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OVERLAND LIBRARY NO. 4 
 
 SELECTED STORIE,^ 
 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN 
 
 OF 
 
 StP 
 
 "/ l 
 
 ar« 
 
 PAUL HEYSE. 
 
 I 
 
 CONTENTS: 
 
 ’aRRABIATA — BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 CHICAGO: 
 
 L. SCHICK, PUBLISHER. 
 
/ 
 
 Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1885, by 
 LOUIS SCHICK, 
 
 in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
1 
 
 L’ARRABIATA. 
 
 [From the German of Paul Heyse.] 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1885, BY L. SCHICK. 
 

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The sun had not yet risen. Above Vesuvius a 
 broad gray stripe of mist was floating, which stretched 
 across toward Naples and cast its shadow upon the small 
 towns along that part of the coast. The sea was calm. 
 But among the shipping lying at anchor in a narrow bay 
 beneath the tall cliffs of Sorrento, the fishermen and their 
 wives were already stirring, drawing to shore with stout 
 ropes the boats and their nets, which had been set outside 
 to catch fish during the night. Others were getting their 
 boats in readiness, hoisting the sails and bringing the oars 
 and yards out of the large grated vaults which are built 
 deep into the cliffs to keep the boats’ property over night. 
 Not a single idle person was to be seen, for even the old 
 folks who no longer went to sea, took their places in the 
 long chain of those who were hauling in the nets, and 
 here and there some little old grandmother was standing 
 on one of the flat roofs with her distaff in her hand, or was 
 busy with her grandchildren while her daughter was help- 
 ing her husband. 
 
 “Just look, Bachela ! There is our Padre Curato,” 
 said one old woman to a little creature about ten years old, 
 who was brandishing a distaff by her side. “He is just 
 getting into the boat. Antonio is going to take him over 
 to Capri. Maria Santissima ! how sleepy the reverend 
 
6 
 
 l’arrabiata. 
 
 signor looks still ! ” — And as she said this, she waved her 
 hand to a kindly-looking little priest, who was settling him- 
 self below in the boat, after having carefully raised his 
 black coat and spread it out over the wooden seat. The 
 other people on shore had stopped their work to watch the 
 departure of their pastor, who nodded and bowed right and 
 left, in a bright, friendly way. 
 
 “ But why does he have to go to Capri, Grrandmother? ” 
 asked the child. “ Haven’t the people there got any priest, 
 that they have to borrow ours? ” 
 
 “Don’t be so simple!” said the old woman. “They 
 have plenty there, and the most beautiful churches, and a , 
 hermit besides, which is more than we have. But there is 
 a grand signora there who lived a long while here in 
 Sorrento, and was very sick, so that the padre had to go to 
 her often to give her the sacrament, when they thought she 
 could not live through another night. Well, the Holy Yir- j 
 gin came to her aid, so that she grew strong and well 
 again and could go in bathing every day in the sea. When 
 she went away from here, over to Capri, she gave a fine lot 
 of money to the church and to the poor, and did not want : 
 to leave, they say, until the padre had promised her to,; 
 visit her over there so that she could confess to him. For i 
 it is astonishing how much she thinks of him. And we « 
 may bless ourselves for our luck in having a priest who > 
 has talents enough for an archbishop and is in such de- ‘ 
 mand among all the great folks. The Madonna be with 
 him 1 ” — And saving this she waved her hand to the little 
 vessel below that was just pushing ofi! 
 
 “Are we going to have fair weather, my son?” asked 
 the little priest, looking anxiously across toward Naples. 
 
 “The sun is not up ^^et,” the young fellow replied. 
 “It will soon put an end to that little bit of fog.” 
 
l’arrabiata. 
 
 7 
 
 “ Then go ahead, so that we can arrive before the heat 
 of the dsij.'' 
 
