring that\nunder the masks of a Pantaloon or a Punch there should be a soul\nglowing with unearthly desires and ideal aspirations, and that\nHarlequin should outmoralize Hamlet on the nothingness of sublunary\nthings: and if these expectations are disappointed, as they can never\nfail to be, the dew is sure to rise into his eyes, and he will turn\nhis back on the whole motley scene in desponding contempt.\"\n\n\"He must be atrabilious then?\" askt his hearer.\n\n\"Not that exactly,\" answered Roderick: \"he has only been spoilt by the\nindulgence of his overfond parents and by his own. He has accustomed\nhimself to let his heart ebb and flow as regularly as the sea; and if\nthis motion is ever at a stop, he cries out _a miracle!_ and would\noffer a prize to the philosopher who should give a satisfactory\nexplanation of so marvellous a phenomenon. He is the best fellow under\nthe sun; but all my painstaking to break him of this perverseness has\nbeen utterly vain and thrown away; and if I would not earn scurvy\nthanks for my goodwill, I must even let him follow his own devices.\"\n\n\"Might not a physician do him good?\" remarkt Anderson.\n\n\"It is one of his whims,\" replied Roderick, \"to entertain a supreme\ncontempt for the whole medical art. He will have it that every disease\nis something different and distinct in every particular patient, that\nthere is no arranging it under any class, and that it is absurd to\nthink of healing it by attending to ancient practice, and still more\nso by what is called theory: he would much rather apply to an old\nwoman, and make use of sympathetic cures. In like manner he despises\nall foresight in other matters, and everything like regularity,\nmoderation, and common sense: the last above all he holds in special\nabhorrence, as the antipode and arch-enemy to all enthusiasm. While\nyet a child he framed for himself an ideal of a noble character; and\nhis constant aim is to make himself what he considers such, that is to\nsay, a being who shews his superiority to all earthly things by his\nscorn for riches. Merely to avoid being suspected of stinginess, or of\ngiving unwillingly, or of caring about money, he flings it right and\nleft by handfuls; with all his large fortune he is for ever poor and\ndistrest, and is the bubble of all such as are not gifted with\nprecisely the same sort of magnanimity which for himself he is\ndetermined to attain to. To be his friend is the task of all tasks:\nfor he is so touchy, you need only cough, or eat with your knife, or\nnot sip your drink as delicately as a cow, or even pick your teeth, to\noffend him mortally.\"\n\n\"Was he never in love?\" askt his country friend.\n\n\"Whom should he love? whom could he love?\" answered Roderick. \"He\ndespises all the daughters of earth; and if he had a favorite, and\nwere ever to suspect that she had not an angelical contempt for dress,\nor liked dancing at times as well as star-gazing, it would break his\nheart: still more tremendous would it be, if she were ever so unlucky\nas to sneeze.\"\n\nMeanwhile Emilius was again standing among the crowd: but on a sudden\nhe was seized by that heart-burning, that shivering, which had already\nso often come over him in the midst of a multitude in a like state of\nexcitement. It drove him out of the ballroom, out of the house, and\nalong the desolate streets; nor did he recover and regain the quiet\npossession of his senses, till he reacht his lonely chamber. The night\nlight was already burning; he sent his servant to bed: everything over\nthe way was silent and dark, and he sat down to pour forth the\nfeelings which the ball had aroused, in verse.\n\n    Within the heart 'tis still;\nSleep each wild thought encages:\n    Now stirs a wicked will,\nWould see how madness rages,\n    And cries: Wild spirit awake!\nLoud cymbals catch the cry,\n    And back its echoes shake;\nAnd, shouting peals of laughter,\nThe trumpet rushes after,\n    And cries: Wild spirit awake!\nAmid them flute-tones fly,\nLike arrows, keen and numberless;\n    And with bloodhound yell\n    Pipes the onset swell;\nAnd violins and violoncellos,\n    Creaking, clattering,\n    Shrieking, shattering;\nAnd horns whence thunder bellows;\nTo leave the victim slumberless,\nAnd drag forth prisoned madness,\nAnd cruelly murder all quiet and innocent gladness.\n\nWhat will be the end of this commotion?\nWhere the shore to this turmoiling ocean?\nWhat seeks the tossing throng,\nAs it wheels and whirls along?\nOn! on! the lustres\n    Like hellstars bicker:\nLet us twine in closer clusters,\n    On! on! ever closer and quicker!\nHow the silly things throb, throb amain!\n    Hence all quiet!\n    Hither riot!\n    Peal more proudly,\n    Squeal more loudly,\nYe cymbals, ye trumpets! bedull all pain,\nTill it laugh again.\n\nThou beckonest to me, beauty's daughter;\n    Smiles ripple o'er thy lips,\nAnd o'er thine eye's blue water;\n    O let me breathe on thee,\n    Ere parted hence we flee,\n    Ere aught that light eclipse!\nI know that beauty's flowers soon wither:\n    Those lips, within whose rosy cells\n    Thy spirit warbles its sweet spells,\nDeath's clammy kiss ere long will press together.\nI know, that face so fair and full\nIs but a masquerading skull:\nBut hail to thee skull so fair and so fresh!\n    Why should I weep and whine and wail,\n    That what blooms now must soon grow pale,\nAnd that worms must batten on that sweet flesh?\nLet me laugh but today and tomorrow,\nAnd what care I for sorrow,\n    While thus on the waves of the dance by\n         each other we sail?\n\nNow thou art mine,\nAnd I am thine:\nAnd what though pain and trouble wait\nTo seize thee at the gate,\n    And sob, and tear, and groan, and sigh,\nStand ranged in state\n    On thee to fly,\nBlithely let us look and cheerily\nOn death that grins so drearily!\nWhat would grief with us, or anguish?\nThey are foes that we know how to vanquish.\nI press thine answering fingers,\nThy look upon me lingers,\n    Or the fringe of thy garment will waft me\n         a kiss:\nThou rollest on in light;\nI fall back into night;\n    Even despair is bliss.\n\nFrom this delight,\n    From this wild revel's surge\n    Perchance there may emerge\nFoul jealousy, and scorn, and envious spite.\nBut this is our glory and pride;\n    When thee I despise,\n    I turn but my eyes,\n    And the fair one beside thee will welcome\n         my gaze,\nAnd she is my bride!\n    O happy, happy maze!\nOr shall it be her neighbour?\nWhose eyes, like a sabre,\nFlash and pierce,\nTheir glance is so fierce.\n\nThus jumping and prancing,\nAll together go dancing\n    Adown life's giddy cave;\nNor living, nor loving,\nBut dizzily roving\n    Through dreams to a grave.\nThere below 'tis yet worse:\n    Earth's flowers and its clay\n    Roof a gloomier day,\nHide a still deeper curse.\nRing then, ye cymbals, enliven this dream!\nYe horns shout a fiercer, more vulture-like scream!\n    And frisk caper skip prance dance yourselves\n         out of breath!\nFor your life is all art,\nLove has given you no heart:\n    So hurrah till you plunge into bottomless\n         death.\n\nHe had ended, and was standing by the window. Then she came into the\nopposite chamber, lovely, as he had never yet seen her: her brown hair\nfloated freely, and played in wanton ringlets about the whitest of\nnecks; she was but lightly clad, and seemed as if she meant to finish\nsome little household matters at this late hour of the night before\nshe went to bed: for she placed two candles in two corners of the\nroom, set the green cloth on the table to rights, and withdrew again.\n\nEmilius was still sunk in his sweet dreams, and gazing on the image\nwhich his beloved had left in his mind, when to his horrour the\nfrightful, the scarlet old woman walkt through the chamber: the gold\non her head and breast glared ghastlily as it threw back the light.\n\nShe had vanisht again. Was he to believe his eyes? Was it not some\ndelusive phantom of the night that his own feverish imagination had\nconjured up before him?\n\nBut no! she returned, still more hideous than before, with a long grey\nand black mane flying wildly and haggardly about her breast and back.\nThe beauteous maiden followed her, pale, stiff; her lovely bosom was\nall bared, but her whole form was like a marble statue.\n\nBetwixt them they led the sweet little child, crying and clinging\nimploringly to the fair maiden, who lookt not down upon it. The child\nlifted up and claspt its little beseeching hands, and stroakt the pale\nneck and cheeks of the marble beauty. But she held it fast by the\nhair, and in the other hand a silver basin.\n\nThen the old woman growled, and pulled out a long knife, and drew it\nacross the white neck of the child. Here something crawled forth from\nbehind that they seemed not to perceive, or it must have struck them\nwith the same thrilling terrour as Emilius. A serpent curled its\nloathsome neck, scale after scale, lengthening and still lengthening,\nout of the darkness, and stoopt down over the child, whose lifeless\nlimbs hung from the old woman's arms: its black tongue lickt up the\nspirting red blood, and a green sparkling eye shot over into the eye,\nand brain, and heart of Emilius, who instantly dropt on the ground.\n\nHe was senseless when found by Roderick some hours after.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA party of friends were sitting on the brightest summer morning in a\ngreen arbour, assembled at an excellent breakfast. Laughter and jests\npassed round; and many a time did the glasses kiss with a merry health\nto the young couple, and a wish that they might be the happiest of the\nhappy. The bride and bridegroom were not present; she being still\nengaged in dressing, while the young husband was sauntering by himself\ndown an avenue some way off, musing upon his happiness.\n\n\"What a pity it is,\" said Anderson, \"that we are to have no music! All\nour ladies are beclouded at the thought, and never in their whole\nlives longed for a dance so much as today, when it is quite out of the\nquestion: it is far too painful to his feelings.\"\n\n\"I can tell you a secret though,\" exclaimed a young officer, \"that we\nare to have a dance after all; and a rare riotous and madcap one it\nwill be. Everything is already arranged; the musicians are come\nsecretly and quartered out of sight. Roderick has managed the whole\nbusiness; for he says one ought not to let him always have his own\nway, or to humour his strange caprices overmuch, especially on such a\nday as this.\"\n\n\"Besides,\" observed another young man, \"he is already become much more\ntractable and sociable than he used to be; so that I think he himself\nwill not be sorry at the alteration. Indeed the whole wedding has been\nbrought about all on the sudden, and has taken everybody by surprise.\"\n\n\"His whole history,\" resumed Anderson, \"is just as extraordinary as\nhis character. You must all remember how, being on his travels last\nautumn, he arrived in our city, and spent the winter there, living\nlike a melancholy man almost entirely in his own room, and never\nvisiting our theatre or taking part in any other amusement. He all but\nquarrelled with Roderick, his most intimate friend, for trying to\ndivert him, and refusing to pamper all his moping fantasies. In fact\nthis overstrained irritability and moroseness must have been a disease\nthat was gathering in his body: for you know he was attackt four\nmonths ago by such a violent nervous fever, that his life was for a\nlong time despaired of. After his frenzy had raved itself out, and he\nreturned to his senses, he had almost entirely lost his memory:\nnothing but his childhood and early youth kept its hold on his mind;\nand he was totally unable to recollect anything that had happened\nduring his journey, or immediately before his illness. He had to begin\nhis acquaintance afresh with all his friends, even with Roderick; and\nit is only by little and little that his thoughts have grown lighter,\nand that the past with all that had befallen him has come back, though\nstill in dim colours, into his memory. He had been removed into his\nuncle's house, that better care might be taken of him; and he was just\nlike a child, letting them do whatever they chose with him. The first\ntime he went out to enjoy the warmth of the spring in the park, he saw\na girl sitting pensively by the roadside. She lookt up; her eye met\nhis; and seized with an inexplicable yearning he stopt the carriage,\ngot out, sat down by her, took hold of her hands, and burst into a\nflood of tears. His friends were again alarmed for his intellects: but\nhe grew calm, cheerful, and conversable, got introduced to the girl's\nparents, and at his very first visit askt for her hand, which, with\nher parents consent, she granted him. Since that time he has been\nhappy, and a new life has sprung up within him: day after day he has\nbecome healthier and more contented. A week ago he paid me a visit at\nthis country house, and was above measure delighted with it; indeed so\nmuch so that he would not rest till he had made me sell it to him. I\nmight easily have turned his passionate desire to my own advantage,\nand his loss; for when he once sets his heart on a thing, he will have\nit, and that too forthwith. He immediately let it be got ready, sent\nfurniture that he may spend the summer months here; and thus it has\ncome to pass that we are all met for his wedding in my old garden.\"\n\nThe house was large, and in a very lovely country. One side of it\nlookt on a river and some woody hills beyond; shrubs and trees of\nvarious kinds were scattered about the lawn; and immediately before\nthe windows lay a flower garden sweetening the air. The orange and\nlemon trees were ranged in a large open hall, from which small doors\nled to the store rooms, cellars, and pantries. On the other side a\nmeadow spread out its green floor, opening immediately into the park.\nThe two long wings of the house formed a spacious court; and broad\nopen galleries, borne by three rows of pillars standing one above the\nother, ran round it, connecting all the rooms in the house, and giving\nit a singular and interesting character: for figures were perpetually\nmoving along these arcades, some engaged in one employment, some in\nanother; new forms kept stepping forth between the pillars and out of\nthe various rooms, which anon vanisht and then reappeared above or\nbelow, to be lost behind one of the doors: parties too would often\nassemble there for tea or for some game; and thus from below the whole\nhad the look of a theatre, before which everybody was glad to stop\nawhile, with a foreboding that something strange or pleasing was sure\nto meet his eyes ere long.\n\nThe party of young people were just rising, when the bride came in her\nfull dress through the garden walking toward them. She was clad in\nviolet-coloured velvet: a sparkling necklace lay cradled on her\nglittering neck; the costly lace just allowed her white swelling bosom\nto glimmer through; and her wreath of myrtle and white roses gave her\nbrown hair a still more beautiful tint.\n\nShe greeted them all graciously, and the young men were astonisht at\nher surpassing beauty. She had been gathering flowers in the garden,\nand was going back into the house to see after the arrangements for\ndinner.\n\nThe tables had been set out in the lower open gallery, and shone\ndazzlingly with their white coverings and their load of sparkling\ncrystal: rich clusters of many-coloured flowers rose from the graceful\nnecks of alabaster vases; green garlands, starred with white blossoms,\ntwined round the columns: and it was a lovely sight to behold the\nbride gliding along with gentle motion between the tables and the\npillars, amid the light of the flowers, overlooking the whole with a\nsearching glance, and then vanishing; and reappearing a moment after\nabove, to pass into her chamber.\n\n\"She is the loveliest, most enchanting creature I ever saw!\" cried\nAnderson: \"our friend is indeed a happy man.\"\n\n\"Her very paleness,\" added the officer, \"hightens her beauty. Her\nhazel eyes only sparkle the more intensely above those white cheeks\nand beneath those dark locks; and the singular, almost burning redness\nof her lips gives her face a truly magical appearance.\"\n\n\"The air of silent melancholy that surrounds her,\" said Anderson,\n\"sheds a noble majesty over her.\"\n\nThe bridegroom joined them, and askt after Roderick: he had been\nmissing for some time, and they could not conceive what he was about.\nAll set off in search of him.\n\n\"He is down in the hall,\" said at length a young man whom they\nhappened to ask, \"in the midst of the coachmen, footmen, and grooms,\nshewing off tricks at cards, which make them stare till their wits\nache.\"\n\nThey walkt in, and interrupted the boisterous admiration of the\nservants, without however disturbing Roderick, who quietly went on\nconjuring. When he had finisht, he returned with the others into the\ngarden, and said: \"I do it only to strengthen the fellows in their\nfaith: these puzzles give a hard blow to their groomships'\nfree-thinking inclinations, and help to make 'em true believers.\"\n\n\"I see,\" said the bridegroom, \"my all-sufficing friend, among his\nother talents, does not think that of a mountebank beneath his\ncultivation.\"\n\n\"We live in strange times,\" replied the other; \"who knows whether\nmountebanks may not come to rule the roast in their turn? One ought to\ndespise nothing nowadays: the veriest straw of a talent may be that\nwhich is to break the camel's back.\"\n\nWhen the two friends found themselves alone, Emilius again turned down\nthe dark avenue and said: \"Why am I in such a gloomy mood on this the\nhappiest day of my life? But I assure you, Roderick, though you will\nnot believe me, I am not made for moving about amid such a mob of\nhuman beings,--for this parade of heartless courtesy,--for keeping my\nattention on the _qui vive_ to every letter of the alphabet, so that\nneither A nor Z may complain of being treated with disrespect,--for\nmaking low bows to her tenth cousin, and shaking hands warmly with my\ntwentieth,--for this formal reverence to her parents,--for handing a\nflower from my nosegay of compliments to every lady that crosses the\nroom,--for waiting to receive the tide of new-comers as wave after\nwave rushes over me, and then turning to give orders that their\nservants and horses may each have a full trough and pail set before\nthem.\"\n\n\"That is a watch that goes of its own accord;\" answered Roderick.\n\"Only look at your house! it was just built for such an occasion: and\nyour head-butler, with his right hand taking up at the same time that\nhis left hand is setting down, and one leg running north while the\nother seems to be making for south, was begotten and born for the very\npurpose of putting confusion in order. He would set my brains to\nrights if he could get at 'em: were the whole city to come, he would\nfind room for all; and he'll make your hospitality the proverb of\nfifty miles round. Leave all such matters to him, and to your lovely\nbride; and where will you find so sweet a lightener of this world's\ncares?\"\n\n\"This morning before sunrise,\" said Emilius, \"I was walking through\nthe wood; my thoughts were solemnly tuned; I felt to the bottom of my\nsoul that my life is now taking a determinate cast, that it is become\na serious thing, and that this passion has created me a home and a\ncalling. In passing by that arbour yonder I heard sounds: it was my\nbeloved in close conversation. 'Has not it turned out now as I told\nyou?' said a strange voice; 'just as I knew it would turn out? You\nhave got your wish; so cheer up and be merry.' I did not like to go in\nto them: as I came back I walkt nearer to the arbour; they had both\nleft it. But I have been musing and musing ever since, what can these\nwords mean?\"\n\nRoderick answered: \"Perhaps she may have been in love with you this\nlong time without your knowing it: this should make you all the\nhappier.\"\n\nA late nightingale now lifted up her song, and seemed to be wishing\nthe lover health and bliss. Emilius sank still deeper in thought.\n\n\"Come with me to clear up your spirits,\" said Roderick, \"down to the\nvillage, where you will find another couple; for you must not fancy\nthat yours is the only wedding on which today's sun is to shine. A\nyoung clown, finding his time lag heavily in the house with an ugly\nold maid, for want of something better to do did what makes the booby\nthink himself bound in honour to turn her into his wife. They must\nboth be drest out by this time; so don't let us miss the sight; for\ndoubtless it will be overpoweringly interesting.\"\n\nThe melancholy man let himself be dragged along by his merry talkative\nfriend, and they soon got to the cottage. The procession was just\nsallying forth on its way to church. The young countryman was in his\nusual linen frock; all his finery consisted in a pair of leather\nbreeches, which he had polisht till they shone like a field of\ndandelions: he had a very simple look, and was a good deal ashamed.\n\nThe bride was tanned by the sun, and had only a few farewell leaves of\nyouth still hanging about her: she was coarsely and poorly but cleanly\ndrest: some red and blue silk ribbons, already somewhat faded,\nflaunted from her stomacher; but what chiefly disfigured her was, that\nher hair, after being stiffened with lard, flour, and pins, had been\nswept back from her forehead and piled up at the top of her head in a\nmound, on the summit of which lay the bridal chaplet. She smiled, and\nseemed glad at heart, but was bashful and downcast.\n\nNext came the aged parents: her father too was only a labourer on the\nfarm; and the hovel, the furniture, the clothing, all bore witness\nthat their poverty was extreme. A dirty squinting musician followed\nthe train, grinning and screaming and scratching his fiddle, which was\npatcht up of wood and pasteboard, and instead of strings had three\nbits of packthread.\n\nThe procession halted when his honour, their new master, came up to\nthem. Some mischief-loving servants, lads and girls, tittered and\nlaught, and jeered the bridal couple, especially the ladies' maids,\nwho thought themselves far handsomer, and saw themselves infinitely\nbetter drest, and wondered how people could be so vulgar.\n\nA shudder came over Emilius: he lookt round for Roderick; but the\nlatter as usual had already run away. An impertinent fop, with a head\npilloried in a high starcht neckcloth, a footman to one of the\nvisitors, eager to shew off his wit, shoved up to Emilius, giggling,\nand cried: \"There your honour, what says your honour to this grand\ncouple? They can neither of 'em guess where they are to find bread for\ntomorrow; and yet they mean to give a ball this afternoon, and that\nfamous performer is already engaged.\"\n\n\"No bread!\" said Emilius; \"can such things be?