Essential Novelists - Paul Heyse. Paul Heyse

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      She did not answer immediately. The man's amazing assurance seemed to intimidate her. She was forced to arm herself with her old defiance ere she could reply.

      "Did you really read it from my brow, or only in the book on the table?"

      "My dear Fräulein," he answered kindly, "if I had had the honor of a longer acquaintance with you, you would expect me to be able to solve so easy an enigma without such aid. The author of that book, believe me, with all his atheism, knew more of God than you do—at least at this time, for he knew that which alone leads to Him, and which so far as I see, has hitherto remained unknown to you, and therefore renders the natural estrangement from God you share with countless others, so harsh and apparently necessary: sin. You need not answer yes or no. I'm sure of it: whatever errors and weaknesses have entered your life, you have never known sin, that sin which alone arouses in the wilful heart the need, the longing for redemption, the burning sense of our own weakness and baseness, which makes us thirst for God and is at last stilled by the dew of mercy. Do you smile, Fräulein? This language seems to exaggerated to express the naked truth. Some day you will remember it, and no longer smile.

      "No," he continued as if in sudden agitation, pacing up and down the room with hasty strides. "I will not give you up. I have felt too strongly attracted toward you, from the first words that fell from your lips, to be able to go away now and say to myself: this strong, beautiful soul will never find the way to the holy of holies. Even such a powerful guide as music will only lead you to the threshold. Believe me, my dear Fräulein, I too have had similar experiences; I too once said like you: the God who has created heaven and earth and myself, is too great for my love, too distant for my longing, too silent for my confidence. And why should I have desired to approach him? What did I lack, so long as I had myself, my virtue, my worldly pleasure, my good works? Not until the day when I first became familiar with sin, when I had lost myself, did I learn how near this far off being can come, how eloquently he can console, how lovingly he can draw you to himself. Since that time all the sorrows of the world, of which that bewildering book speaks, have seemed to me mere child's play in comparison to the misfortune of being sufficient to ourselves and attempting to fight our way through the unconquerable horrors of existence, by means of common place honesty, courage, and innocence, the trivial 'always practice truth and justice.'"

      He remained standing before her and held out both hands, but she continued to keep her arms folded over her breast.

      "I don't understand you," she replied, "and moreover do not know why I should take the trouble to understand you—above all, why you should take the trouble to attempt to aid me in your own way. I do not feel at all sick, and what I need to make me happy neither man nor God can give. If the sense of your sinfulness has made you long for a 'Saviour,' I do not envy you this happiness. I am a lonely woman; I have nothing but myself, my pride, my obstinacy, if you choose to call it so. If I must lose this, must become a worm and wallow in the mire—then to be sure I too might probably succeed in crawling to the cross. But I do not desire a God, who must draw me to himself through sin and disgrace! If he cannot clasp his honest, upright creatures to his heart, I prefer to remain a step child."

      "You prefer." said Lorinser in a low, but very impressive tone. "If you always can do so."

      "Who is to prevent me from being faithful to myself?"

      "One who is stronger than our wills: the devil."

      "I am too old for nursery tales."

      "Oh! my dear child," he replied, "there are nursery tales which we first experience, when our infant's socks are laid aside and we have discarded the nurse's milk for sound human reason. Have you never learned that some power is exerted over our wills by a sudden, as it were magical influence? Has no eye ever bewitched you, no voice ever set your blood on fire, no hand ever destroyed your defiant obstinacy by a single touch?"

      A deep flush suddenly suffused Fräulein Falk's dark face.

      "How do you presume to play the part of an inquisitor toward a lady whom you see for the first time?" she vehemently burst forth. "Be kind enough to leave me, sir, our conversation has taken a turn—"

      She drew back as if to leave the way to the door open. He smilingly took his hat from the table, but remained standing in the middle of the room, waving it carelessly to and fro, with his eyes fixed upon the floor.

      "You wrong me," said he. "I am not so indiscreet as to seek to force myself into your confidence. What I said was aimed at people in general. Inspired poets and sentimental children of the world talk of the magic of love. As if these things were not perfectly natural, so natural that the power exercised over the will has been very properly compared to chemical processes. The word magic can only be used when unnatural—supernatural things occur. If you follow the promptings of your inclinations, your blood, your nature, even were it along the worst paths, to the greatest injury of yourself and others—is there any witchcraft in it? Error, weakness, perversity—I repeat it—are very human evils, and do not lead to God. But to be urged on to what is most foreign, hostile to your nature, to be forced, in dread and horror, to do what you abhor, to be faithless to what is dearest—you see, Fräulein, that this only occurs under the influence of a powerful spell, the only one that still remains in this enlightened world, and whose consequences God scuds his pardoning mercy to destroy or efface: the magic of sin. I beg your pardon for having troubled you so long. Perhaps I shall frequently have the pleasure of conversing with you about these mysteries."

      He bowed with the look and smile of a man, who has tamed a fierce lioness and can now venture to enter her cage alone. She stood speechless, and made no motion to accompany him to the door. Her arms hung loosely by her side, her chin drooped on her breast, her eyes were closed as if she had given herself up to gloomy thoughts.

      Mohr and Franzelius were just going up the narrow stairs, as Lorinser closed Christiane's door behind him.

      Coming from different directions, they had met at the outer door, and unwelcome as the encounter was to both—for Mohr, who had his play in his pocket, would also have liked to see the brothers alone—each was too awkward or too proud to avoid the other.

      They had bowed in silence, and Mohr had allowed the printer to precede him. When they now met Lorinser on the stairs, Franzelius stepped aside like a person who unexpectedly treads upon a toad. The incident even made him forget his unfriendly relations with the eternal joker, and pausing on the landing he looked after the rapidly retreating figure, saying in a tone of the most intense abhorrence:

      "Did you see that man, Mohr?"

      "He came out of the young lady's room. Who is he? Where did you make his acquaintance, Gracchus?"

      "He's the same malicious hypocrite who made that speech before our society. It's a pity the thought occurred to me too late, I might have thanked him for the information he gave the police."

      "Or helped him down stairs a little faster; he seems to have scented this esprit de l'escalier!" Mohr replied, essaying to jest, but instantly added with a gloomy brow, "What did the pale rascal want there? Couldn't she have shut the door on him, as well as better people?"

      "A bed-bug makes its way everywhere."

      "You're right, Franzel!" replied Mohr with an angry laugh. Then twisting his under lip awry, muttered: "Eternal Gods! I would not have believed that a man could fall low enough to envy a bed-bug!"

      BOOK II.

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