Transcriber's note: This book contains several brief passages in German,
each of which is followed by an English translation.
Several of the German words contain "o-umlaut",
which has been rendered as "oe". Several others
contain the German "Eszett" character, which has
been rendered as "ss".


MEMORIES

A Story of German Love

Translated from the German of

MAX MULLER

by

George P. Upton

Chicago
A. C. McClurg & Co.

1902


CONTENTS.

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
FIRST MEMORY
SECOND MEMORY
THIRD MEMORY
FOURTH MEMORY
FIFTH MEMORY
SIXTH MEMORY
SEVENTH MEMORY
LAST MEMORY


TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.

The translation of any work is at best a difficult task, and must
inevitably be prejudicial to whatever of beauty the original possesses.
When the principal charm of the original lies in its elegant
simplicity, as in the case of the "Deutsche Liebe," the difficulty is
still further enhanced. The translator has sought to reproduce the
simple German in equally simple English, even at the risk of
transferring German idioms into the English text.

The story speaks for itself. Without plot, incidents or situations, it
is nevertheless dramatically constructed, unflagging in interest,
abounding in beauty, grace and pathos, and filled with the tenderest
feeling of sympathy, which will go straight to the heart of every lover
of the ideal in the world of humanity, and every worshipper in the
world of nature. Its brief essays upon theology, literature and social
habits, contained in the dialogues between the hero and the heroine,
will commend themselves to the thoughtful reader by their clearness and
beauty of statement, as well as by their freedom from prejudice.
"Deutsche Liebe" is a poem in prose, whose setting is all the more
beautiful and tender, in that it is freed from the bondage of metre,
and has been the unacknowledged source of many a poet's most striking
utterances.

As such, the translator gives it to the public, confident that it will
find ready acceptance among those who cherish the ideal, and a tender
welcome by every lover of humanity.

The translator desires to make acknowledgments to J. J. Lalor, Esq.,
late of the Chicago _Tribune_ for his hearty co-operation in the
progress of the work, and many valuable suggestions; to Prof. Feuling,
the eminent philologist, of the University of Wisconsin, for his
literal version of the extracts from the "Deutsche Theologie," which
preserve the quaintness of the original, and to Mrs. F. M. Brown, for
her metrical version of Goethe's almost untranslatable lines, "Ueber
allen Gipfeln, ist Ruh," which form the keynote of the beautiful
harmony in the character of the heroine.

G.P.U.
Chicago, November, 1874.


AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

Who has not, at some period of his life, seated himself at a
writing-table, where, only a short time before, another sat, who now
rests in the grave? Who has not opened the drawers, which for long
years have hidden the secrets of a heart now buried in the holy peace
of the church-yard? Here lie the letters which were so precious to
him, the beloved one; here the pictures, ribbons, and books with marks
on every leaf. Who can now read and interpret them? Who can gather
again the withered and scattered leaves of this rose, and vivify them
with fresh perfume? The flames, in which the Greeks enveloped the
bodies of the departed for the purpose of destruction; the flames, into
which the ancients cast everything once dearest to the living, are now
the securest repository for these relics. With trembling fear the
surviving friend reads the leaves no eye has ever seen, save those now
so firmly closed, and if, after a glance, too hasty even to read them,
he is convinced these letters and leaves contain nothing which men deem
important, he throws them quickly upon the glowing coals - a flash and
they are gone.

From such flames the following leaves have been saved. They were at
first intended only for the friends of the deceased, yet they have
found friends even among strangers, and, since it is so to be, may
wander anew in distant lands. Gladly would the compiler have furnished
more, but the leaves are too much scattered and mutilated to be
rearranged and given complete.


FIRST MEMORY.

Childhood has its secrets and its mysteries; but who can tell or who
can explain them! We have all roamed through this silent
wonder-wood - we have all once opened our eyes in blissful astonishment,
as the beautiful reality of life overflowed our souls. We knew not
where, or who, we were - the whole world was ours and we were the whole
world's. That was an infinite life - without beginning and without end,
without rest and without pain. In the heart, it was as clear as the
spring heavens, fresh as the violet's perfume - hushed and holy as a
Sabbath morning.

