The invitation was immediately accepted by a young man of perhaps twenty-five, although the fresh complexion of a perfectly beardless face made him at first sight appear several years younger. The well-shaped head was covered with smooth blond hair, long enough to be brushed back, and to leave the very white forehead free, which rose boldly above his light-blue eyes; at least such appeared to be their color, as seen through the glasses which he wore. His figure was of medium size, but broad in the shoulders, and his compact muscular frame seemed to be made to bear fatigue easily. The young man seemed to care little for his appearance. His costume consisted of a light summer-coat of doubtful color, which seemed to have been exposed to many a tempest, and of trousers of the same material, color, and quality. His linen had evidently been whiter when it left the hands of the laundress. His carriage corresponded with his appearance: it was less elegant than easy, and agreed in this point also, that Mr. Timm might easily have improved it if he had chosen.

"Beg ten thousand pardons," he said, laughing, as he made a very informal bow to the baroness and gave a familiar nod to the minister, "if I have interrupted an interesting conversation by my lyric Intermezzo; but I really did not know what else to do, as I have not the honor, madam, to know your servants by name, and in vain looked for a bell in this part of the house. I had peeped into several doors already, and if I could have suspected that the fifth, which I had not even noticed before, should have been opened by the baron himself, I should have saved myself my musical performance, which was intended solely for the less sensitive ear of some serving spirit--How are you, madam? Fatigued by the heat? Shouldn't wonder--eighty-five in the shade--real hot-house temperature.--I bring you much love from your wife, Mr. Jager; saw her an hour ago in Fashwitz. She'll come towards evening with the one-horse chaise, to fetch you home. I have surveyed the whole of Sassitz, baron. If you agree, we'll draw up the plats at once, if the baroness will have the kindness to give me a room in the chÂteau."

Mr. Timm paused, and put his hand in his pocket to take out his handkerchief and to wipe his forehead, on which the perspiration stood in big drops. But as he recollected in time that this very useful part of his toilet was by no means in a fit condition to be exhibited in such company, he left it where it was, passed his hand over his forehead and his hair, and looked as cheerful and happy as if he was the sole and legitimate heir to the Grenwitz estates, which he had to survey in the sweat of his face.

"Certainly," said the baroness, who liked Mr. Timm on account of his unpretending manner, and who, imperious as she was, or rather because she was so imperious, instinctively appreciated a man who was afraid of no one and whom nothing could disconcert for a moment; "certainly, Mr. Timm. You know you are always welcome. You will be better able to work here, where nothing interrupts you, than in town, and it is our mutual advantage to have the work done as soon as possible. You have brought your things, I hope?"

"Is all in the hall, where the rustic youth, who guided the ponies which brought me here in a fair dog-trot, has put them down," said Mr. Timm, whose "things" consisted of a small trunk of melancholy appearance, filled with some clean and not much soiled linen, a few articles of a wardrobe which no one could call extravagant, and a large portfolio with drawings, surveys, etc. "I only need the guidance of one of your serving-spirits to show me the room you may have kindly appropriated to my use, and I shall at once establish my domestic altars there."

"Will you have the kindness to pull that bell-rope twice?" said Anna Maria, with a gracious smile.

"With pleasure," said Mr. Timm; "this instrumental method of conjuring up the spirits of the deep is more convenient than my vocal method, and also more efficient, as I see."

The servant who entered received his orders to show Mr. Timm his room.

"It has been ready for you several weeks, Mr. Timm," said the baroness.

"You are kind and provident, like providence itself, madam," said Mr. Timm, rising, and unceremoniously kissing the baroness' hand; "au revoir, gentlemen, till supper, at which I hope to see you in the same frame in which I shall appear--I mean in good-humor and with still better appetite," and then he briskly followed the servant.

"Really a nice man, this Mr. Timm," said the baroness; "so harmless, so unpretending, so perfectly aware of his position in society, and never assuming any airs, like certain other people."

"Yes indeed!" affirmed the minister; "a very nice, modest young man. He really deserves encouragement, both on account of his talents, which are quite eminent, and on account of the good family to which he belongs.

