Christiane did not return home at all that night.

Mohr, who had insisted that Franzelius must exchange with him and give him the night watch, again sat at the window through all the long dark hours uttering not a word, his eyes fixed steadily upon the door into the courtyard. When Edwin, toward morning, started from a short slumber, he found him still in the same position; his eyes were red and fixed, his face grey and haggard. He gave contradictory, half comical, half sulky answers, and altogether behaved so strangely, that Edwin, who had no suspicion of his state of mind, declared he was sick and insisted that he must go directly home and to bed.

He obeyed as mechanically as an automaton. In the courtyard below, the maid-servant met him, and he learned from her that Madame Feyertag had received a note from FrÄulein Christiane early that morning: the young lady had been obliged to set out on a journey very suddenly, and it was uncertain when she would return.

Mohr nodded and acted as if the news had no special interest for him. Nevertheless he entered the shop, where Madame Feyertag was standing, under the pretext of inquiring for Reginchen's health. She was getting better, her mother said; it was only affectation, the whimsical child seemed to think it a joke to fold her hands in her lap and let herself be nursed. Then the conversation turned upon the music teacher, and her note was shown. It was written in pencil, evidently in great agitation, but afforded no farther clue.

Herr Feyertag also came in. He was very much depressed and his Schopenhauer wisdom seemed to have left him entirely in the lurch, for his whole heart was bound up in Reginchen, and this was the first time the child had caused him the slightest anxiety. He did not speak very kindly of Christiane, for whom he had always expressed the highest esteem. He would never let an interesting woman lodge in his house again. That had hitherto been his maxim, for women must above all things be women, and the strong minded ones, who lived alone, played on the piano, and were taken up with the sorrows of the world, did not exactly belong to the "weaker sex"--with or without moustaches--His good wife cast a significant glance at him, and shrugging her shoulders said "We know why you prefer weak women, Feyertag. Instead of talking such stupid nonsense, you ought to go to the police and ask if they know anything."

The faithful friend left the house with a still heavier heart. He told himself many times, that all this was perfectly intelligible, that nothing was more natural than this sudden departure, that the movements of musicians were perfectly unaccountable, and November weather no hindrance if the point in question were a duty toward friends and relatives. Might not a sick friend have summoned her, or her assistance been requested at some concert in the country? Nothing was more probable. And yet, when he thought of her passionate outburst in the Pagoda, her sudden disappearance--why, if all were well, should he have this heavy heart, why should he be visited with this mysterious anxiety, which oppressed his breath, and aroused a hundred sorrowful ideas?

He got through the day as well as he could, found an opportunity to question AdÈle, who also had not seen her friend since the excursion, and, as it grew dark, betook himself once more to the tun, where he felt most at ease. If she returned, he would at least be near her and would know it; this was his secret thought.

The day seemed to have passed tolerably well. Marquard was satisfied, Edwin said. How Balder felt when not asleep, was difficult to determine. He had not said anything except that he was very comfortable, but they knew him well, he had always concealed his sufferings. Fortunately he slept most of the time, and without narcotics. Entire exhaustion of all the vital powers seemed to have followed the attack.

He was still sleeping, when in the evening a very timid knock summoned Edwin to the door. In the passage outside, where a small lamp lighted the stairs, stood a figure wrapped in a narrow, old-fashioned cloak, with a high collar, in whom Edwin did not recognize the zaunkÖnig until the embarrassed little gentleman mentioned his name.

He had only heard of Balder's serious illness that noon, when one of the apprentices brought him a pair of shoes, but had had no rest since, and his daughter and Frau Valentin who was with them, had both urged him to inquire immediately in person. He was also to ask whether the ladies could be of any assistance in nursing or sending delicacies; Frau Valentin placed at their disposal her whole store of jellies and her cook, who had had a great deal of experience in preparing food for the sick. He said all this in such an earnest, beseeching tone, that Edwin pressed his hand with deep emotion. He would certainly remember this kind offer when Balder was convalescent. Would he like to see him a moment?

The little man entered the room on tip toe, bowed courteously to Mohr whom he did not know and then stood motionless beside Balder's bed. Suddenly he turned away, drew out his handkerchief and made every effort to stifle in its folds the agitation that found vent in passionate tears. When this was no longer possible, he hastily waved a farewell to Edwin and hurried to the door.