What disturbs this God's-peace of the child? How can this unconscious
and innocent existence ever cease? What dissipates the rapture of this
individuality and universality, and suddenly leaves us solitary and
alone in a clouded life?

Say not, with serious face. It is sin! Can even a child sin? Say
rather, we know not, and must only resign ourselves to it.

Is it sin, which makes the bud a blossom, and the blossom fruit, and
the fruit dust?

Is it sin, which makes the worm a chrysalis, and the chrysalis a
butterfly, and the butterfly dust?

And is it sin, which makes the child a man, and the man a gray-haired
man, and the gray-haired man dust? And what is dust?

Say rather, we know not, and must only resign ourselves to it.

Yet it is so beautiful, recalling the spring-time of life, to look back
and remember one's self. Yes, even in the sultry summer, in the
melancholy autumn and in the cold winter of life, there is here and
there a spring day, and the heart says: "I feel like spring." Such a
day is this - and so I lay me down upon the soft moss of the fragrant
woods, and stretch out my weary limbs, and look up, through the green
foliage, into the boundless blue, and think how it used to be in that
childhood.

Then, all seems forgotten. The first pages of memory are like the old
family Bible. The first leaves are wholly faded and somewhat soiled
with handling. But, when we turn further, and come to the chapters
where Adam and Eve were banished from Paradise, then, all begins to
grow clear and legible. Now if we could only find the title-page with
the imprint and date - but that is irrevocably lost, and, in their
place, we find only the clear transcript - our baptismal
certificate - bearing witness when we were born, the names of our
parents and godparents, and that we were not issued _sine loco et anno_.

But, oh this beginning! Would there were none, since, with the
beginning, all thought and memories alike cease. When we thus dream
back into childhood, and from childhood into infinity, this bad
beginning continually flies further away. The thoughts pursue it and
never overtake it; just as a child seeks the spot where the blue sky
touches the earth, and runs and runs, while the sky always runs before
it, yet still touches the earth - but the child grows weary and never
reaches the spot.

But even since we were once there - wherever it may be, where we had a
beginning, what do we know now? For memory shakes itself like the
spaniel, just come out of the waves, while the water runs in, his eyes
and he looks very strangely.

I believe I can even yet remember when I saw the stars for the first
time. They may have seen me often before, but one evening it seemed as
if it were cold. Although I lay in my mother's lap, I shivered and was
chilly, or I was frightened. In short, something came over me which
reminded me of my little Ego in no ordinary manner. Then my mother
showed me the bright stars, and I wondered at them, and thought that
she had made them very beautifully. Then I felt warm again, and could
sleep well.

Furthermore, I remember how I once lay in the grass and everything
about me tossed and nodded, hummed and buzzed. Then there came a great
swarm of little, myriad-footed, winged creatures, which lit upon my
forehead and eyes and said, "Good day." Immediately my eyes smarted,
and I cried to my mother, and she said: "Poor little one, how the gnats
have stung him!" I could not open my eyes or see the blue sky any
longer, but my mother had a bunch of fresh violets in her hand, and it
seemed as if a dark-blue, fresh, spicy perfume were wafted through my
senses. Even now, whenever I see the first violets, I remember this,
and it seems to me that I must close my eyes so that the old dark-blue
heaven of that day may again rise over my soul.

