Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship and Travels

Felix skipped into the garden; Wilhelm followed him with rapture: a lovely morning was displaying every thing with fresh charms; our friend enjoyed the most delightful moment. Felix was new in the free and lordly world, nor did his father know much more than he about the objects concerning which the little creature was repeatedly and unweariedly inquiring. At last they joined the gardener, who had to tell them the names and uses of a multitude of plants. Wilhelm looked on nature as with unscaled eyes: the child’s new-fangled curiosity first made him sensible how weak an interest he himself had taken in external things, how small his actual knowledge was. Not till this day, the happiest of his life, did his own cultivation seem to have commenced: he felt the necessity of learning, being called upon to teach. Jarno and the abbé did not show themselves again till evening, when they brought a guest along with them. Wilhelm viewed the stranger with amazement; he could scarce believe his eyes: it was Werner, who likewise, for a moment, hesitated in his recognition. They embraced each other tenderly: neither of them could conceal that he thought the other greatly altered. Werner declared that his friend was taller, stronger, straighter; that he had become more polished in his looks and carriage. “Something of his old true-heartedness I miss, however,” added he. “That, too, will soon appear again,” said Wilhelm, “when we have recovered from our first astonishment.”

The impression Werner made upon his friend was by no means so favorable. The honest man seemed rather to have retrograded than advanced. He was much leaner than of old; his peaked face appeared to have grown sharper, his nose longer; brow and crown had lost their hair; the voice, clear, eager, shrill, the hollow breast and stooping shoulders, the sallow cheeks, announced indubitably that a melancholic drudge was there. Wilhelm was discreet enough to speak but sparingly of these great changes; while the other, on the contrary, gave free course to his friendly joy. “In truth,” cried he, “if thou hast spent thy time badly, and, as I suppose, gained nothing, it must be owned thou art grown a piece of manhood such as cannot fail to turn to somewhat. Do not waste and squander me this, too, again: with such a figure thou shalt buy some rich and beautiful heiress.” - “I see,” said Wilhelm, smiling, “thou wilt not belie thy character. Scarcely hast thou found thy brother after long absence, when thou lookest on him as a piece of goods, a thing to speculate on and make profit by.” Jarno and the abbé did not seem at all astonished at this recognition: they allowed the two to expatiate on the past and present as they pleased. Werner walked round and round his friend, turned him to this side and to that, so as almost to embarrass him. “No!” cried he, “such a thing as this I never met with, and yet I know that I am not mistaken. Thy eyes are deeper, thy brow is broader; thy nose has grown finer, thy mouth more lovely. Do but look at him, how he stands; how it all suits and fits together! Well, idling is the way to grow. But for me, poor devil,” said he, looking at himself in the glass, “if I had not all this while been making store of money, it were over with me altogether.”

Werner had got Wilhelm’s last letter: the distant trading-house, in common with which Lothario meant to purchase the estates, was theirs. On that business Werner had come hither, not dreaming that he should meet with Wilhelm on the way. The baron’s lawyer came: the papers were produced; Werner reckoned the conditions reasonable. “If you mean well,” said he, “as you seem to do, with this young man, you will of yourselves take care that our part be not abridged: it shall be at my friend’s option whether he will take the land and lay out a portion of his fortune on it.” Jarno and the abbé protested that they did not need this admonition. Scarcely had the business been discussed in general terms, when Werner signified a longing for a game at ombre; to which, in consequence, Jarno and the abbé set themselves along with him. He was now grown so accustomed to it, that he could not pass the evening without cards. The two friends, after supper, being left alone, began to talk and question one another very keenly, touching every thing they wished to have communicated. Wilhelm spoke in high terms of his situation, of his happiness in being received among such men. Werner shook his head, and said, “Well, I see, we should believe nothing that we do not see with our eyes. More than one obliging friend assured me thou wert living with a wild young nobleman, wert supplying him with actresses, helping him to waste his money;

that, by thy means, he had quarrelled with every one of his relations.” - “For my own sake, and the sake of these worthy gentlemen, I should be vexed at this,” said Wilhelm, “had not my theatrical experience made me tolerant to every sort of calumny. How can men judge rightly of our actions, which appear but singly or in fragments to them; of which they see the smallest portion; while good and bad take place in secret, and for most part nothing comes to light but an indifferent show? Are not the actors and actresses in a play set up on boards before them; lamps are lit on every side; the whole transaction is comprised within three hours; yet scarcely one of them knows rightly what to make of it?”

Our friend proceeded to inquire about his family, his young comrades, his native town. Werner told, with great haste, of changes that had taken place, of changes that were still in progress. “The women in our house,” said he, “are satisfied and happy: we are never short of money. One-half of their time they spend in dressing, the other in showing themselves when dressed. They are as domestic as a reasonable man could wish. My boys are growing up to prudent youths. I already, as in vision, see them sitting, writing, reckoning, running, trading, trucking: each of them, as soon as possible, shall have a business of his own. As to what concerns our fortune, thou wilt be contented with the state of it. When we have got these lands in order, thou must come directly home with me; for it now appears as if thou, too, couldst mingle with some skill in worldly undertakings, thanks to thy new friends, who have set thee on the proper path. I am certainly a fool: I never knew till now how well I liked thee; - now when I cannot gape and gaze at thee enough, so well and handsome thou lookest. That is, in truth, another form than the portrait which was sent thy sister, which occasioned such disputes at home. Both mother and daughter thought young master very handsome indeed, with his slack collar, half-open breast, large ruff, sleek, pendent hair, round hat, short waistcoat, and wide pantaloons; while I, on the other hand, maintained that the costume was scarce two finger-breadths from that of harlequin. But now thou lookest like a man; only the cue is wanting, in which I beg of thee to bind thy hair; else, some time or other, they will seize thee as a Jew, and demand toll and tribute of thee.”

Felix, in the mean time, had come into the room; and, as they did not mind him, he had laid himself upon the sofa, and was fallen asleep. “What urchin is this?” said Werner. Wilhelm at that moment had not the heart to tell the truth, nor did he wish to lay a still ambiguous narrative before a man who was by nature any thing but credulous. The whole party now proceeded to the lands, to view them, and conclude the bargain. Wilhelm would not part with Felix from his side: for the boy’s sake, he rejoiced exceedingly in the intended purchase. The longing of the child for cherries and berries, the season for which was at hand, brought to his mind the days of his own youth, and the manifold duties of a father, to prepare, to procure, and to maintain for his family a constant series of enjoyments. With what interest he viewed the nurseries and the buildings! How zealously he contemplated repairing what had been neglected, restoring what had fallen! He no longer looked upon the world with the eyes of a bird of passage: an edifice he did not now consider as a grove that is hastily put together, and that withers ere one leaves it. Every thing that he proposed commencing was to be completed for his boy: every thing that he erected was to last for several generations. In this sense his apprenticeship was ended:

with the feeling of a father, he had acquired all the virtues of a citizen. He felt this, and nothing could exceed his joy. “O needless strictness of morality!” exclaimed he, “while Nature in her own kindly manner trains us to all that we require to be. O strange demands of civil society! which first perplexes and misleads us, then asks of us more than Nature herself. Woe to every sort of culture which destroys the most effectual means of all true culture, and directs us to the end, instead of rendering us happy on the way!”

Much as he had already seen in his life, it seemed as if the observation of the child afforded him his first clear view of human nature. The theatre, the world, had appeared before him, only as a multitude of thrown dice, every one of which upon its upper surface indicates a greater or a smaller value, and which, when reckoned up together, make a sum. But here in the person of the boy, as we might say, a single die was laid before him, on the many sides of which the worth and worthlessness of man’s nature were legibly engraved. The child’s desire to have distinctions made in his ideas grew stronger every day. Having learned that things had names, he wished to hear the name of every thing: supposing that there could be nothing which his father did not know, he often teased him with his questions, and caused him to inquire concerning objects which, but for this, he would have passed without notice. Our innate tendency to pry into the origin and end of things was likewise soon developed in the boy. When he asked whence came the wind, and whither went the flame, his father for the first time truly felt the limitation of his own powers, and wished to understand how far man may venture with his thoughts, and what things he may hope ever to give account of to himself or others. The anger of the child, when he saw injustice done to any living thing, was extremely grateful to the father, as the symptom of a generous heart. Felix once struck fiercely at the cook for cutting up some pigeons. The fine impression this produced on Wilhelm was, indeed, erelong disturbed, when he found the boy unmercifully tearing sparrows in pieces and beating frogs to death. This trait reminded him of many men, who appear so scrupulously just when without passion, and witnessing the proceedings of other men.

The pleasant feeling, that the boy was producing so fine and wholesome an influence on his being, was, in a short time, troubled for a moment, when our friend observed, that in truth the boy was educating him more than he the boy. The child’s conduct he was not qualified to correct: its mind he could not guide in any path but a spontaneous one. The evil habits which Aurelia had so violently striven against had all, as it seemed, on her death, assumed their ancient privileges. Felix still never shut the door behind him, he still would not eat from a plate; and no greater pleasure could befall him than when he happened to be overlooked, and could take his bit immediately from the dish, or let the full glass stand, and drink out of the bottle. He delighted also very much when he could set himself in a corner with a book, and say with a serious air, “I must study this scholar stuff!” though he neither knew his letters, nor would learn them. Thus, when Wilhelm thought how little he had done for Felix, how little he was capable of doing, there arose at times a restlessness within him, which appeared to counterbalance all his happiness. “Are we men, then,” said he, “so selfishly formed, that we cannot possibly take proper charge of any one without us? Am I not acting with the boy exactly as I did with Mignon?

I drew the dear child towards me: her presence gave me pleasure, yet I cruelly neglected her. What did I do for her education, which she longed for with such earnestness? Nothing! I left her to herself, and to all the accidents to which, in a society of coarse people, she could be exposed. And now for this boy, who seemed so interesting before he could be precious to thee, has thy heart ever bid thee do the smallest service to him? It is time that thou shouldst cease to waste thy own years and those of others: awake, and think what thou shouldst do for thyself, and for this good being, whom love and nature have so firmly bound to thee.”

This soliloquy was but an introduction to admit that he had already thought and cared, and tried and chosen: he could delay no longer to confess it. After sorrow, often and in vain repeated, for the loss of Mariana, he distinctly felt that he must seek a mother for the boy; and also that he could not find one equal to Theresa. With this gifted lady he was thoroughly acquainted. Such a spouse and helpmate seemed the only one to trust one’s self to in such circumstances. Her generous affection for Lothario did not make him hesitate. By a singular destiny, they two had been forever parted: Theresa looked upon herself as free; she had talked of marrying, with indifference, indeed, but as of a matter understood. After long deliberation he determined on communicating to her every thing he knew about himself. She was to be made acquainted with him, as he already was with her. He accordingly began to take a survey of his history; but it seemed to him so empty of events, and in general so little to his credit, that he more than once was on the point of giving up his purpose. At last, however, he resolved on asking Jarno for the Roll of his Apprenticeship, which he had noticed lying in the tower: Jarno said it was the very time for that, and Wilhelm consequently got it.

It is a feeling of awe and fear which seizes on a man of noble mind when conscious that his character is just about to be exhibited before him. Every transition is a crisis, and a crisis presupposes sickness. With what reluctance do we look into the glass after rising from a sick-bed! The recovery we feel: the effects of the past disease are all we see. Wilhelm had, however, been sufficiently prepared: events had already spoken loudly to him, and his friends had not spared him. If he opened the roll of parchment with some hurry, he grew calmer and calmer the farther he read. He found his life delineated with large, sharp strokes; neither unconnected incidents, nor narrow sentiments, perplexed his view; the most bland and general reflections taught, without shaming him. For the first time his own figure was presented to him, not, indeed, as in a mirror, a second self, but as in a portrait, another self: we do not, it is true, recognize ourselves in every feature; but we are delighted that a thinking spirit has so understood us, that such gifts have been employed in representing us, that an image of what we were exists, and may endure when we ourselves are gone.

Wilhelm next employed himself in setting forth the history of his life, for the perusal of Theresa: all the circumstances of it were recalled to memory by what he had been reading; he almost felt ashamed that to her great virtues he had nothing to oppose which indicated a judicious activity. He had been minute in his written narrative: he was brief in the letter which he sent along with it. He solicited her friendship, her love if it were possible: he offered her his hand, and entreated for a quick decision. After some internal contest, whether it were proper to impart this weighty business to his friends, - to Jarno and the abbé, - he determined not to do so. His resolution was so firm, the business was of such importance, that he could not have submitted it to the decision of the wisest and best of men. He was even cautious enough to carry his letter with his own hand to the nearest post. From his parchment-roll it appeared with certainty enough, that in very many actions of his life, in which he had conceived himself to be proceeding freely and in secret, he had been observed, nay, guided; and perhaps the thought of this had given him an unpleasant feeling: and he wished at least, in speaking to Theresa’s heart, to speak purely from the heart, - to owe his fate to her decision and determination only. Hence, in this solemn point; he scrupled not to give his overseers the slip.