\"\n\n\"Their wretchedness,\" continued the chatterbox, \"is notorious to the\nwhole neighbourhood; but the fellow says he bears the creature the\nsame goodwill, though she has nothing to boast of but her charms. Ay\nverily, as the song says, love can make black white! The brace of\nbeggars have not even a bed, and must pass their wedding-night on the\nstraw: they have just been round to every cottage, begging a pint of\nsmall beer, with which they mean to get royally drunk: a brave treat\nfor a wedding, your honour!\"\n\nEverybody around burst out a-laughing, and the unhappy despised pair\nhung down their heads. Emilius pusht the coxcomb indignantly away, and\ncried: \"Here, take this!\" tossing a hundred ducats, which he had\nreceived that morning, into the hands of the amazed bridegroom.\n\nThe betrothed couple and their parents wept aloud, threw themselves\nclumsily on their knees, and kist his hands and the skirts of his\ncoat.\n\nHe struggled to break loose from them. \"Let that keep hunger out of\ndoors as long as you can make it last!\" he exclaimed, quite stunned by\nhis feelings.\n\n\"Oh!\" they all screamed, \"oh your honour! we shall be rich and happy\ntill the day of our deaths, and longer too, if we live longer.\"\n\nHe did not know how he got away, but he found himself alone, and\nhastened with tremulous steps into the wood. There he sought out the\nthickest loneliest spot, and threw himself down on a grassy knoll, no\nlonger keeping in the bursting flood of his tears.\n\n\"I am sick of life!\" he cried: \"I cannot be gay and happy; I will not.\nMake haste to receive me, dear kind mother earth, and shelter me with\nthy cool refreshing arms from the wild beasts that trample on thee and\ncall themselves men. Oh God in heaven! how have I deserved that I\nshould lie upon down, and be clothed in silk, that the grape should\npour forth her precious heart's blood for me, and that all should\nthrong around me with offerings of homage and love! This poor wretch\nis better and worthier than I; and misery is his nurse, and mockery\nand venomous scorn alone wish him joy on his wedding. Every delicacy\nthat is placed before me, every draught out of my costly goblets, the\nsoft luxury of my bed, my wearing gold and rich garments, will seem to\nme like so many sins, now that my eyes have seen how the world hunts\ndown many thousand thousand miserable beings, who are hungering after\nthe dry bread I throw away, and who never know what a good meal is. Oh\nnow I can fully enter into your feelings, ye holy saints, whom the\nworld scorns and scoffs at, ye who did scatter your all, even down to\nyour very raiment, among the poor, and did gird your loins with\nsackcloth, and did resolve as beggars to undergo the gibes and the\nkicks wherewith brutal insolence and swilling voluptuousness drive the\nneedy from their doors, that by so doing you might thoroughly purge\nyourselves from the foul sin of wealth.\"\n\nThe world with all its inhabitants floated in a mist before his eyes:\nhe resolved to look upon the destitute as his brethren, and to depart\nfrom the communion of the happy.\n\nThey had been waiting a long time for him in the hall, that the\nceremony might be performed; the bride had grown uneasy; her parents\nhad gone in search of him through the garden and park: at length he\nreturned, lighter for having wept away his agitation; and the solemn\nknot was tied.\n\nThe company then walkt from the hall on the ground floor to the open\ngallery, to sit down to dinner. The bride and bridegroom led the way,\nand the rest followed in their train. Roderick offered his arm to a\nyoung girl who was lively and talkative.\n\n\"Why does a bride always cry, and look so serious and sad during the\nceremony?\" said she, as they mounted the stairs.\n\n\"Because it is the first time that she ever thoroughly feels what a\nmomentous and mysterious thing life is:\" answered Roderick.\n\n\"But our bride,\" continued the girl, \"in her gravity goes far beyond\nall I have ever yet seen. Indeed there is always something melancholy\nabout her, and one can never catch her in a downright merry laugh.\"\n\n\"This does the more honour to her heart,\" replied Roderick, himself\nmore serious than usual. \"You don't know perhaps that the bride a few\nyears ago took a lovely little orphan girl into her house, to educate\nher. All her time was devoted to this child, and the gentle creature's\nlove was her sweetest reward. When the girl was seven years old, she\nwas lost on a walk about the town; and in spite of all the pains that\nhave been used, nobody has ever found out what became of her. Our\nnoble-minded hostess has taken this misfortune so much to heart, that\nshe has been a prey ever since to silent grief, and nothing can win\nher mind away from longing after her little playfellow.\"\n\n\"A most interesting adventure indeed!\" said the young lady. \"One might\nsee a whole romance in three volumes growing out of this seed. It will\nbe a strange sight, and it will not be for nothing, when this lost\nstar reappears. What a pretty poem it would make! Don't you think so,\nsir?\"\n\nThe party took their seats: the bride and bridegroom were in the\ncentre, looking out on the gay landscape. Everybody talkt and drank\nhealths, and all was mirth and good humour: the bride's parents were\nperfectly happy: the bridegroom alone was reserved and thoughtful, ate\nbut little, and took no part in the conversation.\n\nHe started on hearing musical sounds roll down through the air from\nabove, but grew calm again when he found they were only the soft notes\nof some bugles, travelling along with a pleasant murmur over the\nshrubs and through the park, and dying away on the distant hills.\nRoderick had placed the musicians in the gallery overhead, and Emilius\nwas satisfied with this arrangement.\n\nToward the end of the dinner he called the butler, and, turning to\nhis bride, said: \"My love, let poverty also have a share of our\nsuperfluities.\"\n\nHe then ordered him to send a number of bottles of wine, and abundance\nof pastry as well as other dishes, to the poor couple, that with them\ntoo this might be a day of rejoicing, to which in aftertimes they\nmight look back with pleasure.\n\n\"See my friend,\" exclaimed Roderick, \"how beautifully all things in\nthis world hang together! My idle trick of busying myself in other\nfolks' concerns, and chattering about whatever comes uppermost, though\nyou will never give over finding fault with it, has at all events been\nthe cause of this good deed.\"\n\nSeveral persons began making pretty speeches to their host on his kind\nand charitable heart; and Roderick's neighbour lispt about the\nsweetness of romantic compassion and sentimental magnanimity.\n\n\"O say no more!\" cried Emilius indignantly: \"this is no good action;\nit is no action at all; it is nothing. When swallows and linnets feed\non the crumbs that are thrown away from the waste of this meal, and\ncarry them to their young in their nest, shall not I remember a poor\nbrother, who needs my help? If I might follow my heart, ye would laugh\nand jeer at me, just as ye have laught and jeered at many others, who\nhave gone forth into the wilderness that they might hear no more of\nthis world and its generosity.\"\n\nEverybody was silent; and Roderick, perceiving from his friend's\nglowing eyes how vehemently he was displeased, was afraid that in his\npresent irritation he might forget himself still further, and tried to\ngive the conversation a rapid turn on other subjects.\n\nBut Emilius was become restless and absent; his eyes wandered, more\nespecially toward the upper gallery, where the servants who lived in\nthe top story were engaged in a variety of occupations.\n\n\"Who is that ugly old woman?\" he at length askt, \"that is so busy up\nthere, and is coming back again every moment in her grey cloak?\"\n\n\"She is one of my servants,\" said his bride; \"she is to overlook and\nmanage my chambermaids and other girls.\"\n\n\"How can you endure to have anything so hideous perpetually at your\nelbow?\" replied Emilius.\n\n\"Let her alone,\" answered the young lady: \"God meant the ugly to live\nas well as the handsome; and she is such a good honest creature, she\nmay be of great use to us.\"\n\nOn rising from table everybody gathered round the bridegroom, again\nwisht him joy, and urgently begged him to let them have a ball. The\nbride too said, breathing a gentle kiss on his forehead: \"You will not\ndeny your wife's first request, my beloved; we have all been\ndelighting in the hope of this. It is so long since I danced last; and\nyou have never yet seen me dance. Have you no curiosity how I shall\nacquit myself in this new character? my mother tells me I look better\nthan at any other time.\"\n\n\"I never saw you in such gay spirits before,\" said Emilius. \"I will\nnot throw a damp over your mirth; do as you please: only don't let\nanybody ask me to make a laughing stock of myself by trying to cut\nclumsy capers.\"\n\n\"Oh, if you are a bad dancer,\" she answered laughing, \"you may feel\nquite safe; we shall all readily consent to your sitting still.\" The\nbride then retired to put on her ball dress.\n\n\"She does not know,\" whispered Emilius to Roderick, as he withdrew,\n\"that there is a secret door by which I can get from the next room\ninto hers: I will surprise her while she is dressing.\"\n\nWhen Emilius had left them, and many of the ladies were also gone to\nmake such changes in their attire as were requisite for the ball,\nRoderick took the young men aside and led the way to his own room.\n\n\"It is wearing toward evening,\" he said, \"and will soon be dark; so\nmake haste all of you and mask yourselves, that we may render this\nnight glorious in the annals of merriment and madness. Give your\nfancies free range in choosing your characters; the wilder and uglier\nthe better. Try every combination of shaggy mane, and squinting eye,\nand mouth gaping like a volcano; pile mountains atop of your\nshoulders, or plump yourselves out into Falstaffs; and as a whet to\nyour inventions I promise a kiss from the bride to the figure that\nwould be the likeliest to make her miscarry. A wedding is such an\nout-of-the-way event in ones life; the bride and bridegroom are so\nsuddenly plunged, by a sort of magic, head over heels into a new\nunaccustomed element, that it is impossible to throw too much madness\nand folly into this festival, in order to keep pace with the whirlpool\nthat is bearing a brace of human beings from the state where they were\ntwo to the state where they become one, and that all things round\nabout may be fitting accompaniments for the dizzy dream on the wings\nof which they are floating toward a new life. So let us rave away the\nnight, making all sail before the breeze; and a fig for such as look\ntwice on the dull sour faces that, would bid you behave rationally and\nsoberly.\"\n\n\"Don't be afraid,\" said the young officer; \"we have brought a large\nchest full of masks and mad carnival dresses from town with us, such\nas would make even you stare.\"\n\n\"But see here,\" returned Roderick, \"what a gem I have got from my\ntailor, who was on the point of cutting up this peerless treasure into\nstrips. He had bought it of an old crone who must doubtless have worn\nit on gala-days, when she went to Lucifer's drawing room on the\nBlocksberg. Look at this scarlet bodice with its gold tassels and\nfringe, at this cap besmeared with the last fee the hag got from\nBeelzebub or his imps! it will give me a right worshipful air. To\nmatch these choice morsels I have this green velvet petticoat, with\nits saffron lining, and this mask which would melt even Medusa to a\ngrin. Thus accoutred I mean to lead the chorus of anti-graces, myself\ntheir mother-queen, to the bedroom. Make the best speed you can, and\nwe will then go in solemn procession to fetch the bride.\"\n\nThe bugles were still playing: the company were strolling about the\ngarden, or sitting before the house. The sun had gone down behind\nthick murky clouds, and the country was lying in the grey dusk, when a\nparting gleam suddenly burst athwart the cloudy veil, and flooded\nevery spot around, but above all the building, its galleries and\npillars and wreaths of flowers, as it were with red blood.\n\nAt this moment the parents of the bride and the other visitors saw a\ntrain of the most grotesque figures move toward the upper corridor.\nRoderick led the way as the scarlet old woman, and was followed by\nhumpbacks, bulging paunches, cumbrous wigs, Scaramouches, Punches,\nshrivelled Pantaloons, curtsying women embankt by enormous hoops, and\novercanopied with a yard of horsehair, powder, and pomatum, and by\nevery disgusting shape that can be imagined, as if a nightmair had\nbeen unrolling her stores. They jumpt, and twirled, and tottered, and\nstumbled, and straddled, and strutted, and swaggered along the\ngallery, and then vanisht behind one of the doors. But few of the\nbeholders had been able to laugh, so utterly were they astounded by\nthe strange sight.\n\nSuddenly a piercing shriek burst from one of the rooms, and forth into\nthe bloodred glow of the sunset rusht the pale bride, in a short white\nfrock, about which wreaths of flowers were dangling, with her lovely\nbosom all naked, and her rich locks streaming through the air. As\nthough mad, with rolling eyes and wrencht face, she darted along the\ngallery, and blinded by terrour could find neither door nor staircase;\nand immediately after dasht Emilius in chase of her, with the\nsparkling Turkish dagger in his high-uplifted hand.\n\nNow she was at the end of the passage ... she could go no further ...\nhe reacht her. His maskt friends and the grey old woman were running\nafter him. But in his fury he had already pierced her bosom, and cut\nacross her white neck; her blood spouted forth into the radiance of\nthe setting sun.\n\nThe old woman had claspt her arms round him to tear him back; he\nstruggled fiercely, hurled himself along with her over the railing,\nand they both fell almost lifeless at the feet of the relations who\nhad been staring in dumb horrour at the bloody scene.\n\nAbove, and in the court, or hurrying down the steps or along the\ngalleries, were seen the hideous masks, standing or running about, in\nvarious clusters, like fiends of hell.\n\nRoderick took his dying friend in his arms. He had found him in his\nwife's room, playing with the dagger. She was almost drest when he\nentered. At the sight of the detested red bodice his memory had\nrekindled; the horrid vision of that night had risen up before his\neyes; and gnashing his teeth he had darted after his trembling, flying\nbride, to avenge that murder and all those devilish doings.\n\nThe old woman, ere she died, confest the crime that had been\nperpetrated; and the gladness and mirth of the whole house were\nsuddenly changed into sorrow and lamentation and dismay.\n\n\n\n\nPIETRO OF ABANO.\n\n\nThe setting sun was flinging its red rays upon the towers and over the\nhouses of Padua, when a young stranger, newly arrived, had his\nattention excited by a throng of people who were hurrying and running\nalong, and was carried by them out of his way. He askt a girl who was\npassing quickly by him, what had set the whole town in such an\nextraordinary commotion.\n\n\"Don't you know then?\" answered she: \"the beautiful Crescentia, the\nyoung thing, is just going to be buried; everybody wishes to have one\nmore sight of her; for she has always been counted the sweetest maiden\nin the whole city. Her parents are heartbroken.\" The last words she\ncalled back to him, from some distance beyond him.\n\nThe stranger turned round the dark palace into the great street, and\nhis ears were now met by the funeral hymn, and his eyes by the\nflickering light of the pale-red torches. On drawing nearer, pusht\nforward by the crowding of the people, he saw a scaffold covered with\nblack cloth. Around it were raised seats, likewise black, on which the\nsorrowing parents and relations were sitting, all in stern gloom, some\nfaces with the look of despair. Figures now began to move forth from\nthe door of the house; priests and black forms bore an open coffin,\nout of which wreaths of flowers and green garlands were hanging down.\n\nIn the midst of the blooming gay plants lay the maidenly form raised\nupon cushions, pale, in a white robe, her lovely slender hands folded\nand holding a crucifix, her eyes closed, dark black tresses hanging\nfull and heavy round her head, on which a wreath of roses and cypress\nand myrtle was gleaming.\n\nThe coffin with its beautiful corpse was placed upon the scaffold; the\npriests cast themselves down to pray; the parents gave yet louder vent\nto their grief; yet more wailing grew the sound of the hymns; and\neverybody around, even the strangers, sobbed and wept. The traveller\nthought he had never yet seen so lovely a creature, as this corpse\nthat thus mournfully reminded him how fleeting life is, how vain and\nperishable its charms.\n\nNow sounded the solemn tolling of the bells, and the bearers were on\nthe point of taking up the coffin, to carry the corpse into the\nburial-vault of the great church, when loud riotous shouts of\nexultation and pealing laughter and the cries of an unrestrained joy\ndisturbed and alarmed the parents and kinsfolk, the priests and\nmourners. All lookt indignantly round, when out of the next street a\nmerry troop of young men came boisterously toward them, singing and\nhuzzaing, and evermore again and again crying a long life! to their\nvenerable teacher. They were the students of the university, carrying\nan aged man of the noblest aspect on a chair raised atop of their\nshoulders, where he sat as on a throne, covered with a purple cloak,\nhis head adorned with a doctor's hat, from beneath which white silver\nlocks hung forth, while a long white beard flowed down majestically\nover his black velvet doublet. Beside him came a fool with bells and\nin a motley dress, jumping about, and striving by blows and by jests\nto make way for the train through the people and the line of mourners:\nbut on a sign from the venerable old man the students lowered his\nchair; he descended, and approacht the weeping parents, much moved and\nwith a solemn demeanour.\n\n\"Forgive me,\" said he mournfully and with a tear in his eye, \"that\nthis wild tumult thus breaks in upon your burial rites, which grieve\nand shock me to the heart. I am just come back at length from my\njourney; my scholars wisht to celebrate my enterance by their joy; I\nyielded to their entreaties and preparations; and I now find ... how?\nyour Crescentia, that fairest emblem of all loveliness and virtue,\nhere before you in her coffin. And all around there is this dark pomp\nand these forms of sorrow, accompanying her with tears and the heart's\nwoe to her place of rest.\"\n\nHe beckoned to his companions, and spake a few words. All had long\nsince become quiet and silent, and most of them now withdrew, that\nthey might not interrupt the funeral.\n\nThen the mother came nearer tottering, and sank down before the form\nof the old man, while she embraced his knee in convulsive grief. \"Ah!\nwhy were you not here?\" she cried despairingly; \"your art, your\nknowledge would have saved her. O Pietro! Pietro! you, the friend of\nour house! how could you thus let your darling, the apple of your eye,\nperish? But come! Awaken her even now! Pour into her even now one of\nthose wonderworking elixirs which you know how to compound; and in\nreturn take all that we possess, so she be but again here, walking\nabout among us and talking to us.\"\n\n\"Let not despair guide your tongue,\" answered Pietro: \"the Lord had\nlent her to you; he has demanded her back from you; let not man\npresume to arrest the arm of his wise counsels. Who are we, that we\nshould murmur against him? Shall the child of the dust, that is\nscattered to nought by the wind, puff forth its weak breath in anger\nagainst the eternal decrees? No, my dear friends, as Crescentia's\nparents, as having loved her and been loved by her, cherish the\nfeeling of your grief; let none of it escape you. Grief should be as\nfamiliar an inmate in our hearts as Pleasure and Gladness; for he too\nis sent us by our Father, who beholds all our tears, and well\nunderstands and tries our hearts, and knows what frail mortals can\nbear. Bear then this great overwhelming woe for his sake, out of love\nto him; for it is all love, whatsoever burthen he may cast upon you.\nIs not grief, is not the heart in its wringing agony, the soul that\nwould melt away in sorrow, a holy and godly offering, which amid your\nburning tears you lay, as the most precious of your possessions,\nbefore the everlasting Love of the Most High? As such too is it\nconsidered by Him above, who numbers all your sighs and tears. But our\nwicked enemy, who is always lurking at our side, grudges us the\nholiness of this heavenly sorrow: it is he who would foment and stir\nit up in you into despair, into rage against the Father of love and of\ngrief, that you may not in your anguish become yet more thoroughly the\nchildren of Love, but may plunge and sink into the abyss of Hatred.\nHe, this Spirit of Lies, is now beguiling you and maliciously\nwhispering his tales in your ears, as though you had for ever lost\nher, who yet was one with you only in spirit and soul and love, and\nbelonged to you only so far as she was invisible. He would have you\nforget that this beauteous covering was only her garment, akin to the\ndust, and now going back to the dust. Cast him back from you, this\nlying Spirit; shame and confound him with the eternal almighty truth\nwhich you hold up before him, that she is still yours, still near you,\nstill at your side, yea far more, far entirelier yours, than when\nthese party walls of mortal flesh kept you asunder, and in the midst\nof all your love estranged you from each other. From this day forward\nshe is all your memory and hope and sorrow and joy; she shines upon\nyou in every gladdening light; she cheers you in the flowers of\nspring; she kisses you in the gentle airs that breathe on your cheeks:\nand every delight that henceforth blossoms in your hearts, is her\nheart and her love to you; and this delight and this everlasting\ndeathless love are one with God. Carry her then to her resting-place,\nand follow her in silent humble resignation, that her soul in the\nabode of everlasting peace may not be disturbed and made uneasy by\nyou.\"\n\nAll seemed to have become calmer; the father speechlessly held forth\nhis hand to him with an expression of cordial friendship and of a\ncomforted heart. They drew up in order; the procession set itself in\nmotion; the masks, the fraternities that made it their duty to attend\ncorpses, ranged themselves in their white gowns, with hooded faces, of\nwhich nothing could be seen but the eyes.\n\nSilently the train moved on: they had now nearly reacht the church,\nwhen a rider on a foaming horse gallopt toward them.\n\n\"What is the matter?\" cried the youth.\n\nHe threw a look into the coffin, and with a shriek of despair turned\nhis horse, darted away, and in his wild speed lost his hat, so that\nhis long hair waved about behind him in the evening breeze. He was the\nbridegroom, come to the wedding.\n\nDarkness gathered round the train of mourners, and their husht rites,\nas the beauteous corpse sank down into the vault of her family.