They entered, whispering the sign to the guards, who stood with drawn swords, and passed on to the throne upon which stood a couch, surrounded with blooming flowers and covered with a cloud of silvery gauze. They soon discovered a secret something was hidden under the cloud, though they knew not whether it were child, woman, or man. They knelt upon the lower step of the throne, with folded hands and bowed heads, praying in a low voice. A solemn stillness reigned, the prayers died away on the lips, and the hearts scarcely beat for anxiety and expectation. Suddenly a voice, which seemed to come from the silver cloud, so distant and lofty, and rolling like majestic thunder, cried, "He comes, the chosen one! The Great Kophta comes!"

The folding-doors flew open, and the Great Kophta entered. Wilhelmine recognized in the majestic figure, enveloped in a flowing, silver-embroidered satin robe, with a band of brilliants around his brow, the handsome face of Cagliostro, beaming as if in an ecstasy. He saluted the brothers with a gentle voice, and bade them approach and touch his hand. As Wilhelmine did so, a thrill ran through her whole being, and she sank overpowered at his feet. He bowed and breathed upon her. "You are chosen, ye heavenly brothers," he said, in a sweet, melodious voice; "the secrets of heaven and earth are disclosed to you. I receive you in the Holy Order of the Favorites of God, which I founded with Enoch and Elias when we dwelt in the promised land. From them I received the Word of Life, and they sent me to the ancient sages of Egypt, who revealed to me in the pyramids the secret sciences which subject the earth and all her treasures to our command. He who devotes himself to me with fidelity will receive eternal life and the secret of immortality."

"We believe in thee, blessed one of God," murmured the kneeling ones; "we know that we receive life and salvation from thee. Bend to us, and give us of the breath of immortality!"

He bowed and breathed upon them, and they broke forth in words of thankfulness and delight.

Only Wilhelmine kept silent; she only failed to feel the magical influence, and he bowed again to her, fixing his great fiery eyes upon her. "Thou art called, thou art chosen," he said. "Mount to the tabernacle, and lift the veil."

She did as commanded, and beheld the figure of a wonderful woman stretched upon the couch as in deep sleep, clothed in transparent robes. "Lay your hand upon her brow, and direct in your thoughts a question to the prophetess of the order, and she will answer you!" Upon the lofty, white brow of the sleeping one, she laid her hand; immediately a smile flitted over her beautiful face, and she nodded. "Yes," said she, "you must believe. You dare not doubt. He is the elect, the holy Magus!" Wilhelmine trembled, for the answer was suited to the question. "Demand a second question of the prophetess," commanded Cagliostro. Again she laid her hand upon the brow of the sleeping one, and again she smiled and nodded with her beautiful head. "Fear not," she replied; "he will always love you, and will never reject you, only you must not lead him astray from the right course—but guide him to the temple of faith and knowledge. When you cease to do it, you are lost. Shame upon earth and damnation will be your portion." The answer was exact—for Wilhelmine had prayed to know if the prince would always love and never reject her. "Still a third question," cried Cagliostro. In silence Wilhelmine asked, and the prophetess answered aloud: "You will be countess, you will become a princess, you will possess millions, you will have the whole world at your feet, if you call to your aid the Invisible Fathers, and implore the power and miraculous blessing of the Great Kophta." Wilhelmine, deeply moved, sank overpowered upon her knees, and cried aloud: "I call upon the Invisible Fathers for aid and assistance; I implore the power and miraculous blessing of the Great Kophta." Suddenly, amid the rolling of thunder and intense darkness, Wilhelmine felt herself lifted up—borne away, as loud prayers were uttered around her. Then she felt herself lowered again and with the freedom of motion. "Fly! fly from the revenge of the immortals, if you still doubt, still mistrust!" cried a fearful voice above her. "Behold how the immortals revenge themselves." Immediately a light began to dawn before her, a form rose from the darkness like her own. She beheld herself kneeling, imploring, her face deluged with tears, and before her a tall, erect, muffled figure, with a glittering sword in his uplifted arm, which sank gradually lower and lower until it pierced her bosom and the blood gushed forth. Wilhelmine shrieked and fainted. She witnessed no more miracles, beard no more prophecies and revelations which the magi made to the elect. She beheld not the appearance of the blessed spirits, which at the importunity of the brothers flitted through the apartment. She heard not Cagliostro take leave of Baron von Bischofswerder, when all had withdrawn, saying, "I have now exalted you to be chief director of the holy order. You will at once receive orders from the Invisible Fathers, announced to you in writing, and you will follow them faithfully."

"I will follow them faithfully," humbly answered Bischofswerder.

"You will be rewarded by the knowledge of life and of money; you shall discover the philosopher's stone, and the secret of gold shall be revealed to you, when you perform what the Invisible Fathers demand."

"I will do every thing," cried Bischofswerder, fervently; "only make known to me their commands."

"They desire, at the present, that you seek to be the confidant of the Prince of Prussia. Gain his affection, then govern him, making yourself indispensable to him. Surround him with servants and confidants that you can rely upon. Inspire him with devotion to the holy order. Become, now, the friend of the prince, that you may, one day, rule the king. You are the chief of the order in Prussia; the more members you gain the more secrets will be revealed to you. The holy fathers send me afar, but I shall return: if you have been active and faithful, I will make known to you a great secret and bring you the elixir of life."

"When will you return, master?" asked Bisehofswerder, enthusiastically.

Cagliostro smiled. "Before the crown prince of Prussia becomes king. Ask no further. Be faithful!"



CHAPTER XII. THE JESUIT GENERAL

No one remained in the drawing-room but Cagliostro and the beautiful woman who still lay quietly on the couch, upon the throne. Cagliostro approached her, and, raising the veil, regarded her a moment, with an expression of the most passionate tenderness: "We are alone, Lorenza," said he. She opened her great eyes, and looked around the dimly-lighted room; then, fixing them upon Cagliostro, who stood before her in his brilliant costume of magician, she burst into a merry laugh, so loud and so irresistible, that Cagliostro was seized involuntarily, and joined her.

"Oh! was it not heavenly, was it not a glorious comedy, and did I not play divinely, Joseph? Was I not bewitching as the goddess of Nature?"

"You looked truly like a goddess, Lorenza, and there is nothing more beautiful than you, in heaven or upon earth. But come, my enchantress, it is time to break up, as we are to set off early to-morrow morning."

"Have we now much money? Was the tribute richly paid?"

"Yes, we have a hundred louis d'ors and a diamond ring from the mistress of this house."

"Give it to me," cried Lorenza.

"Not the ring, Lorenza, but the diamond, so soon as I have a false stone set in the ring—which I must keep as a ring in the chain which will bind this woman to our cause."

"Was I not astonishingly like her? Was it not almost unmistakable?"

"Yes, wonderfully deceptive. I shuddered myself as I saw the dagger pointed at your bosom."

"And the blood, how it gushed forth, Joseph!" Lorenza burst into a merry laugh again, and Cagliostro joined her, but suddenly stopped, and, listening, turned toward the door, which he had closed after Bischofswerder departed. It seemed as if he heard a noise—a peculiar knocking. Four times it was repeated, and Cagliostro waved his hand to Lorenza not to speak. Again were heard the four peculiar rhythmical sounds. "Be quiet, for Heaven's sake be quiet, Lorenza! Let me cover you with the veil; it is a messenger from the Invisibles." Cagliostro flew to the door, unbolted it, and stood humbly near the entrance. A masked figure, enveloped in a cloak, opened it, and entered, rebolting it.

Slowly turning toward Cagliostro, he harshly demanded, "Whose servant are you?"

"The servant of the Invisible Rulers and Fathers," he humbly answered.

"Who are the Invisible Fathers?"

"The four ambassadors of the great general of the exiles."

"Call him by that name which he bore before a heretic pope in Rome, a weak empress, a free-thinking emperor in Germany, a lost-in-sin French emperor, and a heretic Spanish minister, condemned him to banishment and destruction."

"General of the Jesuits," he answered respectfully, bowing lower.

"Do you know the sign by which he may be recognized?"

"Yes, by a ring with the likeness of the founder of the order, the holy Ignatius Loyola."

"Then look, and recognize me," cried the mask, extending his hand to Cagliostro.

"The General," he murmured, frightened, gazing at the ring upon the small, white hand of the other. "The holy founder of the order himself!" He seized his hand and pressed it to his lips, sinking upon his knees. The mask remained standing before the magician, as lowly as he might bow himself, who was still arrayed in his brilliant costume with the band upon his brow sparkling like diamonds.

With a cold, reserved manner he answered, "I am he, and am come here to give you my commands by word of mouth."

"Command me; I am thy humble servant, and but a weak tool in thy hands."

"It is my will that you should become a powerful tool in my hands. Rise, for I will speak to the man who must stand erect in the storm. Rise!" The proud commander was now an humble, obedient servant. He rose slowly, standing with bowed head.

"When and where did we last meet?" demanded the mask.

"In 1773, at Rome."

"In the year of curse and blasphemy," said the mask, in a harsh voice. "The year in which the infamous Pope Clement XVI. condemned the holy order, and hurled his famous bull, Dominus redemptor noster. The holy order, condemned and disbanded by his infamous mouth, were changed into holy martyrs, without country, without possessions or rights, as persecuted fugitives, wandering around the world, to the wicked a scorn, to the pious a lamentable example of virtue and constancy. Exiled and persecuted, you fled to a house of one of our order, and there we for the first time met. The daughter of this man was your beloved. Tell me why did you conceal yourself after flying from Palermo? I will see if the elevated one ungratefully forgets the days of his degradation."