Scarcely was the letter gone, when Lothario returned. Every one was gladdened at the prospect of so speedily concluding the important business which they had in hand. Wilhelm waited with anxiety to see how all these many threads were to be loosed, or tied anew, and how his own future state was to be settled. Lothario gave a kindly salutation to them all: he was quite recovered and serene; he had the air of one who knows what he should do, and who finds no hinderance in the way of doing it. His cordial greeting Wilhelm could scarcely repay. “This,” he had to own within himself, “is the friend, the lover, bridegroom, of Theresa: in his stead thou art presuming to intrude. Dost thou think it possible for thee to banish, to obliterate, an impression such as this?” Had the letter not been sent away, perhaps he would not have ventured sending it at all. But happily the die was cast: it might be, Theresa had already taken up her resolution, and only distance shrouded with its veil a happy termination. The winning or the losing must soon be decided. By such considerations he endeavored to compose himself, and yet the movements of his heart were almost feverish. He could give but little attention to the weighty business, on which, in some degree, the fate of his whole property depended. In passionate moments how trivial do we reckon all that is about us, all that belongs to us!

Happily for him, Lothario treated the affair with magnanimity, and Werner with an air of ease. The latter, in his violent desire of gain, experienced a lively pleasure in contemplating the fine estate which was to be his friend’s. Lothario, for his part, seemed to be revolving very different thoughts. “I cannot take such pleasure in the acquirement of property,” said he, “as in the justness of it.” “And, in the name of Heaven,” cried Werner, “is not this of ours acquired justly?” “Not altogether,” said Lothario. “Are we not giving hard cash for it?” “Doubtless,” replied Lothario; “and most probably you will consider what I am now hinting at as nothing but a whim. No property appears to me quite just, quite free of flaw, except it contribute to the state its due proportion.” “What!” said Werner. “You would rather that our lands, which we have purchased free from burden, had been taxable?” “Yes,” replied Lothario, “in a suitable degree. It is only by this equality with every other kind of property, that our possession of it can be made secure. In these new times, when so many old ideas are tottering, what is the grand reason why the peasant reckons the possession of the noble less equitable than his own? Simply that the noble is not burdened, and lies a burden on him.”

“But how would the interest of our capital agree with that?” said Werner. “Perfectly well,” returned the other; “if the state, for a regular and fair contribution, would relieve us from the feudal hocus-pocus; would allow us to proceed with our lands according to our pleasure: so that we were not compelled to retain such masses of them undivided, so that we might part them more equally among our children, whom we might thus introduce to vigorous and free activity, instead of leaving them the poor inheritance of these our limited and limiting privileges, to enjoy which we must ever be invoking the ghosts of our forefathers. How much happier were men and women in our rank of life, if they might, with unforbidden eyes, look round them, and elevate by their selection, here a worthy maiden, there a worthy youth, regarding nothing further than their own ideas of happiness in marriage! The state would have more, perhaps better citizens, and would not so often be distressed for want of heads and hands.” “I can assure you honestly,” said Werner, “I never in my life thought about the state: my taxes, tolls, and tributes I have paid, because it was the custom.”

“Still, however,” said Lothario, “I hope to make a worthy patriot of you. As he alone is a good father who at table serves his children first; so is he alone a good citizen who, before all other outlays, discharges what he owes the state.” By such general reflections their special business was accelerated rather than retarded. It was nearly over, when Lothario said to Wilhelm, “I must send you to a place where you are needed more than here. My sister bids me beg of you to go to her as soon as possible. Poor Mignon seems to be decaying more and more, and it is thought your presence might allay the malady. Besides telling me in person, my sister has despatched this note after me: so that you perceive she reckons it a pressing case.” Lothario handed him a billet. Wilhelm, who had listened in extreme perplexity, at once discovered in these hasty pencil-strokes the hand of the countess, and knew not what to answer. “Take Felix with you,” said Lothario: “the little ones will cheer each other. You must be upon the road to-morrow morning early: my sister’s coach, in which my people travelled hither, is still here; I will give you horses half the way, the rest you post. A prosperous journey to you! Make many compliments from me, when you arrive: tell my sister I shall soon be back, and that she must prepare for guests. Our grand-uncle’s friend, the Marchese Cipriani, is on his way to visit us: he hoped to find the old man still in life; they meant to entertain each other with their common love of art, and the recollection of their early intimacy. The marchese, much younger than my uncle, owed to him the greater part of his accomplishments. We must exert all our endeavors to fill up, in some measure, the void which is awaiting him; and a larger party is the readiest means.”

Lothario went with the abbé to his chamber; Jarno had ridden off before; Wilhelm hastened to his room. There was none to whom he could unbosom his distress, none by whose assistance he could turn aside the project, which he viewed with so much fear. The little servant came, requesting him to pack: they were to put the luggage on to-night, meaning to set out by daybreak. Wilhelm knew not what to do: at length he cried, “Well, I shall leave this house at any rate; on the road I may consider what is to be done; at all events, I will halt in the middle of my journey; I can send a message hither, I can write what I recoil from saying, then let come of it what will.” In spite of this resolution, he spent a sleepless night: a look on Felix resting so serenely was the only thing that gave him any solace. “Oh, who knows,” cried he, “what trials are before me! who knows how sharply by-gone errors will yet punish me, how often good and reasonable projects for the future shall miscarry! But this treasure, which I call my own, continue it to me, thou exorable or inexorable Fate! Were it possible that this best part of myself were taken from me, that this heart could be torn from my heart, then farewell sense and understanding; farewell all care and foresight; vanish thou tendency to perseverance! All that distinguishes us from the beasts, pass away! And, if it is not lawful for a man to end his heavy days by the act of his own hand, may speedy madness banish consciousness, before death, which destroys it forever, shall bring on his own long night.”

He seized the boy in his arms, kissed him, clasped him, and wetted him with plenteous tears. The child awoke: his clear eye, his friendly look, touched his father to the inmost heart. “What a scene awaits me,” cried he, “when I shall present thee to the beautiful, unhappy countess, when she shall press thee to her bosom, which thy father has so deeply injured! Ought I not to fear that she will push thee from her with a cry, when a touch of thee renews her real or fancied pain?” The coachman did not leave him time for further thought or hesitation, but forced him into the carriage before day. Wilhelm wrapped his Felix well; the morning was cold but clear: the child, for the first time in his life, saw the sun rise. His astonishment at the first fiery glance of the luminary, at the growing power of the light; his pleasure and his strange remarks, - rejoiced the father, and afforded him a glimpse into the heart of the boy, before which, as over a clear and silent sea, the sun was mounting and hovering. In a little town the coachman halted, unyoked his horses, and rode back. Wilhelm took possession of a room, and asked himself seriously whether he would stay or proceed. Thus irresolute, he ventured to take out the little note, which hitherto he had never had the heart to look on: it contained the following words: “Send thy young friend very soon: Mignon for the last two days has been growing rather worse. Sad as the occasion is, I shall be happy to get acquainted with him.”

The concluding words Wilhelm, at the first glance, had not seen. He was terrified on reading them, and instantly determined not to go. “How?” cried he, “Lothario, knowing what occurred between us, has not told her who I am? She is not, with a settled mind, expecting an acquaintance, whom she would rather not see: she expects a stranger, - and I enter! I see her shudder and start back, I see her blush! No, it is impossible for me to encounter such a scene!” Just then his horses were led out and yoked: Wilhelm was determined to take off his luggage and remain. He felt extremely agitated. Hearing the maid running up stairs to tell him, as he thought, that all was ready, he began on the spur of the instant to devise some pretext for continuing: his eyes were fixed, without attention, on the letter which he still held in his hand. “In the name of Heaven!” cried he, “what is this? It is not the hand of the countess: it is the hand of the Amazon!” The maid came in, requested him to walk down, and took Felix with her. “Is it possible,” exclaimed he, “is it true? What shall I do? Remain, and wait, and certify myself? Or hasten, hasten, and rush into an explanation? Thou art on the way to her, and thou canst loiter? This night thou mayest see her, and thou wilt voluntarily lock thyself in prison? It is her hand; yes, it is hers! This hand calls thee: her coach is yoked to lead thee to her! Now the riddle is explained: Lothario has two sisters; my relation to the one he knows, how much I owe to the other is unknown to him. Nor is she aware that the wounded stroller, who stands indebted to her for his health, if not his life, has been received with such unmerited attention in her brother’s house.”

Felix, who was swinging to and fro in the coach, cried up to him, “Father! Come, oh come! Look at the pretty clouds, the pretty colors!” - “Yes, I come,” cried Wilhelm, springing down-stairs; “and all the glories of the sky, which thou, good creature, so admirest, are as nothing to the moment which I look for.” Sitting in the coach, he recalled all the circumstances of the matter to his memory. “So this is the Natalia, then, Theresa’s friend! What a discovery! what hopes, what prospects! How strange that the fear of speaking about the one sister should have altogether concealed from me the existence of the other!” With what joy he looked on Felix! He anticipated for the child, as for himself, the best reception. Evening at last came on; the sun had set; the road was not the best; the postilion drove slowly; Felix had fallen asleep, and new cares and doubts arose in the bosom of our friend. “What delusion, what fantasies, are these that rule thee!” said he to himself. “An uncertain similarity of handwriting has at once assured thee, and given thee matter for the strangest castles in the air.” He again brought out the paper; in the departing light he again imagined that he recognized the hand of the countess: his eyes could no longer find in the parts what his heart had at once shown him in the whole. “These horses, then, are running with thee to a scene of terror! Who knows but in a few hours they may have to bring thee back again? And if thou shouldst meet with her alone! But perhaps her husband will be there, perhaps the baroness! How altered will she be! Shall I not fail, and sink to the earth, at sight of her?”

Yet a faint hope that it might be his Amazon would often gleam through these gloomy thoughts. It was now night: the carriage rolled into a court-yard, and halted; a servant with a link stepped out of a stately portal, and came down the broad steps to the carriage-door. “You have been long looked for,” said he, opening it. Wilhelm dismounted, took the sleeping Felix in his arms: the first servant called to a second, who was standing in the door with a light, “Show the gentleman up to the baroness.” Quick as lightning, it went through Wilhelm’s soul, “What a happiness! Be it by accident or of purpose, the baroness is here! I shall see her first: apparently the countess has retired to rest. Ye good spirits, grant that the moment of deepest perplexity may pass tolerably over!” He entered the house: he found himself in the most earnest, and, as he almost felt, the holiest, place that he had ever trod. A pendent, dazzling lustre threw its light upon a broad and softly rising flight of stairs, which lay before him, and which parted into two divisions at a turn above. Marble statues and busts were standing upon pedestals, and arranged in niches: some of them seemed known to him. The impressions of our childhood abide with us, even in their minutest traces. He recognized a Muse, which had formerly belonged to his grandfather, not indeed by its form or worth, but by an arm which had been restored, and some new-inserted pieces of the robe.

He felt as if a fairy-tale had turned out to be true. The child was heavy in his arms: he lingered on the stairs, and knelt down, as if to place him more conveniently. His real want, however, was to get a moment’s breathing-time. He could scarcely raise himself again. The servant, who was carrying the light, offered to take Felix; but Wilhelm could not part with him. He had now mounted to an ante-chamber, in which, to his still greater astonishment, he observed the well-known picture of the sick king’s son hanging on the wall. He had scarcely time to cast a look on it: the servant hurried him along through two rooms into a cabinet. Here, behind a light-screen, which threw a shadow on her, sat a young lady reading. “Oh that it were she!” said he within himself at this decisive moment. He set down the boy, who seemed to be awakening; he meant to approach the lady; but the child sank together, drunk with sleep; the lady rose and came to him. It was the Amazon! Unable to restrain himself, he fell upon his knee, and cried, “It is she!” He seized her hand, and kissed it with unbounded rapture. The child was lying on the carpet between them, sleeping softly.

Felix was carried to the sofa: Natalia sat down beside him; she directed Wilhelm to the chair which was standing nearest them. She proposed to order some refreshments; these our friend declined: he was altogether occupied convincing himself that it was she, closely examining her features, shaded by the screen, and accurately recognizing them. She told him of Mignon’s sickness, in general terms; that the poor child was gradually consuming under the influence of a few deep feelings; that with her extreme excitability, and her endeavoring to hide it, her little heart often suffered violent and dangerous pains; that, on any unexpected agitation of her mind, this primary organ of life would suddenly stop, and no trace of the vital movement could be felt in the good child’s bosom; that, when such an agonizing cramp was past, the force of nature would again express itself in strong pulses, and now torment the child by its excess, as she had before suffered by its defect. Wilhelm recollected one spasmodic scene of that description; and Natalia referred him to the doctor, who would speak with him at large on the affair, and explain more circumstantially why he, the friend and benefactor of the child, had been at present sent for. “One curious change,” Natalia added, “you will find in her: she now wears women’s clothes, to which she had once such an aversion.”