 Antonio had just seized the long oar to push the boat 
 out into the water, when he suddenly paused and gazed up 
 toward the upper part of the steep path which leads from 
 the little town of Sorrento down to the bay. The slender 
 figure of a girl had appeared in sight up there, rapidly de- 
 scending the stone steps, and waving a handkerchief She 
 was carrying a bundle under her arm and her clothing 
 was povert3-stricken enough. Yet she had an almost 
 aristocratic, although rather savage way of throwing back 
 her head, and her black braids which she wore wound 
 around her head above her brow, became her like a diadem. 
 
 “What are we waiting for? ” inquired the priest. 
 
 “Somebody else is coming down to the boat who 
 wants to go to Capri too. If 3^ou will allow it, Padre — the 
 boat won’t go any slower on her account, for she is only a 
 slight 3"oung thing, hardly eighteen years old.” 
 
 At this moment the girl emerged from behind the 
 wall which lined the winding path. “ Laurella? ” exclaimed 
 the priest. “What is taking her to Capri? ” 
 
 Antonio shrugged his shoulders. The girl approached 
 them with rapid steps, looking straight ahead. 
 
 “Good morning, I’Arrabiata,” some of the young fish- 
 ermen called to her. They would have said more, if the 
 Curato’s presence had not held them in awe, for the mute, 
 defiant wa3' in which the girl received their greeting, 
 seemed to irritate the impudent fellows. 
 
 “Good morning, Laurella,” the priest now called also. 
 “How is it? Ho 3"Ou want to go with us to Capri? ” 
 
 “If 3"ou have no objections. Padre.” 
 
 “Ask Antonio; he is the owner of the vessel. Ever}" 
 man is lord of his own and God is lord over us all.” 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
8 
 
 l’arrabiata. 
 
 ^‘Here is half a carlino. Can I go for that?” said 
 Laurella, without looking at the young boatman. 
 
 ‘‘You can use it better than I,” muttered the young 
 fellow, pushing some baskets of oranges to one side to make 
 room. He was going to sell them in Capri, for that rocky 
 island does not produce oranges in sufficient quantities for 
 the consumption of its numerous visitors. 
 
 “I will not go with you without paying,” the girl re- 
 plied, contracting her black eyebrows. 
 
 “Come, child,” the priest said. “He is a fine lad and 
 does not want to grow rich out of your poverty. There, 
 climb in,” and he gave her his hand. “Sit down here be-' 
 side me. Look ! he’s spread his jacket down for you so> 
 that your seat will be softer. He didn’t fix things so nicely; 
 for me. But young folks, — that’s the way with them' 
 always. More pains are taken for one little maiden than, 
 for ten reverend signors. Come, come, 3^011 need not apol-' 
 ogize, Tonino ; it is our Heavenly Father’s own arrange- 
 ment, that like should turn to like.” 
 
 Laurella had climbed on board in the meanwhile, and 
 had seated herself after having pushed the jacket to one 
 side without saying a word. The 3"Oung boatman let it lie'^ 
 there, and muttered something between his teeth. Theiv 
 he pushed vigorousl}/" against the pier, and the little boat 
 shot out into the open bay. . 
 
 “What have you there in \^our bundle?” asked the 
 priest, as they were rowed along over the sea which was 
 just beginning to gleam in the first sunbeams. 
 
 “ Some silk, ^^arn, and a piece of bread, Padre. I am 
 going to sell the silk to a woman in Capri who makes rib- 
 bons, and the ^mrn to another.” 
 
 “Did you spin it ^^ourself? ” 
 
 “Yes, sir.” 
 
l’arrabiata. 
 
 9 
 
 “If I remember rightly, 3^ou learned how to make 
 ribbons yourself.” 
 
 “Yes, sir. But mother is worse again so that I can 
 not leave home, and we can not pay for a loom of our 
 own.” 
 
 “Worse? Oh, oh! When I was at your house at 
 Easter time, she was sitting up.” 
 
 “ Spring is alwa^^s the hardest time for her. Since we 
 have been having the bad storms and the earthquakes, she 
 has had to lie in bed all the time, she aches so.” 
 