"They accused me in Palermo of falsifying documents by which rightful owners were deprived of their lawful possessions. They threw me into subterranean dungeons, and I was near dying, when the Invisible Protectors rescued me."

"Was the accusation well founded? Had you committed the crime you were accused of?"

"Yes," answered Cagliostro, in a low voice, "I was guilty."

"For whom, by whose authority?"

"For the pious fathers, who commanded me, and whose pretensions to the possessions of the Duc Costa Rica were clearly proved by those documents."

"You then learned the power and the gratitude of our order. From underground prisons they freed you, and procured a way of escape to Rome, to find a safe asylum in the house of a believer. But just at that time condemnation burst upon us, and from a powerful order we were changed into a persecuted one. The forger Joseph Balsamo sought the brazier Feliciano, who gave him money, letters of recommendation, and instructed him how to serve the order, and procure an agreeable life for himself. Is it not so?"

"It is so," answered Cagliostro, softly. "It was the order of the General which united you in marriage to your beloved Lorenza Feliciana, who initiated you in the secret sciences and the secrets of Nature, that you might employ them for the well-being of humanity."

"It is so, master."

"You implored also, as you were about to separate, to see the face of your benefactor, to engrave it upon your heart. Would you now be able to recognize it?"

"I could in an instant, among thousands."

The General slowly raised the mask; a pale, emaciated face was visible, with great black eyes in sunken sockets, thin bloodless lips, and a high, bony brow. "Do you recognize me?"

"No!" sadly answered Cagliostro, "it is not the same face."

"You see, my son, man changes, but knowledge not. I am another, and yet the same, for the outward human form is only the vessel of the eternal band into which everlasting truth and the holy doctrines are poured. If the vessel breaks, it is replaced by another, and an inexhaustible spring. Thought and holy knowledge flow into the renewed vessel. I am a new vessel, but the same spirit which formerly spoke to you. I know your past life, and for what purpose you are in the world. As the General then spoke to you, so speak I now. The unholy have put the holy under a ban—they have persecuted and condemned us. The Holy Order of the Fathers of Jesus is lifeless before the world, but not before God. Jesuits do not die, for they bear eternal life in them, and there will a day come when they will burst forth from darkness into light. Go, my son, and help prepare the day, help smooth the way, that we may walk therein. Have you obeyed?"

"I have consecrated my whole life to it, your eminence. I have wandered around the world, and everywhere striven to disseminate the doctrine of the Invisible Fathers, and win disciples and adherents to the order. The Brothers of the Egyptian Masons, the Brothers of the Rosicrucians, are the disciples which I have won, and you know well there are many mighty and illustrious men among them."

"I know it, and I am satisfied you are an active and useful tool. This I came to tell you, that I might stimulate and advise you. Great deeds you shall perform, great achievements the holy Ignatius Loyola announces by my mouth. The world lies in sin, and the devil strides victorious over it, since the holy order has been proscribed and persecuted by the wicked. The devil is arrogant progress and boasting reason. They who listen to him think themselves wise when they are fools, and speak of their enlightenment while they still wander in the dark. To combat this reason, to oppose this intelligence, is the task of our order, which will never die. For God Sent it forth to the world to fight the devil of progress, who is the ruler of darkness. I have observed you, I have followed you, and I am satisfied. But I await still greater things from you."

"What shall it be? Speak, O master; command, and I obey!"

"You shall strive throughout Europe for the restitution of the holy order. You shall subject to it all minds; make the rich, the powerful, the eminent and great, serviceable to it. Into the Orders of the Rosicrucians and Egyptian Masons you shall gather all the stray and isolated sheep into a flock, to await with longing the coming of the shepherd, and prepare a place for him. To the holy Church you shall consecrate the band of brothers, the only blessed Church, which is the lofty abode of the father of our order. To us belongs the world; you shall assist to reconquer it. Unbelievers shall be fought with every weapon. Every deception, slander, persecution, and murder, are holy if used for the benefit of the holy order. You shall shrink from nothing which is useful and beneficial for the sublime goal. The murder of a prince is no sin, but a just punishment, when it is necessary to remove a mighty enemy. If you create revolutions, cause nations to tear each other to pieces in grim civil war, these revolutions will be sanctified, the civil wars blessed, if they serve to strengthen the power of our order, and gain victory at last against the opponents. Only through our order can happiness reenter the world, and mankind be rescued. If the Holy Fathers do not sit in the council of princes, if they are not the conscience of the powerful, and steer the machine of state, the world goes to destruction, and mankind is lost. You shall help, my son, to turn aside the evil, and prepare happiness for earth. You have already done much, but much more is required. Go and work miracles; belief in them sanctifies the mind. Our fathers will sustain you everywhere, for you well know they are always present, though it is imagined they are not. The infamous Ganganelli has stripped them of their uniform, but not annihilated them, as we are, and ever shall be. I have sent out nine thousand brothers in Europe for the benefit of the order, and you will recognize them by the watchword. They will serve you as you will serve them. If danger menaces you, our brothers will know it, and rescue you. You will be unassailable, so long as you work for the order, and win disciples for it. Prussia is our important station as you rightly judged, and I extol you for your foresight. You prepare the future, for here it will be! When the royal mocker of religion dies, then comes a new kingdom, and the Rosicrucians will rise to power. Vices as well as virtues must serve us; therefore Dischofswerder and Wilhelmine Enke are useful means for holy purposes. That you have recognized it I praise you. Continue, my son, as you have begun, and you shall become powerful upon the earth. Not a hair of your head shall be touched so long as you are faithful to the Invisible Fathers. But so soon as you turn traitor to the holy cause you are lost, and our anger will crush you!"

"Never will I turn traitor," cried Cagliostro, holding up his hands as if taking an oath.

"I hope not. Our enemies shall be your enemies, and our friends your friends. If one of the brothers orders you in my name, 'Kill this man or that woman,' so kill them! Swear it!"

Shuddering, Cagliostro repeated, "I swear it!"

"As soon as one of the brothers orders you, in my name, 'Rescue this man or that woman,' so do every thing; even risk and sacrifice your life to rescue him."

"I swear it."

"You stand in the holy temple of the order, but also under its avenging sword. Be mindful of it in all your acts. The world is open to you, and our influence will be with you everywhere. You shall win the hearts of the great and the mighty to us, and place the Order of the Rosicrucians on the steps of the throne. The Great Kophta shall lead believers to us."

"The Great Kophta will perform all that you command, as he is only the humble servant of his general," said Cagliostro, kissing the hand extended to him.

"Do not kiss the hand, it is only that of an inferior mortal: kiss the ring, for it is the imperishable sign of our immortal saint."

"I kiss the ring of the immortal Ignatius Loyola, and swear eternal fidelity, constant obedience, and firm love, until death."

"Rise! for the time has come for us to separate. I have provided for the journeys the necessary means. Here are letters of recommendation to Warsaw and Mittau, others to Paris and London; but, the most important of all, letters of credit upon well-known bankers to the value of five hundred thousand dollars—all valid, though delivered years hence."

"A half million!" cried Cagliostro, almost terrified.

"Does a half million astonish you?" repeated the General, and his gray, fleshless face was distorted into a smile. "The Great Kophta must travel and live like a prince, that he may dazzle the eyes of the brothers, and subjugate the minds of the powerful. We give you the money, but remember you are always under the watchful eye of the order, and there is no spot on earth where you can hide yourself from our vengeance with the trust confided in you. You shall spend it to buy souls and win thrones, for hearts and consciences are sold; money will buy every thing. Take your letters of credit; you shall live as a great lord, and the Great Kophta shall be equal with princes."

He handed Cagliostro five sealed letters, saying: "They are made out for five years; only one for each year, as the number indicates. Number one is for this year, and number five is only valid at the expiration of five years. The order is mindful of your security, and thus five years of your life are freed from earthly care. You shall work in spirit, and you shall enchant the world, that it may be saved through the only saving Church, and the Holy Order."

He bowed a farewell, making the sign of the cross upon Cagliostro, and bent his steps to the throne, raising the veil which enveloped Lorenza. She looked up to him with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, smiling. By this she would express her thanks for the princely gift to her husband, and swear to the General her delight, her fidelity, and love. He regarded her as coldly and calmly as a physician a patient.

"Yes, holy father, I have heard all," she said, with a sweet, flute-like voice. "My heart is filled with gratitude and emotion."

"Prove it by assisting your husband to attain the goal for which we send him forth. I have already said that vice must serve virtue, Lorenza. Beauty is a power, and if it serves holy purposes, so is it sanctified. Employ your beauty to win adherents to the order, and extend the power of the Rosicrucians in every land, and among all nations."

"I swear that this shall be my holiest endeavor," cried Lorenza, rising.

The General pressed her back upon the pillow, saying: "Remain, for there is no one here for you to enchant. I bring you pardon for your sins, and an indulgence for every sin which you will commit, if you swear to serve faithfully the holy Church and the pious fathers of Jesus."

"I swear," solemnly cried Lorenza.

"Here is the letter of indulgence from Pius VI. himself, made out in your name for you. Take it, and perform your duty." He laid down the parchment provided with the papal seal upon her shoulder, and drawing the veil over her made the sign of the cross, saying, "I bless you, and give you absolution for your sins."

"Bless me also, lord and master," cried Cagliostro, kneeling upon the lowest step to the throne.

"I bless you in the name of Loyola. Remain upon your knees, and follow me not." He extended his hands over him, and blessed him, then slowly withdrew.