“How did you succeed in this?” said Wilhelm. “If it was, indeed, a thing to be desired,” said she, “we owe it all to chance. Hear how it happened. Perhaps you are aware that I have constantly about me a number of little girls, whose opening minds I endeavor, as they grow in strength, to train to what is good and right. From my mouth they learn nothing but what I myself regard as true: yet I can not and would not hinder them from gathering, among other people, many fragments of the common prejudices and errors which are current in the world. If they inquire of me about them, I attempt, as far as possible, to join these alien and intrusive notions to some just one, and thus to render them, if not useful, at least harmless. Some time ago my girls had heard, among the peasants’ children, many tales of angels, of Knecht Rupert, and such shadowy characters, who, they understood, appeared at certain times in person, to give presents to good children, and to punish naughty ones. They had an idea that these strange visitants were people in disguise; in this I confirmed them: and, without entering into explanations, I determined, on the first opportunity, to let them see a spectacle of that sort. It chanced that the birthday of two twin-sisters, whose behavior had been always very good, was near: I promised, that, on this occasion, the little present they had so well deserved should be delivered to them by an angel.

They were on the stretch of curiosity regarding this phenomenon. I had chosen Mignon for the part; and accordingly, at the appointed day, I had her suitably equipped in a long, light, snow-white dress. She was, of course, provided with a golden girdle round her waist, and a golden fillet on her hair. I at first proposed to omit the wings; but the young ladies who were decking her insisted on a pair of large golden pinions, in preparing which they meant to show their highest art. Thus did the strange apparition, with a lily in the one hand, and a little basket in the other, glide in among the girls: she surprised even me. ‘There comes the angel!’ said I. The children all shrank back: at last they cried, ‘It is Mignon!’ yet they durst not venture to approach the wondrous figure.

“‘Here are your gifts,’ said she, putting down the basket. They gathered around her, they viewed, they felt, they questioned her. “‘Art thou an angel?’ asked one of them. “‘I wish I were,’ said Mignon. “‘Why dost thou bear a lily?’ “‘So pure and so open should my heart be: then were I happy.’ “‘What wings are these? Let us see them?’ “‘They represent far finer ones, which are not yet unfolded.’ “And thus significantly did she answer all their other childlike, innocent inquiries. The little party having satisfied their curiosity, and the impression of the show beginning to abate, we were for proceeding to undress the little angel. This, however, she resisted: she took her cithern; she seated herself here, on this high writing-table, and sang a little song with touching grace: - “‘Such let me seem, till such I be: Take not my snow-white dress away! Soon from this dusk of earth I flee Up to the glittering lands of day. There first a little space I rest, Then wake so glad, to scenes so kind: In earthly robes no longer drest, This band, this girdle, left behind. And those calm, shining sons of morn, They ask not who is maid or boy: No robes, no garments, there are worn; Our body pure from sin’s alloy.

Through little life not much I toiled, Yet anguish long this heart has wrung; Untimely woe my blossom spoiled: Make me again forever young.’ “I immediately determined upon leaving her the dress,” proceeded Natalia, “and procuring her some others of a similar kind. These she now wears; and in them, I think, her form has quite a different expression.” As it was already late, Natalia let the stranger go: he parted from her not without anxiety. “Is she married, or not?” asked he within himself. He had been afraid, at every rustling, that the door would open, and her husband enter. The serving-man, who showed him to his room, went off before our friend had mustered resolution to inquire regarding this. His unrest held him long awake: he kept comparing the figure of the Amazon with the figure of his new acquaintance. The two would not combine: the former he had, as it were, himself fashioned; the latter seemed as if it would almost new-fashion him.

Next morning, while all was yet quiet, he went about, viewing the house. It was the purest, finest, stateliest piece of architecture he had ever seen. “True art,” cried he, “is like good company: it constrains us in the most delightful way to recognize the measure by which, and up to which, our inward nature has been shaped by culture.” The impression which the busts and statues of his grandfather made upon him was exceedingly agreeable. With a longing mind he hastened to the picture of the sick king’s son, and he still felt it to be charming and affecting. The servant opened to him various other chambers: he found a library, a museum, a cabinet of philosophical instruments. In much of this he could not help perceiving his extreme ignorance. Meanwhile Felix had awakened, and come running after him. The thought of how and when he might receive Theresa’s letter gave him pain: he dreaded seeing Mignon, and in some degree Natalia. How unlike his present state was his state at the moment when he sealed the letter to Theresa, and with a glad heart wholly gave himself to that noble being! Natalia sent for him to breakfast. He proceeded to a room where several tidy little girls, all apparently below ten years, were occupied in furnishing a table; while another of the same appearance brought in various sorts of beverage.

Wilhelm cast his eye upon a picture hung above the sofa: he could not but recognize in it the portrait of Natalia, little as the execution satisfied him. Natalia entered, and the likeness seemed entirely to vanish. To his comfort, it was painted with the cross of a religious order on its breast; and he now saw another such upon Natalia’s. “I have just been looking at the portrait here,” said he; “and it seems surprising that a painter could have been at once so true and so false. The picture resembles you, in general, extremely well; and yet it neither has your features nor your character.” “It is rather matter of surprise,” replied Natalia, “that the likeness is so good. It is not my picture, but the picture of an aunt, whom I resembled even in childhood, though she was then advanced in years. It was painted when her age was just about what mine is: at the first glance, every one imagines it is meant for me. You should have been acquainted with that excellent lady. I owe her much. A very weak state of health, perhaps too much employment with her own thoughts, and, withal, a moral and religious scrupulosity, prevented her from being to the world what, in other circumstances, she might have become. She was a light that shone but on a few friends, and on me especially.”

“Can it be possible,” said Wilhelm, after thinking for a moment, while so many circumstances seemed to correspond so well, “can it be possible that the fair and noble Saint, whose meek confessions I had liberty to study, was your aunt?” “You read the manuscript?” inquired Natalia. “Yes,” said Wilhelm, “with the greatest sympathy, and not without effect upon my life. What most impressed me in this paper was, if I may term it so, the purity of being, not only of the writer herself, but of all that lay round her; that self-dependence of nature, that impossibility of admitting any thing into her soul which would not harmonize with its own noble, lovely tone.” “You are more tolerant to this fine spirit,” said Natalia, “nay, I will say more just, than many other men to whom the narrative has been imparted. Every cultivated person knows how much he has to strive against a certain coarseness, both in himself and others; how much his culture costs him; how apt he is, after all, in certain cases, to recollect himself alone, forgetting what he owes to others. How often has a worthy person to reproach himself for having failed to act with proper delicacy! And when a fair nature too delicately, too conscientiously, cultivates, nay, if you will, overcultivates, itself, there seems to be no toleration, no indulgence, for it in the world. Yet such persons are, without us, what the ideal of perfection is within us, - models, not for being imitated, but for being aimed at. We laugh at the cleanliness of the Dutch; but would our friend Theresa be what she is, if some such notion were not always present to her in her housekeeping?”

“I see before me, then,” cried Wilhelm, “in Theresa’s friend, the same Natalia whom her amiable relative was so attached to; the Natalia, who, from her youth, was so affectionate, so sympathizing, and helpful! It was only out of such a line that such a being could proceed. What a prospect opens before me, while I at once survey your ancestors, and all the circle you belong to!” “Yes,” replied Natalia, “in a certain sense, the story of my aunt would give you the faithfullest picture of us. Her love to me, indeed, has made her praise the little girl too much: in speaking of a child, we never speak of what is present, but of what we hope for.” Wilhelm, in the mean time, was rapidly reflecting that Lothario’s parentage and early youth were now likewise known to him. The fair countess, too, appeared before him in her childhood, with the aunt’s pearls about her neck: he himself had been near those pearls, when her soft, lovely lips bent down to meet his own. These beautiful remembrances he sought to drive away by other thoughts. He ran through the characters to whom that manuscript had introduced him. “I am here, then,” cried he, “in your worthy uncle’s house! It is no house, it is a temple; and you are the priestess, nay, the Genius, of it: I shall recollect for life my impression yesternight, when I entered, and the old figures of my earliest days were again before me.

I thought of the compassionate marble statues in Mignon’s song: but these figures had not to lament about me; they looked upon me with a lofty earnestness, they brought my first years into immediate contact with the present moment. That ancient treasure of our family, the joy of my grandfather, I find here placed among so many other noble works of art; and myself, whom nature made the darling of the good old man, my unworthy self I find here also, Heavens! in what society, in what connections!”

The girls had, by degrees, gone out to mind their little occupations. Natalia, left alone with Wilhelm, asked some further explanation of his last remark. The discovery, that a number of her finest paintings and statues had at one time been the property of Wilhelm’s grandfather, did not fail to give a cheerful stimulus to their discourse. As by that manuscript he had got acquainted with Natalia’s house; so now he found himself too, as it were, in his inheritance. At length he asked for Mignon. His friend desired him to have patience till the doctor, who had been called out into the neighborhood, returned. It is easy to suppose that the doctor was the same little, active man whom we already know, and who was spoken of in the “Confessions of a Fair Saint.” “Since I am now,” said Wilhelm, “in the middle of your family circle, I presume the abbé whom that paper mentions is the strange, inexplicable person whom, after the most singular series of events, I met with in your brother’s house? Perhaps you can give some more accurate conception of him?” “Of the abbé there might much be said,” replied Natalia: “what I know best about him, is the influence which he exerted on our education. He was, for a time at least, convinced that education ought, in every case, to be adapted to the inclinations: his present views of it I know not. He maintained, that with man the first and last consideration was activity, and that we could not act on any thing without the proper gifts for it, without an instinct impelling us to it.

‘You admit,’ he used to say, ‘that poets must be born such; you admit this with regard to all professors of the fine arts; because you must admit it, because those workings of human nature cannot very plausibly be aped. But, if we consider well, we shall find that every capability, however slight, is born with us; that there is no vague, general capability in men. It is our ambiguous, desultory education that makes men uncertain: it awakens wishes when it should be animating tendencies; instead of forwarding our real capacities, it turns our efforts towards objects which are frequently discordant with the mind that aims at them. I augur better of a child, a youth, who is wandering astray on a path of his own, than of many who are walking aright upon paths which are not theirs. If the former, either by themselves or by the guidance of others, ever find the right path, that is to say, the path which suits their nature, they will never leave it; while the latter are in danger every moment of shaking off a foreign yoke, and abandoning themselves to unrestricted license.’”

“It is strange,” said Wilhelm, “that this same extraordinary man should likewise have taken charge of me; should, as it seems, have, in his own fashion, if not led, at least confirmed, me in my errors, for a time. How he will answer to the charge of having joined with others, as it were, to make game of me, I wait patiently to see.” “Of this whim, if it is one,” said Natalia, “I have little reason to complain: of all the family I answered best with it. Indeed, I see not how Lothario could have got a finer breeding: but for my sister, the countess, some other treatment might have suited better; perhaps they should have studied to infuse more earnestness and strength into her nature. As to brother Friedrich, what is to become of him cannot be conjectured: he will fall a sacrifice, I fear, to this experiment in pedagogy.” “You have another brother, then?” cried Wilhelm. “Yes,” replied Natalia: “and a light, merry youth he is; and, as they have not hindered him from roaming up and down the world, I know not what the wild, dissipated boy will turn to. It is a great while since I saw him. The only thing which calms my fears is, that the abbé, and the whole society about my brother, are receiving constant notice where he is and what he does.”

Wilhelm was about to ask Natalia her opinion more precisely on the abbé’s paradoxes, as well as to solicit information about that mysterious society; but the physician entering changed their conversation. After the first compliments of welcome, he began to speak of Mignon. Natalia then took Felix by the hand; saying she would lead the child to Mignon, and prepare her for the entrance of her friend. The doctor, now alone with Wilhelm, thus proceeded: “I have wondrous things to tell you, such as you are not anticipating. Natalia has retired, that we might speak with greater liberty of certain matters, which, although I first learned them by her means, her presence would prevent us from discussing freely. The strange temper of the child seems to consist almost exclusively of deep longing: the desire of revisiting her native land, and the desire for you, my friend, are, I might almost say, the only earthly things about her. Both these feelings do but grasp towards an immeasurable distance, both objects lie before her unattainable. The neighborhood of Milan seems to be her home: in very early childhood she was kidnapped from her parents by a company of rope-dancers. A more distinct account we cannot get from her, partly because she was then too young to recollect the names of men and places, but especially because she has made an oath to tell no living mortal her abode and parentage. For the strolling-party, who came up with her when she had lost her way, and to whom she so accurately described her dwelling, with such piercing entreaties to conduct her home, but carried her along with them the faster;

and at night in their quarters, when they thought the child was sleeping, joked about their precious capture, declaring she would never find the way home again. On this a horrid desperation fell upon the miserable creature; but at last the Holy Virgin rose before her eyes, and promised that she would assist her. The child then swore within herself a sacred oath, that she would henceforth trust no human creature, would disclose her history to no one, but live and die in hope of immediate aid from heaven. Even this, which I am telling you, Natalia did not learn expressly from her, but gathered it from detached expressions, songs, and childlike inadvertencies, betraying what they meant to hide.”