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen the crowd had disperst, the young stranger, who had followed the\nprocession in wonder mixt with sadness, went up to an old priest who\nremained alone praying by the grave. He longed to learn who that\nmajestic old man was, that had seemed to him gifted with god-like\npowers and more than earthly wisdom.\n\nWhen the youth had laid his question modestly before the priest, the\nlatter stood up and, by the light of a lamp that shone upon them from\na window, lookt sharply into his eye.\n\nThe old man had a little spare form; his pale narrow face hightened\nthe fire of his eyes yet more; and his pincht lips quivered, as with\nhoarse voice he answered: \"How! you don't know him? our far-famed\nPetrus of Apone, or Abano, of whom people talk in Paris, and London,\nand in the German Empire, and throughout all Italy? You know not the\ngreatest of philosophers and physicians, of astronomers and\nastrologers, to learn from whom and to see whom the wild youth flock\nhither from the far parts of Poland?\"\n\nThe young Spaniard, Alfonso, had moved back a step in delighted\nsurprise; for the renown of this great teacher had driven him too from\nBarcelona over the sea. \"Then it was he, it was himself!\" he cried\nenthusiastically: \"this too was why my heart felt so deeply moved. My\nspirit recognized his. O generous, pious man, how I love you for\nhonouring him no less than do all the noble-minded and good in the\nChristian world!\"\n\n\"You too mean perchance to study under him?\" askt the priest with a\nbitter tone.\n\n\"Certainly,\" answered the other, \"if he will vouchsafe to receive me\namong his scholars.\"\n\nThe old man stood still, laid his hand on the youth's shoulder, and\nthen said mildly: \"My dear young friend, there is yet time; listen\neven now to my fatherly warning, before it is too late. Do not deceive\nyourself, as so many, even without number, have done already; be on\nyour guard, and watch over your soul. Are you then at your age thus\nbeforehand aweary of your peace and future blessedness? would you\nrequite your Saviour's love by becoming a runagate from him, and\ndenying him, and taking up arms as a rebel against him?\"\n\n\"I understand you not, old man,\" replied Alfonso: \"did not you\nyourself see and hear how piously, how christianly, with what a\nheart-stirring majesty, the glorious man spake, and led back the\nerring footsteps of sorrowing love by his heavenly comfort into the\nright path?\"\n\n\"What is there that he cannot, that he will not do, the trickster, the\nmagician!\" exclaimed the old priest warmly.\n\n\"Magician!\" returned Alfonso. \"So you too would take part in the folly\nof the rabble that is unable to appreciate the knowledge of lofty\nspirits, and would rather credit any absurdity than strengthen their\nown souls by gazing upon the grandeur of a fellow-creature.\n\n\"Only go on in this way,\" said the priest indignantly, \"and you\nscarcely need go into his vaunted school. It is clear his magic has\nyou already in its snares, just as he subdues every heart that but\nbeats within his reach. Yes forsooth, the heathen, he has spoken and\nprophesied today like a priest, and has for once besmeared his lies\nwith this varnish. In the same manner he is lord and master in the\nhouse of the Podesta. Poor Crescentia could hardly in her last hours\nfind her way back to holy church: so bound and held fast was her soul\nby the false doctrines the wicked hypocrite had flung like poisonous\nnets around her young spirit. Now she has escaped him; the Lord has\ncalled her to himself, and has sent this disease to save her soul with\nthe loss of her body.\"\n\nThe speakers were come into the large square before the church. The\nyouth was irritated, and, to give his feelings vent, exclaimed: \"What\nboots all this fierce envy, my ghostly sir? Do you not see, can you\nnot perceive, how the world only falls away from you more and more,\nthe more you by your excommunications and anathemas and persecutions\nstrive to quench and stifle the new spirit? that spirit of eternal\ntruth which is now awakening all nations from their sleep, and which\nin spite of your arts will never sink upon the pillow again to swallow\nyour legends in submissive faith.\"\n\n\"Bravo!\" said the old man in high wrath: \"Have we not Averroes now\ninstead of Christ, and Aristoteles instead of the Almighty, and this\nPietro of yours, this Iscariot, instead of the Holy Ghost? And verily\nthe spirit of the earth has built up a high and stately body for him,\nand has crowned it with a noble brow, and has set an eye of fire in it\nand the sweet mouth of persuasion, and has poured grace and majesty\nover his motions, that he may juggle and delude: while I, the unworthy\nservant of the Lord, walk about here sickly and weak and without all\ncomeliness of feature, and have only my own confession, only my faith,\nto give assurance that I am a christian. I cannot descend like him\ninto the depths of dazzling knowledge, nor measure the course of the\nstars, nor foretell good and evil fortune; I am reviled and scorned by\nthe overwise; but I bear it humbly, for the love of him who has laid\nall this upon me. Wait however until the end, and see whether his\nseven spirits whom he holds under his magical spell, can save him\nthen; whether his Familiar, that spawn of hell, will then assist him.\"\n\n\"Was his Familiar with him?\" askt Alfonso eagerly.\n\n\"Did not you observe the monster,\" answered the monk, \"that had trickt\nitself out like a clown? the abortion with that hump, those twisted\nhands and arms, those crooked legs, those squinting eyes, and that\nenormous nose jutting out from its unsightly face.\"\n\n\"I took all that for a mask;\" said the youth.\n\n\"No, this creature,\" replied the old man, \"need not put on a mask.\nSuch as he is, he is mask enough, and spectre, and imp of hell, this\nBeresynth, as they call him.... Will you pass the night in our\nconvent, young man, until you have found a lodging?\"\n\n\"No,\" rejoined he very positively; \"I will be indebted for no\nhospitality to a man thus unjust and slanderous toward the noble being\nwhose name I heard with rapture while yet in my own country, and who\nshall walk and shine before me here as my guide and model. It is bad\nenough that I have been forced to hear such language from you, from a\nman whose condition and age forbid my calling him to account for it.\nIf he alone is to be esteemed godly, who despises science and\nknowledge, he alone a christian, who in a waking slumber dozes away\nthe days of his life and the powers of his soul, I depart out of the\ndull communion. But it is not so; nor is it the man, the christian, or\nthe priest, that has been speaking from your lips, but your guild and\nfraternity. Farewell, if with such feelings you can.\"\n\nThey parted, both much out of temper.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe young Florentine who had met the funeral procession in the city,\ndasht like a madman through the gate, and then gallopt with reckless\nvehemence across field and wood. When he found himself in the open\ncountry, he hurled forth imprecations against the world and fate, tore\nhis hair, curst his stars and his youth, and then rusht almost\nunconsciously onward. He spurred in the face of the wind that arose at\nnightfall, as though seeking to cool the fire in his cheeks.\n\nWhen it grew later, his horse, which had often stumbled already, and\nwhich he had pulled up furiously every time, dropt exhausted to the\nground, and he was forced to pursue his way on foot. He knew not where\nhe was, still less whither he should go; only there stood before him\nwith inextinguishable features his own misery, and the vanity of the\nworld, and the treacherous inconstancy of all happiness.\n\n\"Accursed madness of life!\" cried he in his despair through the\ndarkness: \"thus, thus cruelly dost thou awaken me out of my slumber! I\ncannot choose but hate thee mortally for thy jugglings, thy\npresumption, and for all those senseless hopes which smile upon our\nyouth and go along with us so like friends upon our journey, and, when\nthey have beguiled us into the wilderness, fly away from us and grin\nand make mows at us. Life! what is this web of folly, this silly dream\nof a feversick heart? One faint shivering-fit follows another; one\ncrazy phantom drives another out; our wishes caper around in the bald\nwaste, and do not even know themselves again. O death! O rest! O\nnothingness! come to me, let me embrace thee, and set this stormy\nheart free. O that I could but gasp out my last convulsive breath this\nvery instant! that tomorrow's sun might no more find my place upon\nearth, that no thought might rise within me to greet its returning\nray! Am I not the very wretchedest creature that breathes? and so much\nthe poorer, for that a few hours since I deemed myself the happiest.\nWoe be to youth! woe to love! Woe to the feelings of the heart, that\nlet themselves be so readily, so grossly deceived!\"\n\nA shower now drizzled through the cold air, and soon the drops grew\nlarger and thicker. The youth knew not whither he had strayed; the\nwood lay already far behind him; no shelter was near. He began to\ngather up his recollections; his grief became gentler; tears flowed\nfrom his eyes. He already hated life less; it seemed to him as though\nthe night itself wisht to comfort him and to soothe his sorrow.\nUncertain whether to seek for his fallen horse again, or to hide\nhimself in some hollow from the rain, he lookt once more around, and\nat length far below him across a valley and at the back of some trees\ndiscovered a little dancing light, that like a friendly eye winkt to\nhim through the thick darkness and called him to approach it. He\nhastened toward the dubious gleam, which now vanisht, and now again\nshone forth. All his powers, all his feelings were bound as in sleep;\nhis whole being had as it were past away into a dream.\n\nA storm now got up, and heavy low-hanging thunderclouds were rolling\nslowly along. He was already approaching some trees, as it appeared to\nhim; but the darkness made it impossible to distinguish anything\nwhatever. A flash of lightning here dazzled him and a loud clap of\nthunder stunned him, so that he fell into a ditch.\n\nOn lifting himself up again, the light which had allured him was close\nat hand. He knockt at the little window that peept through some trees,\nand begged for admittance and shelter from the rain and storm. A loud\nhoarse voice answered from within; but the youth did not catch a word;\nfor the wind and thunder and rain, and the rustling of the trees, all\nnow raged so violently at once, that every sound beside them fell\ndead.\n\nThe door of the little house opened into the garden: he had to hasten\nthrough it; a female hand then took hold of him, led him along a dark\npassage, and into a little room, from which the light of a lamp and\nthe fire on the hearth shone in his eyes. In the corner by the lamp\nsat a hideous old woman spinning; the girl who had conducted him in\nset to work over the fire; and for a long time he was unable to\nexamine the figures closelier by the doubtful quivering light; for a\nlong time no conversation could be carried on, the roaring of the\nthunder overpowering every other sound.\n\n\"This is a cruel storm!\" said the old woman during a pause with a\ncroaking voice. \"Whence do you come hither, young man?\"\n\n\"I come from Padua since this evening.\"\n\n\"Far indeed,\" cried the old woman: \"it lies six good leagues from\nhere. And whither are you going? for there is no public road\nhereabout.\"\n\n\"I know not, and care not to know. The wretched cannot frame any plan\nor think about the future. Indeed how happy should I feel, were there\nno future at all for me!\"\n\n\"You are talking nonsense, young man; and that must not be. Heyday!\"\nshe exclaimed, as she lifted up the lamp and lookt at him more\nnarrowly, \"why he is a Florentine! That doublet and cape is what I\nhave not seen this many a day. Well now, this must surely bode me some\ngood. So the ugly weather has made me a present of a dear guest; for\nyou must know, my young gentleman, I too am from that blessed land. Ay\nFlorence! Ah, if one might but once more tread on thy ground and see\nthy dear hills and gardens again! And your name, my dear young\ngentleman?\"\n\n\"Antonio Cavalcanti,\" said the youth, who felt more confidence in the\nold dame on finding that she was his countrywoman.\n\n\"O what an accent!\" cried she almost rapturously: \"Cavalcanti! such a\none I too knew some years since, one Guido.\"\n\n\"He was my father,\" said Antonio.\n\n\"And is he no longer alive?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered the young man; \"my mother too was taken from me a long\ntime ago.\"\n\n\"I know it, I know it, my dear pretty boy. Ay, ay, it must now be full\nfifteen years since she died. Alas yes, it was then, in those\ntroublous times, that she had to give up the ghost. And your dear\nworthy father, he is the only person I have to thank for the judges\nnot having treated me just like a faggot some years after: they had\nsomehow got it into their pates that I was a witch, and there was no\navail in denying it. But Signor Guido fought my battle, what with\nreason and what with ranting, what with entreaties and what with\nthreats: so they merely banisht me out of the dear land. And now this\nthunderstorm brings me the son of my benefactor into my poor little\ncottage. Come, give me your hand on the strength of it, youngster.\"\n\nAntonio gave it to the old woman shuddering; for now at length he was\nable to observe her more distinctly. She grinned at him friendly, and\ndisplayed two long black teeth standing out between her bristly lips;\nher eyes were small and sharp, her brow furrowed, her chin long; she\nstretcht out two gaunt shrivelled arms toward him; and being\ncompelled, however loth, to embrace her, he felt the hump which made\nher ugliness still more disgusting.\n\n\"True!\" she said with a forced laugh, \"I am not remarkably pretty; I\nwas not so even in my younger days. There is something whimsical about\nbeauty; one can never tell or describe downrightly in what it\nconsists; it is always only the want of certain things which, when you\nhave them at their full size, make up what folks call ugliness. Come\nnow, tell me, such as I am, what do you think the most hideous thing\nabout me?\"\n\n\"My dear old dame,\" said the youth in confusion....\n\n\"No,\" she cried, \"plump out with the truth, and without any flattery.\nEverybody, you know, has some odd maggot or other; and as for me, I\npride myself no little on being utterly without all those things which\nin the world they christen handsome. Now let me see your taste! speak\nout!\"\n\n\"If I must,\" stammered Antonio, while in spite of his grief a smile\ncurled his lips, \"those two teeth are ... to my mind....\"\n\n\"Ha, ha!\" cried the old woman laughing aloud, \"my two dear good old\nblack teeth are what pleases you the least about me. I can well\nbelieve it: they stand like two scorcht palisades among the ruins of a\nfortress in the wide empty space there. But you should have seen me\nten years back; then matters were much worse still. In those days I\nhad a whole mouth full of such portentous grinders; and they who loved\nme would say it lookt frightful. Well, one by one they fell out, and\nthese two alone are left behind the last of all their race. When they\nare once gone, my jaws will clap together like two doors, the upper\nlip will grow just thrice as long, and again one can't tell what sort\nof a face will come of it. Time, my dear young friend, is, as somebody\nfound out many many years ago, a bungling workman; he makes a creature\npretty enough; then he daubs and trims and pares and pulls and\nsqueezes the thing about, draws the nose and chin out of their\nsheaths, knocks in the cheeks, eats ruts into the forehead, till he\nhas turned it into a scarecrow; and then at last he gets ashamed,\nsmashes the whole wretched concern to pieces, and shovels it over with\nearth that all the world may not see his disgrace. Your cheeks too,\nsmooth and polisht as they are, will not be so like a roseleaf by and\nby. Here! let me look! verily you have the rarest pearls of\ntoothikins! a pity they must be used in chewing bread and roast beef.\nHey, hey! shew them to me ... wider open with the mouth ... but they\nstand very oddly ... hem! and that eyetooth! there is meaning in all\nthat.\"\n\nAntonio knew not whether to scold or laugh; however he constrained\nhimself to be calm, and to let the old woman have her chatter; for\nowing, as it seemed, to her former acquaintance with his family, she\npossest a strange power over him. But how did he start with amazement\nwhen she suddenly cried out: \"Crescentia!\"\n\n\"For Heaven's sake!\" he said, almost breathlessly: \"do you know her?\ncan you see her? can you tell me anything about her?\"\n\n\"What's the matter with you?\" howled the old woman: \"how can I help\nknowing her, seeing she is my own daughter? Only look yourself how the\nlazy slut has fallen asleep in her chair there, and lets the fire go\nout and the soup get cold.\"\n\nShe took up the lamp and went to the chimney; but what were the\nyouth's feelings, when again for the second time on that day he beheld\nhis beloved, almost the same as in the evening? Her pale head lay\ndropt back; her eyes were closed; every feature, even the dark\ntresses, were those of his bride; just so were her little hands\nfolded, and just so did she too clasp a crucifix between them. Her\nwhite dress helpt to increase the illusion; the flowers alone were\nwanting; but the dusk wove something like wreaths of dark heavy\nfoliage around her hair.\n\n\"She is dead!\" sighed Antonio gazing fixedly upon her.\n\n\"Sluggish is she, the lazy jade,\" said the old woman, and shook the\nfair slumberer awake: \"she can do nothing but pray and sleep, the\nuseless baggage.\"\n\nCrescentia roused herself, and her confusion still hightened her\nbeauty. Antonio felt on the brink of madness at thus again seeing\nbefore him one whom he had yet lost for ever.\n\n\"Old witch!\" he cried out vehemently: \"where am I? and what forms art\nthou bringing before my wandering senses? Speak, who is this lovely\nbeing? Crescentia, art thou alive again? Dost thou still acknowledge\nme as thine own! How camest thou hither?\"\n\n\"Holla! my young prince,\" screamed the old woman; \"you are gabbling\naway there, as though you had quite lost your little bit of an\nunderstanding. Is the storm beating about inside of your pate? has the\nlightning perchance singed your brains? She is my daughter, and always\nhas been so.\"\n\n\"I do not know you,\" said the pale Crescentia, blushing sweetly: \"I\nwas never in the city.\"\n\n\"Sit down,\" the old woman interposed; \"and eat and drink what I have\nto give you.\"\n\nThe soup was placed on the table, along with some fruit; and the old\nwoman going to a small cupboard took out a flask of excellent\nFlorentine wine.\n\nAntonio could eat but little; his eye was spellbound upon Crescentia;\nand his disturbed and shattered imagination was evermore persuading\nhim anew that this was his lost bride. Then again he often fancied he\nwas lying enchained by a heavy dream, or had been seized by a trance\nof madness which was transforming every object around him, so that he\nwas perhaps still in Padua, or at his own home, and saw nothing but\nphantasmal forms, and could not recognize or understand any of the\nfriends who might be round about consoling him or mourning over him.\n\nThe storm had raved itself out, and the stars were shining in the\npacified dark sky. The old woman ate greedily, and drank still more\nplenteously of the sweet wine.\n\n\"Now at length, young Antonio,\" she began after some time, \"tell us,\nprithee, what brought you to Padua, and what has driven you hither?\"\n\nAntonio started as from sleep. \"You may well,\" he replied, \"demand\nsome account of your guest, since, beside that reason, you knew my\nfather, and it may be my mother too.\"\n\n\"To be sure I knew her,\" said the old woman sniggering; \"nobody so\nwell as I. Yes, yes, she died just six months before your father\ncelebrated his second marriage with the Marchesa Manfredi.\"\n\n\"So you know that too?\"\n\n\"Why, it seems to me,\" she continued, \"as though I could see the\ndainty trim doll at this very moment before me. Well, is your\nbeautiful stepmother still living? When they drove me out of the\ncountry she was just in her prime full bloom.\"\n\n\"I cannot again go through,\" said Antonio with a sigh, \"what I\nsuffered from that alien mother. She held my father as under\nenchantment; and he was readier to wrong all his old friends, readier\nto wrong his own son, than in anywise to offend her. At last however\ntheir behaviour to each other altered; but my heart almost broke at\nthe sight of their hatred, while before it had only bled at the\ninsults I had to endure.\"\n\n\"So there was plenty of bitter malice,\" askt the old hag with a\nnauseous grin, \"throughout the whole family?\"\n\nAntonio eyed her with a sharp look, and said confusedly: \"I know not\nhow I have come to be talking here about my own and my parents\nmisery.\"\n\nThe old woman swallowed a bumper of red wine, which stood like blood\nin the glass. Then with a loud laugh she said: \"Faith, I know no such\nglorious pleasure, nothing, I mean, so like what one may call perfect\nrapture and bliss, as when such a wedded couple, who in earlier days\nwere once a pair of fond lovers, fall out in this way, and snarl and\nsnap at each other, like cat and dog, or two tiger-beasts, and scold\nand curse each other, and would each give up heart and soul to Satan,\nonly to hurt and pain or to get rid of the other. This, my young lad,\nis the true glory of mortal life: but more especially, if the two\nyoke-fellows have of yore gone stark mad with love, if they have done\neverything, even what is a little bit out of the way, for each other,\nif they have waded through much of what certain good pious folks would\ncall crimes and sins, merely for the sake of getting at one another,\nmerely for the sake of at last tying the knot, which they now so\ncordially abhor. Trust me, this is a grand feast for Satan and all his\ncomrades, and it makes those below keep jubilee and sing psalms. And\nhere now even ... but I'll hold my tongue; I might easily say too\nmuch.\"\n\nCrescentia lookt mournfully at the astonisht youth. \"Forgive her,\" she\nwhispered: \"you see she has drunk too much; pity her.\"\n\nBut in Antonio's soul there now rose up with fresh power the image of\nformer times and all their dark scenes. The sorrowful day came back\nupon him, when he saw his stepmother on her deathbed, when his father\nwas in despair and curst himself and the hour of his birth, and called\nupon the spirit of his first wife and prayed for forgiveness.\n\n\"Have you nothing else to tell?\" askt the old woman, and thereby\nawakened him from his dreamy amaze.\n\n\"What shall I tell?\" said Antonio, with the deepest anguish: \"do not\nyou seem to know everything, or else to have learnt it by soothsay?