The first beams of the morning sun shone through the great window-panes, lighting up with its golden rays Cagliostro's kneeling form. He remained with his head bowed until the General had passed out. "He is gone; Heaven be praised, he is gone!"

"Yes, he is gone," repeated Lorenza, springing from the couch. "Is it true, has he given you half a million?"

Cagliostro held up with triumphant air the letters. "See, these addresses are upon the first banking-houses in Rome, Paris, London, and Berlin!"

"Do you believe that they are genuine?"

"I am convinced of it."

"Then we have attained our aim; we are rich and powerful."

"No," answered Cagliostro, mournfully, "we are poorer than ever. This money makes us slaves, makes us dependent tools. Did you not hear him say, 'You are admitted into the Temple, but the avenging sword of the order everywhere hangs over you.'"



CHAPTER XIII. A PENSIONED GENERAL.

"Wife," cried the General von Werrig, limping around the room, leaning upon his crutch, "here is the answer from our most gracious lord and king. The courier arrived to-day from the war department, and sent it to me by an express."

"What is the king's answer?" asked the general's wife, a pale, gaunt woman, with a pock-marked face, harsh, severe features, dull gray eyes, which never beamed with emotion, and thin, bloodless lips, upon which a smile never played. "What is the king's answer?" she repeated, in a rough voice, as her husband, puffing and blowing from the effort of walking, sank down upon a chair, and dried his fat, ruby face with a red cotton pocket-handkerchief.

"I have not read it," panted the old man. "I thought I would leave the honor to you, as you, my very learned wife, wrote the letter to his majesty."

His wife was not in the least astonished at this thoughtful conduct of her husband. She impetuously seized the sealed document, and, retiring to the window-niche, slowly unfolded it, whilst the old general fixed his little gray eyes upon her emotionless face. His own was bloated and red, expressing the greatest anxiety and expectation. Perfect stillness reigned for some minutes, only the regular strokes of the pendulum were heard from the clock on the wall; and, as the hands pointed to the expiration of the hour, a cuckoo sprang out of the tree painted over the dial, and eleven times her hoarse, croaking voice was heard.

"It gets every day more out of tune," growled the general, as he looked up to the old, yellow dial, and ran his eye over the cords which supported the weights. Then glancing around the room, he saw everywhere age, decay, and indigence. There was an old divan, with a patched, faded covering of silk, and a grandfather's arm-chair near it, the cushion of which the general knew, by the long years of experience, to be hard as a stone. A round table stood near the divan, covered with a shabby woollen cover, to hide the much-thumbed, dull polish. A few cane-chairs against the wall, an old black-oak wardrobe near the door, and the sewing-table of Madame von Werrig in the window-niche, completed the furniture of the room. At the window hung faded woollen curtains, and on the green painted walls some pictures and portraits, conspicuous among them a beautiful portrait of the king, painted on copper, which represented Frederick in his youthful beauty. It was a morose, sullen-looking room, arranged most certainly by its feminine occupant, and harmonized exactly with her fretful face and angular figure, void of charms. At last the general broke the silence with submissive voice: "I pray you, Clotilda, tell me what the king wrote."

She folded the paper, joy beaming in her eyes. "Granted! every thing granted!"

The general jumped up to embrace his wife with youthful activity, in spite of the gout. "You are a capital wife," he cried, at the same time giving her a loud, smacking kiss upon her cold, gray cheek. "It was the brightest, cleverest act of my life marrying you, Clotilda."

"I might well say the reverse, Emerentius," she replied, complainingly. "It surely was not sensible for me, a young lady from such a genteel family, and so spoiled, to marry an officer whom the king ennobled upon the battle-field, and who possessed nothing but his captain's pay—a fickle man, and a gambler, too."

"Yes, Clotilda, love usurped reason," soothingly replied the general; "love is your excuse."

"Nonsense!" cried Madame von Werrig. "Love is never an excuse; it is folly."

"Well, let us suppose, then, that you did not marry for love, only from pure reason, because you found that it was quite time to espouse some one; and that, in spite of your many ancestors and genteel family, no other chance was offered you, unfortunately no one but this captain, whom the king ennobled upon the battle-field of Leuthen on account of his bravery, and who was a very handsome, agreeable officer, expecting still further promotion. And you were not deceived. I was major, when the Hubertsburger treaty put an end to a gay war-life. You will remember I was advanced during peace; his majesty did not forget that I cut a way for him through the enemy, and he made me lieutenant-colonel and colonel, when I was obliged to resign on account of this infamous gout, and then I received the title of general."

"Without 'excellency,'" replied his wife, dryly. "I have not even this pleasure to be called 'excellency.' It would have been a slight compensation for my sad, miserable existence, and vexed many of the female friends of my youth if they had been obliged to call me 'excellency.' But my marriage brought me only cares, not even a title."

"Do not forget a lovely daughter, Clotilda. Our Marie is beautiful, wise, and good, and through her you will yet have tranquil happiness. For you say the king has granted all we wish."

"Every thing!" repeated the wife, with emphasis. "We have at last finished with want and care, and can count upon an independent, quiet old age, for God has been gracious, and forced you, from the gout, to give up gambling, and we are freed from the misery which has so often threatened us from your unhappy passion."

"At the beginning, I played from passion; afterward, I only played to win back what I had lost."

"And in that manner played away all we possessed, and played upon your word of honor, so that for years the half of our pension went to pay your gambling-debts. Heaven be thanked, the king did not know it, or we would have experienced still worse!"

"I pray you, beloved Clotilda, do not fret yourself needlessly about the past; it is all over, and, as you say, I am unfortunately a prisoner in the house from the gout, which shields me from the temptation."

"I did not say unfortunately; I said 'Heaven be praised, the gout had put an end to your fickle life.'"

"Then, thank Heaven, my dear; we will not quarrel about it. It is past, and, as the king has granted all, we shall have a pleasant life now."

"We will soon receive from our son-in-law a yearly pension, which will be paid to me, and I shall spend it."

The general sighed. "In that case I fear that I shall not get much of it."

"At any rate, more than I have ever received from your pension."

"There is but one thing wanting," replied the general, evasively, "Marie's consent."

Madame von Werrig gave a short, gruff laugh, which did not in the least brighten her sullen face. "We will not ask her consent, but command it."

The general remarked, timidly, shrugging his shoulders, "Marie had a very decided character, and—"

"What do you hesitate to speak out for? What—and—"

"I think she still loves the Conrector Moritz."

A second laugh, somewhat menacing, sounded like a challenge. "The schoolmaster!" she cried, contemptuously.

"Let her dare to tell me again she loves the schoolmaster; she the daughter of a general, and a native-born countess of the empire!"

"My dear, it was your fault—the only fault you ever committed, perhaps. How could you let such a young, handsome, and agreeable man come to the house as teacher to our daughter?"

"How could I suppose my daughter was so degenerated as to love a common schoolmaster, and wish to marry him?"

"It is truly unheard of, and it would make any one angry, my dear wife, for she insists upon loving him."

"She will not insist, she will do what she is commanded to do—my word for it! But why talk about it? It is better to decide the matter at once."

So Frau von Werrig rose with a determined manner, and rang the small brass bell which was upon the sofa-table. But a few seconds elapsed before a little, crooked servant appeared at the side-door, with her dirty apron put aside by tucking the corner in her belt. "Go to my daughter, and tell her to come down immediately!"

The servant, instead of hastening to obey the order, remained standing upon the threshold. "I dare not go," said she, in a hoarse, croaking voice. "Fraulein told me not to disturb her to-day, for she has still two bouquets of flowers to arrange, and two lessons to give, and she is so busy that she is not at home to visitors. She torments herself from morning till night."

"I order you to tell Fraulein to come down at once; we have something important to tell her. No contradiction! go, Trude!"

The servant understood the cold, commanding tone of the mother, and dared not disobey.

"It is nothing good that they have to tell her," grumbled Trude, as she hurried up the stairs which led from the first story into the little, low room in the attic, under the sloping roof. Here and there a few tiles could be lifted, which lighted the garret sufficiently to show the door at the end. "May I come in, my dear Fraulein? it is Trude."

"The door is open," cried a sweet voice, and Trude entered. It is a most charming little room, just that of a young girl. The bed has a snow-white covering, and white curtains, suspended from a hook in the wall around it. The same curtains at the low gable-windows, whose depth, so to speak, made a light anteroom to the real gloomy one in the background. In this little anteroom the young girl had placed all that was necessary for her pleasure and use. There were the most beautiful, sweet-scented flowers upon the window-stool; in a pretty metal cage was a light-colored canary. There were also pretty engravings, and upon the table stood a vase filled with superb artificial flowers, and before it sat the possessor of this room, the daughter of General and Frau von Werrig, surrounded with her work-tools, paper, and colored materials—a young girl, scarcely twenty, of a proud, dignified appearance, but simply and gracefully dressed. According to the fashion of the day, her hair was slightly powdered, and raised high above her broad, clear brow with a blue rosette, and ends at the side. The nobly-formed and beautiful face was slightly flushed, and around the month was an expression of courageous energy. As old Trude entered, the young girl raised her eyes from the rose-bud which she was just finishing, and looked at her. What beautiful black eyes they were as they sparkled underneath the delicately-arched, black eyebrows!

"Now, old one," said she, kindly, "what do you wish? Did you forget that I wanted to work undisturbed to-day?"

"Didn't forget it, my Fraulein, but—"

"But you have forgotten that up here, in my attic-room, I am not your Fraulein, but your Marie, whom you have taken care of and watched over when a child, and whose best and truest friend you have been. Come, give me your hand, and tell me what you have to say."