"Gustava knows his family and all about them very well; I also recollect, from my time in Grunwald, his father, a distinguished lawyer, who lost his large fortune, shortly before his death, by some unlucky speculation. His relations are still in very good places. One of his uncles is a major in the army. Mr. Timm himself was intended for the army, and, I believe, actually served as ensign; but his father's losses compelled him to abandon that career and to become an engineer or surveyor. He is very desirous to attend lectures at the Institute at the capital, but unfortunately he lacks----" the minister here made a sign with his thumb and forefinger as if he were counting money.

"Why, what a pity!" said the baroness. "I wish we could help the poor fellow. Could not his uncle the major lend him a few hundred dollars? But, to be sure, these gentlemen in the army have generally hard enough work themselves.--Ah! mademoiselle, vous arrivez bien À propos! Veuillez avoir la bontÉ!"

The baroness had risen to give her instructions to Mademoiselle Marguerite.

"Would you like to see my beehives, Mr. Jager?" said the baron.

"With the greatest pleasure," replied the latter, taking his hat and cane.

"Don't stay away too long," said the baroness, "we shall have a little supper.--Que voulais-je dire? Ah oui! Du chocolat, mais pas si ÉnormÉment sucrÉ que la derniÈre fois et prenez garde, ..."

The evening had come, and with it Mrs. Jager, in the one-horse chaise. Primula wore the same dress of raw silk in which she had appeared to Oswald last Sunday, and, fatigued as she was by the great heat of the day, she looked more than ever like a sick canary-bird. Her husband had taken the first opportunity, after the long-winded greeting between her and the baroness was finished, to whisper to her, that it would be better not to appear too enthusiastic about her new friend. He told her that the young man seemed by no means to enjoy the favor of the baron and the baroness in a very high degree--a piece of news which so astounded the "dweller in higher regions," that she was hardly able to return Oswald's salutation when he appeared in the parlor, shortly before supper was announced.

Oswald's good-humor would have probably been excited by this strange conduct of his enthusiastic hostess of the Sunday before, if he had only become aware of it. But unfortunately he was in that state of mind in which, as Oldenburg said, we have eyes and ears wide open without seeing or hearing anything. The shadow of the events of the last day and last night were still lying on his soul and on his brow. His usual vivacity had given way to melancholy calmness; he looked pale and thoughtful, but so very handsome and distinguished, that Primula's delicate soul began once more to feel the charm which the young stranger had exercised on his first meeting with her. She forgot, thus, the warning of her husband all the more completely, as she noticed the particular courtesy with which the baroness and her husband treated the man who had just now been denounced to her as a fallen greatness. She was in her heart preparing a sermon which she was to deliver to Mr. Jager on their return journey, because he had, as usually, not seen "the forest amid so many trees." The worthy minister was himself, at first, not a little disconcerted by the contrast between the words and the actions of the baroness. But he knew better than anybody else that men do not always appear such as they really are, and that they are not always what they seem to be; he thought it best, therefore, faithfully to imitate the manner of his patroness, an effort which was not difficult for such a master in the noble art of hypocrisy.

Nevertheless, the conversation at the supper-table would probably have been very far from lively, in spite of the apparent concord and harmony of the company, if Mr. Timm had possessed the happy gift of assuming the color of the company in which he found himself; this was, however, not at all the fact.

Mr. Timm had fully come up to his promise to appear at table in good-humor and with a better appetite. He found the chocolate, which was by no means ÉnormÉment sucrÉ excellent, the bread excellent, the butter excellent, everything excellent; and what a delightful idea to have the table set just on that part of the terrace from which one had such a charming view of the garden! How wonderfully fine those lights and shades were on the tall trees beyond the lawn! Really, a genuine Claude Lorraine! "Really, baron, if I were not Diogenes I should like to be Alexander! But then we cannot all dwell in marble palaces; there must be dwellers in tubs also, and happy the man whose tub is to him a castle! You ought to immortalize that thought in an epigram, Mrs. Jager! You have such a decided talent for that branch of poetry; even in your best lyric poems I have often found an epigrammatic turn. Thus in the charming little poem on the May Bug. How was the last line, 'The false image of May?' or like that? That is in itself already an epigram. Do you know that in Grunwald they have never yet got over your desertion? Only quite lately Professor Shylight, whom I met at Dean Black's, said: It is unwarrantable that a certain great scholar, whom I will not name, should bury the great wealth of his erudition in the solitude of a village. I replied that it was still more unwarrantable in the author of the 'Cornflowers' to live forever among cornflowers."