Wilhelm called to memory many a song and word of this dear child, which he could now explain. He earnestly requested the physician to keep from him none of the confessions or mysterious poetry of this peculiar being. “Prepare yourself,” said the physician, “for a strange confession; for a story with which you, without remembering it, have much to do, and which, as I greatly fear, has been decisive for the death and life of this good creature.” “Let me hear,” said Wilhelm: “my impatience is unbounded.” “Do you recollect a secret nightly visit from a female,” said the doctor, “after your appearance in the character of Hamlet?” “Yes, I recollect it well,” cried Wilhelm, blushing; “but I did not look to be reminded of it at the present moment.” “Do you know who it was?” “I do not! You frighten me! In the name of Heaven, not Mignon, surely? Who was it? Tell me, pray.” “I know it not myself.” “No, certainly not Mignon; but Mignon was intending at the time to glide in to you, and saw with horror, from a corner where she lay concealed, a rival get before her.” “A rival!” cried our friend. “Speak on: you more and more confound me.”

“Be thankful,” said the doctor, “that you can arrive at the result so soon through means of me. Natalia and I, with but a distant interest in the matter, had distress enough to undergo before we could thus far discover the perplexed condition of the poor, dear creature, whom we wished to help. By some wanton speeches of Philina and the other girls, by a certain song which she had heard Philina sing, the child’s attention had been roused: she longed to pass a night beside the man she loved, without conceiving any thing to be implied in this beyond a happy and confiding rest. A love for you, my friend, was already keen and powerful in her little heart; in your arms, the child had found repose from many a sorrow; she now desired this happiness in all its fulness. If at one time she purposed requesting it as a favor, at another a secret horror would hold her back. At last that merry night and the excitement of abundant wine inspired her with the courage to attempt the adventure, and glide in to you on that occasion. Accordingly she ran before, to hide herself in your apartment, which was standing open; but just when she had reached the top of the stairs, having heard a rustling, she concealed herself, and saw a female in a white dress slip into your chamber. You yourself arrived soon after, and she heard you push the large bolt.

“Mignon’s agony was now unutterable: all the violent feelings of a passionate jealousy mingled themselves with the unacknowledged longing of obscure desire, and seized her half-developed nature with tremendous force. Her heart, which hitherto had beaten violently with eagerness and expectation, now at once began to falter and stop; it pressed her bosom like a heap of lead: she could not draw her breath, she knew not what to do; she heard the sound of the old man’s harp, hastened to the garret where he was, and passed the night at his feet in horrible convulsions.” The physician paused a moment: then, as Wilhelm still kept silence, he proceeded, “Natalia told me, nothing in her life had so alarmed and touched her as the state of Mignon while relating this; indeed, our noble friend accused herself of cruelty in having, by her questions and management, drawn this confession from her, and renewed by recollection the violent sorrows of the poor little girl. “‘The dear creature,’ said Natalia, ‘had scarcely come so far with her recital, or, rather, with her answers to my questions, when she sank all at once before me on the ground, and, with her hand on her bosom, piteously moaned that the pain of that excruciating night was come back. She twisted herself like a worm upon the floor; and I had to summon all my composure, that I might remember and apply such means of remedy for mind and body as were known to me.’”

“It is a painful predicament you put me in,” cried Wilhelm, “by impressing me so vividly with the feeling of my manifold injustice towards this unhappy and beloved being, at the very moment when I am again to meet her. If she is to see me, why do you deprive me of the courage to appear with freedom? And shall I confess it to you? Since her mind is so affected, I perceive not how my presence can be advantageous to her. If you, as a physician, are persuaded that this double longing has so undermined her being as to threaten death, why should I renew her sorrows by my presence, and perhaps accelerate her end?” “My friend,” replied the doctor, “where we cannot cure, it is our duty to alleviate; and how much the presence of a loved object tends to take from the imagination its destructive power, how it changes an impetuous longing to a peaceful looking, I could prove by the most convincing instances. Every thing in measure and with purpose! For, in other cases, this same presence may rekindle an affection nigh extinguished. But do you go and see the child; behave to her with kindness, and let us wait the consequence.”

Natalia, at this moment coming back, bade Wilhelm follow her to Mignon. “She appears to feel quite happy with the boy,” observed Natalia, “and I hope she will receive our friend with mildness.” Wilhelm followed, not without reluctance: he was deeply moved by what he had been hearing; he feared a stormy scene of passion. It was altogether the reverse that happened on his entrance. Mignon, dressed in long, white, women’s clothes, with her brown, copious hair partly knotted, partly clustering out in locks, was sitting with the boy Felix on her lap, and pressing him against her heart. She looked like a departed spirit, he like life itself: it seemed as if Heaven and Earth were clasping one another. She held out her hand to Wilhelm with a smile, and said, “I thank thee for bringing back the child to me: they had taken him away, I know not how; and since then I could not live. So long as my heart needs any thing on earth, thy Felix shall fill up the void.” The quietness which Mignon had displayed on meeting with her friend produced no little satisfaction in the party. The doctor signified that Wilhelm should go frequently and see her; that in body as in mind, she should be kept as equable as possible. He himself departed, promising to return soon.

Wilhelm could now observe Natalia in her own circle: one would have desired nothing better than to live beside her. Her presence had the purest influence on the girls, and young ladies of various ages, who resided with her in the house, or came to pay her visits from the neighborhood. “The progress of your life,” said Wilhelm once to her, “must always have been very even: your aunt’s delineation of you in your childhood seems, if I mistake not, still to fit. It is easy to see that you never were entangled in your path. You have never been compelled to retrograde.” “This I owe to my uncle and the abbé,” said Natalia, “who so well discriminated my prevailing turn of mind. From my youth upwards, I can recollect no livelier feeling than that I was constantly observing people’s wants, and had an irresistible desire to make them up. The child that had not learned to stand on its feet, the old man that could no longer stand on his; the longing of a rich family for children, the inability of a poor one to maintain their children; each silent wish for some particular species of employment; the impulse towards any talent; the natural gifts for many little necessary arts of life, - were sure to strike me: my eyes seemed formed by nature for detecting them. I saw such things where no one had directed my attention: I seemed born for seeing them alone. The charms of inanimate nature, to which so many persons are exceedingly susceptible, had no effect on me: the charms of art, if possible, had less. My most delightful occupation was and is, when a deficiency, a want, appeared before me anywhere, to set about devising a supply, a remedy, a help for it.

“If I saw a poor creature in rags, the superfluous clothes I had noticed hanging in the wardrobes of my friends immediately occurred to me; if I saw children wasting for want of care, I was sure to recollect some lady I had found oppressed with tedium amid riches and conveniences; if I saw too many persons crammed into a narrow space, I thought they should be lodged in the spacious chambers of palaces and vacant houses. This mode of viewing things was altogether natural, without the least reflection: so that in my childhood I often made the strangest work of it, and more than once embarrassed people by my singular proposals. Another of my peculiarities was this: I did not learn till late, and after many efforts, to consider money as a means of satisfying wants; my benefits were all distributed in kind: and my simplicity, I know, was frequently the cause of laughter. None but the abbé seemed to understand me: he met me everywhere; he made me acquainted with myself, with these wishes, these tendencies, and taught me how to satisfy them suitably.” “Do you, then,” said Wilhelm, “in the education of your little female world, employ the method of these extraordinary men? Do you, too, leave every mind to form itself? Do you, too, leave your girls to search and wander, to pursue delusions, happily to reach the goal, or miserably lose themselves in error?”

“No,” replied Natalia: “such treatment as that would altogether contradict my notions. To my mind, he who does not help us at the needful moment, never helps; he who does not counsel at the needful moment, never counsels. I also reckon it essential, that we lay down and continually impress on children certain laws, to operate as a kind of hold in life. Nay, I could almost venture to assert, that it is better to be wrong by rule, than to be wrong with nothing but the fitful caprices of our disposition to impel us hither and thither; and, in my way of viewing men, there always seems to be a void in their nature, which cannot be filled up, except by some decisive and distinctly settled law.” “Your manner of proceeding, then,” said Wilhelm, “is entirely different from the manner of our friends?” “Yes,” replied Natalia; “and you may see the unexampled tolerance of these men, from the fact, that they nowise disturb me in my practice, but leave me on my own path, simply because it is my own, and even assist me in every thing that I require of them.” A more minute description of Natalia’s plans in managing her children we reserve for some other opportunity.

Mignon often asked to be of their society; and this they granted her with greater readiness, as she appeared to be again accustoming herself to Wilhelm, to be opening her heart to him, and in general to have become more cheerful, and contented with existence. In walking, being easily fatigued, she liked to hang upon his arm. “Mignon,” she would say, “now climbs and bounds no more; yet she still longs to mount the summits of the hills, to skip from house to house, from tree to tree. How enviable are the birds! and then so prettily and socially they build their nests too!” Erelong it became habitual for her to invite her friend, more than once every day, into the garden. When Wilhelm was engaged or absent, Felix had to take his place; and, if poor Mignon seemed at times quite loosened from the earth, there were other moments when she would again hold fast to father and son, and seem to dread a separation from them more than any thing beside. Natalia wore a thoughtful look. “We meant,” said she, “to open her tender little heart, by sending for you hither. I know not whether we did prudently.” She stopped, and seemed expecting Wilhelm to say something. To him also it occurred, that, by his marriage with Theresa, Mignon, in the present circumstances, would be fearfully offended: but, in his uncertainty, he did not venture mentioning his project; he had no suspicion that Natalia knew of it.

As little could he talk with freedom, when his noble friend began to speak about her sister, to praise her good qualities, and to lament her hapless situation. He felt exceedingly embarrassed when Natalia told him he would shortly see the countess here. “Her husband,” said she, “has now no object but replacing Zinzendorf in the Community, and, by insight and activity, supporting and extending that establishment. He is coming with his wife, to take a sort of leave: he then purposes visiting the various spots where the Community have settled. They appear to treat him as he wishes: and I should not wonder if, in order to be altogether like his predecessor, he ventured, with my sister, on a voyage to America; for, being already well-nigh convinced that a little more would make a saint of him, the wish to superadd the dignity of martyrdom has probably enough often flitted through his mind.”

They had often spoken of Theresa, often mentioned her in passing; and Wilhelm almost every time was minded to confess that he had offered her his heart and hand. A certain feeling, which he was not able to explain, restrained him: he paused and wavered, till at length Natalia, with the heavenly, modest, cheerful smile she often wore, said to him, “It seems, then, I at last must break silence, and force myself into your confidence! Why, my friend, do you keep secret from me an affair of such importance to yourself, and so closely touching my concerns? You have made my friend the offer of your hand: I do not mix uncalled in the transaction; here are my credentials; here is the letter which she writes to you, which she sends you through my hands.” “A letter from Theresa!” cried he. “Yes, mein Herr! Your destiny is settled: you are happy. Let me congratulate my friend and you on your good fortune.” Wilhelm spoke not, but gazed out before him. Natalia looked at him: she saw that he was pale. “Your joy is strong,” continued she: “it takes the form of terror, it deprives you of the power to speak. My participation is not the less cordial that I show it you in words. I hope you will be grateful, for I may say my influence on the decision of your bride has not been small: she asked me for advice; and as it happened, by a singular coincidence, that you were here just then. I was enabled to destroy the few scruples she still entertained. Our messages went swiftly to and fro: here is her determination; here is the conclusion of the treaty! And now you shall read her other letters: you shall have a free, clear look into the fair heart of your Theresa.”

Wilhelm opened the letter, which she handed him unsealed. It contained these friendly words: - “I am yours, as I am and as you know me. I call you mine, as you are and as I know you. What in ourselves, what in our connection, wedlock changes, we shall study to adjust by reason, cheerfulness, and mutual good will. As it is no passion, but trust and inclination, for each other that is leading us together, we run less risk than thousands of others. You will forgive me, will you not, if I still think often and kindly of my former friend: in return, I will press your Felix to my heart, as if I were his mother. If you choose to share my little mansion straightway, we are lord and master there; and in the mean while the purchase of your land might be concluded. I could wish that no new arrangements were made in it without me. I could wish at once to prove that I deserve the confidence you repose in me. Adieu, dear, dear friend! Beloved bridegroom, honored husband! Theresa clasps you to her breast with hope and joy. My friend will tell you more, will tell you all.”