Old Trude shuffled hurriedly along in her leather slippers. Her old, homely face looked almost attractive, with its expression of glowing tenderness, as she regarded the beautiful, smiling face before her, and laid her hard brown hand in the little white one extended to her. "Marie," she said, softly and anxiously, "you must go down at once to your mother and father. They have something very important to tell you."

"Something very important!" repeated Marie, laying aside her work. "Do you know what it is?"

"Nothing good, I fear," sighed the old woman. "A soldier has been here from the war department and brought a letter for the general, and he told me that it was sent from the king's cabinet at Breslau."

"Oh, Heaven! what does it mean?" cried Marie, frightened, and springing up. "Something is going to happen, I know. I have noticed certain expressions which escaped my father; the proud, threatening manner of my mother; but above all the bold importunity of that man, whom I despise as one detests vice, stupidity, and ennui. They will not believe that I hate him, that I rather—"

"Marie, are you not coming?" called the mother, with a commanding voice.

"I must obey," she said, drawing a long breath, and hastening to the door, followed by Trude, who pulled her back and held her fast upon the very first step. "You have forbidden me to speak of him, but I must."

Marie stood as if rooted to the spot, her face flushed, and in breathless expectation looking back to old Trude.

"Speak, Trude," she softly murmured.

"Marie, I saw him to-day, an hour ago!"

"Where, Trude, where did you see him?"

"Over on the corner of Frederick Street, by the baker's. He stood waiting for me, as he knows I always go there. He had been there two hours, and feared that I was not coming."

"What did he say? Quick! what did he say?"

"He said that he was coming to see you to-day at twelve o'clock; that he would rather die than live in this way."

"To-day? and you have just told me of it!"

"I did not mean to say any thing at all about it; I thought it would be better, and then you would not have to dissemble. But now, if any harm comes to you, you know he is coming, and will stand by you!"

"He will stand by me—yes, he will—"

"Marie!" cried her mother, and her dry, gaunt figure appeared at the foot of the stairs. Marie flew down to the sitting-room of her parents, following her mother, who took her place in the niche at the open window without speaking to her.



CHAPTER XIV. THE KING'S LETTER.

"Marie," said the general's wife, after seating herself upon the hard cushion of the divan, near which sat the general in his arm-chair, busily stroking his painful right leg—"Marie, take a chair, and sit near us."

Marie noiselessly brought a cane-chair, and seated herself by the table, opposite her parents.

"We have just received a communication from the king's cabinet," said the mother, solemnly. "It is necessary that you should know the contents, and I will read it aloud to you. I expressly forbid you, however, to interrupt me while I am reading, in your impetuous manner, with your remarks, which are always of the most obstinate and disagreeable kind. You understand, do you, Marie?"

"Perfectly, mother; I will listen without interrupting you, according to your command."

"This communication is naturally addressed to your father, as I wrote to the king in his name."

"I did not know that you had written to his majesty at all, dear mother."

The mother cast a furious glance at the gentle, decided face of her daughter. "You already forget my command and your promise to listen without interrupting me. I did, indeed, write to his majesty, but it is not necessary to tell you what I, or rather your father, solicited, as you will hear it in the answer from our most gracious king. It runs thus: 'My faithful subject: I have received your petition, and I was glad to learn by this occasion that you are well, and that you now lead a steady, reasonable life. Formerly you gave good cause of complaint; for it is well known to me that you led a dissolute life, and your family suffered want and misfortune from your abominable chance-games. You know that I have twice paid your debts; that at the second time I gave you my royal word of assurance that I would never pay a groschen for you again. If you gave yourself up to the vice, and made gambling-debts, I would send you to the fortress at Spandau, and deprive you of your pension. Nevertheless you played again, and commenced your vicious life anew. Notwithstanding which, I did not send you to prison as I threatened, and as you deserved, because I remembered that you had been a brave soldier, and did me a good service at the battle of Leuthen. For this reason I now also grant your request, that, as you have no son, your name and coat-of-arms may descend to your son-in-law. The name of Werrig-Leuthen is well worthy to be preserved, and be an example to succeeding generations. I give my permission for Ludwig Ebenstreit, banker, to marry your daughter and only child, and—'"

Marie uttered a cry of horror, and sprang from her seat. "Mother!—"

"Be still! I commanded you not to interrupt me, but listen, with becoming respect, to the end, to the words' of his majesty." And, with a louder voice, occasionally casting a severe, commanding glance at her daughter, she read on: "'And call himself in future Ludwig Werrig von Leuthen. I wish that he should honor the new name, and prove himself a true nobleman. Ludwig Ebenstreit must give up, or sell, without delay, his banking business, as I cannot permit a nobleman to continue the business of citizen, and remain a merchant. A nobleman must either be a soldier or a landed proprietor; and if your future son-in-law will not be either, he can live upon his income, which must indeed be ample. But I command him to spend it in the country, not go to foreign countries to spend what he has gained in the country. If he should do it, it will not be well with him, and he shall be brought back by force. You may communicate this to him, and he can judge for himself. I will have the letters of nobility made out for him, for which he shall pay the sum of one hundred louis d'ors to the 'Invalids' at Berlin. It depends upon him whether as a true nobleman he will not give my poor 'Invalids' a greater sum. The marriage shall not take place until the letters of nobility have been published in the Berlin journals, for I do not wish the daughter of a general, and a countess, to marry beneath her. You can prepare every thing for the wedding, and let them be married as soon as publication has been made. I will give the bride a thousand thalers for a dowry, that she may not go to her rich husband penniless; the money will be paid to your daughter from the government treasury at her receipt. As ever I remain your well-disposed king, FREDERICK.'

"And here on the margin," continued the general's wife, looking over to her husband with malicious pleasure, "the king has written a few lines in his own hand: 'I have given orders that the money shall be paid to your daughter in person, with her receipt for the same, for I know you, and know that you do not play, not because you have not the money, but the gout. If you had the cash and not the gout, you would play your daughter's dowry to the devil, and that I do not wish, for a noble maiden should not marry a rich husband as poor as a church mouse. FREDERICK.'"

A profound stillness prevailed when the reading was finished. The general busied himself, as usual, rubbing his gouty leg with the palm of his hand. Marie sat with her hands pressed upon her bosom, as if she would force back the sighs and sobs which would break forth. Her great, black eyes were turned to her mother with an expression of painful terror, and she searched with a deathly anxiety for a trace of sympathy and mercy upon her cold, immovable face.

Her mother slowly folded the letter, and laid it upon the table. "You know all now, Marie—that, as it becomes parents, we have disposed of your future and your hand. You will submit to their wishes without murmuring or opposition, as it becomes an obedient, well-brought-up daughter, and receive the husband we have chosen for you. He will come today to hear your consent, and you from this day forth are the betrothed of the future Herr von Werrig. Of course from this very hour you will cease the highly improper and ungenteel business which you have pursued. You must not make any more flowers, or give any more lessons. The time of such degradation and humiliation is past, and my daughter can no longer be a school-mistress. You have only to write the receipt to-day, and I will go with you to the treasury to get the money."

"I will not write the receipt," said Marie, gently but firmly. Her mother, in the act of rising, sank back upon the divan; and the general, apparently quite occupied with his leg, stopped rubbing, and raised his red, bloated face to his daughter in astonishment. "Did I understand rightly your words, that you would not write the receipt?"

"Yes, mother, I said so; I cannot and will not write it," replied Marie, gently.

"And why cannot you, and will you not write it?" said her mother, scornfully.

"Because I have no right to the money, and cannot take it, mother, as I will never be the wife of the man you intend me to marry."

The general sprang with a savage curse from his arm-chair, and would have rushed to his daughter, but his wife pushed him back into his seat, and approached Marie, who rose, regarding her mother with a firm, sad expression. "Why can you not be the wife of the man we have chosen for you? Answer me, WHY you cannot?"

"You know, mother," she replied, and gradually her voice assumed a more decided tone, her cheeks reddened, and an inspired expression beamed from her eyes, and pervaded her whole being—"you know, mother, that I can never be the wife of Herr Ebenstreit, for I do not love him. I despise and abominate him, because he is a man without honor; he knows that I do not love him, and yet he insists upon marrying me. If it were not so, if I did not despise and abominate him, I would not receive his suit and marry him."

"Why not?" cried the general, shaking his fist at his daughter.

"Why not?" cried the mother, with a cold, icy glance, void of pity or anger.

Marie encountered these looks with beaming eyes. "Because I am betrothed to another," and the words came like a cry of joy from her heart—"because I am engaged to my beloved Moritz!"

"Shameless, obstinate creature, have we not forbidden it?" cried her father.

"Stop!" interrupted his wife, with a commanding wave of her hand, which silenced the obedient husband immediately. "It belongs to me to question her, for I am her mother, and my daughter owes me submission and obedience above all things.—Answer me, Marie, did you not know that we had forbidden you to speak to this man, or have any communication with him? Did you not know that I, your mother, had menaced you with a curse if you married this man, or even spoke to the miserable, pitiable creature?"

"Mother," cried Marie, vehemently, "he is not a poor, miserable creature. You may hate him, but you dare not outrage the noble, the good, and just man!"

"He is a good-for-nothing fellow," cried her father; "he has tried to win a minor behind the parents' back. He is a shameful, good-for-nothing seducer."

"He is dishonorable," cried the general's wife—"a dishonorable man, who has misused our confidence. We confided to him our daughter to teach, and paid him for it. He improved the opportunity to make a declaration of love, and stole the time from us to infatuate the heart of our daughter with flattery, and from his pupil win a bride."