\nNeed I tell you that an old servant, Roberto, poisoned her, having\nbeen persecuted by her hatred and thus spurred on to revenge himself?\nthat this accursed villain attempted to throw the crime upon my\nfather? He escapes from prison, scales the garden-wall, and in the\ngrotto thrusts his dagger into my father's breast.\"\n\n\"What old Roberto! Roberto!\" cried the old woman almost with a shout\nof triumph: \"hey, only see how strangely some people will turn out!\nAy, ay, the sneak in his younger days was such a straitlaced\nhypocrite, such a holy-seeming dog; afterward however he grew a fine\nspirited fellow, as they tell me. It was in the grotto then? How\ncunningly things fit together, and shell off till one gets at the\nkernel! In that grotto your father in earlier days sat time after time\nwith his first wife; there at their betrothal he first swore eternal\nlove to her. In those times Roberto doubtless already wore that\ndagger; but he knew not what an odd use he was to make of it some\ntwenty years after. In that grotto too the second spouse would often\nslumber beside the cool fountain; and again the husband would lie\nthere at her feet. Well, Antonio, child, is not life a right merry,\nright silly, right absurd, and right horrible hodgepodge? No man can\nsay: 'that's a thing I never will do'. The pangs and the feelings, the\nstings and the ravings, which the black crew forge in hell's smithy,\nall these keep coming on and coming on, slowly, wonderously, nearer\nand ever nearer: on a sudden Horrour is in the house, and the frantic\nvictim sits with it in the corner, and gnaws at it as a dog gnaws a\nbone. Drink, drink, my darling; this grape-juice sets all things to\nrights when its spirits once get into the soul.... Now, and you? do\ntell me a little more.\"\n\n\"I swore to revenge my father,\" said Antonio.\n\n\"That's just right;\" returned the old woman: \"look you, my child, when\nsuch a firebrand has been once hurled into a house, it must never\nnever go out again. From generation to generation down to grandchild\nand cousin the poison is entailed; the children rave already; the\nwound is always bleeding afresh; a new vein must be opened to save the\ndisaster and set it upon its legs again, when but for that it might be\nin danger of breathing its last. O revenge, revenge is a goodly word!\"\n\n\"But Roberto,\" said Antonio, \"had escaped, and was nowhere to be\nfound.\"\n\n\"A pity, a pity!\" exclaimed the old woman. \"Now of course thy revenge\ndrives thee over the world?\"\n\n\"Yes in truth; I wandered through Italy, searcht in every town, but\ncould find no trace of the murderer. At last the fame of Pietro of\nAbano fixt me at Padua. I wisht to learn wisdom from him; but when I\ncame into the house of the Podesta....\"\n\n\"Well! speak out, child!\"\n\n\"What shall I say? I know not whether I am raving or dreaming. There I\nsaw his daughter, the sweet, the lovely Crescentia. And I here see her\nagain before me ... yes it is herself ... that funeral procession was\na wicked, unseemly jest ... and this disguise, this flight hither into\nthe desert, is again a most unseemly piece of mummery. Acknowledge\nthyself to me at length, at length, beloved, beautiful Crescentia.\nThou knowest it well, my heart only lives within thy bosom. To what\nend these agonizing trials? Are thy parents perchance in the next room\nthere, and listening to all we are saying? Let them come in now at\nlast, at last; let us have done with this cruel probation, which will\nsoon drive me mad.\"\n\nThe pale Crescentia lookt at him with such an unutterable expression,\nsuch a weight of sadness over her face, that the tears gusht from his\neyes.\n\n\"Faith, he is drunk already!\" howled the old woman. \"Speak, tell me,\nis the Podesta's daughter dead then? Dead is she? and when?\"\n\n\"This evening,\" said the weeper, \"I met her corpse.\"\n\n\"So she too!\" continued the old woman merrily, as she filled her glass\nagain. \"Well, now will the family of Marconi in Venice be right glad.\"\n\n\"Why so?\"\n\n\"Because they are now the only heirs to their rich kinsman. This is\nwhat the long-sighted knaves have always wisht, but could never hope\nfor.\"\n\n\"Woman!\" exclaimed Antonio with new horrour; \"why thou knowest\neverything!\"\n\n\"Not everything,\" replied she, \"but some little. And then a good deal\nmore may perhaps be guessed at. And I will not deny it, a little\nwitchcraft now and then helps on the game. Only don't be too much\nfrightened at it. Nor in truth was it altogether for nothing that\ntheir Florentine worships would have built me a throne of faggots:\nsome petty trifling bits of reasons for this wish they might fairly\nenough have brought forward.... Look me in the face, boy! stroak away\nthe curls from thy forehead: good! now give me thy left hand: the\nright: heyday! strange and marvellous! That's it; some near misfortune\nis hanging over thee; but if thou outlivest it, thou wilt see thy\nbeloved again.\"\n\n\"In the next world!\" sighed Antonio.\n\n\"The next world? what is the next world?\" cried the old hag in her\ndrunkenness: \"no, in this world, here, on what we call earth. What\nwords the fools make use of! There is no next world, you silly\nninnyhammer! he who does not skim off the fat from the broth while he\nis here, is a wretched gull. This however is what they clack to their\nsimple brood, that they may behave prettily, and keep within bounds,\nand go the way one would lead them: but whosoever believes none of\ntheir fabling, he is free on the strength of this, and can do what his\nheart lusteth after.\"\n\nAntonio eyed her wrathfully, and was about to make an indignant reply;\nbut the pale Crescentia interposed such a humble beseeching look for\nher mother that his anger was disarmed.\n\nThe old woman yawned and rubbed her eyes, and it was not long before,\nstupefied as she was by the repeated draughts of strong wine, she fell\nfast asleep.\n\nThe fire on the hearth was gone out, and the lamp now only cast a\nfaint glimmer. Antonio sank into a deep study, and Crescentia sat by\nthe window on a low stool.\n\n\"Can I sleep anywhere?\" the weary youth at length askt.\n\n\"There is another room above,\" said Crescentia sobbing; and he now\nfirst observed that she had been crying bitterly all the time. She\ntrimmed the lamp, to make it burn brighter, and walkt silently before\nhim. He followed her up a narrow staircase, and after they were above\nin the low dark loft, the damsel set the light on a little table and\nwas on the point of retiring. But when already at the door she turned\nback again, stared at the young man as with a look of death, stood\ntottering before him, and then fell sobbing aloud and with violent\nunintelligible lamentations as in a convulsion down at his feet.\n\n\"What is the matter with thee, my sweet girl?\" he exclaimed, and tried\nto lift her up: \"hush thee; tell me thy sorrow.\"\n\n\"No, let me lie here!\" cried the weeper. \"O that I might die here at\nyour feet, might die this very instant. No, it is too horrible. And\nthat I can do nothing, can hinder nothing, that I must behold the\ncrime in silence and helplessly! But you must hear it.\"\n\n\"Compose thyself then,\" said Antonio comforting her, \"that thou mayst\nrecover thy voice and thy words.\"\n\n\"I look,\" she continued passionately and interrupted by her tears, \"so\nlike your lost love, and it is I who am to lead you by the hand into\nthe house of murder. My mother may easily foretell that a near\nmisfortune is hanging over you: she well knows the gang that assemble\nhere nightly. No one has ever yet escaped alive from this hell. Every\nmoment is bringing him nearer and nearer, the fierce Ildefonso, or the\ndetestable Andrea, with their followers and comrades. Alas! and I can\nonly be the herald of your death, can offer you no help, no safety.\"\n\nAntonio was horrour-struck. Pale and trembling he graspt after his\nsword, tried his dagger, and summoned courage and resolution again.\nMuch as he had but now wisht for death, it was yet too frightful to be\nthus forced to end his life in a robber's den.\n\n\"And thou,\" he began, \"thou with this face, with this form, canst\nbring thyself to be a companion, a helpmate to the accursed?\"\n\n\"I cannot run away,\" she sighed despondingly: \"how joyfully would I\nfly from this house! Alas! and this night, tomorrow, I am to be taken\nfrom hence, and dragged over the sea; I am to be made the wife of\nAndrea or Ildefonso. Is it not better to die now?\"\n\n\"Come,\" cried Antonio, \"the door is open; escape with me; the night,\nthe forest will lend us their shelter.\"\n\n\"Only look around you,\" said the girl; \"only see how both here and in\nthe room below all the windows are secured with strong iron bars; the\ndoor of the house is fastened with a large key which my mother never\nparts with. Did you not perceive, sir, how she threw the door into the\nlock when you entered?\"\n\n\"Then let the old hag fall first,\" cried Antonio: \"we'll tear the keys\nfrom her....\"\n\n\"What, kill my mother!\" shriekt the pale maiden, and clambered\nforcibly round him, to hold him fast.\n\nAntonio quieted her. He proposed to her that, as the old woman was\ndrunk and sleeping soundly, they should take the large house-key\ngently from her side, then open the door, and escape. From this plan\nCrescentia seemed to catch some hope: they both went silently down\ninto the room below, and found the old woman still fast asleep.\nCrescentia crept trembling up to her, sought for the key, found it,\nand succeeded after a time in loosening it from the string at her\ngirdle. She beckoned to the youth; they stept on tiptoe to the door;\nthey cautiously fixt the iron key in the lock; Antonio was now\nstraining his hand to draw back the bolt without noise; when he felt\nthat some one else was working at the lock on the outside in the same\nnoiseless manner. The door opened softly and in came face to face to\nAntonio a large wild-looking man.\n\n\"Ildefonso!\" screamed the damsel, and the youth at the first glance\nrecognized the murderer Roberto.\n\n\"What is this?\" said he with a hollow voice. \"Where got you that key?\nwhither are you going?\"\n\n\"Roberto!\" cried Antonio, and furiously seized the gigantic man by the\nthroat. They wrestled violently; but the nimbler strength of the youth\ngot the better and threw the villain upon the floor; he then knelt\nupon his breast and plunged his dagger into his heart.\n\nThe old woman meanwhile had awaked with loud screams, had started up\non seeing the battle, and howling and cursing had torn her daughter\naway; she dragged her up to the room overhead, and bolted the door\nfrom within.\n\nAntonio was now mounting to break into the loft, when several dark\nforms stalkt in, and were no little astounded at finding their leader\ndead on the ground.\n\n\"I am your captain now!\" cried a broad bearded figure, fiercely\ndrawing his sword.\n\n\"Provided Crescentia is mine!\" answered a younger robber in a tone of\ndefiance.\n\nEach persisting in having his own way, they began a murderous combat.\nThe lamp was thrown over, and amid yells and imprecations the battle\nrolled in the darkness from corner to corner.\n\n\"Have you lost your senses?\" shouted another voice athwart them: \"you\nare letting the stranger get off; knock him down first, and then fight\nyour quarrel out.\"\n\nBut blind with fury they heard him not. Already the first grey\nuncertain gleam of early morning was dawning. Antonio now felt a\nmurderer's fist at his breast; but quickly and strongly he struck the\nassailer down.\n\n\"I am slain!\" cried he, falling upon the floor: \"Madmen, blockade the\ndoors; don't let him run away.\"\n\nMeanwhile Antonio had found the way out; he sprang through the little\ngarden and over the fence; the robbers, who by this time had come to\ntheir senses, hurried after him. He was only a few paces before them,\nand they tried to cut him off. One of them threw stones after him; but\nthey missed their mark. Amid hollowing and threatening they had reacht\nthe wood.\n\nHere the path split into sundry directions, and Antonio was at a loss\nwhich to choose. He lookt back, and saw the robbers separated; he\nattackt the nearest, and wounded him so that he let his sword drop.\nBut at the same moment he heard shouts, and saw new forms along a\nby-path hastening thither; his road would soon be blockt up.\n\nIn this extremity of need he met with his horse again on a little plot\nof grass in the wood. It seemed to have recovered from yesterday's\nover-fatigue. He leapt upon it, after rapidly seizing and righting the\nbridle; and with its utmost speed, as if the animal had felt his\ndanger, it bore him along a foot-track out of the forest.\n\nBy degrees the cries of his pursuers sounded more and more distant;\nthe wood grew lighter; and when he had reason to trust that there was\nnothing more to be afraid of, he saw the city lying before him in the\nglory of the rising sun.\n\nPeople met him; countrymen were going the same road toward the city;\ntravellers joined company with him; and in this way he came back to\nPadua, making little answer to the manifold questions and inquiries,\nwhy his dress was in such disorder, and why he had no hat. The\ncitizens stared in wonder at him as he dismounted before the great\nhouse of the Podesta.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the city on that same night strange things had been going on, which\nas yet were a secret to everybody. Scarcely had the darkness spread\nthickly abroad, when Pietro, whom people commonly called by the name\nof his birthplace, Apone or Abano, retiring into his secret study at\nthe back of his house, set all his apparatus, all the instruments of\nhis art, in due order, for some mysterious and extraordinary\nundertaking. He himself was clad in a long robe charactered with\nstrange hieroglyphs; he had described the magical circles in the hall,\nand he arranged everything with his utmost skill, to be certain of the\nresult. He had searcht diligently into the configuration of the stars,\nand was now awaiting the auspicious moment.\n\nHis companion, the hideous Beresynth, was also drest in magical\ngarments. He fetcht everything at his master's bidding, and set it\ndown just as Pietro thought needful. Painted hangings were unrolled\nover the walls; the floor of the room was covered over; the great\nmagical mirror was placed upright; and nearer and nearer came the\nmoment which the magician deemed the most fortunate.\n\n\"Hast thou put the crystals within the circles?\" demanded Pietro.\n\n\"Yes;\" returned his busy mate, whose ugliness kept bustling to and fro\nmerrily and unweariably amid the vials, mirrors, human skeletons, and\nall the other strange implements. The incense was now brought; a flame\nblazed upon the altar; and the magician cautiously, almost with\ntrembling, took the great volume out of his most secret cabinet.\n\n\"Do we start now?\" cried Beresynth.\n\n\"Silence!\" answered the old man solemnly: \"interrupt not these holy\nproceedings by any profane or any useless words.\"\n\nHe read, at first in a low voice, then louder and more earnestly as he\npaced with measured steps to and fro, and then again round in a\ncircle. After a while he paused and said: \"Look out, how the heavens\nare shaping themselves.\"\n\n\"Thick darkness,\" replied the servant on his return, \"has enwrapt the\nsky; the clouds are driving along; rain is beginning to drip.\"\n\n\"They favour me!\" exclaimed the old man: \"it must succeed.\"\n\nHe now knelt down, and murmuring his incantations often toucht the\nground with his forehead. His face was heated; his eyes sparkled. He\nwas heard to pronounce the holy names which it is forbidden to utter;\nand after a long time he sent his servant out again to look at the\nfirmament. Meanwhile the onrush of the storm was heard; lightning and\nthunder chased each other; and the house seemed to tremble to its\nlowest foundations.\n\n\"Hearken to the tempest!\" shouted Beresynth coming back hastily: \"Hell\nhas risen up from below, and is raging with fire and fierce cracking\ncrashes of thunder; a whirlwind is raving through the midst of it; and\nthe earth is quaking with fear. Hold with your conjuring, lest the\nspokes of the world splinter, and the rim that holds it together\nburst.\"\n\n\"Fool! simpleton!\" cried the magician: \"have done with thy useless\nprating! Tear back all the doors; throw the house door wide open.\"\n\nThe dwarf withdrew to perform his master's orders. Meanwhile Pietro\nlighted the consecrated tapers; with a shudder he walkt up to the\ngreat torch that stood upon the high candlestick; this too at last was\nburning; then he threw himself on the ground and conjured louder and\nlouder. His eyes flasht; all his limbs shook and shrunk as in\nconvulsions; and a cold sweat of agony trickled from his brow.\n\nWith wild gestures, as if scared out of his senses, the dwarf rusht in\nagain, and leapt for safety within the circles. \"The world is at the\nlast gasp,\" he shriekt, pale and with chattering teeth: \"the storms\nare rolling onward; but all beneath the voiceless night is dismay and\nhorrour; every living thing has fled into its closet, or crept beneath\nthe pillows of its bed to skulk away from its fears.\"\n\nThe old man lifted up a face of ghastly paleness from the floor, and\nwith wrencht and indistinguishable features screamed in sounds not his\nown: \"Be silent, wretch, and disturb not the work. Give heed, and keep\na fast hold on thy senses. The greatest things are still behind.\"\n\nWith a voice as if he would split his breast, he read and conjured\nagain: his breath seemed often to fail him; it was as though the\ngigantic effort must kill him.\n\nHereupon a medley of voices were suddenly heard as in a quarrel, then\nagain as in talk: they whispered; they shouted and laught; songs\ndarted from among them, together with the jumbled notes of strange\ninstruments. All the vessels grew alive, and strode forward, and went\nback again; and out of the walls in every room gusht creatures of\nevery kind, vermin and monsters and hideous abortions in the richest\nconfusion.\n\n\"Master!\" screamed Beresynth: \"the house is growing too tight. What\nshall we do with all these ghosts? they must eat one another. O woe! O\nwoe! they are all with cub, and are come here to whelp: new brutes\nkeep sprouting out of the old ones, and the child is always wilder and\nfrightfuller than its dam. My wits are leaving me in the lurch. And\nthen this music into the bargain, this ringing and piping, and\nlaughter athwart it, and funeral hymns enough to make one cry! Look\nmaster! look! the walls, the rooms are stretching themselves, and\nspreading out into vast halls; the ceilings are running away out of\nsight; and the creatures are still shooting forth, and thicken as fast\nas the space grows. Have you no counsel? have you no help?\"\n\nIn complete exhaustion Pietro now raised himself; his whole form was\nchanged, and he seemed to be dying. \"Look out once more,\" he said\nfaintly: \"turn thine eyes toward the dome, and bring me tidings of\nwhat thou seest.\"\n\n\"I am treading the rabble here on the head,\" roared Beresynth, totally\nbewildered; \"they are disporting themselves in twining about me like\nserpents, and are laughing me to scorn. Are they ghosts? are they\ndemons, or empty phantoms? Get away! Well, if you won't move out of my\npath, I'll stamp downright upon your green and blue snouts. Everybody\nmust take care of number one, even if a devil is to be the sufferer.\"\nHe stumbled out muttering.\n\nThings now grew tranquil, and Pietro stood up. He waved his arm, and\nall those strange forms which had been crawling about the floor and\ntwisting around each other in the air, vanisht. He wiped off the sweat\nand tears, and drew his breath more freely.\n\nHis servant came back and said: \"Master, all is quiet and well; but\nsundry light forms flitted by me and lost themselves in the dark sky.\nThereupon, while I kept staring immovably toward the dome, a mighty\ncrash sounded, as if all the strings of a harp were breaking at once,\nand a clap came that made the streets and the houses all tremble. The\ngreat door of the church burst open; flutes warbled sweetly and\nlovelily; and a soft light brightness streamed forth from the heart of\nthe church. Immediately after the form of a woman stept into the\nradiance, pale, but glancing, bedeckt with crowns of flowers; she\nglided through the door, and gleams of light strewed a path for her to\ntread along. Her head upright, her hands folded, she is floating\nhither toward our dwelling. Is this she for whom you have been\nwaiting?\"\n\n\"Take the golden key,\" answered Pietro, \"and unlock the innermost\nrichest chamber of my house. See that the purple tapestries are spread\nout, that the perfumes are scattering their sweetness. Then away, and\nget thee to bed. Make no further inquiry into what happens. Be\nobedient and silent, as thou valuest thy life.\"\n\n\"I know you too well,\" returned the dwarf, and walkt off with the key,\ncasting back another look of something like mischievous delight.\n\nMeanwhile a lovely murmur approacht. Pietro went into the\nentrance-hall, and in glided the pale body of Crescentia, in her robe\nof death, still holding the crucifix in her folded hands. He stood\nstill before her; she drew up the lids from her large eyes, and shrank\nback from him with such a quick start that the wreaths of flowers\ndropt down from her shaking head.\n\nWithout speaking a word he wrested her fast-claspt hands asunder; but\nin the left she kept the crucifix tightly clencht. By the right hand\nhe led her through room after room, and she moved by his side stiffly\nand with indifference, never looking around.\n\nThey reacht the furthest chamber. Purple and gold, silk and velvet,\nwere its costly garniture. The light only glimmered in faintly by day\nthrough the heavy curtains. He pointed to the couch; and the\nunconscious holder of a charmed life stoopt and bent down like a lily\nthat the wind shakes; she sank upon the red coverlet and breathed\npainfully.\n\nFrom a golden vial the old man poured a precious essence into a little\ncrystal cup, and set it before her mouth. Her pale lips sipt the\nwonderous draught; she again unfolded her eyes, fixt them on her\nformer friend, turned away from him with an expression of loathing,\nand fell into a deep sleep.\n\nThe old man carefully closed the chamber again. Everything in the\nhouse was quiet. He betook himself to his own room, there in the midst\nof his books and magical instruments to await the rising of the sun\nand the business of the day.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen the unhappy youth, Antonio, had rested, the Podesta rode forth on\nthe following day with him and with a large train of armed followers,\nto seek for the hut with the hideous old woman and the robbers, and to\ntake them prisoners. On hearing Antonio's story, the disconsolate\nfather became very eager to see the damsel who was said to be so like\nhis lost daughter. \"Can it be,\" said the old man on their way, \"that a\ndream to which I have only too often abandoned myself, is about to\nbecome true?