Still further do I remember, how, at another time, a new world
disclosed itself to me - more beautiful than the star-world or the
violet perfume. It was on an Easter morning, and my mother had dressed
me early. Before the window stood our old church. It was not
beautiful, but still it had a lofty roof and tower, and on the tower a
golden cross, and it appeared very much older and grayer than the other
buildings. I wondered who lived in it, and once I looked in through
the iron-grated door. It was entirely empty, cold and dismal. There
was not even one soul in the whole building, and after that I always
shuddered when I passed the door. But on this Easter morning, it had
rained early, and when the sun came out in full splendor, the old
church with the gray sloping roof, the high windows and the tower with
the golden cross glistened with a wondrous shimmer. All at once the
light which streamed through the lofty windows began to move and
glisten. It was so intensely bright that one could have looked within,
and as I closed my eyes the light entered my soul and therein
everything seemed to shed brilliancy and perfume, to sing and to ring.
It seemed to me a new life had commenced in myself and that I was
another being, and when I asked my mother what it meant, she replied it
was an Easter song they were singing in the church. What bright, holy
song it was, which at that time surged through my soul, I have never
been able to discover. It must have been an old church hymn, like
those which many a time stirred the rugged soul of our Luther. I never
heard it again, but many a time even now when I hear an adagio of
Beethoven's, or a psalm of Marcellus, or a chorus of Handel's, or a
simple song in the Scotch Highlands or the Tyrol, it seems to me as if
the lofty church windows again glistened and the organ-tones once more
surged through my soul, and a new world revealed itself - more beautiful
than the starry heavens and the violet perfume.

These things I remember in my earliest childhood, and intermingled with
them are my dear mother's looks, the calm, earnest gaze of my father,
gardens and vine leaves, and soft green turf, and a very old and quaint
picture-book - and this is all I can recall of the first scattered
leaves of my childhood.

Afterwards it grows brighter and clearer. Names and faces appear - not
only father and mother, but brothers and sisters, friends and teachers,
and a multitude of _strange people_. Ah! yes, of these _strange
people_ there is so much recorded in memory.


SECOND MEMORY.

Not far from our house, and opposite the old church with the golden
cross, stood a large building, even larger than the church, and having
many towers. They looked exceedingly gray and old and had no golden
cross, but stone eagles tipped the summits and a great white and blue
banner fluttered from the highest tower, directly over the lofty
doorway at the top of the steps, where, on either side, two mounted
soldiers stood sentinels. The building had many windows, and behind
the windows you could distinguish red-silk curtains with golden
tassels. Old lindens encircled the grounds, which, in summer,
overshadowed the gray masonry with their green leaves and bestrewed the
turf with their fragrant white blossoms. I had often looked in there,
and at evening when the lindens exhaled their perfumes and the windows
were illuminated, I saw many figures pass and repass like shadows.
Music swept down from on high, and carriages drove up, from which
ladies and gentlemen alighted and ascended the stairs. They all looked
so beautiful and good! The gentlemen had stars upon their breasts, and
the ladies wore fresh flowers in their hair; and I often thought, - Why
do I not go there too?

One day my father took me by the hand and said: "We are going to the
castle; but you must be very polite if the Princess speaks to you, and
kiss her hand."

I was about six years of age and as delighted as only one can be at six
years of age. I had already indulged in many quiet fancies about the
shadows which I had seen evenings through the lighted windows, and had
heard many good things at home of the beneficence of the Prince and
Princess; how gracious they were; how much help and consolation they
brought to the poor and sick; and that they had been chosen by the
grace of God to protect the good and punish the bad. I had long
pictured to myself what transpired in the castle, so that the Prince
and Princess were already old acquaintances whom I knew as well as my
nut-crackers and leaden soldiers.

My heart beat quickly as I ascended the high stairs with my father, and
just as he was telling me I must call the Princess "Highness," and the
Prince "Serene Highness," the folding-door opened and I saw before me a
tall figure with brilliantly piercing eyes. She seemed to advance and
stretch out her hand to me. There was an expression on her countenance
which I had long known, and a heavenly smile played about her cheeks.
I could restrain myself no longer, and while my father stood at the
door bowing very low - I knew not why - my heart sprang into my throat.
I ran to the beautiful lady, threw my arms round her neck and kissed
her as I would my mother. The beautiful, majestic lady willingly
submitted, stroked my hair and smiled; but my father took my hand, led
me away, and said I was very rude, and that he should never take me
there again. I grew utterly bewildered. The blood mounted to my
cheeks, for I felt that my father had been unjust to me. I looked at
the Princess as if she ought to shield me, but upon her face was only
an expression of mild earnestness. Then I looked round upon the ladies
and gentlemen assembled in the room, believing that they would come to
my defense. But as I looked, I saw that they were laughing. Then the
tears sprang into my eyes, and out of the door, down the stairs, and
past the lindens in the castle yard, I rushed home, where I threw
myself into my mother's arms and sobbed and wept.