"Oh, unworthy, shameful slander!" cried Marie, her eyes flashing with anger. "You well know that it is a vile scandal, that Moritz was no paid teacher. If he had been—if he had felt obliged to yield to the sad necessity of being paid for his valuable time, because he was poor, and forced to live by his intellect, he was a free man, and had the right to love whom he chose. He loves me, and I have accepted his love as the most precious, most beautiful, and most glorious gift of my life. Ah! do not look so angry with me, father; I cannot say otherwise. I cannot crush or deny the inmost life of my life.—Oh, mother, forgive me that I cannot change it! You know that otherwise I have been a most obedient daughter to you in all things, although you have never taught me the happiness of possessing a loving mother; though neither of you could ever forgive your only child for not being a son, who could inherit your name, and win a brilliant position, yet I have always loved you tenderly and truly, and never complained that the unwelcome daughter received neither love nor tenderness, only indifference and coldness from her parents."

"Beautiful, very beautiful!" replied the mother, contemptuously. "Now you wish to blame us that you are a heartless and thankless daughter.—We have not understood her heart, and it is our fault that her love has flown somewhere else.

"This is the language of romance. I have, indeed, read it in the romances of Herr Moritz, and my daughter has only repeated what she learned as a docile pupil from her schoolmaster. Very fine, to pay Herr Moritz to form our daughter into the heroine of a romance! She ought to have learned the languages, but has learned only the language of romances."

"You are very severe and very cruel, mother," said Marie, sadly. "I would not complain, only excuse myself, and implore pity and indulgence, and defend myself from the reproach of having been a cold, unloving daughter. Oh! God knows how I have longed for your love; that I would willingly prove that I would joyfully do every thing to embellish your life and make you happy. It gave me such pleasure to earn something for you with my dear flowers and lessons, and afford you a little gratification!"

"Ah! now, she will reproach us with having toiled for us and sacrificed herself. Husband, thank yourself for the victim who worked for you, who gave her youth for us that she might strew our life with roses."

"I have had enough of this talking and whining," cried the general, furiously beating the table with his fist. "My daughter shall not be a heroine of romance, but an obedient child, who submits to the will of her parents. You shall marry the man that we have chosen for you; the king has given his consent, and it shall take place. I command you! That is sufficient! I will hear no more about it; the thing is done with. Herr Ebenstreit is coming this afternoon to make you a proposal of marriage with our consent, and you must, accept him. I command you to do it!"

"I cannot obey you! Oh, do not force me to rebel against God's holy laws! Have pity upon me! I have obeyed you until now, and yielded to your wishes, although I thought it would break my heart sometimes. You have forbidden Moritz the house, and turned him out of doors like a servant, with scorn and contempt, and he has silently borne it on my account. You have forbidden me to write or receive letters from him, or ever to meet him. My mother would curse me if I disobeyed her, and I submitted. I have given up every thing, sacrificed every wish, and renounced my love. But you cannot expect more from me, or dare ask it. I can forego happiness, but you cannot ask me to consent to be buried alive!"

"And what if we should wish it?" asked her mother. "If we should demand our daughter to give up a romantic, foolish love, to become the wife of a young man who loves her, and who loves us, and who is rich enough to assure us a comfortable old age, free from care?"

"Marie," cried the general, in a begging and almost imploring tone, "Marie, prove to us now that you are really a good and grateful child—we have had so much care and want in our life, so many sorrowful days! It lies in your hands to make our declining days joyous and bright, and free us from want. We have often grumbled against God, that He did not give us a son; now make us to rejoice that He has given us a daughter, who will bring us a son and inherit our name through her children, and who will give us what we have never known—prosperity and riches. I beg you, my dear, good child, grant your parents the few last years of their life freedom from care!"

"And I, Marie," said her mother, in a softened and tender tone, which Marie had never heard from her—"I beg you also, be a good daughter, pity your mother! I have always led a joyless, unhappy life. I lived unmarried, a native-born countess, with proud relations, who made me feel bitterly my dependence; when married my existence was only trouble, privations, care, and sorrow. I beg you, Marie, teach me to know happiness, for which I have so longed in vain; give me independence and prosperity, which I have always desired, and never known. I pray, Marie, make us happy in bringing us a rich, genteel, and good son-in-law, Herr Ebenstreit."

Marie, who met the scorn and threats of her mother with firmness and a proud demeanor, trembled as she heard these severe and merciless lips, always so cold and harsh, now begging and imploring. At first she was quite frightened, and then terrified, and covered her face with her hands, her head sinking upon her breast as her mother spoke.

"Speak, my daughter," cried the general, as his wife was silent. "Speak, my dear Marie. Say the word, and we shall be all happy, and there will be no happier family found in Berlin, or the world even. Say that you will marry Ebenstreit, and we will love and bless you so long as we live. Do say yes, dear Marie!"

Her hands fell from her face, and stretching them out toward her parents, she looked at them in despair.

There was a fearful pause. "I cannot, it is impossible!" she shrieked. "I cannot marry this man, for I do not love him. I love another, whom I can never forget, whom I shall love forever. I love—"

"Herr Conrector Moritz!" announced Trude, hastily bursting open the door, and looking in with a triumphant smile.



CHAPTER XV

HATE AND LOVE

"Herr Conrector Moritz wishes to pay his respects," called out Trude again.

"We do not wish to receive him," cried Frau von Werrig.

"He dare not presume to enter!" shrieked the general.

Marie cried, "Moritz! Oh! my beloved Moritz," rushing with outstretched arms toward her lover, who just appeared at the door. "God has sent you to sustain me in this fearful hour."

Old Trude peeped through the half-closed door, well satisfied to see her dear young lady folded in Moritz's arms, and her head leaning upon his shoulder. "Yes," she murmured, closing softly the door, "Marie is right, God himself sent her lover in this hour, and I would not let her wicked, hard-hearted parents send him away."

Quick as thought she turned the key, fastening the door, and betook herself to the farthest room, carefully closing every door between them. "Now we will see for once whether they will show him the door, and pitch him out. No, they will be obliged to listen to him. Old Trude wishes it, for it will make her dear Marie happy. It is all the same to me if the old German tries to scratch my eyes out for it; I will take good care to keep out of his way. I must go and listen once."

She put her ear to the keyhole, and then her eye, to see how the quarrellers looked.

At first the general and his wife were quite alarmed, and almost speechless as they witnessed the joyful meeting of the lovers. The father sprang up suddenly, with clinched fist, but instead of bitter invectives only a fearful shriek of pain was heard, as he sank groaning and whimpering into his armchair. The gout had again seized its victim. Anger had excited the general's blood, and had also brought on the pain in his leg again. His wife took no notice of his cries and groans, for it was quite as agreeable to her to be the only speaker, and have her moaning husband a kind of assenting chorus. "Leave each other!" she commanded, as she approached the lovers, flourishing her long shrivelled arms about. "Leave each other, and leave my house!"

Laying her hand on Marie's arm, which was thrown around her lover's neck, she endeavored to tear her away, and draw her daughter toward herself. But Marie clung only the more firmly, and Moritz pressed her more fervently to his heart. They heeded not and heard not the outburst of anger which the mother gave way to. They read in each other's eyes the bliss, the joy of meeting again, and the assurance of constant, imperishable love.

"You are pale and thin, my beloved!"

"Sorrow for you is consuming me, Marie, but, thank Heaven, you are unchanged, and beautiful as ever!"

"Hope and love have consoled and strengthened me, Philip."

"Enough! I forbid you to speak another word to each other," and with the power which rage lends, the mother tore Marie away. "Herr Moritz, will you tell me by what right you force yourself into our house, and surprise us like a street-thief in our peaceful dwelling? But no! you need not tell me, I will not listen to you. Those who permit themselves to enter our room unasked and unwelcomed—I will have nothing to say to them. Leave! there is the door! Out with you, off the threshold!"

With calm demeanor, Moritz now approached Fran von Werrig, demanding her pardon, saying: "You see, madame, that I am not so unwelcome here, therefore you will be obliged to let me remain."

"Yes, that she will," sneered Trude, outside the door. "It will be difficult for her to send him off so long as I am unwilling."

"No, I will not permit it. We have nothing to do with each other. Out of my sight!—Away!"

"Away!" cried the general. "Oh, the gout, the maddening pains! I cannot throw the bold fellow out of the house! I must lie here, and writhe like a worm! I cannot be master of my house. Oh, oh! what pain!"

"Stay, Philip," whispered Marie, as she again leaned toward Moritz. "They wish to sell me and force me to a hated marriage. Do not yield! save me!"

"You are mine, Marie; you have sworn to me eternal constancy, and no one can compel you to marry if you do not wish to."

"We are her parents; we can, and we will compel her," triumphantly cried Frau von Werrig. "The king has given his consent, and if it is necessary we will drag her to the altar by force!"

"Do it, mother, and I will say no before all the world."

"We will take care that no one hears you but the priest, and he will not listen, as he knows that the king has commanded you to say yes!"

"But God will hear her, Frau von Werrig, and He will take vengeance on the cruel, heartless mother."

"I will await this vengeance," she sneered. "It does not concern you, and you need not trouble yourself about it. Leave the house!"

"I came here to speak with you, and I will not go away until you have listened to me."

"Then I will leave, for I will not hear you, and I command you to follow me, Marie!"

She seized Marie with irresistible force, and drew her toward the side door, which was fast. Then hurried toward the entrance, dragging her daughter after her, but shook it in vain; that door was fastened also.