"He's forgotten his hat," said Mohr. "I'll follow the good old fellow and see that he gets down stairs safely, I was going away at any rate, Edwin. Our tribune of the people will probably soon be here." On the landing before Christiane's door he overtook the little artist, who had paused to collect his thoughts and dry his wet face.

"I've brought you your hat, Herr KÖnig," said he.

The artist nodded his thanks, put his hat on mechanically, and then slowly descended the staircase. He seemed so absorbed in thought that, contrary to his usual courteous custom, he took no notice of his companion.

But on reaching the street before the house, where Mohr was about to take leave of him, the artist suddenly seized his arm, and said: "If you have time, my dear sir, I beg you to walk a few steps with me. I've something to tell you. You're an intimate friend of both brothers. The Herr Doctor often mentioned your name. Perhaps, too, you know how it happened that I--that I found myself compelled to stop the lessons he gave my daughter. My creator knows it was no easy matter for me--or my daughter either, as you may well believe. It was like punishing her when she felt perfectly innocent. But that's not the point; to one who loves his child--but it ought not to be a chastisement for does not our heavenly father deny us many dear and precious things, we know not why? Of course I don't mean to compare our human wisdom with the infinite wisdom of God; I only say all this because perhaps you have thought me hard hearted. Indeed I'm not; I've probably suffered even more than my dear child; but I did not dream that she'd take it so much to heart. I tell you she has altered beyond recognition, become a totally different creature, not like a girl of eighteen or nineteen, but a wearied soul for which all the happiness of this world is past. My heart bleeds when I see her wandering about, uncomplaining, often even wearing a smile, but so pale! And that's why I couldn't restrain my tears when I saw your friend's brother lying on his couch of pain, I don't know how it happened, but I couldn't help thinking suppose my child, my Leah, should lie before me so, and I--an old man--no, no, my God--thy mercy will spare me that, this cup--" Overpowered by his feelings, he stood motionless with his face buried in his hands. To rouse him from his grief, Mohr at last said:

"You wanted to tell me something?"

"Yes indeed," replied the little artist, recovering his self-command. "You see, I'm aware your friends have no superabundance of money, and a sickness--you understand what I mean. I'm still in the Herr Doctor's debt. If you could induce him, at least now--"

"I doubt whether my friend would hear of such a thing, my dear sir. But you need feel no anxiety. We're a sort of communistic society, and where Balder's interests are concerned Edwin is not too proud to receive help from his friends."

"That's just it," sighed the little artist. "If he only knew what good friends he has outside of your circle. Frau Valentin--an excellent woman, believe me, has in spite of everything the highest esteem for this admirable young man. But you see, as he so openly rebels against being called a child of God, and doesn't even recognize a heavenly father, can you blame an earthly father if he does not want his only daughter's inheritance of the kingdom of heaven argued and philosophized away? She's so young, ought she to surrender her mind and soul to a man who knows nothing, and wishes to know nothing of God? Isn't it better for her temporal welfare to suffer, rather than her soul should sustain an injury?"

At any other time Mohr could scarcely have refrained from arguing with the little artist and driving him into a corner. Now as he slowly walked beside him through the rude November storm, he only listened with half an ear. His thoughts were far away, yet at every muffled female figure whose gait and bearing had the most distant resemblance to Christiane's, he involuntary started.