"What has happened to you?" said she.

"Oh! mother!" I cried; "I was at the Princess', and she was such a good
and beautiful woman, just like you, dear mother, that I had to throw my
arms round her neck and kiss her."

"Ah!" said my mother; "you should not have done that, for they are
strangers and high dignitaries."

"And what then are strangers?" said I.

"May I not love all people who look upon me with affectionate and
friendly eyes?"

"You can love them, my son," replied my mother, "but you should not
show it."

"Is it then something wrong for me to love people?" said I. "Why
cannot I show it?"

"Well, perhaps you are right," said she, "but you must do as your
father says, and when you are older you will understand why you cannot
embrace every woman who regards you with affectionate and friendly
eyes."

That was a sad day. Father came home, agreed I had been very uncivil.
At night my mother put me to bed, and I prayed, but I could not sleep,
and kept wondering what these strange people were, whom one must not
love.

* * * * *

Thou poor human heart! So soon in the spring are thy leaves broken and
the feathers torn from the wings! When the spring-red of life opens
the hidden calyx of the soul, it perfumes our whole being with love.
We learn to stand and to walk, to speak and to read, but no one teaches
us love. It is inherent in us like life, they say, and is the very
deepest foundation of our existence. As the heavenly bodies incline to
and attract each other, and will always cling together by the
everlasting law of gravitation, so heavenly souls incline to and
attract each other, and will always cling together by the everlasting
law of love. A flower cannot blossom without sunshine, and man cannot
live without love. Would not the child's heart break in despair when
the first cold storm of the world sweeps over it, if the warm sunlight
of love from the eyes of mother and father did not shine upon him like
the soft reflection of divine light and love? The ardent yearning,
which then awakes in the child, is the purest and deepest love. It is
the love which embraces the whole world; which shines resplendent
wherever the eyes of men beam upon it, which exults wherever it hears
the human voice. It is the old, immeasurable love, a deep well which
no plummet has ever sounded; a fountain of perennial richness. Whoever
knows it also knows that in love there is no More and no Less; but that
he who loves can only love with the whole heart, and with the whole
soul; with all his strength and with all his will.

But, alas, how little remains of this love by the time we have finished
one-half of our life-journey! Soon the child learns that there are
strangers, and ceases to be a child. The spring of love becomes hidden
and soon filled up. Our eyes gleam no more, and heavy-hearted we pass
one another in the bustling streets. We scarcely greet each other, for
we know how sharply it cuts the soul when a greeting remains
unanswered, and how sad it is to be sundered from those whom we have
once greeted, and whose hands we have clasped. The wings of the soul
lose their plumes; the leaves of the flower fast fall off and wither;
and of this fountain of love there remain but a few drops. We still
call these few drops love, but it is no longer the clear, fresh,
all-abounding child-love. It is love with anxiety and trouble, a
consuming flame, a burning passion; love which wastes itself like
rain-drops upon the hot sand; love which is a longing, not a sacrifice;
love which says "Wilt thou be mine," not love which says, "I must be
thine." It is a most selfish, vacillating love. And this is the love
which poets sing and in which young men and maidens believe; a fire
which burns up and down, yet does not warm, and leaves nothing behind
but smoke and ashes. All of us at some period of life have believed
that these rockets of sunbeams were everlasting love, but the brighter
the glitter, the darker the night which follows.

And then when all around grows dark, when we feel utterly alone, when
all men right and left pass us by and know us not, a forgotten feeling
rises in the breast. We know not what it is, for it is neither love
nor friendship. You feel like crying to him who passes you so cold and
strange: "Dost thou not know me?" Then one realizes that man is nearer
to man than brother to brother, father to son, or friend to friend.
How an old, holy saying rings through our souls, that strangers are
nearest to us. Why must we pass them in silence? We know not, but
must resign ourselves to it. When two trains are rushing by upon the
iron rails and thou seest a well-known eye that would recognize thee,
stretch out thy hand and try to grasp the hand of a friend, and perhaps
thou wilt understand why man passes man in silence here below.

