Essential Novelists - Paul Heyse. Paul HeyseЧитать онлайн книгу.

      HE WHO UNDERTAKES TO tell a "true story"—and ours is as fully attested as any a novelist ever gathered from family archives—he who represents life, as it is experienced, not imagined, must be prepared for all sorts of objections and contradictions. The most improbable events, as is well known, are those which most frequently happen, and on the other hand nothing meets with less credence than that which nobody doubts; though there are exceptions to the rule. Even on the stage we are not accustomed to have a lover play a character part, any more than it will be obvious to the readers of this entirely veracious history, when we report the authentic fact that Edwin, faithful to his voluntary vow, actually waited until the end of the week before he again entered the dangerous house in Jägerstrasse, nay that he even put his resolution to a still harder test, by waiting until the afternoon and occupying himself during the morning as usual. Our knowledge of the age he had attained before being attacked by love, only renders the matter the more incredible, as childish diseases are always more violent when contracted in riper years. We have as yet seen too few tests of his philosophy, of the influence of this stern science upon his character, to be able to derive any explanation of his stoical abstinence. But whatever share it may have had in his conduct, when on that Saturday afternoon, he at last entered the memorable street, he found himself in anything but a philosophical mood. The hand with which he stroked Balder's hair trembled perceptibly; instead of the two little volumes of Wilhelm Meister he intended to put in his pocket, he only took the second, and the volume which with its mysterious beauties might almost bear away the palm from her own Balzac. He answered Feyertag, who endeavored to draw him into a learned conversation as he crossed the courtyard, so confusedly, that the worthy man was greatly delighted and told his wife the Herr Doctor, was beginning to feel a proper respect for his intelligence; he had said things to him to-day so terribly learned, that they were almost incomprehensible.

      On the way, our by no means heroically disposed hero endeavored to be prepared for an emergency, which he considered almost as a favor of fortune—that he might not find her at home, or be refused admittance. He resolved to bear this like a man and make no attempt to bribe or learn anything from the striped waist-coat. But when the solemn boy received him with the words: "The young lady is at home and begs the gentleman to walk in"—it seemed as if it would have been utterly impossible for him to go away without seeing her.

      When he entered the little red parlor, she was standing before the table at which she appeared to have been writing, and came forward to receive him with the frankest cordiality, as if he were an old acquaintance who had been long expected. The repellant coldness had vanished from her face, only a certain look of abstraction frequently recalled her former expression. She thanked him for having kept his promise and even brought her something new again. "But," she added, "I must not give you any farther trouble, especially if you continue to act as you did the first time, and leave the books at the outer door. You can surely make a better use of your time, than in running errands for a stranger, and I cannot promise you that a closer acquaintance will repay you for your trouble."

      He answered with a few courteous words that betrayed none of the thoughts passing in his mind. Her presence had again produced so strange an impression, that he needed a short time to regain his composure. To-day, in her simple dress of crimson silk, with her hair wrapped in braids around her head and again utterly devoid of ornament, she seemed even more bewitching than when he first saw her. Yet there was a timidity almost bordering upon sadness in her voice and 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