Thus he rattled on with great alacrity, and yet all that Timm said seemed to drop accidentally from his lips, as if he had not the slightest idea of being clever or witty. One listened to him as to a merry canary-bird, too loud perhaps in his merriment, but who sees the sun come into his cage, and takes it into its little head to pour out all its songs and melodies for once. Oswald, however, could not help thinking at times that Timm's humor was, after all, not always quite as natural as it seemed to be. He fancied Timm was playing his well-studied and well-calculated part in a perfectly natural manner, to be sure, but so as to ridicule and chaff the whole company, while he seemed to be a good-natured bon vivant and an ingenuous child of nature. He was confirmed in his suspicions by the fact that Timm always assumed an entirely different tone whenever he spoke to him, as if he meant: I must not venture upon such tricks with you; but they do not find me out so easily.

None of the others, however, seemed to share this suspicion, which suggested itself all the more naturally to Oswald, as he himself frequently amused himself thus at the expense of the company, for whom he felt such thorough contempt. Perhaps Bruno might have thought something like it. He was sitting by his side, more sombre and reserved than usual, and never moving a muscle to smile, even when everybody around him--Oswald included--was laughing aloud, especially towards the end of the supper, when Mr. Albert Timm began a conversation with his neighbor, Mademoiselle Marguerite, in which he mingled French and German in the most ludicrous manner. The pretty bashful Genevese girl had taken great pains to follow Mr. Timm in all his odd sayings during the conversation, turning continually with a sudden: Que veut dire cela? to her neighbor on the other side; but Malte answered these questions but rarely, as he himself did not understand more than half of what the inexhaustible talker had said till the latter commenced the amusing jargon with her, breaking off, however, with great tact as soon as he saw that the pretty girl was embarrassed by the laughter of the others.

It had become quite dark, when the baroness rose and invited Mr. and Mrs. Jager, who were thanking her in many words for the delightful evening they had spent, before taking formal leave, to stay and play an old-fashioned game of whist with the baron and herself, "such a staid old game, you know, Mr. Jager, as suits staid old people like ourselves."

Malte had gone to bed. Oswald and Bruno, Albert and Mademoiselle Marguerite were walking in pairs around the lawn and in the nearest garden-walks.

"You never told me yet, Oswald," said Bruno--he now called his friend, when they were alone, always Oswald simply--"whether you saw Aunt Berkow yesterday?"

"Yes, Bruno."

"Did she look pretty?"

"As ever."

"Did she send me her love?"

"Of course."

"Do you know, Oswald, I think Aunt Berkow is quite fond of you?"

"Why, little fool?"

"She was always looking at you so the other evening--so very kindly--and I don't know how--but her eyes looked brighter--and she sometimes looks at me so, when she strokes my hair, and still it was not quite the same way."

"Ah, Bruno, you do not know what you are saying."

"I know it very well, but I cannot express it as well as you big, clever people. I was quite jealous of you that evening, for before that she was almost most kind to me. I should not know how Aunt Berkow looks when she is fond of somebody! I know it perfectly well!" said Bruno, defiantly.

"And I know more than that," he continued, after a pause. "I ought not to tell, because aunt warned me against letting anybody know; but now I think she was not in earnest when she said so."

"What was that?" asked Oswald, with assumed indifference.

"I will tell you," said Bruno. "Last Saturday, in the afternoon, when you were writing letters, I had gone into the forest towards Berkow, because that is my favorite walk. Suddenly aunt comes riding up, quite alone, not even Boncoeur with her. She rode Brownlock, whom she always takes when she wants to go fast, and she must have been riding fast then, for Brownlock's neck and chest, and even her riding-habit, were all covered with white foam. Why, Bruno! she said, offering me her hand, where are you going to? Nowhere, aunt, as usually, said I, but where are you going to!--Nowhere, like yourself, she answered, laughing; so we can continue on our way together.--If you will walk your horse, I said, not otherwise. And thus we went for half an hour or more through the forest, and the whole time we talked of nothing but of yourself, and aunt asked me if I was fond of you, to which I replied, of course, No! How you looked and if you were cheerful? Whether you studied much? and a hundred other things, which I have forgotten. At last she charged me to give you her regards, and to ask you if you still had the engravings you had been speaking of, and if you would not send them to her--and then she called me back, and said I had better not remind you of them, and not tell you that she had spoken of you--but, as I told you, now I do not think she meant exactly what she said."