An old sage says: "I saw the fragments of a wrecked boat floating on
the sea. Only a few meet and hold together a long time. Then comes a
storm and drives them east and west, and here below they will never
meet again. So it is with mankind. Yet no one has seen the great
shipwreck."


THIRD MEMORY.

The clouds in the sky of childhood do not last long, and disappear
after a short, warm tear-rain. I was shortly again at the castle, and
the Princess gave me her hand to kiss and then brought her children,
the young princes and princesses, and we played together, as if we had
known each other for years. Those were happy days when, after
school - for I was now attending school - I could go to the castle and
play. We had everything the heart could wish. I found playthings
there which my mother had shown me in the shop-windows, and which were
so dear, she told me, that poor people could live a whole week on what
they cost. When I begged the Princess' permission to take them home
and show them to my mother, she was perfectly willing. I could turn
over and over and look for hours at a time at beautiful picture books,
which I had seen in the book stores with my father, but which were made
only for very good children. Everything which belonged to the young
princes belonged also to me - so I thought, at least. Furthermore, I
was not only allowed to carry away what I wished, but I often gave away
the playthings to other children. In short, I was a young Communist,
in the full sense of the term. I remember at one time the Princess had
a golden snake which coiled itself around her arm as if it were alive,
and she gave it to us for a plaything. As I was going home I put the
snake on my arm and thought I would give my mother a real fright with
it. On the way, however, I met a woman who noticed the snake and
begged me to show it to her; and then she said if she could only keep
the golden snake, she could release her husband from prison with it.
Naturally I did not stop to think for a minute, but ran away and left
the woman alone with the golden serpent-bracelet. The next day there
was much excitement. The poor woman was brought to the castle and the
people said she had stolen it. Thereupon I grew very angry and
explained with holy zeal that I had given her the bracelet and that I
would not take it back again. What further occurred I know not, but I
remember that after that time, I showed the Princess everything I took
home with me.

It was a long time before my conceptions of Meum and Tuum were fully
settled, and at a very late period they were at times confused, just as
it was a long time before I could distinguish between the blue and red
colors. The last time I remember my friends laughing at me on this
account was when my mother gave me some money to buy apples. She gave
me a groschen. The apples cost only a sechser, and when I gave the
woman the groschen, she said, very sadly as it seemed to me, that she
had sold nothing the whole livelong day and could not give me back a
sechser. She wished I would buy a groschen's worth. Then it occurred
to me that I also had a sechser in my pocket, and thoroughly delighted
that I had solved the difficult problem, I gave it to the woman and
said: "Now you can give me back a sechser." She understood me so
little however that she gave me back the groschen and kept the sechser.