"Oh! I could kiss myself," murmured Trude, as she patted her old, wrinkled cheeks. "I was as cunning and wise as Solomon. There, shriek for Trude, order her to open it. Trude is not there, and she has no ears for you!"

"This is a plot—a shameful plot!" cried Frau von Werrig, stamping her feet. "That good-for-nothing creature, Trude, is in it. She has locked the doors, and the schoolmaster paid her for it."

Trude shook her fist at her mistress behind the door. "Wait! that good-for-nothing creature will punish you! You shall have something to be angry about with me every day."

"I swear to you that I do not know who locked the doors," replied Moritz, calmly. "But whoever did it, I thank them from the depths of my soul, for it forces you to listen to me, and may love give my words the power to soften your heart. General and Frau von Werrig, I conjure you to have compassion upon us. Is it possible that you are deaf to the cry of grief of your own child?"

Suddenly assuming a contemptuous calm, Frau von Werrig sank back upon the divan with great dignity. "As I am obliged to listen to you, through a shameful deception, let it be so. Try to make ears in my heart, which you say is deaf. Let me listen to your wonderful eloquence!"

"Oh, Philip!" said Marie, clasping his arms, "you see it will all be in vain."

"Let me hope to succeed in awakening a spark of loving mercy, as Moses caused the fountain to gush from the rock.—A year since you turned me insultingly from your door, Frau von Werrig, and you forbade me with scorn and contempt to ever cross your threshold. In the rebellious pride of my heart I swore never to do it again, never to speak to those who had so injured me. The holy, pure love which binds me to this dear girl has released me from my oath. We have tried to live separated from each other a long year, an inconsolable, unhappy year! We hoped to renounce each other, although we could not forget. Marie, as an obedient daughter, obeyed your commands, and returned the ring, which I gave her in a moment of affection and holy trust. I released her from the oath of constancy, and made her free! But it is in vain! During this year I have striven with sorrow as a man, helpless in a desert, who writhes in the folds of the poisonous serpent. I should have gone mad if a consoling word from a great and noble mind had not roused me from my desolation, and if love had not shed a ray of light into my benighted soul. I listened no longer to sickening pride and humbled sense of honor. Love commanded me to come here, and I came to ask you, Marie, in the presence of your parents, if you will be my wife; if you will accept my poor, insignificant name, and be contented by my side to lead a quiet, modest existence. I can only earn sufficient to assure us a peaceful life. I have no splendor, no treasures to offer you, but only my love, my heart, my life, my whole thought and being. Will you accept it, Marie?"

"I do accept it, Moritz, as the greatest happiness of my life. I desire only your love, and I can return only my love to you! Here is my hand, Philip, it belongs to you alone! Let us kneel in humility before my parents, and implore their blessing.—Oh, my father and mother, have pity upon us! See this dear man, to whom my whole heart belongs. I desire only to live and toil with him. There are no riches, no treasures, to compare with his love!"

"General and Frau von Werrig, grant me the wife of my heart!" cried Philip Moritz, deeply moved. "It is true, I am not worthy of her, I have no name, no position, to offer her, but I swear to strive to gain it for her. I will win by my talents and knowledge a distinguished name, and perhaps one day you will concede to my fame that I am a noble man, though not a nobleman. Will you separate two hearts which belong to each other? Take me for your son-in-law, and I swear to be devoted and faithful, to love and honor you for your daughter's sake. I can say no more—words cannot express all that I feel. Love causes me to kneel before you, love makes me humble as a child. I implore you to give me your daughter in marriage."

"I also implore you," cried Marie, sinking down beside Moritz, "give to me this man, whom I love and honor, for my husband."

It was a beautiful and impressive scene—these two young beings pleading for happiness; their eyes flashing with the inspiration of feeling, conscious that they were one in affection, and ready to combat the whole world for each other. But Frau von Werrig was immovable, and the general was too much occupied with his gouty, throbbing leg even to cast a look upon the beautiful group of youth, love, manly determination, and tender resignation.

Outside the door, Trude knelt imploringly, with folded hands, while the tears ran down her old cheeks in big drops. "O God, I well know that they have no pity; have mercy Thou, and cause my dear Marie to be happy! Suffer not that that hard-hearted woman should sell her, and marry her to that bad man my Marie despises. I well know that I am a poor creature, and not worthy that Thou shouldst listen to me, O Lord! But I love that young girl as if she were my own child, and I would give my heart's blood for her. Oh, my God! I implore Thee to let my Marie be happy!" Then she continued, as she rose from her knees. "Now, I have spoken, and I commit every thing to God, and He will do what is best. She has been obliged to listen to him, and if it cannot be otherwise, he must go."

Carefully old Trude unlocked both doors, and then stopped to listen.

Trude was right, there was no mercy in Frau von Werrig's heart. "Have you finished? Have you any thing more to say?" she asked, in her most unsympathizing manner.

"Nothing more with our lips, but our hearts still implore you."

"I do not understand this language, sir, and you have not succeeded in giving me hearing, or ears to hear with. In this useless strife I will say a last word, which I hope will be for life. You shall never be the husband of my daughter! You can never be united."

Marie and Moritz sprang from their knees, laying their hands in each other's, and looked what words could not have better expressed—"We are inseparable, nothing can disunite us but death!"

"I desire you not to interrupt me," commanded Frau von Werrig; "I have listened to you, and now you shall listen to me. I promise you to speak with more brevity than you have. I will not trouble you with useless phrases and tedious lamentations. I will speak to the point. Marie is the daughter of General Werrig von Leuthen, whose name would become extinct if the grace and favor of the king had not prevented it, by permitting the husband whom we have chosen for our daughter to take our name, and therewith become our son. You may think, in your arrogance of commoner, and the pride you take in having won the love of the daughter of General von Leuthen, that you could be this husband and son-in-law. But two things fail you: first, the necessary fortune; and, secondly, the king's consent, and that of her father. If you were rich, it might be possible that we should be touched by the tender amorousness of our daughter, and conquer our aversion to you for her sake. You are of low birth, and take a subordinate position in society. It would be extremely laughable for the schoolmaster Moritz to change suddenly into a Herr von Werrig Leuthen. Our son-in-law must be a rich man, in order to be able to give his new title consideration; and, fortunately, the wooer of my daughter's hand possesses this qualification, and therefore we have given our consent. The king has approved our choice, and permits the rich banker Ludwig Ebenstreit to become our son-in-law, and take our name. The king has in this communication, which lies upon the table, and which Marie has heard read, given his assurance to ennoble Ebenstreit upon two conditions: first, that the banker should give up his business, and live upon his income; and, secondly, that the marriage should not take place until the papers of nobility are made out and published, so that the daughter of General von Werrig should not make a misalliance. You know all now, and you will at last understand that there is but one thing for you to do—conquer your foolish presumption, and beg to be excused for your unheard-of boldness in forcing yourself into our house, and then withdraw quickly. If my ear does not deceive me, your accomplice has opened the doors. I think I heard rightly, if my heart has no ears, my head possesses better. We have finished. I would again enjoin upon you the duty of begging for pardon, and then I close this unrefreshing scene with the same words with which it opened—there is the door—go out!"

"Yes, there is the door—go out of it! I want to be quiet—go! My daughter is the betrothed of the rich banker Herr Ebenstreit; she will be his wife as soon as the papers are made out and published.—Go!" cried the general.

The young couple still stood there, hand in hand, looking at the general, until now their eyes met, beaming with tenderest affection for each other. "Is it true, Marie? Speak, my beloved, is it true, will you be the wife of this rich man whom your parents have chosen for you?"

"No, Philip," she calmly and firmly replied. "No, I will not, for I do not love him, I love only you; and here, in the presence of God and my parents, I swear to you that I will be constant to death! They can prevent my becoming your wife, but they cannot force me to wed another. I swear, then, that if I cannot be yours, I will never marry!"

"I receive your oath, and God has heard it also!" said Moritz, solemnly.

"I have also heard it, and I tell you," said Frau von Werrig, "that this romantic heroine will become a perjurer, for I will find means to make her break her silly oath."

"We will, perhaps, find means to delay the marriage," said Moritz proudly, "or, much more, prevent the marriage ceremony."

"I am very curious to know the means," said Frau von Werrig. "From this hour Marie is the betrothed of Herr Ebenstreit, and the wedding will take place so soon—"

"So soon as the title of nobility is published. That is it, is the clause to be filled; and therefore I tell you, beloved, wait and hope! This woman is without pity and without mercy; but God is in heaven, and Frederick the Great on the earth. Wait and hope. Be firm in hope, and constant in love. Do not lose courage, and let them force you to compliance by threats and anger. I have only you to confide in and to love in the world, and you are my hope, my goal, and the happiness of my life. If you forsake me, I lose my good angel, and am a lost, miserable man, whom it would be better to hurl into the deepest abyss than let him suffer the torments of hated existence. The knowledge of your love gives me strength and courage; it will inspire me to fight like a hero, to win the dear, beloved wife, to whom I would yield my life in order to receive it anew from her purified and sanctified. The knowledge that I had lost you, would ruin me."

Laying both hands upon his shoulder, Marie looked at him with eyes beaming with affection, renewing her vow that she would never love or marry another. "We will be courageous in hope, and brave in constancy. Listen to me, my beloved; listen, my mother—I betrothed myself to this dear man! You can prevent my becoming his wife now, but in four years I am of age, and then I shall be my own mistress. Then, my dear Philip, I will be your wife. Let us wait and hope!"

"Yes, Marie, we will wait and hope.—Farewell! Do not forget that there is a great God in heaven, and a great king upon earth.—Farewell!"