"Why not now, Bruno?"

"Because----" the boy was silent; suddenly he said in a low tone, as if he feared the dark bushes would hear it:

"Tell me, Oswald, how is it, when people are in love?"

"How do you mean?" asked Oswald, not a little embarrassed by the boy's question.

"I mean, what kind of love is that of which the books have so much to say? I love you, love you very much, but I think there must be some other kind of love. Thus I never understood why we should not love anybody we choose to love. Now, I love my Aunt Berkow above all things. I could do anything for her! I sometimes wish she would fall into the water and I could jump after her; or, as it happened the other day, Brownlock would be rearing and I would seize the reins and struggle with him, and not let him go again, although he should trample upon me with his hoofs.--Now, such wishes never occur to me when I am near you, Oswald, or when I think of you at a distance."

"Because I am a man, Bruno, and you know that I could and would help myself, without aid from others. But the love we feel for a woman partakes of the consciousness that we must protect her who cannot defend herself with our superior strength and courage, and that makes our love deeper, and fuller of sympathy. And then there is still another feeling mixed up with it, of which I can only tell you that it is pure as nature itself, but also as chaste, and which therefore must not be awakened before the right time, if it is not to become as fatal to rash man as the boldness of the youth, whom the thirst for knowledge drove to SaÏs and to the temple where she dwelt, hid in close veils, Isis, the chaste, holy goddess of nature."

"I do not quite understand you, Oswald."

"The world and life are full of riddles, Bruno. Life is a Sphinx and we are Œdipus. And it is the curse of Œdipus that he must solve the enigma, although the solution makes him unhappy."

"You are not angry with me, Oswald?"

"I angry, darling! Why should I?"

"Because I trouble you with such absurd questions."

"You ought to ask me, Bruno; ask me about everything which causes you doubt or trouble. Your soul ought to lie open before me like a book, which I may peruse over and over again. Would to God I could write nothing but what is wise and good on its white pages."

"You are always kind, so very kind towards me, Oswald, and I return only ingratitude and obstinacy!"

"No, you do not do that--and then, are we not brothers? Brothers must love, and bear, and support each other, and have no right to keep their troubles apart. Bruno, if I could cherish the pious faith of many, that the spirits of the departed hover around the beloved ones whom they have left behind upon earth, I would say: From yonder, in the bright starry sky, our mothers are looking down upon us, and rejoice at our union and our love. Let us stand by each other in this wild strife of life, for defence and offence. It will not be long before you are a man like myself, and would to God a better man than I am. Then the last difference, the difference of years, which I do not feel even now, will have disappeared. It may be that then I will look up to you, as you now look up to me; then you will repay me a hundred-fold what I may be able to do for you now; then I shall be--oh, so willingly!--your debtor!"

"Ah, that will never be!" said Bruno. "You will always be unattainably far ahead of me. I shall never be what you are even now."

"You little fool!" said Oswald, and affectionately caressed Bruno's hair. "Now you are sitting in the pit before the stage of life, and the pasteboard roll looks to your enthusiastic eye a huge mountain, and all the tinsel genuine gold. When you are on the stage yourself, the sweet rosy veil of illusion will drop from before your eyes, and you will see your mistake. But be it so! After your first painful disappointment, you will soon understand that it cannot be otherwise; you will not despise your brother, because you now see that his proud knightly cloak is of faded silk, and sadly patched, and his spurs nothing but brass--but hush! here comes Mr. Timm and mademoiselle! It seems Mr. Timm improves the opportunity to cultivate his French. We will not disturb him in his praiseworthy purposes. Let us turn off here."