At this time, while I was making almost daily visits to the young
princes at the castle, both to play as well as to study French with
them, another image comes up in my memory. It was the daughter of the
Princess, the Countess Marie. The mother died shortly after the birth
of the child and the Prince subsequently married a second time. I know
not when I saw her for the first time. She emerges from the darkness
of memory slowly and gradually - at first like an airy shadow which
grows more and more distinct as it approaches nearer and nearer, at
last standing before my soul like the moon, which on some stormy night
throws back the cloud-veils from across its face. She was always sick
and suffering and silent, and I never saw her except reclining upon her
couch, upon which two servants brought her into the room and carried
her out again, when she was tired. There she lay in her flowing white
drapery, with her hands generally folded. Her face was so pale and yet
so mild, and her eyes so deep and unfathomable, that I often stood
before her lost in thought and looked upon her and asked myself if she
was not one of the "strange people" also. Many a time she placed her
hand upon my head and then it seemed to me that a thrill ran through
all my limbs and that I could not move or speak, but must forever gaze
into her deep, unfathomable eyes. She conversed very little with us,
but watched our sports, and when at times we grew very noisy and
quarrelsome, she did not complain but held her white hands over her
brow and closed her eyes as if sleeping. But there were days when she
said she felt better, and on such days she sat up on her couch,
conversed with us and told us curious stories. I do not know how old
she was at that time. She was so helpless that she seemed like a
child, and yet was so serious and silent that she could not have been
one. When people alluded to her they involuntarily spoke gently and
softly. They called her "the angel," and I never heard anything said
of her that was not good and lovely. Often when I saw her lying so
silent and helpless, and thought that she would never walk again in
life, that there was for her neither work nor joy, that they would
carry her here and there upon her couch until they laid her upon her
eternal bed of rest, I asked myself why she had been sent into this
world, when she could have rested so gently on the bosom of the angels
and they could have borne her through the air on their white wings, as
I had seen in some sacred pictures. Again I felt as if I must take a
part of her burden, so that she need not carry it alone, but we with
her. I could not tell her all this for I knew it was not proper. I
had an indefinable feeling. It was not a desire to embrace her. No
one could have done that, for it would have wronged her. It seemed to
me as if I could pray from the very bottom of my heart that she might
be released from her burden.

One warm spring day she was brought into our room. She looked
exceedingly pale; but her eyes were deeper and brighter than ever, and
she sat upon her couch and called us to her. "It is my birth-day,"
said she, "and I was confirmed early this morning. Now, it is
possible," she continued as she looked upon her father with a smile,
"that God may soon call me to him, although I would gladly remain with
you much longer. But if I am to leave you, I desire that you should
not wholly forget me; and, therefore, I have brought a ring for each of
you, which you must now place upon the fore-finger. As you grow older
you can continue to change it until it fits the little finger; but you
must wear it for your lifetime."

With these words she took the five rings she wore upon her fingers,
which she drew off, one after the other, with a look so sad and yet so
affectionate, that I pressed my eyes closely to keep from weeping. She
gave the first ring to her eldest brother and kissed him, the second
and third to the two princesses, and the fourth to the youngest prince,
and kissed them all as she gave them the rings. I stood near by, and,
looking fixedly at her white hand, saw that she still had a ring upon
her finger; but she leaned back and appeared wearied. My eyes met
hers, and as the eyes of a child speak so loudly, she must have easily
known my thoughts, I would rather not have had the last ring, for I
felt that I was a stranger; that I did not belong to her, and that she
was not as affectionate to me as to her brothers and sisters. Then
came a sharp pain in my breast as if a vein had burst or a nerve had
been severed, and I knew not which way to turn to conceal my anguish.

She soon raised herself again, placed her hand upon my forehead and
looked down into my heart so deeply that I felt I had not a thought
invisible to her. She slowly drew the last ring from her finger, gave
it to me and said; "I intended to have taken this with me, when I went
from you, but it is better you should wear it and think of me when I am
no longer with you. Read the words engraved upon the ring: 'As God
wills.' You have a passionate heart, easily moved. May life subdue
but not harden it." Then she kissed me as she had her brothers and
gave me the ring.

All my feelings I do not truly know. I had then grown up to boyhood,
and the mild beauty of the suffering angel could not linger in my young
heart without alluring it. I loved her as only a boy can love, and
boys love with an intensity and truth and purity which few preserve in
their youth and manhood; but I believed she belonged to the "strange
people" to whom you are not allowed to speak of love. I scarcely
understood the earnest words she spoke to me. I only felt that her
soul was as near to mine as one human soul can be to another. All
bitterness was gone from my heart. I felt myself no longer alone, no
longer a stranger, no longer shut out. I was by her, with her and in
her. I thought it might be a sacrifice for her to give me the ring,
and that she might have preferred to take it to the grave with her, and
a feeling arose in my soul which overshadowed all other feelings, and I
said with quivering voice: "Thou must keep the ring if thou dost not
wish to give it to me; for what is thine is mine." She looked at me a
moment surprised and thoughtfully. Then she took the ring, placed it
on her finger, kissed me once more on the forehead, and said gently to
me: "Thou knowest not what thou sayest. Learn to understand thyself.
Then shall thou be happy and make many others happy."