He pressed the hand clasped in his own passionately to his tips, and felt from the pressure of her delicate fingers a renewed vow of constancy. Buoyed with this hope in the sad hour of parting, they were happy and joyful. Marie accompanied him to the door—still hand in hand.

"Presume not to go a step farther," commanded her mother, and Marie, obedient to her wishes, remained near the door, bowed to Moritz, and never ceased to regard him, with love beaming in her eyes, until the door closed. Outside stood old Trude, to tell him that she would be at the baker's at seven o'clock every morning, and wait for his commissions, "and may be I shall have something to bring you," she said. "So do come!"

"I will, my good Trude; you are the only person who is friendly to us. Watch over my angel, console her with your affection, and when they are too hard upon her, come to me."

"I surely will, but listen—they are already quarrelling with my good angel. I will go in, to serve as a lightning-rod for dear Marie. I often do it, and it pleases me when the lightning strikes, and dashes my hard old head to the ground, but does not hurt me at all—Farewell, Herr Moritz, the lightning-rod must go in."

Trude entered suddenly and noiselessly the sitting-room, and interrupted the angry reproaches which Frau von Werrig hurled against Marie in a furious stream of words. The countess's rage turned against Trude, who stared as if to challenge her. "What do you want? How dare you enter uncalled?"

"I thought you were calling deaf old Trude, or why did you scream so?" replied Trude, tartly.

"Perhaps it was the general. Ah! there lies the poor, dear old man, groaning and crying, and nobody has any pity for him."

"Ah! Trude, it is good luck that you are here," whined the general. "No one troubles himself about me. Quick, bring warm covering for my leg, the pain is fearful!"

"Poor, dear father, I will take care of you, I will nurse you," said Marie, hastening to him. Her mother pushed her back violently. "Not a step farther; you have no right to go near him, you are his murderess. On your head will fall the guilt, if these dreadful scenes should cause his death."

"No, no, the general will not die quite yet," said Trude busying herself about his arm-chair. "But, Fraulein, you have got something else to do than stay here. They have already sent for the flowers twice, and the French lady is waiting up-stairs to parlez-vous."

Marie looked her friendly thanks, and quietly and quickly left the room.

"Now, bold woman, I have a last word to say to you. Who locked the door when that creature came?" "I, madame," answered Trude, who was just bringing a great cushion from the back-room to cover the general's feet.

"You acknowledge that you locked the door intentionally?"

"Now, my dear, good Frau von Werrig, one does not lock a door by mistake. I did not want Herr Moritz to run away with fright, before you had given him your mind, and set his head straight. He would certainly have escaped, and only heard the half of your beautiful talk, for he had no idea what a miserable fellow he is. So I locked both doors, and he was obliged to listen to you, and has gone away contrite and repentant. There, there, my poor, dear general, is your foot high enough? Shall I not bring the foot-warmer?"

"You shall not bring any thing, nor do any thing more. You are a hypocrite, who connives with Moritz. Leave my house this very hour! You are dismissed my service. Go pack up your things and be off!" cried Frau von Werrig.

"Oh, do not go, Trude, for mercy's sake, for then I have no one to help me," cried the general.

"I cannot do otherwise, she has given me my dismissal." Trude approached Frau von Werrig respectfully, saying, "So I must pack up and go away at once?"

"Immediately, you deceitful creature!"

"Immediately! but Frau von Werrig will be so good as to give me my wages."

"Yes," she answered in a slower and more subdued voice. "That shall be done presently."

"It will not be so very difficult to reckon them, I have been here twenty years; just as many years as Marie is old, for I came as child's nurse, and have helped her learn to talk and walk, and played mother to the dear child a bit. Then I obtained my wages, for they were good times; but the pension-time came, and we had no cook or servant but me. 'The rats run away if the ship springs a leak,' but the old mole Trude stayed. Mankind is in the world to work, I said, and why should not I be the cook and waiting-maid too, that my little Marie should not want any thing? So I became maid-of-all-work and have stayed here ever since. Then, you told me you would double my wages, and give me twenty thalers a year, and four thalers at Christmas. Is it not so, Frau von Werrig?"

"I believe that was the agreement."

"I am quite certain about it," cried the general, who began to understand the drift of Trude. "Yes, Trude was to have twenty thalers a year, and we are owing her many years' wages. You know, wife, I have always kept an account-book for the debts, and only a few days ago—Oh! oh! the pain! Trude, help me cover up the foot warmer!—we reckoned it up a few days ago, and we owe Trude one hundred and thirty thalers."

"One hundred and thirty thalers," repeated Trude, clapping her hands, astonished. "Is it true? oh, that is splendid. I shall be rich, and get a husband yet. I pray you give it to me, Frau von Werrig, right away."

"Not so quickly," said she, proudly. "We will reckon together how much you have saved—because—"

"Oh!" interrupted Trude, "how good you are to make me keep so much; you are my savings bank, where I can deposit my money."

"Because," she continued, with emphasis, without noticing the interruption, "our future son-in-law will pay your wages, the rich banker, Herr Ebenstreit. Yes, the wealthy lover of our daughter. At the moment I have not so much cash in the house."

"Your grace will allow me to stay until Herr Ebenstreit is married, and, in your name, pays me my wages?"

"Yes, Trude, I will allow you to stay," she replied, very graciously. "You will be cunning, Trude, if you try to persuade Marie to accept the rich suitor, for when she does I will give you two hundred thalers."

"I will do all I can to get it. Can I remain here until Marie is married?"

"Yes, you have my permission for that."

"I thank you, Frau von Werrig. Now, general, I will bring you some warm coverings right away."



CHAPTER XVI. CHARLES AUGUSTUS AND GOETHE.

"Now tell me, Wolf," asked Duke Charles Augustus, stretching himself comfortably on the sofa, puffing clouds of smoke from his pipe—"are you not weary of dawdling about in this infamously superb pile of stones, called Berlin? Shall we any longer elegantly scrape to the right and to the left, with abominable sweet speeches and mere flattering phraseology, in this monster of dust and stone, of sand and sun, parades and gaiters? Have you not enough of blustering generals, of affected women? and of running about the streets like one possessed to see here a miserable church, or there a magnificent palace? Are you not weary of crawling about as one of the many, while at home you stride about as the only one of the many? And weary also of seeing your friend and pupil Carl August put off with fair promises and hollow speeches like an insignificant, miserable mortal, without being able to answer with thundering invectives. Ah! breath fails me. I feel as if I could load a pistol with myself, and with a loud report shoot over to dear Weimar. Wolf, do talk, I beg you, I am tired out; answer me."

"I reply, I shoot, my dear Carl," cried Goethe, laughing. "I was out of breath myself from that long speech. Was it original with my dear prince, or did he memorize it from Klinger's great 'Sturm-und-Drang' tragedy? It reminded me of it."

"Do you mean to accuse me of plagiarism, wicked fellow? I grant that you are right, my cunning Wolf, it was a lapsus. I did think of Klinger, and I sympathized with his youthful hero Wild, who declared that, among the sweetest pleasures, he would like to be stretched over a drum, or exist in a pistol-barrel, the hand ready to blow him into the air."

Goethe shoved aside the breakfast-table, straightened his delicate form, with his noble head proudly erect, and one foot in advance, extended his right arm, giving one loud hurrah! "Now, for once, a tumult and noise, that thought may turn about like a weathercock. This savage noise has already wrought its own benefit. I begin to feel a little better. Rage and expand, mad heart, quicken yourself in hurly-burly-burly-burly!" [Footnote: From Klinger's tragedy "Sturm und Drang."]

"Bravo! bravo!" laughed the duke. "Is that Klinger, or who is it that refreshes himself in hurly-burly?"

"It is I who am every thing," replied Goethe, striding and swaggering up and down. "I was an assistant, in order to be something—lived upon the Alps, tended the goats, lay under the vault of heaven day and night, refreshed by the cool pastures, and burned with the inward fire. No peace, no rest anywhere. See, I swell with power and health! I cannot waste myself away. I would take part in the campaign here; then can my soul expand, and if they do me the service to shoot me down, well and good!" [Footnote: From Klinger's tragedy "Sturm und Drang."]

"Bravo! Wild, bravo!" cried the duke. "Hei! that thundered and rolled, and struck fire! It does me good to hear such vigorous words from an able rare genius in the midst of this miserable, starched elegance. The powerful Germans are healthy fellows. Something of the Promethean fire blazes forth in them. They were forced to come, those jolly, uproarious boys, after the affected cue period; they were the full, luxurious plants, and my Wolfgang, the favorite of my heart, my poet and teacher, is the divine blossom of this plant. Let them prevail, these 'Sturmer und Dranger,' for they are the fathers and brothers of my Wolfgang. Do me the sole pleasure not to refine yourself too much, but let this divine fire burst forth in volcanic flames, and leave the thundering crater uncovered. Sometimes when I see you so simpering, so modest and ceremonious, I ask myself, with anxiety, if it is the same Wolfgang Goethe, who used to drink 'Smollis' with me at merry bacchanals out of death-skulls?—the same with whom I used to practise whip-cracking upon the market-place hours long, to the terror of the good citizens?—the same who used to dance so nimbly the two-steps, and was inexhaustible in mad pranks. Now tell me, Herr Wolfgang, are you yourself, or are you another?"

"I am myself, and not myself," answered Goethe, smiling. "There still remains a good portion of folly in me, and it must sometimes thunder and flash, but I hope the atmosphere of my soul will become clearer, and over the crater a more lovely garden will spread out, in which beautiful, fragrant flowers will bloom, useful and profitable for my friends and myself. Sometimes I long for this as for the promised land; then again it foams and thunders in me like fermenting must, which, defying all covers and hoops, would froth up to heaven in an immense source of mad excitement!"