Mr. Timm, who had not noticed Oswald and Bruno, now came by, arm in arm with Mademoiselle Marguerite, speaking eagerly, but carefully softening his clear, loud voice. He had indeed known how to improve the "opportunity," though in another sense than that to which Oswald alluded. The young man attached very little importance to his pronunciation of French, but very much to the evident advantages he might derive from the good-will of the young lady, who seemed to preside over the interior of the household. As he would probably spend several weeks at the chÂteau, this was a matter of great interest to him, and he had taken prompt measures to secure the favor of the little Frenchwoman, which might in many ways mitigate the monotony of country life. During the delightful, cosey little tÊte-À-tÊte, the conversation had been carried on in German, with an occasional use of French, as mademoiselle spoke German quite fluently and Mr. Timm spoke French very badly, and the harmless, innocent, and truth-loving young man hated nothing more than the possibility of being understood imperfectly, or, worse than that, of being misunderstood.

"And you have been here long?" he asked.

"Three years."

"Is it possible? And you did not die of ennui! You must have a famous constitution."

"PlaÎt-il?

"I mean, it is desperately tiresome to live year after year in this hole, and, moreover, to live here in such very charming society. But I suppose you have much to do?"

"EnormÉment! I have to work like a forÇat."

"Like what?"

"Vous ne savez pas ce que c'est qu'un forÇat?"

"No--never mind. We'll say, like a horse; that will do, I dare say. You say then, they make you work like a forÇat?"

"Justement! I have to open and to lock all doors----"

"That's not so bad," remarked Timm.

"I must hear all the day: Mademoiselle, do this! Mademoiselle, do that! And the evening, when I am tired that I cannot keep open the eyes, I must read the stupid old books till madam has the kindness to say: C'est assez!--Non, madame, ce n'est pas assez; c'est trop--mille fois trop!" said the lively little lady, and stamped with the foot.

"You seem to have a lively temper," said Mr. Timm. "But that is all right; relieve yourself--that makes the heart lighter--but if the baroness has so much confidence in you, I suppose you are in high favor with her?"

"Au contraire! She me uses, because she me needs. She would give me my congÉ rather to-day than to-morrow. She me likes, because I not need much sleep and I eat little."

"Well, then, I shall never be in favor with her," said Mr. Timm. "But you, poor child, are in a horrible position here. Much work and no thanks; early rising, and, in return, late retiring; all day threshing corn, like the good-natured beast in the Bible, but no privileges granted, as there recorded--who can stand that? You ought to get married, mademoiselle?"

Marguerite shrugged her shoulders. "Who will marry me? Je suis si pauvre et si laide!"

"What is that?"

"I say: I am poor and I am ugly!"

"I grant the former," said Mr. Timm; "the other is vile slander. You ugly? Au contraire: you are pretty, mademoiselle, trÈs pretty, very belle----"

"Vouz plaisantez, monsieur."

"No jest," said Mr. Timm. "You are a strikingly handsome girl. In the first place, you have a charming figure----"

"Trop petite," said Marguerite.

"Not a bit," replied Mr. Timm; "secondly, you have prodigiously fine brown eyes, a charming hand, an enchanting little foot----"

"Mais, monsieur!"

"Well, what? It is true, and we can say what is true. I bet monsieur le docteur Stein is of my opinion. Do you love the doctor?"

"I him love?" said the little Frenchwoman, with much animation. "I him love? I him 'ate!"

"Come, come!" laughed Mr. Timm; "why should you? He is a fine-looking man."

"C'est un bel homme, mais c'est un fat."

"Un what?"

"He is one fool, oui, one fool, qui est monstrueusement amoureux de lui-mÊme; mais avec toute sa fiertÉ je me moque de lui, je me moque de sa fiertÉ, oui, je m'en moque, moi."

"Pray, don't get excited, and above all speak German, if you wish me to understand you. What harm has the unfortunate man done you?"

"Lui malheureux? Il n'est pas malheureux, ce monsieur lÀ! Tout le monde le flatte, le cajole----"

"But for Heaven's sake speak German, I say!"

"Do you believe that he has ever spoken ten words to me since that he is here?"