FOURTH MEMORY.

Every life has its years in which one progresses as on a tedious and
dusty street of poplars, without caring to know where he is. Of these
years nought remains in memory but the sad feeling that we have
advanced and only grown older. While the river of life glides along
smoothly, it remains the same river; only the landscape on either bank
seems to change. But then come the cataracts of life. They are firmly
fixed in memory, and even when we are past them and far away, and draw
nearer and nearer to the silent sea of eternity, even then it seems as
if we heard from afar their rush and roar. We feel that the life-force
which yet remains and impels us onward still has its source and supply
from those cataracts.

School time was ended, the first fleeting years of university life were
over, and many beautiful life-dreams were over also. But one of them
still remained: Faith in God and man. Otherwise life would have been
circumscribed within one's narrow brain. Instead of that, a nobler
consecration had preserved all, and even the painful and
incomprehensible events of life became a proof to me of the
omnipresence of the divine in the earthly. "The least important thing
does not happen except as God wills it." This was the brief
life-wisdom I had accumulated.

During the summer holidays I returned to my little native city. What
joy in these meetings again! No one has explained it, but in this
seeing and finding again, and in these self-memories, lie the real
secrets of all joy and pleasure. What we see, hear or taste for the
first time may be beautiful, grand and agreeable, but it is too new.
It overpowers, but gives no repose, and the fatigue of enjoying is
greater than the enjoyment itself. To hear again, years afterward, an
old melody, every note of which we supposed we had forgotten, and yet
to recognize it as an old acquaintance; or, after the lapse of many
years, to stand once more before the Sistine Madonna at Dresden, and
experience afresh all the emotions which the infinite look of the child
aroused in us for years; or to smell a flower or taste a dish again
which we have not thought of since childhood - all these produce such an
intense charm that we do not know which we enjoy most, the actual
pleasure or the old memory. So when we return again, after long
absence, to our birth-place, the soul floats unconsciously in a sea of
memories, and the dancing waves dreamily toss themselves upon the
shores of times long passed. The belfry clock strikes and we fear we
shall be late to school, and recovering from this fear feel relieved
that our anxiety is over. The same dog runs along the street on whose
account we used to go far out of our way. Here sits the old huckster
whose apples often led us into temptation, and even now, we fancy they
must taste better than all other apples in the world, notwithstanding
the dust on them. There one has torn down a house and built a new one.
Here the old music-teacher lived. He is dead - and yet how beautiful it
seemed as we stood and listened on summer evenings under the window
while the True Soul, when the hours of the day were over, indulged in
his own enjoyment and played fantasies, like the roaring and hissing
engine letting off the steam which has accumulated during the day.
Here in this little leafy lane, which seemed at that time so much
larger, as I was coming home late one evening, I met our neighbor's
beautiful daughter. At that time I had never ventured to look at or
address her, but we school-children often spoke of her and called her
"the Beautiful Maiden," and whenever I saw her passing along the street
at a distance I was so happy that I could only think of the time when I
should meet her nearer. Here in this leafy walk which leads to the
church-yard, I met her one evening and she took me by the arm, although
we had never spoken together before, and asked me to go home with her.
I believe neither of us spoke a word the whole way; but I was so happy
that even now, after all these years, I wish it were that evening, and
that I could go home again, silently and blissfully, with "the
Beautiful Maiden."

Thus one memory follows another until the waves dash together over our
heads, and a deep sigh swells the breast, which warns us that we have
forgotten to breathe in the midst of these pure thoughts. Then all at
once, the whole dream-world vanishes, like uprisen ghosts at the
crowing of the cock.