Wilhelm, to whose mind this sheet recalled the image of Theresa with the liveliest distinctness, had now recovered his composure. While reading, thoughts had rapidly alternated within his soul. With terror he discovered in his heart the most vivid traces of an inclination to Natalia: he blamed himself, declaring every thought of that description to be madness; he represented to himself Theresa in her whole perfection: he again perused the letter, he grew cheerful, or, rather, he so far regained his self-possession that he could appear cheerful. Natalia handed him the letters which had passed between Theresa and herself: out of Theresa’s we propose extracting one or two passages. After delineating her bridegroom in her own peculiar way, Theresa thus proceeded: - “Such is the notion I have formed of the man who now offers me his hand. What he thinks of himself, thou shalt see by and by in the papers he has sent me, where he altogether candidly draws his own portrait: I feel persuaded that I shall be happy with him.” “As for rank, thou knowest what my ideas have always been on this point. Some people look on disagreement of external circumstances as a fearful thing, and cannot remedy it. I wish not to persuade any one, I wish to act according to my own persuasion. I mean not to set others an example, nor do I act without example. It is interior disagreements only that frighten me: a frame that does not fit what it is meant to hold, much pomp and little real enjoyment, wealth and avarice, nobility and coarseness, youth and pedantry, poverty and ceremonies, these are the things which would annihilate me, however it may please the world to stamp and rate them.”

“If I hope that we shall suit each other, the hope is chiefly founded upon this, that he resembles thee, my dear Natalia, thee whom I so highly prize and reverence. Yes: he has thy noble searching and striving for the better, whereby we of ourselves produce the good which we suppose we find. How often have I blamed thee, not in silence, for treating this or that person, for acting in this or that case, otherwise than I should have done; and yet, in general, the issue showed that thou wert right. ‘When we take people,’ thou wouldst say, ‘merely as they are, we make them worse: when we treat them as if they were what they should be, we improve them as far as they can be improved.’ To see or to act thus, I know full well is not for me. Skill, order, discipline, direction, that is my affair. I always recollect what Jarno said: ‘Theresa trains her pupils, Natalia forms them.’ Nay, once he went so far as to assert that of the three fair qualities, faith, love, and hope, I was entirely destitute. ‘Instead of faith,’ said he, ‘she has penetration; instead of love, she has steadfastness; instead of hope, she has trust.’ Indeed, I will confess, that, till I knew thee, I knew nothing higher in the world than clearness and prudence: it was thy presence only that persuaded, animated, conquered me; to thy fair, lofty soul I willingly give place.

My friend, too, I honor on the same principle: the description of his life is a perpetual seeking without finding, - not empty seeking, but wondrous, generous seeking; he fancies others may give him what can proceed from himself alone. So, love, the clearness of my vision has not injured me on this occasion more than others: I know my husband better than he knows himself, and I value him the more. I see him, yet I see not over him: all my skill will not enable me to judge of what he can accomplish. When I think of him, his image always blends itself with thine: I know not how I have deserved to belong to two such persons. But I will deserve it, by endeavoring to do my duty by fulfilling what is looked for from me.”

“If I recollect of Lothario? Vividly and daily. In the company which in thought surrounds me, I cannot want him for a moment. Oh, what a pity for this noble character, related by an error of his youth to me, that nature has related him to thee! A being such as thou, in truth, were worthier of him than I. To thee I could, I would, surrender him. Let us be to him all we can, till he find a proper wife; and then, too, let us be, let us abide, together.” “But what shall we say to our friends?” began Natalia. “Your brother does not know of it?” - “Not a hint; your people know as little; we women have, on this occasion, managed the affair ourselves. Lydia had put some whims into Theresa’s head concerning Jarno and the abbé. There are certain plans and secret combinations, with the general scheme of which I am acquainted, and into which I never thought of penetrating farther. With regard to these, Theresa has, through Lydia, taken up some shadow of suspicion: so in this decisive step she would not suffer any one but me to influence her. With my brother it had been already settled that they should merely announce their marriages to one another, not giving or asking counsel on the subject.”

Natalia wrote a letter to her brother: she invited Wilhelm to subjoin a word or two, Theresa having so desired it. They were just about to seal, when Jarno unexpectedly sent up his name. His reception was, of course, as kind as possible: he wore a sportful, merry air; he could not long forbear to tell his errand. “I am come,” said he, “to give you very curious and very pleasing tidings: they concern Theresa. You have often blamed us, fair Natalia, for troubling our heads about so many things; but now you see how good it is to have one’s spies in every place. Guess, and let us see your skill for once!” The self-complacency with which he spoke these words, the roguish mien with which he looked at Wilhelm and Natalia, persuaded both of them that he had found their secret. Natalia answered, smiling, “We are far more skilful than you think: before we even heard your riddle, we had put the answer to it down in black and white.” With these words she handed him the letter to Lothario, satisfied at having met, in this way, the little triumph and surprise he had meant for them. Jarno took the sheet with some astonishment, ran it quickly over, started, let it drop from his hands, and stared at both his friends with an expression of amazement, nay, of fright, which, on his countenance, was rare. He spoke no word.

Wilhelm and Natalia were not a little struck: Jarno stepped up and down the room. “What shall I say?” cried he, “or shall I say it all? But it must come out: the perplexity is not to be avoided. So secret for secret, surprise against surprise! Theresa is not the daughter of her reputed mother! The hinderance is removed: I came to ask you to prepare her for a marriage with Lothario.” Jarno saw the shock which he had given his friends: they cast their eyes upon the ground. “The present case,” said he, “is one of those which are worse to bear in company. What each has to consider in it, he considers best in solitude: I, at least, require an hour of leave.” He hastened to the garden: Wilhelm followed him mechanically, yet without approaching near. At the end of an hour they were again assembled. Wilhelm opened the conversation. “Formerly,” said he, “while I was living without plan or object, in a state of carelessness, or, I may say, of levity, friendship, love, affection, trust, came towards me with open arms, they pressed themselves upon me; but now, when I am serious, destiny appears to take another course with me. This resolution, of soliciting Theresa’s hand, is probably the first that has proceeded altogether from myself. I laid my plan considerately; my reason fully joined in it: by the consent of that noble maiden, all my hopes were crowned. But now the strangest fate puts back my outstretched hand: Theresa reaches hers to me, but from afar, as in a dream; I cannot grasp it, and the lovely image leaves me forever. So fare thee well, thou lovely image! and all ye images of richest happiness that gathered round it!”

He was silent for a moment, looking out before him: Jarno was about to speak. “Let me have another word,” cried Wilhelm, “for the lot is drawing which is to decide the destiny of all my life. At this moment, I am aided and confirmed by the impression which Lothario’s presence made upon me at the first glance, and which has ever since continued with me. That man well merits every sort of friendship and affection; and, without sacrifices, friendship cannot be imagined. For his sake, it was easy for me to delude a hapless girl; for his sake, it shall be possible for me to give away the worthiest bride. Return, relate the strange occurrence to him, and tell him what I am prepared for.” “In emergencies like this,” said Jarno, “I hold that every thing is done, if one do nothing rashly. Let us take no step till Lothario has agreed to it. I will go to him: wait patiently for my return or for his letter.” He rode away, and left his friends in great disquiet. They had time to reconsider these events, to think of them maturely. It now first occurred to them, that they had taken Jarno’s statement simply by itself, and without inquiring into any of the circumstances. Wilhelm was not altogether free from doubts; but next day their astonishment, nay, their bewilderment, arose still higher, when a messenger, arriving from Theresa, brought the following letter to Natalia.

“Strange as it may seem, after all the letters I have sent, I am obliged to send another, begging that thou wouldst despatch my bridegroom to me instantly. He shall be my husband, what plans soever they may lay to rob me of him. Give him the enclosed letter, only not before witnesses, whoever they may be!” The enclosed letter was as follows: “What opinion will you form of your Theresa, when you see her all at once insisting passionately on a union which calm reason alone appeared to have appointed? Let nothing hinder you from setting out the moment you have read this letter. Come, my dear, dear friend; now three times dearer, since they are attempting to deprive me of you.” “What is to be done?” cried Wilhelm, after he had read the letter. “In no case that I remember,” said Natalia, after some reflection, “have my heart and judgment been so dumb as in this: what to do or to advise I know not.” “Can it be,” cried Wilhelm vehemently, “that Lothario does not know of it? or, if he does, that he is but like us, the sport of hidden plans? Has Jarno, when he saw our letter, devised that fable on the spot? Would he have told us something different, if we had not been so precipitate? What can they mean? What intentions can they have? What plan can Theresa mean? Yes, it must be owned, Lothario is begirt with secret influences and combinations:

I myself have found that they are active, that they take a certain charge of the proceedings, of the destiny, of several people, and contrive to guide them. The ulterior objects of these mysteries I know not; but their nearest purpose, that of snatching my Theresa from me, I perceive but too distinctly. On the one hand, this prospect of Lothario’s happiness, which they exhibit to me, may be but a hollow show: on the other hand, I see my dear, my honored bride inviting me to her affection. What shall I do? What shall I forbear?”

“A little patience!” said Natalia: “a little time for thought. In these singular perplexities I know but this, that what can never be recalled should not be done in haste. To a fable, to an artful plan, we have steadfastness and prudence to oppose: whether Jarno has been speaking true or false must soon appear. If my brother has actually hopes of a union with Theresa, it were hard to cut him off forever from that prospect at the moment when it seems so kindly inviting him. Let us wait at least till we discover whether he himself knows any thing of it, whether he believes and hopes.” These prudent counsels were confirmed by a letter from Lothario. “I do not send Jarno,” he wrote: “a line from my hand is more to thee than the minutest narrative in the mouth of a messenger. I am certain Theresa is not the daughter of her reputed mother; and I cannot renounce hope of being hers, till she, too, is persuaded, and can then decide between my friend and me, with calm consideration. Let him not leave thee, I entreat it! The happiness, the life, of a brother is at stake. I promise thee, this uncertainty shall not be long.”

“You see how the matter stands,” said she to Wilhelm, with a friendly air: “give me your word of honor that you will not leave the house!” “I give it!” cried he, stretching out his hand: “I will not leave this house against your will. I thank Heaven, and my better Genius, that on this occasion I am led, and led by you.” Natalia wrote Theresa an account of every thing, declaring that she would not let her friend away. She sent Lothario’s letter also. Theresa answered, “I wondered not a little that Lothario is himself convinced: to his sister he would not feign to this extent. I am vexed, greatly vexed. It is better that I say no more. But I will come to thee, so soon as I have got poor Lydia settled: they are treating her cruelly. I fear we are all betrayed, and shall be so betrayed that we shall never reach the truth. If my friend were of my opinion, he would give thee the slip after all, and throw himself into the arms of his Theresa, whom none shall take away from him. But I, as I dread, shall lose him, and not regain Lothario. From the latter they are taking Lydia by showing him, afar off, the prospect of obtaining me. I will say no more: the entanglement will grow still deeper. Whether, in the mean time, these delightful positions in which we stand to each other may not be so pushed awry, so undermined and broken down, that, when the darkness passes off, the mischief can no longer admit of remedy, time will show.

If my friend do not break away, in a few days I myself will come and seek him out beside thee, and hold him fast. Thou marvellest how this passion can have gained the mastery of thy Theresa. It is no passion, but conviction: it is a belief, that, since Lothario can never be mine, this new friend will make me happy. Tell him so, in the name of the little boy that sat with him underneath the oak, and thanked him for his sympathy. Tell it him in the name of Theresa, who met his offers with a hearty openness. My first dream of living with Lothario has wandered far away from my soul: the dream of living with my other friend is yet wholly present to me. Do they hold me so light as to think that it were easy to exchange the former with the latter?”

“I depend on you,” said Natalia to Wilhelm, handing him the letter: “you will not leave me. Consider that the comfort of my life is in your hands. My being is so intimately bound and interwoven with my brother’s, that he feels no sorrow which I do not feel, no joy which does not likewise gladden me. Nay, I may truly say, through him alone I have experienced that the heart can be affected and exalted; that in the world there may be joy, love, and an emotion which contents the soul beyond its utmost want.” She stopped: Wilhelm took her hand, and cried, “Oh, continue! This is the time for a true, mutual disclosure of our thoughts: it never was more necessary for us to be well acquainted with each other.” “Yes, my friend!” said she, smiling, with her quiet, soft, indescribable dignity: “perhaps it is not out of season, if I tell you that the whole of what so many books, of what the world, holds up to us and names love, has always seemed to me a fable.” “You have never loved?” cried Wilhelm. “Never or always!” said Natalia.