"That is abominable, to be sure. Ugh! there, I have hurt my foot once more against a miserable root. I am as blind in the dark as a mole. You would really do a work of charity if you would take my arm and help me a little."

"TrÈs volontiers, monsieur."

"Ah, a vain man is this Doctor Stein," said Mr. Timm, holding pretty Marguerite's arm very close and firm, probably because he was so very near-sighted; "well, who would have thought so! Do you know, dear Marguerite--what a pretty name that is: Marguerite!--I may call you Marguerite, may I?--well, as I was going to say: Don't trouble yourself about the foolish man, dear Marguerite! If he does not speak to you, that is his own loss, and if he does not think you pretty, other people think very differently. I, for instance, although I am very near-sighted, especially in this dark avenue, where one can hardly see the hand before one's eyes.--Are you afraid, little Marguerite? No? Why does your heart beat so? Or could you really, by mere chance, be a little fond of me? Are you a little fond of me, dear Marguerite? Don't hesitate; I am an easy kind of man. People say anything to me. Or, rather, say nothing and give me a kiss.--You won't?--Well, that is sensible; you French people, and especially you Frenchwomen, are a charming nation. But why do you cry, little simpleton? Is it high treason with you to give a man a kiss, and that in the dark?--Pshaw! There comes that fool, the doctor, with his monkey.... Bon soir, gentlemen, we can play at hide and seek here."

"Or blindman's buff," said Oswald, "and that without bandages. I suppose we had better go in. If I mistake not, the baroness has been inquiring for mademoiselle."

Mr. and Mrs. Jager had taken leave with many protestations of their respect and their gratitude, in order to return in the one-horse chaise to "their lowly roof" in Fashwitz; Bruno had retired some time before, and Timm and Oswald were walking up the broad staircase which led to their rooms.

"This is your room, I think, Mr. Timm," said Oswald, stopping at one of the many doors which opened upon the passage. The latter led, sometimes rising a few steps, sometimes descending, in many windings, through the whole of the older part of the chÂteau in which Oswald and Mr. Timm were quartered, and in which several of the less elegant guest-chambers were situated.

"And where is your tent, doctor?"

"A few doors further on."

"Are you very sleepy?"

"Not particularly so."

"Well, then, permit me to go with you to your room for a few minutes. I feel the very natural desire to smoke a good cigar in sensible company after all the nonsense which I have heard talked and which I have talked myself."

"Well, come," said Oswald, who would much rather have been alone, but who had too high an idea of the duty of hospitality to refuse so direct a request. "I am doubtful, however, whether my cigars will be good enough and my company sensible enough."

"For Heaven's sake! No more compliments for to-day," cried Mr. Timm. "I have had more than enough, I assure you. Pray, show me the way----"

"A charming tent," said Mr. Timm, as they entered the room. Oswald lighted the lamp on the table before the sofa and took a box of cigars from his bureau. "A very nice tub for a cynic who occasionally attends lectures with the Sybarites; really famous, too comfortable for my taste. That big arm-chair in the window, from which one can look so cosily on one side into the garden, and on the other, 'still and deeply moved,' upon that beautiful Apollo there; nature and art vis-À-vis and one's self between, as the aËronaut said when he fell from his balloon.--This cigar is superb, genuine Habana, and no stinkador--do you smoke? no? and you keep such a weed for your friends and acquaintances!--Most noble of men! Saint Crispin is a highwayman in comparison with you! What is that in the very suspicious-looking bottle up there on the book-shelf? I verily believe it is Cognac----"

"And very good old Cognac," said Oswald. "At least my friend Mr. Wrampe, the steward, says so, who has almost forced me to accept this bottle,--probably smugglers' ware----"

"And never yet opened! Me Hercule! We must really see if the steward has told the truth. Do you ever drink grog?"

"Never! But don't let that keep you," said Oswald, good-naturedly taking down the bottle and drawing the cork. "I'll make you hot water in an instant."

"No indeed! Why such ceremonies? Cold water answers just as well, especially in small quantities,--this is a charming evening," said Mr. Timm, rubbing his hands joyfully. "Now please sit down in that corner there, on the sofa, so that I feel you are comfortable, if one who does not smoke and does not drink ever can be comfortable. I will move this big chair up,--what a weight the fellow has! And now let us have a chat, as two good people ought to talk, who laugh at all the absurdity of the so-called great world and good society."