As I passed by the old castle and the lindens, and saw the sentinels
upon their horses, how many memories awakened in my soul, and how
everything had changed! Many years had flown since I was at the
castle. The Princess was dead. The Prince had given up his rule and
gone back to Italy, and the oldest prince, with whom I had grown up,
was regent. His companions were young noblemen and officers, whose
intercourse was congenial to him, and whose company in our early days
had often estranged us. Other circumstances combined to weaken our
young friendship. Like every young man who perceives for the first
time the lack of unity in the German folk-life, and the defects of
German rule, I had caught up some phrases of the Liberal party, which
sounded as strangely at court as unseemly expressions in an honest
minister's family. In short, it was many years since I had ascended
those stairs, and yet a being dwelt in that castle whose name I had
named almost daily, and who was almost constantly present in my memory.
I had long dwelt upon the thought that I should never see her again in
this life. She was transformed into an image which I felt neither did
nor could exist in reality. She had become my good angel - my other
self, to whom I talked instead of talking with myself. How she became
so I could not explain to myself, for I scarcely knew her. Just as the
eye sometimes pictures figures in the clouds, so I fancied my
imagination had conjured up this sweet image in the heaven of my
childhood, and a complete picture of phantasy developed itself out of
the scarcely perceptible outlines of reality. My entire thought had
involuntarily become a dialogue with her, and all that was good in me,
all for which I struggled, all in which I believed, my entire better
self, belonged to her. I gave it to her. I received it from her, from
her my good angel.

I had been at home but a few days, when I received a letter one
morning. It was written in English, and came from the Countess Marie:


_Dear Friend_: I hear you are with us for a short time. We have not
met for many years, and if it is agreeable to you, I should like to see
an old friend again. You will find me alone this afternoon in the
Swiss Cottage. Yours sincerely, MARIE.


I immediately replied, also in English, that I would call in the
afternoon.

The Swiss Cottage constituted a wing of the castle, which overlooked
the garden, and could be reached without going through the castle yard.
It was five o'clock when I passed through the garden and approached the
cottage. I repressed all emotion and prepared myself for a formal
meeting. I sought to quiet my good angel, and to assure her that this
lady had nothing to do with her. And yet I felt very uneasy, and my
good angel would not listen to counsel. Finally I took courage,
murmuring something to myself about the masquerade of life, and rapped
on the door, which stood ajar.

There was no one in the room except a lad whom I did not know, and who
likewise spoke English, and said the Countess would be present in a
moment. She then left, and I was alone, and had time to look about.

The walls of the room were of rose-chestnut, and over an openwork
trellis, a luxuriant broadleaved ivy twined around the whole room. All
the tables and chairs were of carved rose-chestnut. The floor was of
variegated woodwork. It gave me a curious sensation to see so much
that was familiar in the room. Many articles from our old play-room in
the castle were old friends, but the others were new, especially the
pictures, and yet they were the same as those in my University
room - the same portraits of Beethoven, Handel and Mendelssohn, as I had
selected - hung over the grand piano. In one corner I saw the Venus di
Milo, which I always regarded as the masterpiece of antiquity. On the
table were volumes of Dante, Shakspeare, Tauler's Sermons, the "German
Theology," Ruckert's Poems, Tennyson and Burns, and Carlyle's "Past and
Present," - the very same books - all of which I had had but recently in
my hands. I was growing thoughtful, but I repressed my thoughts and
was just standing before the portrait of the deceased Princess, when
the door opened, and the same two servants, whom I had so often seen in
childhood, brought the Countess into the room upon her couch.

What a vision! She spoke not a word, and her countenance was as placid
as the sea, until the servants left the room. Then her eyes sought
me - the old, deep, unfathomable eyes. Her expression grew more
animated each instant. At last her whole face lit up, and she said:

"We are old friends - I believe; we have not changed. I cannot say
'You,' and if I may not say 'Thou,' then we must speak in English. Do
you understand me?"

I had not anticipated such a reception, for I saw here was no
masquerade - here was a soul which longed for another soul - here was a
greeting like that between two friends who recognize each other by the
glance of the eye, notwithstanding their disguises and dark masks. I
seized the hand she held out to me, and replied: "When we address an
angel, we cannot say 'You.'"

And yet how singular, is the influence of the forms and habits of life!
How difficult it is to speak the language of nature even to the most

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