"Let it froth and foam, and spring the covers, and burst the old casks," cried the duke; "I delight in it, and every infernal noise you make, the prouder I am to recognize that from this foaming must will clear itself a marvellous wine, a delicious beverage for gods and men, with which the world will yet refresh itself, when we are long gone to the kingdom of shades—to the something or nothing. You know, Wolf, I love you, and I am proud that I have you! It is true that I possess only a little duchy, but it is large enough to lead an agreeable and comfortable existence—large enough for a little earthly duke, and the great king of intellects, Johann Wolfgang Goethe. Let us return to our dear home, for I acknowledge to you I sigh for Weimar. I long for the dear little place, where every one knows me and greets me, and even for my dogs and horses."

"And I," said Goethe, "I really mourn for my Tusculum, which I owe to the generous, kind duke; for the balcony of my little cottage, where, canopied by the blue, starry vault of heaven, I dream away the lonely May nights."

"Is there nothing else you sigh for but the summer-house at Weimar?"

"No!" cried Goethe, and an indescribable expression of rapture and delight was manifest in his whole manner.

"No, why should I deny it, how could I? It would be treason to the Highest and most Glorious. No, I long for my muse, my mistress, my—"

"Beloved!" interrupted the duke. "I pray you not to be so prudish, so reserved. Have the courage to snap your fingers at this infamously deceitful moral code, and proud and distinguished as you are, elevate yourself above what these miserable earthworms call morality. For the eagle there is a different law than for the pigeon. If the eagle soars aloft through the ether to his eyry, bearing a lamb in his powerful claws, has he not a right to it—the right of superiority and power by God's grace? Has he not as much right to the lamb as the pigeon to the pea which she finds in the dust? If the pigeon by chance sees the eagle with his lamb, she cries, 'Zeter! mordio!' with the pea in her own bill, as if she were in a position to judge the eagle."

"A beautiful picture," cried Goethe, joyfully—"a picture that would inspire me to indite a poem."

"Write one, and call it for a souvenir 'The Eagle and the Dove.' Make it a reality, my eagle youth, bear off the white lamb to your eyry, and let the world, with its affected morality, say what it likes. How can you bear to see the one you love at the side of another man? Tell me, confess to me, is not the beautiful Charlotte von Stein your beloved?"

"Not in the sense you mean, duke, not in the vulgar sense of the word. I love her, I adore her, with a pure and holy sentiment. I would not that Charlotte should have cause to blush before her children on my account. She would be desecrated to me if I, in my inmost soul, could imagine the blush of shame upon her cheek, or that her eye could brighten at other than great, beautiful, and noble acts. I adore her, and to me she is the ideal of the purest and sweetest womanhood. I rejoice that she is as she is, like clear mountain crystal—transparent and so brightly pure, that one could mirror himself therein. She stands above all other women, and to her belong all my thoughts, and would, even if I were wedded to another. To me she is the most beautiful of the beautiful, the purest of the pure, the most graceful of the graceful, and all my thoughts are in perfect harmony with hers. Now, duke, if it is agreeable to you, knowing my feelings, to call Charlotte von Stein my beloved, she is so in the most elevated sense of the word."

"Ah! you poets, you poets," sighed the duke, smiling.

"A streak of madness in you all, though I will grant that it is divine."

"Say rather that Whit-Sunday comes to us every day, and the divine Spirit descends daily upon us poets, and causes us to speak in unknown tongues."

"I will say that you are the god Apollo descended from heaven, and with gods one may not dare to dispute. They act differently in their sphere than we mortals upon earth. I will be contented if our ways cross from time to time, and we can once in a while walk on together a good piece the way of life in friendship and harmony. If it would please my Wolf, I propose to turn toward beloved Weimar, the dear place, half village, half city. For my part I am finished here, my business with General von Mollendorf is accomplished. As I told you previously, I have had made known to the king my refusal to allow recruiting in my duchy. I could not consent for the present. In short, I have spoken as my secretary Wolfgang Goethe has recorded.[Footnote: This memorial upon recruiting is found. "Correspondence of the Grand Duke Carl August and Goethe," part, i., p. 4.] General Mollendorf has waived his demand for the present—and to-day we have had the concluding conference, and if it is agreeable to my secretary, we might set off this afternoon and pass a day at Dessau, and then on to Weimar."

"Oh, gladly will I do it; it seems as if a star from heaven had twinkled to me to follow it, for at Weimar is centred all my happiness! I prefer a lowly cabin there to all the splendor and palaces of a city."

"Then you agree with me, that this magnificently vile Berlin does not enchain you in her magic net?"

"No, she holds me not, though it has been pleasant to take a peep into it (like a child into a curiosity-box). I have seen 'Old Fritz.' His character, his gold, and his silver, his marbles, his apes and parrots, and even his town curtains please me. It is pleasant to be at the seat of war at the very moment that it threatens to break forth. It has gratified me to witness the splendor of the royal city, the life, order, and abundance, that would be nothing if thousands of men were not ready to be sacrificed; the medley of men, carriages, horses, artillery, and all the arrangements. All are mere pins in the great clock-work, only puppets whose motion is received from the great cylinder, Fredericus Rex, who indicates to each one the melody they must play, according to one of the thousand pins in the rotary beam."[Footnote: Goethe's own words.—See Goethe's "Correspondence with Frau von Stein," part i., p. 168. Riemer, "Communications about Goethe," part ii., p. 60.]

"You are right to compare the great man to the chief cylinder in the machine of state," nodded the duke "He rules and sets all in motion, and cares not whether the rabble are suited or not. It has enraged me sometimes to hear the fellows curse him, and yet I acted as if I heard them not. Let us return to Weimar—mankind seems better there, Wolf."

"At any rate, more regardful of us than they are here, duke. The greater the world the uglier the farce; no obscenities and fooleries of the buffoon are more disgusting than the characters of the great, mediocre and insignificant, all mingled together. I prayed this morning for courage to hold out to the end, and to hasten the consummation. I am grateful for the benefit of the journey—but I pray the gods not to conduct themselves toward us as their image-man, for I should swear to them eternal hatred."[Footnote: Goethe's own words.—See Goethe's "Correspondence with Frau von Stein," part i., p. 169.]

"Then you are ready to depart, Wolf?"

"Almost, dear Carl, or, if you will it, quite ready. A few visits I would make, that the people shall not be too severe upon me and cry out against my pride and arrogance."

"Because they themselves are proud and supercilious, they are bold enough to suppose Wolfgang Goethe is like them. I hope you will not visit the very learned Herr Nicolai, the insipid prosaist, the puffed-up rationalist, who believes that his knowledge permits him to penetrate every thing, and who is a veritable ass."

"No, I am not going to Nicolai, Rammler, or Engel, or, as they should be named, the wise authors of Berlin. I shall visit the artist Chodowiecki, good Karschin, occasional poetess, and the philosopher Mendelssohn. Then, if it pleases you, we will set out this afternoon, shaking the sand of Berlin from our feet."

"I shall prepare whilst you make your visits. Will you take my carriage? You know there is one from the royal stables always at my service, which stands at the door."

"Beware! they would shriek if I should drive to their doors in a royal carriage. They would accuse me of throwing aside the poet, and being only secretary of legation. I will go on foot; it amuses me to push my way through the crowd, and listen to the Berlin jargon."



CHAPTER XVII. GOETHE'S VISITS.

Taking leave of his ducal friend, Goethe betook himself the street, to commence his visits. Going first to Chodowiecki, the renowned delineator and engraver, whose fame had already spread throughout Germany. When Goethe entered, the artist was busy in his atelier, working upon the figures of the characters in the "Mimic," the latest work of Professor Engel. "Master," said he, smilingly, extending him his hand, "I have come to thank you for many beautiful, happy hours which I owe to you. You paint with the chisel and poetize with the brush. An artist by God's grace."

"If the poet Goethe says that, there must be something in it," replied Chodowiecki, with a radiant face. "I have to thank you for the most beautiful and best hours of my life, and I am proud and delighted to have been able in the least to return the pleasure. The only blissful tears among many bitter ones that I have wept, were shed over the 'Sorrows of Werther.' 'Gotz von Berlichingen' so inspired me that he appeared to me in my dreams, and left me no peace until I rose in the night to draw Gotz, as he sat talking with brother Martin on the bench in the forest. Wait, I will show you the drawing; you must see it."

Goethe examined it attentively, and expressed his pleasure at the correctness and dramatical conception of the design, and did not remark, or perhaps would not, that the artist was busily occupied with crayon and paper. "How wonderfully you have reproduced my 'German Knight,'" cried Goethe, after a long observation of it. "The middle ages entire, proud and full of strength, are mirrored in this figure, and if I had not written 'Gotz von Berlichingen,' I would have been inspired to it, perhaps, from this drawing. Oh! you artists are to be envied. We need many thousand words to express what a few lines represent, and a stroke suffices to change a smiling face into a weeping one. How feeble is language, and how mighty the pencil! I wish I had the talent to be a painter!"

"And I," cried Chodowiecki, "would throw all my pencils, brushes, and chisels to the devil, or sell him my soul, if I could cope with the genius and intellect of the poet, Wolfgang Goethe. What a man! What a profile the gods have given him! There! look—have you ever seen a man with such a face?" He handed Goethe the drawing, which proved to be a speaking profile-portrait of himself, dashed off with a few strokes full of genius.