With these words Mr. Timm drew up with his foot another light chair, to rest his legs upon, and then stretched himself out comfortably, bending his head back a little, to be able to look the longer at the smoke of his cigar.

The light of the lamp fell full upon his face, and Oswald now noticed, for the first time, that Mr. Timm's features were really surprisingly handsome and interesting, especially seen in profile, when the bold, clear-cut outlines were fully seen. This discovery was by no means a matter of indifference to Oswald. He went a step farther than Voltaire, thinking that the genre ennuyeux was the worst not only of books, but of men also; and as his sense of the beautiful in forms was very keenly alive, he allowed himself so very largely to be governed by his love for all that was picturesque or statuesque, that his sense for the True and the Good frequently suffered. It was so in this case. Mr. Timm's unceremonious manner and his thinly veiled materialism had offended him more than once in the course of the evening, and he had half and half determined to limit his intercourse with the impudent fellow to the absolutely necessary meetings; but as he now followed with his eye and his mind the outlines of the handsome face, he forgot quickly his resolution.

"Will you please keep still for a few minutes," he said, instinctively seizing his pencil, in order to sketch Albert's profile on the first piece of paper which he found on the table amid books and papers.

"Half an hour, if you wish it," replied the other; "I am perfectly comfortable as I am; only let me smoke, talk, and occasionally take a sip of this earth-born nectar."

"That will not interfere in the least," said Oswald, drawing busily.

"This old castle is after all a strange old box," said Albert, dreamily. "I do not think I have any mind for romance, and yet I have only to put my foot on the winding staircase which leads up this wing, and I feel all the horrors of the middle ages. Even my language changes, and I begin to talk, as you hear, like a novel-writer. What walls! we would make a dozen of them now! If there were people in those days, as I presume, who could storm doors and walls, what thick skulls they must have had!"

"Would you be good enough to take off your spectacles," said Oswald?

"With pleasure. If I had lived in the middle ages I should not have ruined my eyes by reading dusty old books. If the middle ages really had any advantages over ours, it was this, that people were not compelled to learn so much. Just imagine: no schools, no Cornelius Nepos, no history of the middle ages, no examinations, only a few sparring lessons with an old soldier who had served a number of masters and knew how to tell a good story of every one of them, and then if a man wanted to be very highly cultivated, a few lessons on the lute from a strolling minstrel--a merry, boisterous fellow, who was full of pretty songs and gay tricks, who had sung under a thousand windows and kissed a thousand girls,--what a life it must have been! And above all, this facility of changing your residence; this perfect freedom to move about at will, limited at most by a couple of stout fellows, who knocked your brains out in a hollow lane, if they pleased. Georges Sand has said a pretty thing in one of her novels, the only one I remember, probably because it was spoken as from my soul: 'What is there finer than a highroad?' Is not that well said? I could kiss the woman for that sentence, though she is a blue-stocking, and I hate blue-stockings like poison. I won't say like the devil, because he is after all but an unappreciated man of genius, and therefore deserves the sympathy of every educated man. But if a man of our day is pursued by the devil's own knaves, his creditors, where can he flee to? Then in those good old times a man would pack his knapsack some fine morning, or, if he had none, pack himself and march out of the city gate, and after a quarter of an hour, when he was outside the corporation, he was safe, and before evening came he had passed through so many adventures already that he had long since forgotten the old city and the pretty nut-brown maid, for whom but yesterday he vowed to live and die. Have you done? Well, let us see! Hm! You draw like some great painters, the face not as nature has made it, but as nature ought to have made it, if she had not unfortunately been blind at the proper moment. Very pretty, indeed, but I prefer the original. And you are a poet, too, as I see!"

"How so?"

"Well, the other side of this paper, I see, is covered with verses, and above all, sonnets, which I love passionately. May I read them?"

"They are not worth reading," said Oswald, visibly embarrassed by Albert's question.--The verses were addressed to Melitta; they had been written in memory of their first meeting in the forest cottage! He thought he had put the papers carefully away in his writing-desk, and now bitterly repented his imprudence, which had placed them now in the hand of his impertinent guest, whom he had every reason to fear was by no means discreet. Fortunately, Melitta's name was not mentioned.