During this conversation they kept walking up and down the garden; and Natalia gathered various flowers of singular forms, entirely unknown to Wilhelm, who began to ask their names, and occupy himself about them. “You know not,” said Natalia, “for whom I have been plucking these? I intend them for my uncle, whom we are to visit. The sun is shining even now so bright on the Hall of the Past, I must lead you in this moment; and I never go to it without a few of the flowers which my uncle liked particularly, in my hand. He was a peculiar man, susceptible of very strange impressions. For certain plants and animals, for certain neighborhoods and persons, nay, for certain sorts of minerals, he had an especial love, which he was rarely able to explain. ‘Had I not,’ he would often say, ‘from youth, withstood myself, and striven to form my judgment upon wide and general principles, I had been the narrowest and most intolerable person living. For nothing can be more intolerable than circumscribed peculiarity, in one from whom a pure and suitable activity might be required.’ And yet he was obliged to confess that life and breath would, as it were, leave him, if he did not now and then indulge himself, not from time to time allow himself a brief and passionate enjoyment of what he could not always praise and justify. ‘It is not my fault,’ said he, ‘if I have not brought my inclinations and my reason into perfect harmony.’ On such occasions he would joke with me, and say, ‘Natalia may be looked upon as happy while she lives: her nature asks nothing which the world does not wish and use.’”

So speaking, they arrived again at the house. Natalia led him through a spacious passage to a door, before which lay two granite sphinxes. The door itself was in the Egyptian fashion, somewhat narrower above than below; and its brazen leaves prepared one for a serious or even a gloomy feeling. Wilhelm was, in consequence, agreeably surprised, when his expectation issued in a sentiment of pure, cheerful serenity, as he entered a hall where art and life took away all recollection of death and the grave. In the walls all round, a series of proportionable arches had been hollowed out, and large sarcophaguses stood in them: among the pillars in the intervals between them smaller openings might be seen, adorned with urns and similar vessels. The remaining spaces of the walls and vaulted roof were regularly divided; and between bright and variegated borders, within garlands and other ornaments, a multitude of cheerful and significant figures had been painted upon grounds of different sizes. The body of the edifice was covered with that fine, yellow marble, which passes into reddish: clear blue stripes of a chemical substance, happily imitating azure stone, while they satisfied the eye with contrast, gave unity and combination to the whole. All this pomp and decoration showed itself in the chastest architectural forms: and thus every one who entered felt as if exalted above himself; while the co-operating products of art, for the first time, taught him what man is and what he may become.

Opposite the door, on a stately sarcophagus, lay a marble figure of a noble-looking man, reclined upon a pillow. He held a roll before him, and seemed to look at it with still attention. It was placed so that you could read with ease the words which stood there: Think of living. Natalia took away a withered bunch of flowers, and laid the fresh one down before the figure of her uncle. For it was her uncle whom the marble represented. Wilhelm thought he recognized the features of the venerable gentleman whom he had seen when lying wounded in the green of the forest. “Here he and I passed many an hour,” said Natalia, “while the hall was getting ready. In his latter years, he had gathered several skilful artists round him; and his chief delight was to invent or superintend the drawings and cartoons for these pictures.” Wilhelm could not satisfy himself with looking at the objects which surrounded him. “What a life,” exclaimed he, “in this Hall of the Past! One might with equal justice name it Hall of the Present and the Future. Such all were, such all will be. There is nothing transitory but the individual who looks at and enjoys it. Here, this figure of the mother pressing her infant to her bosom will survive many generations of happy mothers. Centuries hence, perhaps some father will take pleasure in contemplating this bearded man, who has laid aside his seriousness, and is playing with his son. Thus shame-faced will the bride sit for ages, and, amid her silent wishes, need that she be comforted, that she be spoken to; thus impatient will the bridegroom listen on the threshold whether he may enter.”

The figures Wilhelm was surveying with such rapture were of almost boundless number and variety. From the first jocund impulse of the child, merely to employ its every limb in sport, up to the peaceful, sequestered earnestness of the sage, you might, in fair and living order, see delineated how man possesses no capacity or tendency without employing and enjoying it. From the first soft, conscious feeling, when the maiden lingers in pulling up her pitcher, and looks with satisfaction at her image in the clear fountain, to those high solemnities when kings and nations invoke the gods at the altar to witness their alliances, all was depicted, all was forcible and full of meaning. It was a world, it was a heaven, that in this abode surrounded the spectator; and beside the thoughts which those polished forms suggested, beside the feelings they awoke, there still seemed something further to be present, something by which the whole man felt himself laid hold of. Wilhelm, too, observed this, though unable to account for it. “What is this,” exclaimed he, “which independently of all signification, without any sympathy that human incidents and fortunes may inspire us with, acts on me so strongly and so gracefully? It speaks to me from the whole, it speaks from every part; though I have not fully understood the former, though I do not specially apply the latter to myself. What enchantment breathes from these surfaces, these lines, these heights and breadths, these masses and colors! What is it that makes these figures so delightful, even when slightly viewed, and merely in the light of decorations? Yes, I feel it: one might tarry here, might rest, might view the whole, and be happy; and yet feel and think something altogether different from aught that stood before his eyes.”

And certainly, if we were able to describe how happily the whole was subdivided, how every thing determined by its place, by combination or by contrast, by uniformity or by variety, appeared exactly as it should have done, producing an effect as perfect as distinct, we should transport the reader to a scene from which he would not be in haste to stir. Four large marble candelabras rose in the corners of the hall: four smaller ones were in the midst of it, around a very beautifully worked sarcophagus, which, judging from its size, might once have held a young person of middle stature. Natalia paused beside this monument: she laid her hand upon it as she said, “My worthy uncle had a great attachment to this fine antique. ‘It is not,’ he would often say, ‘the first blossoms alone that drop; such you can keep above, in these little spaces; but fruits also, which, hanging on their twigs, long give us the fairest hope, whilst a secret worm is preparing their too early ripeness and their quick decay.’ I fear,” continued she, “his words have been prophetic of that dear little girl, who seems withdrawing gradually from our cares, and bending to this peaceful dwelling.”

As they were about to go, Natalia stopped, and said, “There is something still which merits your attention. Observe these half-round openings aloft on both sides. Here the choir can stand concealed while singing: these iron ornaments below the cornice serve for fastening on the tapestry, which, by order of my uncle, must be hung round at every burial. Music, particularly song, was a pleasure he could not live without; and it was one of his peculiarities, that he wished the singer not to be in view. ‘In this respect,’ he would say, ‘they spoil us at the theatre: the music there is, as it were, subservient to the eye; it accompanies movements, not emotions. In oratorios and concerts, the form of the musician constantly disturbs us; true music is intended for the ear alone: a fine voice is the most universal thing that can be figured; and, while the narrow individual that uses it presents himself before the eye, he cannot fail to trouble the effect of that pure universality. The person whom I am to speak with, I must see; because it is a solitary man, whose form and character give worth or worthlessness to what he says: but, on the other hand, whoever sings to me must be invisible; his form must not confuse me, or corrupt my judgment. Here it is but one human organ speaking to another: it is not spirit speaking to spirit, not a thousand-fold world to the eye, not a heaven to the man.’ On the same principles, in respect of instrumental music, he required that the orchestra should as much as possible be hid; because, by the mechanical exertions, by the mean and awkward gestures of the performers, our feelings are so much dispersed and perplexed. Accordingly, he always used to shut his eyes while hearing music; thereby to concentrate his whole being on the single pure enjoyment of the ear.”

They were about to leave the hall, when they heard the children running hastily along the passage, and Felix crying, “No, I! No, I!” Mignon rushed in at the open door: she was foremost, but out of breath, and could not speak a word. Felix, still at some distance, shouted out, “Mamma Theresa is come!” The children had run a race, as it seemed, to bring the news. Mignon was lying in Natalia’s arms: her heart was beating vehemently. “Naughty child,” said Natalia, “art thou not forbidden to make violent exertions? See how thy heart is beating!” “Let it break!” said Mignon with a deep sigh: “it has beat too long.” They had scarcely composed themselves from this surprise, this sort of consternation, when Theresa entered. She flew to Natalia, clasped her and Mignon in her arms. Then, turning round to Wilhelm, she looked at him with her clear eyes, and said, “Well, my friend, how it is with you? You have not let them cheat you?” He made a step towards her: she sprang to him, and hung upon his neck. “O my Theresa!” cried he. “My friend, my love, my husband! Yes, forever thine!” cried she, amid the warmest kisses.

Felix pulled her by the gown, and cried, “Mamma Theresa, I am here too!” Natalia stood, and looked before her: Mignon on a sudden clapped her left hand on her heart, and, stretching out the right arm violently, fell with a shriek at Natalia’s feet, as dead. The fright was great: no motion of the heart or pulse was to be traced. Wilhelm took her on his arm, and hastily carried her away: the body hung lax over his shoulders. The presence of the doctor was of small avail: he and the young surgeon, whom we know already, strove in vain. The dear little creature could not be recalled to life. Natalia beckoned to Theresa: the latter took her friend by the hand, and led him from the room. He was dumb, not uttering a word: he durst not meet her eyes. He sat down with her upon the sofa, where he had first found Natalia. He thought with great rapidity along a series of fateful incidents, or, rather, he did not think, but let his soul be worked on by the thoughts which would not leave it. There are moments in life when past events, like winged shuttles, dart to and fro before us, and by their incessant movements weave a web which we ourselves, in a greater or less degree, have spun and put upon the loom. “My friend, my love!” said Theresa, breaking silence, as she took him by the hand, “let us stand together firmly in this hour, as we perhaps shall often have to do in similar hours.

These are occurrences which it takes two united hearts to suffer. Think, my friend, feel, that thou art not alone: show that thou lovest thy Theresa by imparting thy sorrows to her!” She embraced him, and drew him softly to her bosom: he clasped her in his arms, and pressed her strongly towards him. “The poor child,” cried he, “used in mournful moments to seek shelter and protection in my unstable bosom: let the stability of thine assist me in this heavy hour.” They held each other fast; he felt her heart beat against his breast; but in his spirit all was desolate and void: only the figures of Mignon and Natalia flitted like shadows across the waste of his imagination.

Natalia entered. “Give us thy blessing!” cried Theresa: “let us, in this melancholy moment, be united before thee!” Wilhelm had hid his face upon Theresa’s neck: he was so far relieved that he could weep. He did not hear Natalia come; he did not see her; but, at the sound of her voice, his tears redoubled. “What God has joined I will not part,” she answered, smiling, “but to unite you is not in my power: nor am I gratified to see that sorrow and sympathy seem altogether to have banished from your hearts the recollection of my brother.” At these words, Wilhelm started from Theresa’s arms. “Whither are you going?” cried the ladies. “Let me see the child,” said he, “whom I have killed! Misfortune, when we look upon it with our eyes, is smaller than when our imagination sinks the evil down into the recesses of the soul. Let us view the departed angel! Her serene countenance will say to us that it is well with her.” As his friends could not restrain the agitated youth, they followed him; but the worthy doctor with the surgeon met them, and prevented them from coming near the dead. “Keep away from this mournful object,” said he, “and allow me, so far as I am able, to give some continuance to these remains. On this dear and singular being I will now display the beautiful art, not only of embalming bodies, but of retaining in them a look of life. As I foresaw her death, the preparations are already made: with these helps I shall undoubtedly succeed. Give me but a few days, and ask not to see the child again till I have brought her to the Hall of the Past.”

The young surgeon had in his hands that well-known case of instruments. “From whom can he have got it?” Wilhelm asked the doctor. “I know it very well,” replied Natalia: “he has it from his father, who dressed your wounds when we found you in the forest.” “Then, I have not been mistaken! I recognized the band at once!” cried Wilhelm. “Oh, get it for me! It was this that first gave me any hint of my unknown benefactress. What weal and woe will such a thing survive! Beside how many sorrows has this band already been, and its threads still hold together! How many men’s last moments has it witnessed, and its colors are not yet faded! It was near me in one of the fairest hours of my existence, when I lay wounded on the ground, and your helpful form appeared before me, and the child whom we are now lamenting sat with its bloody hair, busied with the tenderest care to save my life!” It was not long that our friends could converse about this sad occurrence, that Theresa could inquire about the child, and the probable cause of its unexpected death; for strangers were announced, who, on making their appearance, proved to be well-known strangers. Lothario, Jarno, and the abbé entered. Natalia met her brother: among the rest there was a momentary silence. Theresa, smiling on Lothario, said, “You scarcely expected to find me here; of course, it would not have been advisable that we should visit one another at the present time: however, after such an absence, take my cordial welcome.”