"If the hard winter were only over," the artist prattled frankly on, without taking the slightest umbrage at the silence of his gloomy companion. "Well, with God's favor, we shall soon see another Spring and then I shall no longer be anxious about my daughter. The doctor thinks change of air, amusement, and journeying, would restore her more quickly than any other remedy. A few months ago, this opinion would have startled me. A poor artist, who has never been prosperous or had particularly rich patrons--dear me, how could he obey such prescriptions? But when the need is greatest, God's help is nearest; that has been made manifest to me afresh. Just imagine, my dear sir, what has happened. I had only one little picture at this year's exhibition, which closed a fortnight ago--the times have been very bad--I was obliged to devote myself exclusively to my remunerative labor, wood engraving. Well, as I said before, I couldn't make up my mind to be entirely unrepresented in the exhibition, although I should hardly have been missed. So just before the doors closed I finished a little picture, one of my zaun pieces, which perhaps you've seen here and there. My speciality, my dear sir, in which I'm safe from competition. But what happened? On the last day, when I had wholly resigned all hope of selling my zaunkÖnig this time, in spite of its moderate price of forty thalers, and was walking resignedly through the hall, thinking: 'no wonder you're left; almost all the others are better,' I saw three gentlemen standing before my little daub, engaged in eager conversation and pointing so frequently to the picture, that I at first thought they were making fun of it; but no, they talked as gravely and earnestly as if they were standing before some master piece from which a whole theory on aesthetics might be demonstrated. I now recognized one of the gentlemen, a well known connoisseur in art, Baron L., and he also recognized me and whispered something in the ear of the taller of his two companions, who had a very aristocratic air, after which they continued to converse for some time in a low tone, the aristocratic gentleman looking at me through his eye glasses, till I was really embarrassed and tried to slink away. But the baron called to me and begged me to return, he wanted to introduce me to His Highness, Prince BatÁroff, who wished to make my acquaintance. Well I couldn't escape, I was obliged to answer a multitude of questions, especially about art, how I painted, what my thoughts were while painting, and even why I painted, as if that were not as much a matter of course, to an artist as eating and drinking. At last, after the prince had said something in Russian to his companions, he asked me what I earned a year by my pictures on an average. I quickly made a rough estimate and named the sum, which of coarse is no princely revenue, and on which alone I could not live. Upon this His Highness said: 'Would you pledge yourself, Herr KÖnig, on your word of honor, to give everything you paint to me, and not touch a brush without my orders? In return I would give you a regular yearly income, four times the amount of the sum you have named. But you understand me: if you should break your promise--' here the professor interposed and said that was not to be feared from me, that I was known to be a man of principle and religion, but he winked at me to accept the offer without a moment's hesitation. Tell me yourself, my dear Herr Mohr, could I have justified my action to my child if I had delayed? I joyfully agreed to the proposal, and am now in a situation to take my daughter to Switzerland next May, perhaps even on a little trip into Italy. Wasn't I right in saying that the ways of Providence are wonderful?"

"Wonderful indeed," replied Mohr, "so wonderful that in your place I should have been curious to discover the connection of affairs. As you acknowledge that your paintings are a specialty, how do you account for this Russian patron's fancy for getting a whole brood of zaunkÖnigs?"

"I asked the baron that question directly afterwards; for between ourselves, the prince didn't seem to me exactly in his right mind, and I thought it wrong to profit by a monomania. I know very well that I'm only a mediocre artist, many of my works I can't endure myself. But the baron quieted my scruples. My salary was no more to the prince than the bottle of wine which I certainly should not grudge myself on a holiday, is to me. Besides, he had a very shrewd head and was interested in my artistic individuality, as he called it. Well, a man's wishes are his own private affair. I'm now a Russian court painter, and the first quarter's salary has been paid in advance, but there's nothing said about an order and the sketch of my lagune, which I have sent and would like to finish, has not been returned to me: 'it will do very well,' was the answer. His Highness is still reflecting what he will order first."

"I congratulate you," said Mohr dryly. "If your opinion that you're only a mediocre artist were correct, it would at least be an aurea mediocritas, a golden mean, with which one might well be satisfied."

"My dear sir," replied Herr KÖnig good naturedly, without showing the slightest irritation, "all things must serve to benefit those who love God. I submitted to my mediocrity, even when no Russian prince gilded it for me. If all creatures were of the same size, all men, plants and animals the tropical giants now to be found in some regions, what would become of the bright, cheerful diversity in the world? Even to belong to it, I consider so great a happiness that I think those artists very unfortunate who wish themselves out of it because they have attained only average success or even fallen below mediocrity."

Mohr cast a keen side glance at him. Were these words, which struck his sensitive spot, intentionally aimed at him? Had Edwin told the little gentleman anything about his symphony or comedy, and was this lecture on contentment intended to put a damper on his fruitless zeal? But the artist's bright innocent expression contradicted such a suspicion, and made it impossible for the other to utter the sharp answer that was already hovering on his tongue. Besides, while engaged in this conversation they had reached the little house on the canal, and the artist urged his companion so cordially to come in for a moment and take a cup of tea, that Mohr in spite of his dejection, could not refuse. Where else should he go? The wind was blowing from the river with icy coldness, and all life on the banks seemed frozen. Nothing awaited him in his lonely bachelor lodgings save a dark night full of anxious dreams. So he allowed himself to be guided across the timber yard, along the narrow path between the lofty piles of wood, toward the door, from which streamed a faint ray of light.