\"\n\nThe father was in such haste that he gave the youth no further\nexplanation. They came to the neighbouring wood; and here Antonio\nthought he recollected himself and had found his track again. But that\nnight had so bewildered him, and excited such a turmoil throughout his\nwhole frame, that he could not make out the way further on, which he\nhad taken during the storm, half stunned by the roaring of the thunder,\non foot, wandering over ploughed land and meadow.\n\nThey crost the large plain in every quarter; wherever trees or bushes\nwere to be seen, thither Antonio spurred his horse, in the hope of\nmeeting with that den of robbers and the marvellous apparition within\nit; or at least, should the inhabitants have absconded, as he might\nwell expect, of gaining some sort of tidings about them.\n\nAt length the Podesta, after they had been roaming about thus for a\ngreat part of the day, began to fancy that the youth's heated\nimagination had merely beheld these phantoms in the wild ravings of\nhis grief. \"Such happiness,\" he exclaimed, \"would be too great; and I\nam born only for misfortune.\"\n\nOn reaching a village they were forced to let their horses and\nservants bait. The inhabitants said they knew nothing of any such\nsuspicious neighbours, nor had the bodies of the slain been found\nanywhere round about. After a short pause Antonio again set off, but\nthe Podesta now followed him more mistrustingly. Inquiries were made\nof every peasant they fell in with; but none could give them any\ncertain information.\n\nToward evening they got to a building that appeared to have been\ndestroyed; ashes and rubbish lay around; some charred beams peered out\nfrom among the stones; the trees that stood near were scorcht.\n\nHere the youth seemed to recognize what he saw. This, he affirmed\nconfidently, had been the abode of the murderers and of that wonderous\nCrescentia. They made halt. Far and wide through the waste country\nthere was no house to be seen, no human being to call to.\n\nA servant rode to the next hamlet, and returned an hour after,\nbringing an old man on horseback. This old man said he knew that a\ngood year since a hut had been burnt down there, having been set fire\nto by some soldiers; that the owner of the estate had already been ten\nyears at Rome waiting for an office promist him in the church; and\nthat his bailiff had taken a journey to Ravenna for the sake of\ngetting in an old debt.\n\nVext and wearied the travellers rode back to the city. The Podesta\nAmbrosio determined to give up his office, to withdraw from public\nlife, and to leave Padua, where everything reminded him only of his\nmisfortunes.\n\nAntonio resolved to learn in the school of the renowned Apone how to\nbear his wretchedness, and perchance to forget it. He removed into the\nhouse of that great man, who had long treated him with much kindness.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"So you too,\" said the little priest some time after to the melancholy\nAntonio, \"have given yourself up to this ill-starred school, to this\npernicious man who will ensnare your soul to its destruction.\"\n\n\"Why are you angry,\" answered Antonio courteously, \"my pious friend?\nMay not religion and knowledge shake hands in amity, as they do in\nthis admirable teacher? in him whom the whole world admires, whom\nprinces esteem and cherish, whom our holy father himself means to\nraise to a spiritual dignity. Why are you incenst against him who\ncomes forward to meet you and all mankind with his love? Did you know\nhow his doctrine comforts me, how he lifts up my soul and guides it\nheavenward, how in his mouth piety and religion find the words and\nimages of inspiration, which bear his scholars as with the wings of\nthe spirit into the regions above the earth, you would not think and\nspeak thus harshly of him. Learn to know him more nearly; seek his\nintercourse; and you will soon be moved by penitence and love to\nabjure your dislike and your over-hasty judgement against him.\"\n\n\"Love him!\" cried the priest: \"no, never! Keep yourself safe, young\nman, from his clutches and those of his servant with hell's stamp upon\nhim, who cannot gull any one with the same fair seeming as his\nmaster.\"\n\n\"True,\" rejoined Antonio, \"little Beresynth is a queer figure, and a\nhideous one too. I wonder myself that our noble Pietro can endure to\nhave him perpetually at his side, wherever he is and whatever he is\ndoing. But ought a hump or any other such ugly mark to render us cruel\ntoward a poor wretch whom nature has neglected?\"\n\n\"Fine words! grand phrases!\" exclaimed the priest impatiently: \"such\nare the very sentiments to make conjurors and quacks thrive apace.\nSee, there comes the abomination! I cannot even bear to look upon him,\nmuch less to have any dealings with him. A creature whom the Lord has\nmarkt in this wise, is knowable enough; and let everybody in whom all\nhuman feeling is not yet quencht, get out of his way.\"\n\nBeresynth, who had caught the last words, came up to them with divers\nungainly jumps.\n\n\"My very reverend sir,\" he exclaimed, \"do you then yourself happen to\nbe of such mightily exquisite beauty, that you have a right to judge\nthus intolerantly? My master from his youth up has been a majestic and\nstately man; and yet he thinks far otherwise of me and my fellows.\nWhat! you little stinted, stunted, stumpy, bile-faced animal, whose\nnose is for ever running crimson with spite! You with the crooked\ncorners of your seesaw mouth, with the broken ridges and ditches in\nyour shrivelled half-inch forehead, you would make an outcry about my\nugliness! Why the bit of a dwarf can hardly peer out of its pulpit\nwhen it is hubbubbing there, and is so gossamer-shankt it durst not\nwalk across the great square if the wind chance to be blowing strong;\nthe congregation are hard put to find him out when he is grimacing and\ngesticulating before the altar, and need all their christian faith and\nhope to believe him actually corporeally present; and such a\nhop-o'-my-thumb, such a ghostly ne'er-to-be-seen, would take the tone\nof a Goliah here. With thy leave, thou most invisible man of\ngodliness, one might cut out of my nose alone as stout a pillar of the\nfaith as thou art; and I won't reckon in the brace of humps which my\nbackbone and breastbone have built up in rivalry of each other.\"\n\nThe priest Theodore had already left them in anger before the end of\nthis speech; and the melancholy Antonio chid the little dwarf for his\nwantonness. But the latter cried; \"Now pray don't you also begin to\npreach. Once for all I will bear that from no one else than my master;\nfor he came into the world on special purpose to teach morality and\nphilosophy and their kin. But this weathercock of a priest here, that\nis driven round with such a creaking merely by his envy and malice,\nbecause he fancies that my noble master is lowering both his authority\nand his purse, he shall not unkennel his tongue from his toothless\njaws, where I can but thrust in my unwasht mouth. And from a young\nstudent too I will brook no contradiction; for I used to have my beard\nshaved, while your father was still carried about in his\nchrisom-cloth; I was earning stripes at school and getting the fool's\ncap hung round my ears, when they put your worshipful grandfather into\nhis first pair of breeches: so shew respect where it is due, and never\nforget whom you have before you.\"\n\n\"Don't be angry, little man,\" said Antonio: \"I meant it well with\nthee.\"\n\n\"Mean it just as you please,\" returned the other. \"My master is to be\na prelate, do you know that yet? and lord rector of the university.\nAnd he has received a new gold chain as a token of royal favour from\nParis. And you must come to him; for he is going away from Padua, and\nwants to speak to you once more before he sets off. And don't crawl\nabout so among the parsons, if you mean to be a philosopher.\"\n\nHopping and jumping to and fro from side to side he ran down the\nstreet again; and Antonio said to Alfonso, who now came up to him, and\nwho for some time past had been forming a friendship with him: \"I\nnever know, when talking to that little abortion, whether it means its\nwords in earnest or only in jest. He seems always to be scoffing at\nhimself and at everything else in the world.\"\n\n\"This,\" answered Alfonso, \"is a kind of necessary amends to him, a way\nof comforting himself for his deformity: by his sneers he to his own\nfancy makes all other creatures just like himself. But have you heard\nof the new honours that have been bestowed on our illustrious teacher\nand master?\"\n\n\"The world,\" replied Antonio, \"acknowledges his high worth; and now\nthat even our holy father, the pope, is making him a prelate, this\nwill at length silence the envious priests and monks who are for ever\ntrying to charge the virtuous and pious man with heresy.\"\n\nThey parted; and Antonio hurried home, to take leave of his teacher\nfor some days. The little dwarf Beresynth was awaiting him in the\ndoorway with a friendly grin.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was already growing dark within the house; and as Beresynth left\nthe youth to himself, he walkt, on not finding his teacher in the hall\nor even in the library, through a number of rooms, and thus advanced\neven to the innermost, which he had never yet entered. Here beside a\ndim lamp Pietro was sitting, and was no little surprised to see the\nFlorentine come in; who on his part was astonisht at the skeletons,\nthe strange instruments, and extraordinary machinery around the old\nman. Not without confusion the latter came up to him.\n\n\"I did not expect you here,\" said he, \"but thought to find you\nwithout, or to look for you up in your own room. I must set off to\nmeet the legate of our holy father, the pope, that with due humility\nand gratitude I may receive the letter and the new dignity which his\ngrace and paternal kindness have vouchsafed to confer upon me.\"\n\nAntonio was embarrast, and seemed to be examining the instruments,\nhaving never seen any thing like them.\n\n\"You are wondering,\" said the old man after a while, \"at all these\nthings, which are necessary for my studies. When you have attended\na course of my lectures on natural philosophy, I shall be able\nhereafter to explain everything which now perhaps you may deem\nincomprehensible.\"\n\nBut at this moment something happened that drew away Antonio's\nattention from all these objects. A door that seemed shut was only\najar; it opened, and he saw into a room filled with a red purplish\nlight; and at the door in the midst of this roseate glow was standing\na pale ghost that winkt and smiled.\n\nWith the speed of lightning the old man turned round, dasht the door\nthunderingly to, and fastened it with a gold key. Trembling and pale\nas a corpse he then threw himself into a chair, while large drops of\nsweat ran down from his forehead.\n\nWhen he was somewhat recovered, he beckoned to Antonio, still\ntrembling and said with a faltering voice: \"This mystery also, my\nyoung friend, will hereafter become clear to you; think, my dearest\nson, the best of me. Thee above all, thou child of many sorrows and of\nmy love, will I lead into the lowest depths of my knowledge; thou\nshalt be my true scholar, my heir. But leave me at present; go up to\nthy lonely chamber, and call in fervent prayer upon heaven and its\nholy powers to support thee.\"\n\nAntonio could make no answer, so amazed and horrourstruck was he by\nthe apparition, so perplext by his honoured teacher's speech; for it\nseemed to him as though Pietro was struggling to check a burst of\nanger, as if represt rage were flashing from his firy eyes, which\nafter their sudden dimness rapidly shot forth fiercer glances.\n\nHe went away; and in the antechamber he found Beresynth, who with\ngrinning mouth was catching flies and then tossing them to a monkey.\nBoth seemed engaged in a match which could make the most portentous\nfaces. His master now called aloud for the servant, and the monster\nhopt in. Antonio heard a loud squabble, and Pietro appeared to be\nviolently angry. Whining and yelling Beresynth came out of the room; a\nstream of blood was rushing down from his enormous nose.\n\n\"Can't he keep his doors shut himself,\" howled the abortion,\n\"allsapient and allpotent as he is? When the master is a blockhead,\nthe servant must bear the blame. Betake you yourself, most honorablest\nsir, up to your most attic study, and leave me with my good friend, my\ndear Pavian here, in peace. He has still a human heart, the dear\nfaithful creature. Merry comrade as he is, in his tender moments he is\nthe most exquisite fellow. Come march! Pylades would feast on some\nmore flies, which his Orestes must catch for him.\"\n\nAntonio left the room almost stupefied.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Florentine youth had taken up his abode in his teacher's house,\nfor the sake of giving himself up without any interruption to his\nsorrows and his studies. He had chosen the most retired and highest\nroom in the whole building, to be quite alone and unvisited by\nanybody. When he lookt from hence over the beautiful and fruitful\nfields about the city, and followed the course of the river with his\neyes, he thought the more intensely of his, lost love. He had got her\npicture from her parents, as well as some toys she had played with in\nher childhood; above all he delighted in a nightingale, that in its\nmoving plaints seemed to him to be only pouring forth the woes of his\nown heart. This bird had been fostered by Crescentia with the utmost\ncare and fondness; and Antonio preserved it like something holy, as\nthe last relic of his earthly happiness.\n\nWith other young men of his own age he never mingled, excepting the\nSpaniard Alfonso, to whom he was united by their equally enthusiastic\nadmiration of Pietro Abano. The Podesta Ambrosio had resigned his\noffice and left the city: he meant to spend the rest of his life at\nRome, for the sake of getting beyond the reach of his relations at\nVenice. He had given up the thought of ever again finding the twin\ndaughter who had been stolen from him in her infancy; and his grief\nhad been embittered by Antonio's calling back this hope with such a\nshock into his soul. He was convinced the young man had misled him and\nhimself been deceived by the fevered dreams of that night.\n\nIn the morning Pietro set off with his trusty servant. Antonio was\nleft alone in the large house, the rooms of which were all lockt up.\nThe night had past over him in sleeplessness. That terrific figure was\nevermore standing before his eyes, which, greatly as it had appalled\nhim, had yet reawakened all his most delightful feelings. It was as\nthough all power of thinking had died away within him; visions which\nhe could not hold fast kept moving in ever-rolling circles before his\nimagination. It was a frightful feeling to him, that he knew not what\nto think of his venerated teacher, that he had a boding of lawless\nmysteries, and of a horrour which since that look into the chamber\nseemed to be awaiting him, to strip him of all optimism, and to\ndeliver him up to madness and despair.\n\nThe nightingale began singing before his window, and he saw that it\nwas blowing hard and raining. His fondness for the bird made him take\nit in and set it atop of a high old wardrobe. He clambered up and was\nleaning over to place the cage steadily, when the chain from which the\nportrait of his beloved was hanging broke, and the picture slid to the\nwall and down behind the old oak chest. The unhappy are terrified by\nthe veriest trifles. He got down hastily to seek for his darling\ntreasure. He stoopt down to the ground, but his search was vain; it\nwas not to be seen beneath the large heavy cabinet. Everything,\nwhether of great or little moment, in his life seemed to be\npersecuting him as it were under some spell. He shoved at the old\npiece of furniture and tried to push it out of its place; but it was\nfastened to the wall. His impatience grew more vehement with every\nhinderance. He seized an old iron bar which he found in the anteroom,\nand laboured with all his strength to move the wardrobe; and at last,\nafter much heaving and wrenching and a hundred fruitless efforts, it\ngave way with a loud cracking as if an iron cramp or chain had snapt.\nThe cabinet now by degrees came forward, and Antonio was at length\nable to squeeze himself in between it and the wall. He immediately saw\nhis beloved portrait. It was lying upon the broad knob of a door,\nwhich jutted out of the wall. He kist it, and turned the handle, which\nyielded. A door opened; and he resolved to push the great wardrobe\nsomewhat further away, and to explore this strange matter; for he\nthought the owner of the house himself could hardly be acquainted with\nthis secret passage, which had been concealed with so much care, and,\nas it appeared, for so long a time.\n\nWhen he had gained a little more room, he saw that behind the door\nthere was a narrow winding staircase. He went down a few steps; the\nthickest darkness came round him. He descended lower and still lower;\nthe stairs seemed to lead down almost to the bottom of the house. He\nwas on the point of returning, when he struck against a stoppage; for\nthe flight of steps was now at an end. As he groped up and down in the\ndarkness, his hand hit on a brass ring, which he pulled, and instantly\nthe wall opened, and a red glow streamed into his face. Before he\npassed through, he examined the door, and found that a spring which\nthe ring had set in motion, had driven it back. He put it to and stept\ncautiously into the room.\n\nIt was covered with costly red tapestry; purple curtains of heavy silk\nhung down before the windows: a bed of brilliant scarlet embroidered\nwith gold rose in the middle of the room. Everything was still; no\nsound was heard from the street; the windows lookt into a small\ngarden.\n\nA painful anxiety came over the youth as he stood in the midst of the\nchamber; he listened attentively, and at length seemed to hear the low\nwhisper of a breath, as from a sleeper. With throbbing heart he turned\nround, and went forward, to spy whether any one was upon the bed; he\nspread open the silken hangings, and ... he thought he must be in a\ndream; for before him lay, pale as a corpse, but in a sweet slumber,\nthe form of his beloved Crescentia. Her bosom heaved visibly;\nsomething like a slight blush had tinged her pale lips, which were\nsoftly closed, quivering imperceptibly as a gentle smile ever and anon\nflitted over them. Her hair was loose and lay in its dark heavy locks\nupon her shoulders. Her dress was white, with a golden clasp at her\ngirdle. For a long time Antonio stood lost in gazing; at last as if\ndriven by a supernatural power he snatcht the lovely white hand, and\nbegan to pull up the sleeper by force. She darted a plaintive cry\nforth; and frightened by it he let go the arm again, which dropt\nlanguidly upon the pillow.\n\nBut the dream, so seemed it, had flown away; the net of sleep which\nhad held the wonderous form inclosed, was rent asunder: and as clouds\nand mists move along the side of the hills on the gentle morning\nbreeze in wavy forms and now rise and now sink again, so the slumberer\nbegan to stir, stretcht herself as if powerless, and in slow and\ngraceful motions seemed striving to emerge from her sleep. Her arms\nraised themselves, so that the broad sleeves fell back and displayed\ntheir full beauteous roundness; her hands folded themselves, and then\ndropt down again; the head arose, and the bright neck lifted itself\nfreely up; but the eyes were still fast closed; the black tresses fell\nover the face, but the long taper fingers stroaked them back; now the\nfair one was sitting quite upright; she crost her arms over her\nbreast, heaved a hard sigh, and on a sudden her large eyes stood wide\nopen and glancing.\n\nShe gazed at the youth; but it was as though she saw him not; she\nshook her head; then she graspt the gold tassel which was fastened to\nthe top of the bed, lifted herself strongly up, and the tall slender\nform was now standing on its feet raised up on high in the midst of\nthe scarlet drapery. She then stept safely and firmly down from the\ncouch, walkt a few paces up to Antonio who had drawn back, and with a\nchildish exclamation of surprise, as when children are suddenly\ngladdened by a new plaything, she laid her hand upon his shoulder,\nsmiled lovelily upon him, and cried with a soft voice: \"Antonio!\"\n\nBut he, pierced through and through with fear and horrour and joy and\namazement and the deepest pity, knew not whether to fly from her, to\nembrace her, to cast himself at her feet, or to melt away in tears and\ndie. That was the selfsame sound which of yore he had heard so often\nand with such delight, at which his whole heart had turned round.\n\n\"Thou livest?\" he cried with a voice which the swell of his feelings\nstifled.\n\nThe sweet smile that had mounted from her pale lips over her cheeks\neven into her radiant eyes, suddenly split, and froze into a stiff\nexpression of the deepest most unutterable woe.\n\nAntonio could not endure the glance of those eyes; he covered his face\nwith his hands, and shriekt: \"Art thou a ghost?\"\n\nThe figure came still closer, prest down his arms with her hands, so\nthat his face lay bare, and said with a gently fluttering voice: \"No,\nlook at me; I am not dead; and yet I live not. Give me that cup\nthere.\"\n\nA fragrant liquid was floating in the crystal vessel; he held it out\nto her trembling; she set it to her mouth and sipt the drink by slow\ndraughts. \"Alas! my poor Antonio!\" she then said: \"I will only borrow\nthese earthly powers that I may disclose the most monstrous of crimes\nto thee, that I may beseech thy aid, that I may prevail on thee to\nhelp me to that rest after which all my feelings so fervently yearn.\"\n\nShe had sunk back into the arm-chair, and Antonio was sitting at her\nfeet. \"Hellish arts,\" she again began, \"have seemingly awakened me\nfrom death. The same man whom my inexperienced youth honoured as an\napostle, is a spirit of darkness. He gave me this shadow of life. He\nloves me, as he says. How my heart shrank back from him when my\nawakening eye beheld him. I sleep, I breathe; I may, if I choose, be\nrestored to life altogether, so that wicked man has promist me, if I\nwill give myself up to him with my whole heart, if in secret\nconcealment I will let him become my husband.... O Antonio, how hard\nis every word to me, every thought! All his art crumbles before my\nlonging for death. It was frightful, when my spirit, already at rest,\nwith new visions already unfolding before it, was summoned back so\ncruelly out of its calm peace. My body was already a stranger to me, a\nhostile and hateful thing. I came back like the freed slave to chains\nand a dungeon. Help me, my true lover; save me.\"\n\n\"How!\" said Antonio: \"Oh God in Heaven! what have I lived to! in what\na state do I find thee again! And thou canst not, mayst not return to\nlife altogether? thou canst not again be mine, again be thy parents'\ndear child?