movements, that was contagious and overawed him more than her former careless ease.
"You would certainly have gone away to-day too, if I had not expressly invited you in," said she. "But it would not have required so much discretion to convince me that you are an exception to the usual rule. I saw in the first fifteen minutes of our acquaintance, that you were not like other men, from whose importunity it is difficult for a solitary girl to protect herself. That is why I am glad to see you again and thank you in person. I live so entirely alone, and although it is my own wish, the days are long and the necessity of hearing some voice except the twittering of the birds and the meaningless remarks of the servants, soon forces itself upon one. Besides, we like to discuss what we have read. To be sure—" she added hesitatingly, tapping the book that lay beside her portfolio with her rosy finger—"to speak of what you have lately brought me—"
"What have you read?"
"A great many of the poems; I was familiar with almost all from seeing them in collections, some even when I was at school. But in reading them together I now realize their beauty, at least so far as I understand them. But—Werther—you will scarcely believe that although I am twenty-one this is the first time I have read it."
"What an enviable person!"
"How so?"
"I devoured it at fifteen, when I was far too young and verdant to enjoy that most beautiful and mature of all the works ever written for young people."
"Perhaps I'm already too old," she said blushing, "or still too young. For—it will seem very foolish and perhaps incomprehensible to you: I had some difficulty in getting through it.
"That is," she hastily corrected herself, "I found certain things wonderfully beautiful, the spirit, the clearness, the lofty, melancholy thoughts, and what a living thing nature seems to become—I have copied many passages to read again. But the whole, the work itself—you will surely think me childish or heartless, if I confess that I was not in the least affected when Werther shot himself."
He gazed into her black eyes with a quiet smile.
"Not even as much by Père Goriot" said he.
"No," she answered in an undertone. "I cannot help it, nothing makes any impression upon me unless I can imagine it might happen to myself. This good Père Goriot, who is so ill repaid for all he does for his daughters, the daughters themselves, who have an actual passion for spending a great deal of money and living in fabulous luxury, I can understand very well. I too had a father who would have sacrificed himself for me if necessary, as I would have done for him, and it is by no means strange to me that people can set their hearts on a thousand beautiful things which only the rich should possess. But that a man can no longer live, because he—because he is in love—with somebody's wife—is a thing of which I have no idea. Why do you look at me so? Don't you believe me? You can do so safely, I always say what I think."
"I'm only looking at you," he replied, "because I do not know how to reconcile your words, which I do not doubt, with your face and your twenty-one years."
"And why not?"
"Do not consider it a tasteless compliment: but with such a face, I should hardly think a person could live twenty-one years in the world, without at least perceiving in others, what mad follies a man desperately in love may commit. And have you never been moved when you made some one unhappy, even if your own heart remained untouched? You have probably known nothing of hunger except from hearsay, and yet the sight of misery touches you."
"Certainly," she answered thoughtfully; "but you're mistaken, if you suppose I have never suffered want myself. There have been times—but that's my own affair. On the contrary, the love that has been offered me has either seemed untrue and ridiculous, or excited actual horror and loathing, never compassion."
Edwin's surprise increased at every word, whose sincerity he could not doubt. But if it were as she said and her grave innocent gaze confirmed—how had she come to these suspicious lodgings in such more than doubtful company? What, if she had nothing to repent, was the cause of this avoidance of men, this mysterious love of solitude in one so young and independent?
He noticed that she looked surprised at his silence, and in order to make some remark, said:
"If you place so little value on the passion, which since the beginning of creation has, with hunger, been the motive power of the world, your purveyor of romances certainly has a difficult task. Or would you prefer novels of the latest style, which only contain enough love not to frighten the owners of circulating libraries?"
"No," she replied laughing, "I'm not quite so spoiled. Dear me, what I read aloud to my dear father was always French literature, which often, as I noticed by his making me skip a chapter, was by no means fit for a young girl. But do you know what I don't understand? Why the authors don't have a better appreciation of their advantages and write only stories which contain very elegant, rich, brilliant scenes, handsome parks, castles, numerous servants, and fireworks, concerts, and balls every night. I should never weary of such books, as when a child I could always read over and over again the fairy tales, in which a fairy or magician builds in a single night a splendid palace of gold and jewels, with the horses' mangers of silver, and their hoofs studded with diamonds. Ought not poetry to describe a fairer world than this, which with all its petites misères, is only too familiar to us? Instead of that, village tales have now become fashionable, and all the fuss, is made about them. Who can be interested in reading how Christen seeks a wife and obtains now a well-kept farm, and now a neglected one? And the principal point is always about a few hundred thalers more or less; when they are obtained, the story ends. That—you must not be offended by my frankness—is what seemed so strange to me in Werther: narrow commonplace surroundings, ordinary, provincial people, and the heroine—I will say nothing about the bread and butter—but has she a lofty, noble soul? Does she love Werther or not? And if she does—but you're smiling. I'm probably saying very stupid things. Teach me, if it seems worth while. It's so tiresome always to think for one's self, in doing which of course one is always right."
"My dear Fräulein," said he, "I have hitherto had very little inclination to disturb people who were in perfect harmony with themselves, even if I felt differently. Why should they not have the right to devote their attention solely to the beautiful and brilliant? I only wish you might belong to the favored few, who during their whole lives never see the wrong side of the world. He who has once become familiar with it, is certainly interested in finding even amid the narrow, commonplace limits of this miserable existence treasures and blessings, which fill his heart and make his life lovely. But you—"
"You are very much mistaken," she gravely interrupted. "I have already told you that I too know what it is to sit in the shadow and feel no ray of warmth from the sun that illumines the fairy castles of others. But it is for that very reason, that I do not wish to be reminded in books of what I have already had a sufficient experience of in my life, and found by no means amusing or poetical. And however it maybe with outward cares, their charms and pleasures; the inward poverty, the miserable, half developed, embittered, starved feelings, the oppression beneath which human souls drag out such a painful existence—will you assert that these also are fitting themes for the poet's art?"
He was just beginning to reply, with a sense of secret surprise at the gloomy, dismal feeling underlying her words, when the striped waistcoat appeared at the door of the dining room. The dwarf had evidently just brushed his tow colored wig, fastened his cravat tighter, and drawn on a pair of white cotton gloves, which only made his short hands more clumsy.
"Pardon me for not interrupting the regular routine of my day," said the beautiful girl, suddenly adopting a gayer tone. "That is my tyrant. Small as he is,