Lothario took her hand, and answered, “If we are to suffer and renounce, it may as well take place in the presence of the object whom we love and wish for. I desire no influence on your determination: my confidence in your heart, in your understanding, and clear sense, is still so great, that I willingly commit to your disposal my fate and that of my friend.” The conversation turned immediately to general, nay, we may say, to trivial, topics. The company soon separated into single pairs, for walking. Natalia was with her brother, Theresa with the abbé: our friend was left with Jarno in the castle. The appearance of the guests at the moment when a heavy sorrow was oppressing Wilhelm had, instead of dissipating his attention, irritated him, and made him worse: he was fretful and suspicious, and unable or uncareful to conceal it, when Jarno questioned him about his sulky silence. “What is the use of saying more?” cried Wilhelm. “Lothario with his helpers is come; and it were strange if those mysterious watchmen of the tower, who are constantly so busy, did not now exert their influence on us, to effect I know not what strange purpose. So far as I have known these saintly gentlemen, it seems to be in every case their laudable endeavor to separate the united and to unite the separated. What sort of web their weaving will produce may probably to unholy eyes be forever a riddle.”

“You are cross and bitter,” said the other: “that is as it should be. Would you get into a proper passion, it were still better.” “That, too, might come about,” said Wilhelm: “I fear much some of you are in the mind to load my patience, natural and acquired, beyond what it will bear.” “In the mean time,” said the other, “till we see what is to be the issue of the matter, I could like to tell you somewhat of the tower which you appear to view with such mistrust.” “It stands with you,” said Wilhelm, “whether you will risk your eloquence on an attention so distracted. My mind is so engaged at present, that I know not whether I can take a proper interest in these very dignified adventures.” “Your pleasing humor shall not hinder me,” said Jarno, “from explaining this affair to you. You reckon me a clever fellow; I want to make you reckon me an honest one: and, what is more, on this occasion I am bidden speak.” - “I could wish,” said Wilhelm, “that you did it of yourself, and with an honest purpose to inform me; but, as I cannot hear without suspicion, wherefore should I hear at all?” - “If I have nothing better to do,” said Jarno, “than tell you stories, you, too, have time to listen to me; and to this you may perhaps feel more inclined, when I assure you, that all you saw in the tower was but the relics of a youthful undertaking, in regard to which the greater part of the initiated were once in deep earnest, though all of them now view it with a smile.”

“So, with these pompous signs and words, you do but mock?” cried Wilhelm. “With a solemn air, you lead us to a place inspiring reverence by its aspect; you make the strangest visions pass before us; you give us rolls full of glorious mystic apothegms, of which, in truth, we understand but little; you disclose to us, that hitherto we have been pupils; you solemnly pronounce us free; and we are just as wise as we were.” - “Have you not the parchment by you?” said the other. “It contains a deal of sense: those general apothegms were not picked up at random, though they seem obscure and empty to a man without experiences to recollect while reading them. But give me the Indenture, as we call it, if it is at hand.” - “Quite at hand,” cried Wilhelm: “such an amulet well merits being worn upon one’s breast.” - “Well,” said Jarno, smiling, “who knows whether the contents of it may not one day find place in your head and heart?” He opened the roll, and glanced over the first half of it. “This,” said he, “regards the cultivation of our gifts for art and science, of which let others speak: the second treats of life; here I am more at home.”

He then began to read passages, speaking between whiles, and connecting them with his remarks and narrative. “The taste of youth for secrecy, for ceremonies, for imposing words, is extraordinary, and frequently bespeaks a certain depth of character. In those years we wish to feel our whole nature seized and moved, even though it be but vaguely and darkly. The youth who happens to have lofty aspirations and forecastings thinks that secrets yield him much, that he must depend much on secrets, and effect much by means of them. It was with such views that the abbé favored a certain society of young men, partly according to his principle of aiding every tendency of nature, partly out of habit and inclination; for in former times he had himself been joined to an association which appears to have accomplished many things in secret. For this business I was least of all adapted. I was older than the rest; from youth I had thought clearly; I wished in all things nothing more than clearness; I felt no interest in men but to know them as they were. With the same taste I gradually infected all the best of our associates, and this circumstance had almost given a false direction to our plan of culture. For we now began to look at nothing but the errors and the narrowness of others, and to think ourselves a set of highly gifted personages. Here the abbé came to our assistance:

he taught us that we never should inspect the conduct of men, unless we at the same time took an interest in improving it; and that through action only could we ever be in a condition to inspect and watch ourselves. He advised us, however, to retain the primary forms of the society: hence there was still a sort of law in our proceedings; the first mystic impressions might be traced in the constitution of the whole. At length, as by a practical similitude, it took the form of a corporate trade, whose business was the arts. Hence came the names of apprentices, assistants, and masters. We wished to see with our own eyes, and to form for ourselves, a special record of our own experience in the world. Hence those numerous confessions which in part we ourselves wrote, in part made others write, and out of which the several Apprenticeships were afterwards compiled. The formation of his character is not the chief concern with every man. Many merely wish to find a sort of recipe for comfort, directions for acquiring riches, or whatever good they aim at. All such, when they would not be instructed in their proper duties, we were wont to mystify, to treat with juggleries, and every sort of hocus-pocus, and at length to shove aside. We advanced none to the rank of masters, but such as clearly felt and recognized the purpose they were born for, and had got enough of practice to proceed along their way with a certain cheerfulness and ease.”

“In my case, then,” cried Wilhelm, “your ceremony has been very premature; for, since the day when you pronounced me free, what I can, will, or shall do has been more unknown to me than ever.” - “We are not to blame for this perplexity: perhaps good fortune will deliver us. In the mean time, listen: ‘He in whom there is much to be developed will be later in acquiring true perceptions of himself and of the world. There are few who at once have Thought and the capacity of Action. Thought expands, but lames: Action animates, but narrows.’” “I beg of you,” cried Wilhelm, “not to read me any more of that surprising stuff. These phrases have sufficiently confused me before.” - “I will stick by my story, then,” said Jarno, half rolling up the parchment, into which, however, he kept casting frequent glances. “I myself have been of less service to the cause of our society, and of my fellow-men, than any other member. I am but a bad school-master: I cannot bear to look on people making awkward trials; when I see a person wander from his path, I feel constrained to call to him, although it were a night-walker going straight to break his neck. On this point I had a continual struggle with the abbé, who maintains that error can never be cured, except by erring. About you, too, we often argued. He had taken an especial liking to you, and it is saying something to have caught so much of his attention.

For me, you must admit, that every time we met I told you just the naked truth.” - “Certainly, you spared me very little,” said the other; “and I think you still continue faithful to your principles.” - “What is the use of sparing,” answered Jarno, “when a young man of many good endowments is taking a quite false direction?” - “Pardon me,” said Wilhelm: “you have rigorously enough denied me any talent for the stage; I confess to you, that, though I have entirely renounced the art, I cannot think myself entirely incapable.” - “And with me,” said Jarno, “it is well enough decided, that a person who can only play himself is no player. Whoever cannot change himself, in temper and in form, into many forms, does not deserve the name. Thus you, for example, acted Hamlet, and some other characters, extremely well; because, in these, your form, your disposition, and the temper of the moment, suited. For an amateur theatre, for any one who saw no other way before him, this would, perhaps, have answered well enough. But,” continued Jarno, looking on the roll, “‘we should guard against a talent which we cannot hope to practise in perfection. Improve it as we may, we shall always, in the end, when the merit of the master has become apparent to us, painfully lament the loss of time and strength devoted to such botching.’”

“Do not read!” cried Wilhelm: “I entreat you earnestly, speak on, tell, inform me! So, the abbé aided me in Hamlet: he provided me a Ghost?” - “Yes; for he asserted that it was the only way of curing you, if you were curable.” - “And on this account he left the veil, and bade me flee?” - “Yes: he hoped, that, having fairly acted Hamlet, your desire of acting would be satiated. He maintained that you would never go upon the stage again: I believed the contrary, and I was right. We argued on the subject that very evening, when the play was over.” - “You saw me act, then?” - “I did indeed.” - “And who was it that played the Ghost?” - “That I cannot tell you: either the abbé or his twin-brother; but I think the latter, for he is a little taller.” - “You, then, have secrets from each other?” - “Friends may and must have secrets from, but they are not secrets to, each other.” “The very thought of that perplexity perplexes me. Let me understand the man to whom I owe so many thanks as well as such reproaches.” “What gives him such a value in our estimation,” answered Jarno, “what, in some degree, secures him the dominion over all of us, is the free, sharp eye that nature has bestowed on him, for all the powers which dwell in man, and are susceptible of cultivation, each according to its kind. Most men, even the most accomplished, are but limited: each prizes certain properties in others and himself;

these alone he favors, these alone will he have cultivated. Directly the reverse is the procedure of our abbé: for every gift he has a feeling; every gift he delights to recognize and forward. But I must look into my roll again! ‘It is all men that make up mankind, all powers taken together that make up the world. These are frequently at variance; and, as they endeavor to destroy each other, Nature holds them together, and again produces them. From the first animal tendency to handicraft attempts, up to the highest practising of intellectual art; from the inarticulate crowings of the happy infant, up to the polished utterance of the orator and singer; from the first bickerings of boys, up to the vast equipments by which countries are conquered and retained; from the slightest kindliness, and the most transitory love, up to the fiercest passion, and the most earnest covenant; from the merest perception of sensible presence, up to the faintest presentiments and hopes of the remotest spiritual future, - all this, and much more also, lies in man, and must be cultivated, yet not in one, but in many. Every gift is valuable, and ought to be unfolded. When one encourages the beautiful alone, and another encourages the useful alone, it takes them both to form a man. The useful encourages itself; for the multitude produce it, and no one can dispense with it: the beautiful must be encouraged; for few can set it forth, and many need it.’”

“Hold! Hold!” cried Wilhelm: “I have read it all.” - “Yet a line or two!” said Jarno. “Here is our worthy abbé to a hair’s-breadth: ‘One power rules another, none can cultivate another: in each endowment, and not elsewhere, lies the force which must complete it; this many people do not understand, who yet attempt to teach and influence.’” - “Nor do I understand it,” answered Wilhelm. - “You will often hear the abbé preach on this text; and, therefore, ‘Let us merely keep a clear and steady eye on what is in ourselves, on what endowments of our own we mean to cultivate: let us be just to others, for we ourselves are only to be valued in so far as we can value.’” - “For Heaven’s sake, no more of these wise saws! I feel them to be but a sorry balsam for a wounded heart. Tell me, rather, with your cruel settledness, what you expect of me, how, and in what manner, you intend to sacrifice me.” - “For every such suspicion, I assure you, you will afterwards beg our pardon. It is your affair to try and choose: it is ours to aid you. A man is never happy till his vague striving has itself marked out its proper limitation. It is not to me that you must look, but to the abbé: it is not of yourself that you must think, but of what surrounds you. Thus, for instance, learn to understand Lothario’s superiority; how his quick and comprehensive vision is inseparably united with activity;

how he constantly advances; how he expands his influence, and carries every one along with him. Wherever he may be, he bears a world about with him: his presence animates and kindles. Observe our good physician, on the other hand. His nature seems to be directly the reverse. If the former only works upon the general whole, and at a distance, the latter turns his piercing eye upon the things that are beside him: he rather furnishes the means for being active, than himself displays or stimulates activity. His conduct is exactly like the conduct of a good domestic manager: he is busied silently, while he provides for each in his peculiar sphere; his knowledge is a constant gathering and expanding, a taking in and giving out on a small scale. Perhaps Lothario in a single day might overturn what the other had for years been employed in building up; but perhaps Lothario also might impart to others, in a moment, strength sufficient to restore a hundred-fold what he had overturned.” - “It is but a sad employment,” answered Wilhelm, “to contemplate the sublime advantages of others, at a moment when we are at variance with ourselves. Such contemplations suit the man at ease, not him whom passion and uncertainty are agitating.” - “Peacefully and reasonably to contemplate is at no time hurtful,” answered Jarno: “and, while we use ourselves to think of the advantages of others, our own mind comes insensibly to imitate them;

and every false activity, to which our fancy was alluring us, is then willingly abandoned. Free your mind, if you can, from all suspicion and anxiety. Here comes the abbé: be courteous towards him, till you have learned still further what you owe him. The rogue! There he goes between Natalia and Theresa: I could bet he is contriving something. As in general he rather likes to act the part of Destiny; so he does not fail to show a taste for making matches when he finds an opportunity.”

Wilhelm, whose angry and fretful humor all the placid prudent words of Jarno had not bettered, thought his friend exceedingly indelicate for mentioning marriage at a moment like the present: he answered, with a smile indeed, but a rather bitter one, “I thought the taste for making matches had been left to those that had a taste for one another.”