\"\n\n\"Impossible!\" cried Crescentia with a tone of anguish, and her\npaleness became yet whiter from dismay. \"Alas! Life! How can any one\nseek it again, who has once been set free from it? Thou, my poor\nAntonio, conceivest not the deep longing, the love, the rapture,\nwherewith I think upon death and pant for it. Even more intensely than\nof yore I loved thee, even more fervently than my lips at the Easter\nfestival pined for the holy wafer, do I now yearn for death. Then I\nshall love thee more freely and more wholly in God; then I shall be\ngiven back to my parents. Then I shall live; formerly I was dead; now\nI am a cloud and a shadow, a riddle to myself and to thee. Alas, when\nthy love and our youth have gleamed in upon me in my present state,\nwhen I have heard my well-known nightingale from above pouring her\nsong into my loneliness, what a sweet shuddering, what a dark joy and\npain have then rippled through the dusk of my being! O help me to get\nloose from this chain.\"\n\n\"What can I do for thee?\" askt Antonio.\n\nHer talking had again broken the strength of the apparition: she\npaused awhile with closed eyelids; then she spake faintly: \"Alas! if I\ncould go into a church, if I could be present when the Lord is lifted\nup and appears to the congregation in the sacrament, then in that\nblessed moment I should die of rapture.\"\n\n\"What should hinder me,\" said Antonio, \"from informing against the\nvillain, and delivering him up to the tribunals and to the\ninquisition?\"\n\n\"No! no! no!\" groaned the figure in the greatest terrour: \"thou dost\nnot know him; he is too mighty; he would make his escape, and again\ntear me to him within the circle of his wickedness. Quietly and by\nsilence alone can we succeed; he must feel secure. A chance has\nbrought thee to me. Thou must make him believe himself quite safe, and\nkeep everything secret.\"\n\nThe youth collected his senses; he talkt much with his former\nbetrothed; but speaking became more and more difficult to her; her\neyelids dropt down; she drank once more of the wonderous potion; then\nshe made him lead her to the couch.\n\n\"Farewell!\" she said, as if already in a dream; \"do not forget me.\"\n\nShe mounted upon the bed, laid herself gently down; her hands searcht\nfor the crucifix, which she kist with her eyes closed; then she held\nout her hand to her lover, and beckoned him away as she stretcht\nherself out to sleep.\n\nAntonio gazed at her awhile; then with the spring he shut the\ninvisible door again, crept back up the narrow winding stairs to his\nchamber, fixt the wardrobe in its old place, and burst into hot tears\nas the song of the nightingale welcomed him with the swell of its\nmournful notes. He too longed for death, and only wisht beforehand to\nrelease her, who but a few days since was to have been his earthly\nbride, from her marvellous and awful state.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn order to be out of the way when his teacher returned from his\njourney, Antonio had bent his steps toward the loneliest part of the\nwood. It was an annoyance to him to meet his friend, the Spaniard,\nhere; for he was in no mood to carry on a conversation. However, as\nthere was no avoiding his comrade, he resigned himself in silent\nsadness to the society which at other times had been a pleasure to him\nand a comfort. He only half listened to what his friend said, and\nanswered but sparingly. As was almost always the case, Pietro was\nagain the theme of Alfonso's boundless admiration.\n\n\"Why are you thus stingy of your words today?\" he at length began,\nsomewhat vext: \"is my company troublesome to you? or are you no longer\nas capable as you used to be of honouring our great teacher and giving\nhim the glory he deserves?\"\n\nAntonio was forced to collect himself, not to sink away entirely into\nhis dreamy state.\n\n\"What is the matter with you?\" askt Alfonso again: \"it seems I have\noffended you.\"\n\n\"No, you have not;\" cried the Florentine; \"but if you have any regard\nfor me, if you would not excite my anger, if you would not have the\nbitterest feelings rend my heart, do give over chaunting the praises\nof your idolized Pietro for today. Let us talk on some other subject.\"\n\n\"Ha! by Heaven!\" exclaimed Alfonso: \"so the parsons have twisted your\nfeeble senses round at last. Go your own way henceforward, young man;\nwisdom, I now well see, is too lofty a prize for you. Your head is too\nweak for this fare; and you are longing again for the pap you were\nwont to get from the former fathers of your soul. You will do better\nto stay with them, at least till your milk teeth have dropt out.\"\n\n\"You are talking overweeningly,\" cried Antonio in wrath; \"or rather\nyou are utterly ignorant of what you are saying, and I deserve not\nthis language from you.\"\n\n\"How has our teacher deserved,\" said the Spaniard hastily, \"he who has\ntaken you in like a father, he who favours you so highly above all the\nyoung men of our university, who allows you to dwell in his house, who\nentrusts you with all the thoughts of his heart, by what offense has\nhe deserved, that you should thus mean-spiritedly deny him?\"\n\n\"If I were to answer now,\" returned Antonio angrily, \"that you do not\nknow him, that I have reasons, and the fullest, to think otherwise of\nhim, again you would not understand me.\"\n\n\"Verily,\" said Alfonso with a sneer, \"you have already scaled so high\ninto the most secret places of his philosophy, that the common\nunfavoured child of earth is unable to follow you. Here again one sees\nthat half-merit and quarter-merit puff themselves up the most. Pietro\nAbano is more lowly-minded than you, his feeble mimic.\"\n\n\"You are unmannerly!\" exclaimed the young Florentine irritated to the\nutmost. \"If I were now to assure you by my honour, by my faith, by\nheaven, and by everything which must needs be holy and venerable to\nyou and me, that in all Italy, in all Europe, there is no such wicked\nvillain, no so atrocious hypocrite as this....\"\n\n\"Who?\" shouted Alfonso.\n\n\"Pietro Abano,\" said Antonio now grown calm: \"what would you say\nthen?\"\n\n\"Nothing!\" furiously cried the other, who had not allowed him to\nfinish: \"save that you, and everybody else who dares to speak in that\nway, are the paltriest knaves that ever had the audacity to blaspheme\nholy things. Draw, if you would not be called a mean coward as well as\na base slanderer.\"\n\nAntonio's drawn sword met the challenger with the same speed; and it\nwas in vain that a hoarse anxious voice cried out to them: \"Hold!\"\nAlfonso was wounded in the breast; and the blood at the same time ran\nfrom Antonio's arm.\n\nThe old priest, who had wisht to separate the quarrellers, now\nhastened forward; bound up their wounds and stancht the blood; then he\ncalled to some students that he had seen a little way off, and told\nthem to carry the wounded Alfonso to the city.\n\nBefore he was removed, Antonio went up to him and whispered in his\near: \"If you are a man of honour, not a word about the cause of our\nfray will pass over your lips. In four days time we will meet again:\nand if you are not of my way of thinking then, I am ready to give you\nany satisfaction.\"\n\nAlfonso pledged his solemn promise; all the bystanders too assured\nAntonio that the wound as well as the whole affair should be kept a\nsecret, not to expose him to any danger.\n\nWhen they were all gone Antonio walkt with the priest Theodore deeper\ninto the wood.\n\n\"Why,\" began the latter, \"will you, for a fiend's sake, make over your\nown soul to hell? I see, you are now of a different opinion; but is\nthe sword the spokesman that should preach truth to a brother?\"\n\nAntonio felt in doubt how much he should disclose to the monk; however\nhe said nothing about the wonderful event that had befallen him, and\nonly entreated that, at the approaching festival of Easter, he might\nbe allowed to enter the great church during high mass through the\nsacristy, near the altar.\n\nAfter some objections Theodore complied, though he could not conceive\nwhat was the youth's purpose in asking for this permission. All\nAntonio said further was: \"I wish to bring a friend into the church\nthat way, whose entrance at the great door might perhaps be stopt.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAll the bells in the city were ringing, that the holy feast of Easter\nmight be kept with gladness and devotion. The people flockt toward the\ndome, to celebrate the most joyous of Christian festivals, and also to\nbehold the renowned Apone in his new dignity. The students escorted\ntheir illustrious teacher, who walkt along amid the reverent\nsalutations of the nobles, the council, and the citizens, in seeming\npiety and humility, an example to all, the pride of the city, the\ninspiring model of the youth. At the door of the cathedral the crowd\nshrank back in timid respect, to make way for their honoured bishop,\nwho, in the garb of a prelate, with the golden chain round his neck,\nwith his white beard and the white locks on his head, might be\ncompared to an emperor or an ancient doctor of the church in his\nmajestic demeanour.\n\nA seat had been raised up on high for the great man near the altar,\nthat the students and the people might see him; and when the multitude\nof the devout had poured into the church, the service began.\n\nTheodore, the little priest, read mass on this day; and young and old,\ngentle and simple, all rejoiced to keep the festival of their Lord's\nresurrection in a worthy manner, and to behold the pomp of worship\nreturning, glad that after the days of severe fasting, after the\nsaddening representations of suffering and sorrow, they might now\ncomfort themselves with the feeling of a new life springing forth from\nthe grave.\n\nThe first part of the divine service was already over, when people\nwere astonisht to see Antonio Cavalcanti stepping into the church by\nthe side of the altar, leading a thickly veiled figure in his hand. He\nplaced the figure on the raised pavement just in face of Pietro, and\nthen threw himself down before the altar praying. The muffled form\nremained standing stiff and high, and beneath the covering one saw the\nfiry black eyes. Pietro lifted himself from his seat, and sank back\ninto it pale and trembling. The music of the mass now gusht and rolled\nin fuller symphonies; the muffled form disentangled itself slowly from\nits veils; the face became free; and those who were nearest with\nhorrour recognized the dead Crescentia. A shudder passed through the\nwhole church; even over those who were furthest off a secret shivering\ncrept, to see the image pale as death standing so tall there, and\npraying so fervently, and never turning her large burning eyes from\nthe priest at the altar. Even the great mighty Pietro himself seemed\nchanged into a corpse; from his distorted features one might have held\nhim to be dead, but that his life betrayed itself in his violent\ntrembling.\n\nNow the priest turned round and lifted up the consecrated host;\ntrumpets announced the renewed presence of the Lord; and with a voice\nof triumph, with a face of high transport, her arms widely outspread,\nas she cried aloud \"Hosannah!\" so that the church resounded with it,\nthe pale apparition dropt down, and lay dead, stiff, and motionless,\nbefore Pietro's feet.\n\nThe people rusht forward; the music stopt; curiosity, astonishment,\nhorrour, and affright spake from every asking countenance; the nobles\nand students went up to comfort and support the venerable old man, who\nappeared so deeply shockt; when Antonio with a yelling sound shouted:\n\"Murder! Murder!\" and began the most fearful charge, the most\nappalling tale, unfolded the hellish arts, the accursed magic of the\ndismayed sinner, spake of himself and of Crescentia and of their awful\nmeeting again, until anger and rage and imprecations and loathing and\ncurses raved like a stormy sea around the criminal, and threatened to\nannihilate him, to tear him to pieces in the madness of their fury.\nThey talkt of gaolers and chains; the inquisitors drew near; when\nPietro started up as in a frenzy, thrust and struck about him with\nclencht fists, and seemed to spread himself out to a gigantic size. He\nwalkt up to Crescentia's body that lay smiling like the picture of a\nsaint, gazed at her once more, and then passed roaring and with\nflashing eyes through the crowd.\n\nA new horrour seized the people; they made room for the huge form; all\nmoved out of his way. Thus Pietro came to the open street: but the mob\nnow bethought themselves, and with cries and curses and revilings\npursued the fugitive, who ran hastily onward, while his long robes\nflew far behind him, and the gold chain beat and rattled upon his\nbreast and shoulders. The rabble, as they could not catch him, tore up\nthe stones from the pavement, and threw them after him; and wounded,\nbleeding, dripping with sweat, his teeth chattering from fear, Pietro\nat last reacht the threshold of his house.\n\nHe hid himself in the innermost apartments; and Beresynth came forward\ninquisitively, asking all sorts of questions, to meet the mob and the\nrush of the people.\n\n\"Fall upon the maskt devil! the familiar!\" they all shouted: \"tear in\npieces the profane creature who never yet set foot in a church!\"\n\nHe was dragged and pusht into the street; no answer was made to his\ninquiries and intreaties, to his howls and shrieks, nor indeed was\nanything heard through the stormy tumult except curses and threats of\ndeath. \"Bring me before the magistrate!\" at length screamed the dwarf;\n\"there my innocence will be made clear as day.\"\n\nThe constables were summoned, and seizing him led him toward the\nprison. All the people prest after him. \"In here with him!\" cried the\nchief of the officers: \"chains and faggots are waiting for thee.\"\n\nHe tried to tear himself away from them; the constables laid hold on\nhim and shoved him to and fro: one seized him by the collar, another\nby the arm, the next clung round his leg to hold him fast, a fourth\ncaught his head to make quite sure of him.\n\nWhile they were pulling him backward and forward in this way amid\nshouts and curses and laughter, on the sudden they all started off\nfrom one another; for each had got nothing but a piece of clothing, a\nsleeve, cap, or shoe of the monster; he himself was nowhere to be\nseen. He could not have run away; he seemed to have vanisht; but\nnobody could tell how.\n\nWhen they had broken into Apone's chamber, those who rusht in found\nhim lying on his bed, lifeless, having bled to death. They plundered\nthe house; the magical implements, the books, the strange furniture,\nwere all made over to the flames; and throughout the whole city\nnothing resounded except curses on the man whom but this morning all\nhad honoured as a messenger from Heaven. This only embittered the\nloathing with which they now revolted from the phantom.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen the turmoil by which the people were agitated was somewhat\nallayed, the body of Pietro was silently buried at night, without the\nconsecrated churchyard. Antonio and Alfonso renewed their friendship,\nand attacht themselves to the pious Theodore, who, after going through\nthe solemn rites and pronouncing a devout oration, had the body of the\nbeautiful Crescentia laid a second time in the vault designed for her.\nAntonio however could not bear to stay any longer at Padua; he\nresolved to revisit his native city, that he might settle his affairs,\nand then perhaps get admitted into a convent. Alfonso on the other\nhand determined to make a pilgrimage to Rome, where the holy Father\nhad just been proclaiming a year of jubilee with a plenary indulgence\nfor sins. Not only throughout Italy was every one in motion; but from\nFrance too, and Germany, and Spain, came numerous trains of pilgrims,\nto celebrate this till then unheard of solemnity, this great festival\nof the church, in the holy city.\n\nAfter the friends had parted, Antonio pursued his lonely path,\nshunning the great road, partly for the sake of brooding\nuninterruptedly over his sorrows, and partly to avoid the swarms that\nwere flocking along the highway, and were often troublesome at the\nnightly resting-places.\n\nThus following his own mood, he roamed through the plains and through\nthe vallies of the Apennines. One evening the sun set and no inn was\nto be seen. As the shades were deepening, he heard a hermit's little\nbell tinkling in a wood on one side. He bent his steps toward the\nsound, and when the darkness of night was already closing, he arrived\nat a small hut, to which a narrow plank led across a brook, surrounded\nby bushes.\n\nHe found an aged infirm man praying with the deepest devotion before a\ncrucifix. The hermit received the youth, who greeted him courteously,\nwith kindness made up a couch of moss for him in a recess of the rock\nwhich was separated by a door from his cell, and placed some of his\nfruit, some water, and a little wine before him. When Antonio was\nrefresht, he was greatly pleased with the conversation of the monk,\nwho in earlier times had lived in the world, and served as a soldier\nin many campaigns. In this way it had grown late in the night, and the\nyouth betook himself to his bed, just as another weak and sickly monk\nentered, who meant to pass the night with the hermit in prayer.\n\nWhen Antonio had rested about an hour he started suddenly out of his\nsleep. It seemed to him as though loud voices were disputing. He sat\nup; and all doubt about the quarelling and squabbling was removed. The\ntones too struck him as if he knew them; and he askt himself whether\nhe was not dreaming. He went to the door, and found a crevice through\nwhich he could pry into the front room.\n\nHow was he amazed at beholding Pietro Abano, whom he could not but\ndeem dead, speaking loudly, with eyes of rage and a red face, and\nstriding about with violent gestures! Over against him stood little\nBeresynth's hideous carcase.\n\n\"So you have got your persecutor,\" cried the latter with a croaking\nvoice, \"who has made you thus wretched, the lovesick godly fool, here\nunder your roof! he has run of his own accord like a silly rabbit into\nthe snare: and you are shillishallying about cutting his throat.\"\n\n\"Silence!\" cried the large figure: \"I have already taken counsel with\nmy spirits; they will not consent; I have no hold upon him; for he is\nimprisoned in no sin.\"\n\n\"Smite him dead then,\" said the little one, \"without your spirits,\nwith your own gracious hands: so his virtue and his sinlessness will\nnot avail him much; and I should be a sorry servant if I were not to\nstand by you in so praiseworthy an exploit.\"\n\n\"Well then!\" said Pietro: \"let us go to work; take thou the hammer;\nI'll carry the axe; he is fast asleep now.\"\n\nThey advanced toward the door; but Antonio tore it back, to meet the\nvillains boldly in the face. He had drawn his sword; but he remained\nlike a statue, standing with uplifted arm, when he saw two sickly\ndecrepit hermits lying on their knees before the cross, mumbling their\nprayers.\n\n\"Do you want anything?\" askt his host, rising toilsomely from the\nfloor. Antonio was so astounded, he could make no answer.\n\n\"Why that drawn sword?\" askt the weak stooping hermit; \"and wherefore\nthese menacing looks?\"\n\nAntonio drew back with the excuse that a frightful dream had scared\nand worried him. He could not fall asleep again; his senses were in\nsuch a tumult. Ere long he again plainly heard Beresynth's croaking\nvoice; and Pietro said with a full clear tone: \"Have done; thou seest\nhe is armed and warned; he will not trust himself to sleep again.\"\n\n\"We must overpower him then;\" screamed the little one: \"now that he\nhas recognized us, we are quite undone every way. The pious slave will\ngo and give us up to the inquisition tomorrow; and the pious rabble\nwill then be at hand in a trice with their faggots and flames.\"\n\nThrough the chink in the door he perceived the two magicians. He again\nrusht in with his sword drawn, and again found two decrepit old men\nlying on the ground and whining their prayers. Enraged at the cheating\nforms, he seized them in his arms and wrestled violently with them;\nthey defended themselves desperately; it was now Pietro, now the\nhermit, one moment the imp Beresynth, the next a crippled old monk.\n\nAfter much screaming and raving, cursing and wailing, he at last\nsucceeded in thrusting them out of the cell, which he then carefully\nfastened. He now heard a whining without and entreaties and groans,\nmixt up with the whispering of many voices, and with songs and yells;\nafterward rain and wind seemed to be stirring, and a storm afar off\nrolled athwart the multitudinous sound. Stunned at length by all this,\nAntonio fell asleep, leaning on his sword as he sat before the\ncrucifix; and when the cold morning breeze awakened him, he found\nhimself on the highest peak of a narrow ridge in the midst of a thick\nforest, and thought he heard bursts of scornful laughter behind him.\n\nIt was at the peril of his life that he climbed down the steep\nprecipice, tearing his clothes, and wounding his face and hands and\nfeet. He had then to wander wearisomely through the forest: there was\nnot a soul to call to, not a hut to be discovered far around, often as\nhe mounted the hights to explore. When it was almost night, faint with\nfatigue, hunger, and exhaustion, he fell in with an old collier who\nrefresht him in his little hut. He learnt that he must be some twelve\nmiles and upward from the hermitage he had met with the evening\nbefore. It was only late on the following day that, somewhat\nstrengthened and cheered, he could pursue his journey toward Florence.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAntonio had returned to Florence for the sake of visiting his kindred\nand his paternal house again. He could not make up his mind on what\ncourse of life to enter, since all the happiness of existence had\nproved so treacherous, and even realities had shewn themselves to him\nunder the aspect of a mad dream.\n\nHe settled his affairs, and gave himself up to his sorrow in the great\npalace of his fathers; where that fatal grotto and every well-known\nroom only harast his mind with the liveliest images of his own and his\nparents misfortunes. He thought too of that hateful witch who was so\nentangled in his fate, and of that Crescentia who had appeared to him\nand then vanisht again in a way scarcely less marvellous than his\nbride. If he could have caught the slightest glimmering of hope, he\nmight in time have grown reconciled to life again.\n\nAt last there rose up within his soul, like a pale star, the wish of\nmaking a pilgrimage to Rome, which he had never yet seen, there to\npartake in the graces bestowed upon the faithful, to visit the famous\nchurches and holy relics, to divert his thoughts from himself in the\nmidst of the streaming multitude, the throng of numberless strangers\nwho had journied thither from all quarters of the earth, and to seek\nout his friend Alfonso. He also expected that he should find old\nAmbrosio in the great city, should receive comfort from this mourner\nwho had meant to become his father, and might perhaps afford him too\nsome comfort in his affliction. With these feelings and views he set\nout on his way, and after some time arrived at Rome.