"Not worth reading?" said Albert; "we'll see that directly. Poets have no clear idea of their productions. Think for a moment that I had written these verses and felt impelled to read them to you? Listen! 'She loves me.' The beginning is as original as truthful. But you must admit that so old a subject cannot well be treated in a novel manner in our day. Albert read the two sonnets which he found in the paper clearly and intelligently, almost with a certain air of feeling. Oswald was grateful to him. He had been afraid the impudent fellow would have profaned his poems, which he only valued, after all, as true expressions of what he had really felt. He was glad to get off so cheap.

"Do you never make verses?" he asked, taking the paper, and adding it to some others, which seemed likewise to contain poetry.

"I?" said Mr. Timm, refreshing himself heartily from his glass, "Heaven save me! I am much too practical. Practical and poetical views of the world agree like cat and dog. When the little kitten Poetry mews in her tenderest tones, the dog Prose begins to bark furiously and the little enthusiast is silenced. Why would you, for instance, die instantly, 'if Fate should deny you such wondrous bliss?' That is as unpractical as it can be. Why should you poets anyways insist upon purposely spoiling all the little pleasure that is left us on this melancholy planet? But, to be sure, I talk as the blind man talks of colors. Perhaps you are, after all, better off in your home in the clouds than we on this dark earth, where one has to suffer much of corns and other earthly sensations which are unknown to you airy dwellers on high. I have often wished I had a decided talent for one or the other arts: poetry, music, operations on corns, painting, grimacing, sculpture, prestidigitation--anything, any notion, which might console me when the waves of life wash over my head. I remember I once saw a badger at a fair, who showed me what a blessing such a talent is in misfortune. All the other brutes, without talents, were running about like mad in their cages, or roared from hunger and rage, or at best resigned themselves to their fate in despair. But Master Badger, true to his artistic instinct, worked indefatigably at the imaginary den in his cage, scratching, scratching, all the time scratching, from morn till evening. This evidently made him forget hunger and cold, even his captivity; he found perfect happiness in the exercise of his talent, even under such desperately unfavorable circumstances. I wish I were a badger!--That Cognac is really capital! You ought to take a glass too, doctor, to drive away those clouds on your Apollo brow. When I was a boy people looked upon me as a marvel because I could imitate everything, precisely as the magpie whistles what others play. That boy will be a great genius, said the foolish people, whenever I astounded them by some tour de force of my memory, which retained good things and bad things equally well. I wish I had been forced to sit still and to study, like the other poor boys whose compositions I then wrote, and who are now great men, while I am little better than a vagabond. But vive la joie! vive la bagatelle! There must be vagabonds also in the world, simply because otherwise there would be no staid, respectable people. Vagabonds are the salt of the earth, or at least the seeds flying about which scatter vegetation over the whole earth, instead of letting it be confined to a few spots. Vagabonds founded Carthage, vagabonds founded Rome. An honest fellow, born in Europe without a cigar in his mouth--gold spoons are out of fashion, I believe--can do nothing better than to emigrate to America, if he feels an earnest desire to smoke a really good cigar and does not choose to steal it, or if he has not the good luck to stumble over a nice young man like yourself, who keeps cigars and Cognac for his friends, and listens to their idle talk till his eyes droop with sleepiness. Upon my word! I have diminished the contents of that bottle by a third! How swiftly all here below passes away! Buona notte, Don Oswaldo! Sleep well and dream dolcemente of the begli occhi della donna bella, amata, immaculata of your sonnets. I for my part will follow Hamlet's example and go to my prayers, for unfortunately I have not even a talent for sleeping, much less for dreaming. Good-night, dottore!"

"Good-night!" said Oswald, rising half asleep from his sofa and accompanying Mr. Timm to the door.

"Not a step farther, dottore," said the latter. "Everything with moderation!" and when the door had closed behind him he remained standing there a moment, put the thumb of his right hand to his nose, quickly moving the other four fingers--a gesture which was less complimentary to Oswald than expressive of the childlike, ingenuous mind of Mr. Timm.