The company had met again: the conversation of our friends was necessarily interrupted. Erelong a courier was announced, as wishing to deliver with his own hand a letter to Lothario. The man was introduced: he had a vigorous sufficient look; his livery was rich and handsome. Wilhelm thought he knew him, nor was he mistaken; for it was the man whom he had sent to seek Philina and the fancied Mariana, and who never came back. Our friend was about to address him, when Lothario, who had read the letter, asked the courier with a serious, almost angry, tone, “What is your master’s name?” “Of all questions,” said the other, with a prudent air, “this is the one which I am least prepared to answer. I hope the letter will communicate the necessary information: verbally I have been charged with nothing.” “Be it as it will,” replied Lothario with a smile: “since your master puts such trust in me as to indite a letter so exceedingly facetious, he shall be welcome to us.” - “He will not keep you long waiting for him,” said the courier, with a bow, and withdrew. “Do but hear the distracted, stupid message,” said Lothario. “‘As of all guests, Good Humor is believed to be the most agreeable wherever he appears, and as I always keep that gentleman beside me by way of travelling companion, I feel persuaded that the visit I intend to pay your noble lordship will not be taken ill: on the contrary, I hope the whole of your illustrious family will witness my arrival with complete satisfaction, and in due time also my departure; being always, et cœtera, Count of Snailfoot.’”

“’Tis a new family,” said the abbé. “A vicariat count, perhaps,” said Jarno. “The secret is easy to unriddle,” said Natalia: “I wager it is none but brother Friedrich, who has threatened us with a visit ever since my uncle’s death.” “Right, fair and skilful sister!” cried a voice from the nearest thicket; and immediately a pleasant, cheerful youth stepped forward. Wilhelm could scarcely restrain a cry of wonder. “What!” exclaimed he: “does our fair-haired knave, too, meet me here?” Friedrich looked attentively, and, recognizing Wilhelm, cried, “In truth, it would not have astonished me so much to have beheld the famous pyramids, which still stand fast in Egypt, or the grave of King Mausolus, which, as I am told, does not exist, here placed before me in my uncle’s garden, as to find you in it, my old friend, and frequent benefactor. Accept my best and heartiest service!” After he had kissed and complimented the whole circle, he again sprang towards Wilhelm, crying, “Use him well, this hero, this leader of armies, and dramatical philosopher! When we became acquainted first, I dressed his hair indifferently, I may say execrably; yet he afterwards saved me from a pretty load of blows. He is magnanimous as Scipio, munificent as Alexander: at times he is in love, yet he never hates his rivals. Far from heaping coals of fire on the heads of his enemies, - a piece of service, I am told, which we can do for any one, - he rather, when his friends have carried off his love, despatches good and trusty servants after them, that they may not strike their feet against a stone.”

In the same style he ran along with a volubility which baffled all attempts to restrain it; and, as no one could reply to him in that vein, he had the conversation mostly to himself. “Do not wonder,” cried he, “that I am so profoundly versed in sacred and profane writers: you shall hear by and by how I attained my learning.” They wished to know how matters stood with him, - where he had been; but crowds of proverbs and old stories choked his explanation. Natalia whispered to Theresa, “His gayety afflicts me: I am sure at heart he is not merry.” As, except a few jokes which Jarno answered, Friedrich’s merriment was met by no response from those about him, he was obliged at last to say, “Well, there is nothing left for me, but, among so many grave faces, to be grave myself. And as, in such a solemn scene, the burden of my sins falls heavy on my soul, I must honestly resolve upon a general confession; for which, however, you, my worthy gentlemen and ladies, shall not be a jot the wiser. This honorable friend already knows a little of my walk and conversation; he alone shall know the rest; and this the rather, as he alone has any cause to ask about it. Are not you,” continued he to Wilhelm, “curious about the how and where, the when and wherefore? And how it stands with the conjugation of the Greek verb φιλέω, φιλῶ, and the derivatives of that very amiable part of speech?”

He then took Wilhelm by the arm, and led him off, pressing him and skipping round him with the liveliest air of kindness. Scarcely had they entered Wilhelm’s room, when Friedrich noticed, in the window, a powder-knife, with the inscription, “Think of me.” “You keep your valuables well laid up!” said he. “This is the powder-knife Philina gave you, when I pulled your locks for you. I hope, in looking at it, you have diligently thought of that fair damsel; I assure you, she has not forgotten you: if I had not long ago obliterated every trace of jealousy from my heart, I could not look on you without envy.” “Talk no more of that creature,” answered Wilhelm. “I confess it was a while before I could get rid of the impression which her looks and manner made on me, but that was all.” “Fie, Fie!” cried Friedrich. “Would any one deny his deary? You loved her as completely as a man could wish. No day passed without your giving her some present; and, when a German gives, you may be sure he loves. No alternative remained for me but whisking her away from you, and in this the little red officer at last succeeded.”

“What! you were the officer whom we discovered with her, whom she travelled off with?” “Yes,” said Friedrich, “whom you took for Mariana. We had sport enough at the mistake.” “What cruelty,” cried Wilhelm, “to leave me in such suspense!” “And, besides, to take the courier, whom you sent to catch us, into pay!” said Friedrich. “He is a very active fellow: we have kept him by us ever since. And the girl herself I love as desperately as ever. She has managed me in some peculiar style: I am almost in a mythologic case; every day I tremble at the thought of being metamorphosed.” “But tell me, pray,” said Wilhelm, “where have you acquired this stock of erudition? It surprises me to hear the strange way you have assumed of speaking always with a reference to ancient histories and fables.” “It was by a pleasant plan,” said Friedrich, “that I got my learning. Philina lives with me at present: we have got a lease of an old, knightly castle from the farmer in whose ground it is; and there we live, with the hobgoblins of the place, as merrily as possible. In one of the rooms we found a small, but choice, library, consisting of a Bible in folio, ‘Gottfried’s Chronicle,’ two volumes of the ‘Theatrum Europæum,’ an ‘Acerra Philologica,’ ‘Gryphius’ Writings,’ and some other less important works. As we now and then, when tired of romping, felt the time hang heavy on our hands, we proposed to read some books;

and, before we were aware, the time hung heavier than ever. At last Philina hit upon the royal plan of laying all the tomes, opened at once, upon a large table. We sat down opposite to one another: we read to one another, - always in detached passages, first from this book, then from that. We had a jolly time of it. We felt now as if we were in good society, where it is reckoned unbecoming to dwell on any subject, or search it to the bottom: we thought ourselves in witty, gay society, where none will let his neighbor speak. We regularly treat ourselves with this diversion every day, and the erudition we obtain from it is quite surprising. Already there is nothing new for us under the sun: on every thing we see or hear, our learning offers us a hint. This method of instruction we diversify in many ways. Frequently we read by an old, spoiled sand-glass, which runs in a minute or two. The moment it is down, the silent party turns it round like lightning, and commences reading from his book; and no sooner is it down again, than the other cuts him short, and starts the former topic. Thus we study in a truly academic manner, with this difference, that our hours are shorter, and our studies extremely varied.”

“This rioting is quite conceivable,” said Wilhelm, “when a pair like you two are together; but how a pair so full of frolic stay together does not seem so easily conceivable.” “It is our good fortune,” answered Friedrich, “and our bad. Philina dare not let herself be seen, - she cannot bear to see herself: she is with child. Nothing ever was so ludicrous and shapeless in the world. A little while before I came away, she chanced to cast an eye upon the looking-glass in passing. ‘Faugh!’ cried she, and turned away her face: ‘the living picture of the Frau Melina! Shocking figure! One looks entirely deplorable!’” “I confess,” said Wilhelm, with a smile, “it must be rather farcical to see a father and a mother, such as you and she, together.” “’Tis a foolish business,” answered Friedrich, “that I must at last be raised to the paternal dignity. But she asserts, and the time agrees. At first that cursed visit which she paid you after ‘Hamlet’ gave me qualms.” “I suppose you have not quite slept off the memory of it yet? The pretty, flesh-and-blood spirit of that night, if you do not know it, was Philina. The story was, in truth, a hard dower for me; but, if we cannot be content with such things, we should not be in love. Fatherhood, at any rate, depends entirely upon conviction: I am convinced, and so I am a father. There, you see, I can employ my logic in the proper season too. And, if the brat do not laugh itself to death so soon as it is born, it may prove, if not a useful, at least a pleasant, citizen of this world.”

Whilst our friends were talking thus of mirthful subjects, the rest of the party had begun a serious conversation. Scarcely were Friedrich and Wilhelm gone, when the abbé led his friends, as if by chance, into a garden-house, and, having got them seated, thus addressed them: - “We have in general terms asserted that Fräulein Theresa was not the daughter of her reputed mother: it is fit that we should now explain ourselves on this matter, in detail. I shall relate the story to you, which I undertake to prove and to elucidate in every point. “Frau von - spent the first years of her wedlock in the utmost concord with her husband; but they had this misfortune, that the children she brought him came into the world dead: and, on occasion of the third, the mother was declared by the physicians to be on the verge of death, and to be sure of death if she should ever have another. The parties were obliged to take their resolution: they would not break the marriage; it was too suitable to both, in a civil point of view. Frau von - sought in the culture of her mind, in a certain habit of display, in the joys of vanity, a compensation for the happiness of motherhood, which was refused her. She cheerfully indulged her husband, when she noticed in him an attachment to a young lady, who had sole charge of their household, a person of beautiful exterior, and very solid character. Frau von - herself, erelong, assisted in procuring an arrangement, by which the lady yielded to the wishes of Theresa’s father; continuing to discharge her household duties, and testifying to the mistress of the family, if possible, a more submissive zeal to serve her than before.

“After a while she declared herself with child; and both the father and his wife, on this occasion, though from very different causes, fell upon the same idea. Herr von - wished to have the offspring of his mistress educated in the house as his lawful child; and Frau von - , angry that the indiscretion of her doctor had allowed some whisper of her condition to go abroad, proposed by a supposititious child to counteract this, and likewise to retain, by such compliance, the superiority in her household, which otherwise she was like to lose. However, she was more backward than her husband: she observed his purpose, and contrived, without any formal question, to facilitate his explanation. She made her own terms, obtaining almost every thing that she required; and hence the will in which so little care was taken of the child. The old doctor was dead: they applied to a young, active, and discreet successor; he was well rewarded; he looked forward to the credit of exposing and remedying the unskilfulness and premature decision of his deceased colleague. The true mother not unwillingly consented: they managed the deception very well; Theresa came into the world, and was surrendered to a stepmother, while her mother fell a victim to the plot; having died by venturing out too early, and left the father inconsolable.

“Frau von - had thus attained her object; in the eyes of the world she had a lovely child, which she paraded with excessive vanity: and she had also been delivered from a rival whose fortune she envied, and whose influence, at least in prospect, she beheld with apprehension. The infant she loaded with her tenderness: and by affecting, in trustful hours, a lively feeling for her husband’s loss, she gained a mastery of his heart; so that in a manner he surrendered all to her, laid his own happiness and that of his child in her hands: nor was it till a short while prior to his death, and, in some degree, by the exertions of his grown-up daughter, that he again assumed the rule in his own house. This, fair Theresa, was in all probability the secret which your father, in his last sickness, so struggled to communicate: this is what I wished to lay circumstantially before you, at a moment when our young friend, who by a strange concurrence has become your bridegroom, happens to be absent. Here are the papers which will prove in the most rigorous manner every thing that I have stated. You will also see from them how long I have been following the trace of this discovery; though, till now, I could never attain certainty respecting it. I did not risk imparting to my friend the possibility of such a happiness: it would have wounded him too deeply had this hope a second time deceived him. You will understand poor Lydia’s suspicions: I readily confess, I nowise favored our friend’s attachment to her, when I began again to look forward to his union with Theresa.”

To this recital no one replied. The ladies, some days afterwards, returned the papers, not making any further mention of them. There were other matters in abundance to engage the party when they were together; and the scenery around was so delightful, that our friends, singly or in company, on horseback, in carriages, or on foot, delighted to explore it. On one of these excursions, Jarno took an opportunity of opening the affair to Wilhelm: he delivered him the papers; not, however, seeming to require from him any resolution in regard to them. “In this most singular position in which I am,” said our friend, “I need only repeat to you what I said at first, in presence of Natalia, and with the clear intention to fulfil it. Lothario and his friends may require of me every sort of self-denial; I here abandon in their favor all pretension to Theresa: do you procure me in return a formal discharge. There requires no great reflection to decide. For some days I have noticed that Theresa has to make an effort in retaining any show of the vivacity with which she welcomed me at first. Her affection is gone from me; or, rather, I have never had it.”

“Such affairs are more conveniently explained,” said Jarno, “by a gradual process, in silence and expectation, than by many words, which always cause a sort of fermentation and embarrassment.” “I rather think,” said Wilhelm, “that precisely this affair admits of the most clear and calm decision on the spot. I have often been reproached with hesitation and uncertainty: why will you now, when I do not hesitate, commit against myself the fault you have often blamed in me? Do people take such trouble with our training only to let us feel that they themselves will not be trained? Yes: grant me soon the cheerful thought that I am out of a mistaken project, into which I entered with the purest feelings in the world.” Notwithstanding this request, some days elapsed without his hearing any more of the affair, or observing any further alteration in his friends. The conversation, on the contrary, was general, and of indifferent matters.