\n\nHe was astonisht when he entered the great city. He had framed no\nconception of her grandeur, her ancient monuments, or of such a\nconcourse of innumerable strangers. It might well be deemed matter of\nwonder if one found out any friend or acquaintance, without being able\nbeforehand to give an accurate account of where he lived. And yet this\nwonderful chance befell him in his suddenly meeting Ambrosio, as he\nwas going up to the Capitol from which the old man was coming down.\nThe Podesta carried him to his house, where Antonio greeted the\nsorrowing mother. The rumour of Pietro's strange end, of Crescentia's\nreturn to life and second departure from it, had already been bruited\nas far as Rome: this marvellous story was in the mouth of every\npilgrim, disfigured with confused additions and contradictions, and\ndrest out by frequent repeating into the very reverse of the truth.\nThe parents listened with alternations of joy and woe to the story as\nAntonio told it, awestruck as they both were, especially the mother,\nwho gave vent to her loathing in execrations against the old\nhypocritical magician, and in her rage more than half believed that he\nhad himself been the cause of her daughter's death, having perhaps\ntaken a bribe for that purpose from the family of Marconi, that he had\npoisoned her for the sake of awakening her corpse again to gratify his\nfrantic abominations.\n\n\"Let us leave all this to heaven;\" said the old man. \"What happened\nand was notorious to the whole city and country, was quite horrible\nenough, without involving others, who may perhaps have been innocent,\nin this enormous wickedness. However, let the matter with regard to\nthe Marconis stand as it may, I am perfectly resolved that they shall\nnever be the better off for my fortune. By the help of my patrons here\nI shall obtain leave to make over my property to some convents or\ncharitable foundations; and perhaps my weariness of life may lead me\nto end my own days as a monk or hermit.\"\n\n\"But what,\" threw in the mother weeping, \"if it were possible after\nall to find out that second Crescentia again, of whom Antonio has told\nus! The child was stolen from me during your absence in a most\nincomprehensible manner; the witch who named the Marconis on that\nnight, the likeness, all, all agrees so wonderfully, that surely we\nought not to cast away hope, that first and chief good of life, too\nearly, not too hastily, in our despair.\"\n\n\"Good Eudoxia,\" said the father, \"have done, have done with all these\ndreams and stories and wild fancies: for us there remains in this\nworld nothing that is certain, except death; and that ours may be\npious and easy, is what we must wish and pray to heaven for.\"\n\n\"And if hereafter, when it is already too late,\" exclaimed the mother,\n\"our poor orphan child should be found again, may not the unhappy girl\njustly reproach us for not relying on the bounty and mercy of Heaven,\nand waiting for her return with a little more calmness and patience?\"\n\nAmbrosio cast a dark frown on the youth, and then said: \"This too has\ncome in over and above all the rest to deepen our wretchedness: you\nhave infected my poor wife with your sick fancies, and have thereby\nrobbed her of her peace, the only, the last blessing of life.\"\n\n\"What mean you by these words?\" askt Antonio.\n\n\"Young man,\" answered the father, \"ever since that ride of yours\nthrough field and forest, when you pinned that wild tale upon me about\nthe events which you said had befallen you the night before....\"\n\n\"Signor Ambrosio!\" cried Antonio, and his hand fell involuntarily on\nhis sword.\n\n\"Leave that alone,\" continued the old man calmly: \"far be from me the\nwish to accuse you of a falsehood; I have too long known your noble\ncharacter, and your love for truth. But has it never struck you, my\npoor young friend, without my putting it into your head, that ever\nsince the night when you met my daughter's coffin, having come with\nthe thought to carry her home with you the next day as your bride,\nyour senses have got into disorder, your reason has been much\nweakened? During that lonely night, beneath that storm, in the\nstrongly excited state of your passions, you fancied you saw my lost\nchild again; and the recollections of your unfortunate father, of your\nlong-lost mother, connected themselves with her image. In this way\nwere those visions bred, and fixt themselves firmly in your brain. Did\nwe find a single trace of the hut? Was a human creature in the\nneighbourhood able to tell us a word about the robbers you killed?\nThat awful meeting again with my real daughter, in which I perforce\nmust believe, is of itself enough to fever the very coldest feelings\ninto madness; and need one marvel then at your talking of having\nencountered another impossibility, at your story about finding the\ndead Pietro come to life among the mountains, and not knowing him\nagain, and about those almost farcical tricks of jugglery that were\nplayed you, all which you have related to us with the very same\nassurance? No, my good Antonio, pain and grief have distracted your\nsounder senses, so that you see and believe in things which have no\nreal existence.\"\n\nAntonio was perplext and knew not what to reply. Greatly as the loss\nof his beloved had shaken all the faculties of his soul, he still was\ntoo clearly conscious of the events he had past through, to bring\ntheir reality thus in question.\n\nHe now felt a new motive to activity: he wisht at least to prove that\nthe story of that night was no dreamy phantom, that his second\nCrescentia was an actual being; and thus it became his liveliest\ndesire to find her again, and to restore her to her afflicted parents,\nor at least make Ambrosio acknowledge that he had misjudged him.\n\nIn this mood he left his old friend, and wandered about the city to\nand fro, prest by the concourse of people, and half stunned by shouts,\nand questions, and stories in all the languages of the earth. Thus,\nshoved and pusht about, he had been driven on as far as the Lateran,\nwhen he fancied that, as the crowd now and then opened a little, he\ndistinctly perceived, though some way off, that selfsame hideous old\nwoman, the mother of the beautiful maiden, who bore the name of his\nCrescentia.\n\nHe endeavoured to get up to her, and seemed to be succeeding, when a\ntrain of pilgrims came pouring from a cross street, who cut him off\nentirely, and made all further advance impossible. While he was\nstruggling with all his might, and working his way up the steps of St\nJohn's Church, that he might be able to overlook the multitude, he\nfelt a friendly slap on his shoulder, and a wellknown voice pronounced\nhis name. It was the Spaniard Alfonso.\n\n\"So I find you exactly in the place,\" said he joyfully, \"where I lookt\nfor you.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\" askt Antonio.\n\n\"First let us get out of the way of this torrent of human flesh,\"\ncried the other: \"in this place, from the myriads of tongues that are\nwagging, from the ceaseless buz of this monstrous Babylonian beehive,\none can't hear a single word.\"\n\nThey took a walk out into the country; and here Alfonso confest to his\nfriend that, since he had been at Rome, he had devoted himself to the\nscience of astrology, divination, and other like things, which he had\nformerly held in abhorrence, having been of opinion that they could\nonly be acquired by accursed means and by the help of evil spirits.\n\"But since the day,\" he continued, \"when I made acquaintance with the\nincomparable Castalio, this knowledge appears to me in a far higher\nand purer light.\"\n\n\"And is it possible,\" exclaimed Antonio, \"that after all those fearful\nevents at Padua, you can again expose your soul to such perils? Do you\nnot clearly see that whatsoever is to be attained in a natural way and\nby means of our own reason does not repay the trouble, being nothing\nmore than a set of petty tricks that can only excite merriment and\nlaughter! that everything beyond on the other hand, which does not\nturn upon empty delusion, cannot possibly be called into being, unless\nby evil and damnable powers?\"\n\n\"Declaiming,\" said the Spaniard, \"is not proving. We are far too young\nto understand the whole of our own nature; much less can we comprehend\nthe rest of the world and all its unexplored mysteries. When you once\nsee the man whom I have so much to thank for, all your doubts will\nvanish. Pious, simple-hearted, nay childlike, as he is, every look of\nhis eye pours the light of confidence into you.\"\n\n\"And how was it with Apone?\" Antonio threw in.\n\n\"He,\" replied his friend, \"always wanted to be coming forward in the\nlight of a supernatural being: he was evermore labouring, consciously\nand purposely, to appear as a messenger from Heaven, and with\ncounterfeit splendour to dazzle the ordinary sons of men. He delighted\nin pomp; he would indeed be condescending at times, but it was only to\nmake the enormous distance between him and us more palpably felt. Did\nhe not revel in the admiration which the nobles and citizens, the\nyoung and old, were all forced to pay him? But my present friend (for\nsuch he is, because he renders himself altogether my equal) has no\nwish to seem great and sublime: he smiles at the endeavours of so many\nmen to do so, and considers this of itself as an assurance that there\nis something spurious and hollow to be concealed; since a clear\nconsciousness of worth would only wish to pass for what it feels\nitself to be, and the wisest of mortals must after all acknowledge\nthat he too, as well as the most ignorant vagabond, is merely a child\nof the dust.\"\n\n\"You make me curious;\" said Antonio: \"so he knows both what is past\nand what is to come? the destinies of men? and could tell me how happy\nor unhappy the cast of my future life is to be? whether certain secret\nwishes can be accomplisht? Would he then be able to decipher and\ndivine such parts of my history as are obscure even to myself?\"\n\n\"It is in this very thing that his wisdom lies,\" answered Alfonso with\nenthusiasm; \"by means of letters and numbers, in the simplest and most\nharmless way, he finds out everything for which those wretches have to\nemploy conjurations and charms and yells and screams and the agonies\nof death. Hence too you will find none of that odious magical\napparatus about him, no crystals with spirits blockt up in them, no\nmirrors and skeletons, no incense, and no nauseous imps: he has all\nhis stores in himself. I told him about you; and he found out by his\ncalculations that I was quite sure of meeting you today at this hour\non the steps of the Lateran church. And so it has turned out at the\nvery instant he foretold.\"\n\nAntonio was desirous of becoming acquainted with this wonderfully\ngifted old man, in the hope of learning his destiny from him. They\ndined in a garden, and toward evening went back to the city. The\nstreets had grown somewhat quieter; they could pursue their way with\nless hinderance. At dusk they came into the allies which pass close\nbehind the tomb of Augustus. They walkt through a little garden; a\nfriendly light glimmered upon them from the windows of a small house.\nThey pulled the bell; the door opened; and full of the strangest and\nhighest expectations Antonio entered with his friend into the hall.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAntonio was surprised at seeing before him a simple-mannered\nmiddle-sized young man, who from his appearance could not be much\nabove thirty years old. With an unaffected air he greeted the youth on\nhis entrance like an old acquaintance.\n\n\"Be welcome!\" said he with a pleasing voice: \"your Spanish friend has\ntold me much good of you, so that I have long lookt forward with\npleasure to becoming acquainted with you. Only you must by no means\nfancy that you are come to one of the sages, to an adept, or forsooth\nto a man before whom hell trembles in its foundations: you will find\nme a mere mortal, such as you yourself are and may become, as may\nevery man whom such graver studies, and retirement from the vain\ntumult of the world, do not scare away.\"\n\nAntonio felt comfortable and at ease, greatly as he was astonisht: he\ncast his eyes round the room, which beside a few books and a lute\ndisplayed nothing out of the way. In his own mind he compared this\nlittle house and its straightforward inmate with the palace and the\npomp, the instruments and the mysteries, of his former teacher, and\nsaid: \"In truth one sees no traces here of that high and hidden\nknowledge which my friend has been extolling to me, and in which you\nare said to be infallible.\"\n\nCastalio laught heartily, and then replied: \"No, my young friend, not\ninfallible; no mortal can go so far as that. Only look around you;\nthis is my sitting-room; there in that little chamber stands my bed: I\nhave neither space nor means for hiding any instruments of fraud, or\nsetting any artificial machinery in action. All those circles and\nglasses, those celestial globes and maps of the stars, which your\nconjurers need for their tricks, would find no room here: and those\npoor creatures after all are only deluded by the spirit of falsehood,\nbecause they will not labour to learn the powers of their own minds.\nHe however who descends into the depths of his own soul, with humility\nand a pious disposition to guide him, he who is in earnest in wishing\nto know himself, will at the same time find every thing here which he\nwould vainly strive by desperate means and devices to extort from\nHeaven and Hell. _Become like children._ In this exhortation the whole\nmystery lies hidden. Only let our feelings be pure, and we may again,\neven though it be but for hours or moments, cast off all that our\nfirst parents drew down upon themselves by their wanton disobedience;\nwe walk again as in paradise; and Nature with all her powers comes\nforward as she did then, in the youthful bridal age of the world, to\nmeet the transfigured man. Is not this the very thing which proves our\nspirit to be a spirit, that bodily hinderances, space and time, with\nthe confusion they breed, cannot confine it? It soars even now on the\nwings of yearning and devotion far above all the circles of the stars:\nnothing checks its flight, save that earthly power which, when sin\nentered, pounced upon it and enslaved it. This however we can and\nought to subdue, by prayer, by self-abasement before the Lord, by\nconfessing our vast guilt, and by boundless gratitude to him for his\nunfathomable love; and then we see and hear the things that are\ncurtained from us by space and time; we are here and there; the future\ncomes forward and, like the past, pours out its secrets before us; the\nwhole realm of knowledge, of comprehension, lies open to us; the\npowers of heaven become our willing servants: and yet to the truly\nwise man one glimpse into the mysteries of the Godhead, one emotion of\nhis own heart when toucht by God's love, is far higher, and far more\nprecious knowledge, than all the treasures which do homage to the\ninquiring mind, than the revealed soul of history or of the present\ntime, than the bending knees of a thousand angels who are ready to\ncall him their master.\"\n\nAlfonso cast a look of enthusiasm upon his friend; and Antonio could\nnot refrain from acknowledging to himself that here in the garb of\nlowly simplicity he found more than had ever delighted him from\nApone's mouth, even at the time of his greatest admiration for that\nostentatious philosopher. Indeed he was already become fully convinced\nthat the knowledge which people call supernatural may be easily united\nwith piety and a thorough resignation to the Lord.\n\n\"Do you know now what my fate has been?\" askt the youth with emotion:\n\"can you tell me anything about the events that are hereafter to\nbefall me?\"\n\n\"If I learn the year, the day, and the hour of your birth,\" answered\nCastalio, \"compare the horoscope I shall then draw with the lines of\nyour face and the marks on your hands, and afterward give free range\nto my mind in contemplating the results, I hardly doubt my being able\nto tell you something about your destinies.\"\n\nAntonio gave him a pocket-book, in which his father had himself noted\ndown the hour of his birth. Castalio placed some wine before the young\nmen, himself partaking a little of it, turned over a few books, and\nthen sat down to calculate, without however entirely breaking off his\nconversation with his guests. It only seemed as if the cheerful young\nman had some common business in hand, which was far from requiring the\nwhole of his attention. Thus amid laughing and lively talk an hour may\nhave past away, when Castalio stood up and beckoned to Antonio to go\nwith him to the window.\n\n\"I know not, he began, how far you trust your friend there, or what\nyou may wish to keep secret from him.\"\n\nHereupon he examined Antonio's face and hands very minutely, and then\nin regular connexion told him the story of his parents and their\nmisfortunes, the early violent death of his mother, and his father's\nsinful passion, together with his murder by the hand of his wicked\ncomplice. Afterward he came to Antonio's own affairs, how he had\nsought for the murderer and pursued him, and had been detained at\nPadua by love.\n\n\"So you,\" he concluded, \"as not without astonishment I have learnt,\nare the very young man who a short time since detected the wickedness\nof the abominable Apone in such a wonderful way, and who delivered the\nshameless villain over to his punishment, although you yourself only\nbecame still unhappier than before, from having to lose your beloved a\nsecond time in so horrible a manner.\"\n\nAntonio confirmed all that the friendly man said, and had gained such\nconfidence in him, that he felt just as if he was talking to himself.\nHe then went on to tell him about the adventures of that night, about\nthe second Crescentia, and the odious witch, who, he could not help\nfancying, had appeared to him a second time on that day.\n\n\"Can you inform me now,\" he askt eagerly, \"whether this is all true,\nwho that Crescentia is, and whether I shall ever see her again and\ncarry her back to her parents?\"\n\nCastalio became more thoughtful than before. \"Unless that strange\ncreature Beresynth,\" he answered, \"the imp that used to be at the\nmagician's side, has been disguising himself as a woman, to escape\nfrom his pursuers, I feel assured that I shall find the hag out. Only\nhave patience till tomorrow, and I will then give you your answer.\nMeanwhile you may be satisfied that the occurrences of that night were\nno phantoms of your mind, but realities; thus far you may set yourself\nand your elderly friend at rest.\"\n\nThe young people were lost in thought as they left the wonderful man,\nand Antonio thankt the Spaniard heartily for having procured him this\nacquaintance.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAntonio had not been mistaken. It was in fact the old woman that he\nhad caught sight of in the crowd. She was living in a little hut,\nbehind some ruinous houses, not far from the Lateran. Persecuted,\ndestitute, deserted and hated and dreaded by all the world, she was\nhere, in the abode of wretchedness, reduced to the brink of despair.\nShe seldom ventured to shew herself abroad, and on this day too had\nonly gone out from necessity, to bring her Crescentia, who had run\naway from her, back again.\n\nAs everybody shrank out of her path, as it was hard work for her even\nto obtain here and there an alms, and as her former arts found few\nlovers, she was no little astonisht that evening to hear a knock at\nher door, while cries and shouts were tossing without. She took her\nlamp, and, opening the door, saw a swarm of street-boys and of the\nlowest rabble at the heels of a little crooked figure fantastically\nclad in red velvet and gold.\n\n\"Does not the worthy Pancrazia live here?\" screamed the deformed\ndwarf.\n\n\"Ay, to be sure!\" said the old woman, as she forcibly banged the door\nto, and tried to drive away the people on the outside by abuse. \"Who\nare you, worthy Sir? what do you seek from an old forlorn lady?\"\n\n\"Set yourself down,\" said the little stranger, \"and kindle some more\nlight, that we may spy and look at one another; and whereas you call\nyourself poor, take these gold pieces, and we will sip a glass of wine\ntogether to our better acquaintance.\"\n\nThe old woman smirkt, lighted some wax-candles which she kept lockt up\nin a drawer, and said: \"I have still a flask of good Florence,\nworshipful sir, that shall warm our insides.\" She opened a little\ncupboard and placed the red comforter upon the table, pouring out the\nfirst glass for her unknown guest.\n\n\"Why do you call me worshipful?\" askt he.\n\n\"Don't the pieces of gold declare it?\" answered she: \"and your\ndoublet, and the lace upon it, and the feather in your hat? Are you\nnot a prince, not a magnate?\"\n\n\"No!\" howled the little one: \"what, odds bodikins! cousin, don't you\nknow me in the least? and yet in my younger days people wanted to\nflatter me by assuring me that we in some degree resembled each other:\nand faith! when I come to look thus closely at your figure, your\nphysiognomy, your expression, your sweet smile, and those twinkling\nstars in your eyes there, and when I weigh all this with scrupulous\nimpartiality, why, cousin Pancrazia of the house of Posaterrena in\nFlorence, and little Beresynth of the family of Fuocoterrestro in\nMilan, are for such degrees of kin, as cousinhood, like each other\nenough.\"\n\n\"O gemini!\" screamed the old woman in delight: \"so you are the\nBeresynth of Milan about whom I heard so much talk in my childhood.\nHey! Hey! so am I at this late hour in the day, in the depth of old\nage, to become acquainted with such a lovely cousin face to face!\"\n\n\"Ay!\" said the dwarf: \"just nose to nose; for that great bastion\nthrown up there is certainly the biggest piece of bonework in our\nfaces. For curiosity's sake, dear coz, let us make an experiment for\nonce, whether we can manage to give each other a cousinly kiss.... No,\npurely impossible! the far outjutting promontories immediately begin\nrattling against each other, and forclose our lowly lips from\neverything like a soft meeting. We must force our noble Roman noses\naside with our two fists. So! Don't let it fly, my lady cousin! I\nmight come by a box on the ears that would make my last teeth tumble\nout.\"\n\nWith a hearty laugh the hag cried: \"Hey! I have not been so merry this\nlong time. But what did they want with you before the door there,\ncousin?\"\n\n\"What!\" screamed the little one: \"to look at me, to delight their eyes\nwith me, nothing more. Is not man, my highly esteemed cousin gossip, a\nthoroughly silly animal? Here in Rome now have hundreds of thousands\nbeen assembled whole months, for their Redeemer's honour, as they give\nout, and to do penance for their sins and get rid of them; and the\nmoment I peep out of the window (I only arrived here the day before\nyesterday) be it merely in my nightcap, and still more when I come\nforth at full length and in my Sunday suit into the marketplace, one\ncan't help swearing that the whole gang of them have started out of\nevery hole and corner in Europe merely for my sake: they so leer, and\nogle me, and whisper, and ask questions, and laugh, and are in\necstacies. I might grow rich, meseems, were I to let myself be stared\nat for money while I stay here; and if I chance to give them all this\npleasure gratis, forthwith a pack of blockheads begin barking and\nhallooing at my tail. To see a long-tailed monkey, apes or seals, the\ndogs must put themselves to some expense; yet instead of enjoying my\nmagnanimity quietly and like sensible people, they rave and revile me\nall round, and hunt for every expression of loathing they can root out\nof the animal creation, to display their gross ignorance.\"\n\n\"Very true! very true!\" sighed the old woman: \"it fares no better with\nme. Are the beasts such sheer fools then? Only let a body have a\nregular, average, commonplace nose, eyes, and chin, and all goes on\nquietly.\"\n\n\"Look at the fish,\" continued Beresynth, \"who are dunces in many\nthings. What philosophical tolerance! and yet among them many a fellow\nis all snout, and confronts the learned physiognomists of the ocean\nwith a countenance, grave, cold, calm in the consciousness of its\noriginality: nay, the whole deep brims and swims with one can't count\nhow many eccentric faces, and gills, and teeth, and eyes astart from\ntheir sockets, and every other kind of striking contour: but every\nmonster there floats his own way quietly and peaceably, without having\nhis sleeve twitcht or any other annoyance. Man alone is so absurd as\nto laugh and sneer at his fellow creatures.\"\n\n\"And on what,\" said the beldam, \"after all does this mighty difference\nturn? I am sure I never yet saw a nose that was but a single yard\nlong: an inch, at most two, hardly ever three, make the vast\ndistinction between what they call monsters, and what they are pleased\nin their modesty to style beauty. And now to come to a hump. If it\nwere not in one's way sometimes in bed, as you know, coz, it is in\nitself far more agreeable to the eye than those dull flats by way of\nbacks, where in many a lank lathy booby the tiresome straight line\nstretches up as far as one can see without a single twist, or curl, or\nflourish.\"\n\n\"You are in the right, my dame cousin!\" cried Beresynth already drunk\nto his drunken hostess. \"What can Nature be about when she turns off\nthe things they christen beauties from her pottery-wheel? Why, they\nare hardly worth the trouble of setting to work at them. But such\ncabinet pieces as you and I! there the creative power, or the\nprinciple of nature, or the soul of the world, or the mundane animal,\nor whatever title one chooses to give the thing, can look at its\nproduct with a certain degree of complacency and satisfaction. For it\nhas your curved lines: it starts off into noticeable angles; it is\njagged like corals; it darts forward like crystals; it agglomerates\nlike basalt; nay, there is no conceivable line that does not hop,\nskip, and jump about our bodies. We, coz, are the spoilt, the cockered\nchildren of the formation: and this is why the common rabble of nature\nare so malicious and envious toward us. Their slim wretched fashion is\nnext door to the slimy eel: there is nothing edifying in such an\nedifice. From that piece of monotony to the prawn is already a good\nstep; and how far above that is the seal! how do we surpass them both,\nas well as the seastar, the crab, and the lobster, my trustiest\ncousin, in our excursive irregularities, which defy all the\nmathematicians in the world to find an expression for their law. But\ncoz, pray where did you get those two gorgeous teeth? the incomparable\ncouple cut a grand and gloomy figure there across the chasm ... of\nyour unfathomable mouth, and form a capital bridge over the gulf that\ngapes between the dark cliffs of your gums.\"\n\n\"O you rogue! O you flatterer!\" laught the old woman: \"but your\ndarling chin that comes forward so complaisantly, and is so ready to\nwait upon you and spread itself out like a table. Don't you think you\ncould put a good-sized platter upon it comfortably, where your mouth\nmight then quietly nibble away, while your hands were seeking work\nelsewhere. This I call an economical arrangement.\"\n\n\"We won't spoil ourselves by too much praise;\" said the dwarf: \"we are\nalready, it seems, vain enough of our advantages; and after all we did\nnot give them to ourselves.\"\n\n\"You are right,\" said she. \"But what profession are you of, cousin?\nwhere do you live?\"\n\n\"Oddly enough;\" answered Beresynth: \"sometimes here, sometimes there,\nlike a vagabond: however I now mean to settle quietly; and as I heard\nthere was still a near kinswoman of mine living, I resolved to seek\nher out and beg her to come and live with me. This is what brought me\nhither. In my youth I was an apothecary in Calabria; there they drove\nme away, because they fancied I manufactured love-powders. O dear, as\nif there was any need of 'em nowadays. Then once upon a time I was a\ntailor; the outcry was, I thieved too much: a pastrycook; all accused\nme of thinning the cat and dog population. I wanted to put on a monk's\ncowl; but no convent would let me in. Then came my doctoring days, and\nI was to be burnt; for they muttered about, what think you?\nwitchcraft. I became a scholar, wrote essays, systems of philosophy,\npoems: those who could not read were sure I was blaspheming God and\nChristianity, and that was too bad. After many long years I betook\nmyself to the man who was making such a pother in the world, Pietro\nApone, and became his familiar, next a hermit, and what not? The best\nis that in every state of life I have made money and hoarded it up; so\nthat I can now lay down my grey head free from want and care. And now,\ncoz, for your history.\"\n\n\"Just like yours;\" answered she: \"the innocent are always persecuted.\nI have had a few times to stand in the pillory; have been banisht out\nof half a dozen countries; among other things they even wanted to burn\nme; they would have it I conjured, I stole children, I bewitcht\npeople, I fabricated poisons.\"\n\n\"And coz,\" said Beresynth in the openness of his heart, \"there was\nsome truth in all this, was not there? innocent as you are. I at least\nmust confess it as to myself, and perhaps it may lie in the family,\nthat I have given in to more than one of the aforesaid practices. My\namiable gossip, he who has once swallowed a titbit of dear witchcraft,\ncan never keep his fingers from it afterward as long as he lives. The\nthing is just like dram-drinking: once get the taste for it, and\ntongue, and throat, and gums, and marry! even lungs and liver, will\nnever let it go.\"\n\n\"You know human nature, I see, my dear cousin;\" said the hag, with a\ngrin that tried to be a simper. \"Such trifles as a little murder and\nwitchcraft, poisoning and stealing, run in the blood even of the\ninnocentest. Bawding was a thing in which I could never hit the mark.\nAnd what shall one say when one has to endure thanklessness and woe\nfrom one's own children? My daughter, though she has seen how I suffer\nhunger and trouble, and how I have stinted and starved my old mouth,\nmerely to put her into fine clothes, the graceless wench would never\nlet me coax her into earning but a single half-crown. Some time since\nshe might have made a good match of it! there was Ildefonso and\nAndrea, and many other brave fellows besides, who supported our whole\nhouse, herself among the rest; but she set up the paltry pretense that\nthe gentry were robbers and murderers, and that she could not let them\ninto her heart. The gallants were such generous spirits, they meant to\nhave the baggage actually tied to them in church; but silly youth has\nneither sense nor truth. Now they are lying in their graves, those\nworthy men, and have been turned out of life's doors in a most\nscandalous way. But this does not move her a whit more than my sorrow\nand distress; so that I can't make her consent to live with a rich\nyoung noble cavalier, the nephew of a cardinal, who could floor this\nwhole room with gold. The silly jade has run away, and they absolutely\nwon't give her up to me again. Such is the respect shewn to a mother\nin these days.\"\n\n\"Let her go, the worthless trumpery!\" cried Beresynth: \"we shall live\nhappily together without her, I warrant; our ways of thinking and\nfeeling are so well paired.\"\n\n\"But why should she run away,\" continued the old woman, \"like a\nfaithless cat after a flogging? We might have parted as if we loved\neach other, and like two rational beings. Surely some occasion would\nhave turned up before long of selling the greensick minx\nadvantageously to an old lover or a young one; and this might have\nsucceeded too, why should not it? if she had not lockt up a silly\nyoung fellow in her heart, whom she loves, as she tells me.\"\n\n\"O have done, gammer!\" screamed Beresynth, reeling and already half\nasleep. \"If you begin to talk about love, coz, I shall tumble into\nsuch a laughing convulsion that I shall not recover from it for this\nnext three days. Love! that stupid word broke the neck of my famous\nmaster, Pietro. But for this tarantula-dance the great hawk-nose would\nstill be sitting as professor at his lecturing desk, and tickling the\nyoung goslings with philosophy and wisdom as they perkt up their\nyellow beaks to catch the crumbs he dropt into them. Marry! old\nbeldam, this monkey-trick of love, this Platonic drunkenness of the\nsoul, was the only thing wanting to us, to me as well as you, and then\nthe miracle of our heroic existence would have been quite perfect....\nWell, goodbye, old dame; tomorrow night about this time I'll come to\nfetch you, and then we never part more.\"\n\n\"Cousin,\" said Pancrazia, \"goodbye, till we meet again. Since you came\nthrough my door, I have grown quite a different creature. We will make\na royal housekeeping of it hereafter.\"\n\n\"So we too have had our jubilee now!\" stammered Beresynth, who was\nalready standing in the street, and who reeled through the dark night\nto his lodging.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAntonio meanwhile had already been to prepare old Ambrosio and his\nwife, telling them he was now sure of finding out the hideous old\nwoman again, and no doubt her daughter Crescentia also. The mother\nreadily believed him; but the father persisted in his doubts.\n\nEven before the sun had set, the youth was again with his friend at\nthe door of the wise Castalio. The latter met them smiling, and said:\n\"Here, Antonio, take this paper: you will find noted down on it, in\nwhat street, in what house, you may meet with the old crone. When you\nhave discovered her, you will no longer entertain any doubts about my\nscience.\"\n\n\"I am already convinced;\" replied Antonio: \"I was so even yesterday:\nyou are the wisest of mortals, and by the help of your art will make\nme the happiest. I will go to seek for the old woman: and if\nCrescentia is not dead or lost, I shall carry her to the arms of her\nparents.\"\n\nPowerfully excited and full of expectation he was about to depart in\nhaste; his hand was already on the door-knob; when a low timid knock\nwas heard on the outside, accompanied by a hoarse coughing and a\nscraping of feet.\n\n\"Who's there?\" cried Castalio; and, when the friends opened the door,\nin came Beresynth, who immediately stationed himself in the middle of\nthe room, and with sundry antick bows and writhings of his features,\noffered his services to the wise man.\n\n\"Who are you?\" exclaimed Castalio, who had changed colour, and pale\nand trembling had shrunk back a few steps.\n\n\"A villain he is, the fiend!\" cried Antonio: \"a magician, whom we must\nput into the inquisition's hands. It is the accursed Beresynth\nhimself, whose name, my honoured friend, you have already heard, and\nof whom I have told you.\"\n\n\"Think you so, young jackanapes?\" said Beresynth with a sneer of the\ndeepest contempt. \"With you, children, I have no business. Do you not\nknow me?\" cried he turning to Castalio: \"perhaps you have nothing for\nme to do.\"\n\n\"How should I?\" said Castalio with a faltering voice: \"I never saw you\nbefore. Leave me; I must decline your services. In this little house\nof mine I have no room for any stranger.\"\n\nBeresynth paced with his biggest strides up and down. \"So, you don't\nknow me? It may be; folks alter a good deal sometimes; for no man is\nalways in his bloom. But, it strikes me, people ought not to forget\nme, or to mistake me for any one else, quite so soon as they might\nmany of your smooth nicely painted ninnies.... And you too,\" as he\nturned round to the youths, \"you perchance don't know that\nwisdommonger there.\"\n\n\"O yes!\" said Antonio: \"he is our best friend, the excellent\nCastalio.\"\n\nHere the dwarf raised such an enormous shout of laughter, that the\nwalls and windows of the room clattered and echoed it back. \"Castalio!\nCastalio!\" screamed he as if possest: \"why not Aganippe too, or\nHippocrene? So, you have got spectacles before your eyes, and your\nsouls stare stupidly with a calf's look out of your round pumpkins of\nheads! Rub your noses, and see, and recognize, I pray you, your\nhonoured Pietro of Abano, the great jack-of-all-trades from Padua!\"\n\nHe who called himself Castalio had sunk as if fainting into a chair:\nhis trembling was so violent that all his limbs fluttered; the muscles\nof his face quivered with such force that no feature in it could be\ndistinguisht; and after the young men had gazed on it for some time\namazedly, they thought with horrour they perceived that from this\ndistortion of all the lineaments came forth the well-known countenance\nof the aged Apone.\n\nWith a loud scream the magician started from his seat, clencht his\nfists, and foamed at the mouth; he seemed in his fury of a gigantic\nsize. \"Well, yes!\" he roared in a tone of thunder: \"it is I, I,\nPietro! and thou slave, thou art spoiling my game, as I was destroying\nthose young brats after a new fashion. What wouldst thou, worm, of me,\nwho am thy master, and who have cast thee off? Tremblest thou not\nthrough all thy bones at the thought of my vengeance and punishment?\"\n\nBeresynth again raised the same pealing horrid laugh. \"Vengeance!\nPunishment!\" he repeated grinning. \"Fool! matchless fool! art thou now\nfor the first time to find out that such language toward me does not\nbeseem thee? that thou juggler, must crawl in the dust before me? that\na glance of my eye, a grasp of my iron arm, will dash thee to pieces,\nthou earth-born mummery with thy wretched tricks, which only prospered\nthrough my countenance.\"\n\nA spectre stood in the hall. His eyes shot forth sparks of fire; his\narms spread themselves out like an eagle's wings; his head toucht the\nceiling: Pietro lay whining and howling at his feet. \"It was I,\" so\nthe demon spake on, \"who furthered thy paltry tricks; who deluded the\npeople; who made thee sin and thrive in thy sins. Thou troddest me\nunder foot; I was thy scorn; thy high-minded wisdom triumpht over my\nsilliness. Now I am thy master. Now thou shalt follow me as my\nbondslave into my kingdom.... Depart hence, ye poor wretches!\" he\ncried to the youths: \"what more we have still to settle, it befits not\nyou to behold!\" and a tremendous clap of thunder shook the house to the\nbottom.\n\nDazzled, horrour-struck, Antonio and Alfonso rusht out; their knees\ntottered; their teeth chattered. Without knowing how, they found\nthemselves again in the street; they fled into a neighbouring church;\nfor a howling whirlwind now arose, with thunder and lightning, and the\nhouse, when they lookt behind them, was burning and had fallen in\nruins.\n\nTwo dark shadows hovered over the flame, fighting, as it seemed, and\ntwining round each other, and wrestling and dashing each other to and\nfro: yells of despair and peals of scornful laughter resounded\nalternately between the pauses of the loudly raving storm.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was a long time before Antonio could collect calmness enough to go\nand seek for the house of the old woman according to the directions he\nhad received. He found her drest out; and she cried to him merrily:\n\"What! Florentine! are you too come to see me again at last?\"\n\n\"Where is your daughter?\" askt Antonio, trembling with anxiety.\n\n\"If you wish to have her now,\" replied the old woman, \"I won't keep\nher from you. But you must pay honestly for her, you or the Podesta of\nPadua, if he still lives; for she is his child, whom I stole from him\nlong since, because the Marconis vouchsafed me a round sum of money\nfor doing so.\"\n\n\"If you can prove it,\" said the youth, \"you shall have whatever you\nask.\"\n\n\"Proofs, as many as you please,\" cried the beldam: \"trinkets with arms\non them, clothes she had on at the time, a mole on her right shoulder,\nwhich of course her mother must know best. But you shall also have\nletters from the Marconis, writings which I carried off with her from\nPadua in my hurry, everything ... only money must be forthcoming.\"\n\nAntonio paid her all that he had about him, and then gave her the\njewels from his hat and clothes, some pearls, and a gold chain. She\nswept it all in laughing, while she said: \"Don't be surprised that I\nam in such haste, and so easily satisfied. The wench has run away from\nme, because she was determined not to have any lover, and has stuck\nherself into the nunnery beside Trajan's column: the abbess would not\ngive her up to me; but only send in your name, and the young chit will\njump into your arms; for she dreams and thinks of nothing but you; you\nhave so bewitcht her silly heart, that ever since that night, which\nyou will probably remember, she has not spoken a single word of sense,\nand can't bear to hear the mention of a lover or a husband. I am glad\nto be quit of her in this way; I am going with my noble cousin, Signor\nBeresynth, who came of his own accord to invite me, this very night to\nhis villa. Fare thee well young man! good luck attend you with your\nCrescentia!\"\n\nAntonio took all the letters, the baby clothes, and every proof of\nCrescentia's birth. At the door he was met by the terrible being that\ncalled itself Beresynth. He hastened on, and was so light of heart, so\nwinged on his way, that he did not notice the storm behind him, which\nthreatened to lay the country waste, and to heave the houses from\ntheir foundations.\n\nDuring the night the overhappy parents examined the letters; and\nthese, as well as the clothes, convinced them that this second\nCrescentia was their child, the twin sister of her that died, whom at\nher christening they had named Cecilia. In the morning the father\nfetcht the lovely pale girl from the convent; and she felt as though\nin heaven at belonging to such noble parents, and at having again\nfound a youth who adored her, and to whom on that perilous night she\ncould not help giving up her whole heart for ever.\n\nRome talkt for some time of the two unfortunate persons whom the storm\nhad slain: and Ambrosio lived thenceforward with his wife, his\nrecovered daughter, and his son-in-law, Antonio, in the neighbourhood\nof Naples. The youth amid the bliss of love ceast to mourn over the\nsorrows of his younger days; and the parents were comforted by their\nchildren and grandchildren for the loss of their beautiful and most\ndearly loved Crescentia.\n\n\n\n                 *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n                         TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:\n\nContemporary spellings were retained, especially past tense endings on\nt rather than ed.\n\nThe translation was checked against the 1853 German edition of Tieck's\ncollected works. The following sentence was missing from the original\ntranslation:\n\n    Er war ueberzeugt, der Juengling habe ihn und sich selbst mit den\n    Fieber-Phantasien jener Nacht getaeuscht.\n\nIt has been added as:\n\n    He was convinced the young man had misled him and himself been\n    deceived by the fevered dreams of that night.\n\nThe following sentence is not present in the 1853 German edition and\nhas been omitted:\n\n    (...like two rational beings.) I might have discharged a mother's\n    duty, and settled her where she should be in no danger of\n    starving. (Surely some occasion...)\n\nIn addition, the following corrections and amendments have been made:\n\nAlmost everybody has a mask; and this is mime.\n    changed to\nAlmost everybody has a mask; and this is mine.\n\nwhen you have them at their full size.\n    changed to\nwhen they are present and pronounced.\n\nthey who loved me never would say it lookt.\n    changed to\nthey who loved me would say it lookt.\n\nchewing bread and bullock's flesh.\n    changed to\nchewing bread and roast beef.\n\nAntonio had found the outlet;\n    changed to\nAntonio had found the way out;\n\ncried a broad massy figure,\n    changed to\ncried a broad bearded figure,\n\nAntonio preserved it like something holy.\n    changed to\nthe adoring Antonio preserved it like something holy.\n\nto strip him of everything like hope.\n    changed to\nto strip him of all optimism.\n\nbehind the old chest\n    changed to\nbehind the old oak chest\n\nthey now revolted from the impostor.\n    changed to\nthey now revolted from the phantom.\n\nhis youth and his sinlessness will not avail him.\n    changed to\nhis virtue and his sinlessness will not avail him.\n\nsome fifty miles and upward from the hermitage,\n    changed to\nsome twelve miles and upward from the hermitage,\n\nno smokework\n    changed to\nno incense\n\nWelcome to me.\n    changed to\nBe welcome.\n\nUnless that mischievous Beresynth\n    changed to\nUnless that strange creature Beresynth\n\nIuocoterrestro\n    changed to\nFuocoterrestro\n\nTo see a porpoise, a baboon, or an otter.\n    changed to\nTo see a long-tailed monkey, apes or seals.\n\nhunt for every filthy name\n    changed to\nhunt for every expression of loathing\n\nforcing the sun to look on their gross ignorance.\n    changed to\nforcing the sun to display their gross ignorance.\n\nlying in their graves, poor perishable mortals,\n    changed to\nlying in their graves, those worthy men,\n\nThis I call economical bodykeeping.\n    changed to\nThis I call an economical arrangement.\n\nalready on the lock of the door.\n    changed to\nalready on the door-knob.\n\nor the Podesta of Padua; for she is his child,\n    changed to\nor the Podesta of Padua, if he still lives; for she is his child,","title":"The Old Man of the Mountain, The Lovecharm and Pietro of Abano: Tales from the German of Tieck","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":75440}