 “Do not cease your prayers and petitions, my child, 
 that the Holy Virgin may make intercession for you. And 
 be good and industrious so that your praying will be 
 heard.” 
 
 After a pause. “As you came down to the beach, 
 they called to J^ou : ^Grood morning, FArrabiata.’ Why 
 do they call you thus? It is not a pretty name for a 
 Christian girl who ought to be gentle and meek.” 
 
 The girl’s brown face glowed all over and her e^^es 
 flashed. 
 
 “ They make fun of me because I do not dance and 
 sing and carry on like the rest. They ought to let me 
 alone ; I don’t do an^dhing to them.” 
 
 “ But you could be civil to everybody". Others whose 
 life is easier than yours, might sing and dance. But to 
 speak kindly is right and proper even for one in sorrow.” 
 
 She looked down and drew her eyebrows closer to- 
 gether as if she wanted to hide her dark eyes beneath them. 
 For a while tlie^" were rowed along in silence. The sun had 
 now risen resplendent above the mountain range ; the sum- 
 mit of y esuvius towered above the layer of clouds which 
 still concealed its base, and the houses on the plain of Sor- 
 rento gleamed forth white from the green orange groves. 
 
 “Have 3^ou never heard an3dhing more from that 
 
10 
 
 L ARRABIATA. 
 
 painter, Laurella, that Neapolitan, who wanted to marry 
 you? ” asked the priest. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 “He came that time to paint a picture of you. Why 
 did you refuse him? ” 
 
 “What did he want it for? There are others more 
 beautiful than I. And then — who knows what he might 
 have done with it He might have bewitched me with it 
 and ruined my soul, or even killed me, my mother said.” 
 
 “Ho not believe such sinful things,” said the priest 
 earnestly. “ Are you not always in God’s hands, without 
 whose will not a single hair can fall from your head? And 
 shall a mortal with a picture like that in his hands, be 
 more powerful than the Lord our God? Besides you could 
 see that he wished you well. Would he have wanted to, 
 marry you otherwise? ” 
 
 She did not reply. ; 
 
 “And why did you refuse him? He was said to be a 
 fine man, and very distinguished-looking, and he could 
 have supported you and your mother better than you are 
 able to, with your bit of spinning and silk winding.” 
 
 “We are poor folks,” she exclaimed impetuously, “ and. 
 my mother has been sick now for ever so long. We should i 
 only have been a burden to him. And I am not a fit' 
 match for a signor, either. When his friends came to see^J 
 me he w^ould have been ashamed of me.” ; 
 
 “How you talk ! I tell you he was good and kind. 
 And besides, he would have been willing to settle down in 
 Sorrento. Another one like that, sent as if by Heaven ta 
 help 3’ou, will not come soon again.” i 
 
 “I don’t want any husband, ever!” she said very 
 defiantl}’, and as if to herself. v 
 
 “Have you made any vow, or do you want to enter a 
 convent? ” i 
 
l’arrabiata. 
 
 11 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 ‘‘The people are right when they accuse you of being 
 obstinate, even if that nickname is not a very pretty one. 
 Have you never considered that you are not alone in the 
 world, and that your sick mother’s life and sickness are 
 made only the more bitter by your waywardness? What 
 important reasons can you have for rejecting every honest 
 hand which wishes to support you and your mother? 
 Answer me, Laurella ! ” 
 
 “I have a good reason,” she said reluctantly and in a 
 low tone. “But I can not tell it.” 
 
 “Not tell it? Not even to me? Not even to your 
 father confessor, whom you can surely trust that he has 
 your welfare at heart? Or isn’t this so? ” 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 “Then relieve your heart, my child. If you are right, 
 I will be the first to acknowledge it. But you are 3'Oung 
 and know little of the world, and some time, later on, you 
 might regret having forfeited your happiness for the sake 
 of some childish ideas.” 
 
 She cast a shy, fleeting glance across at the young 
 fellow who was seated in the back of the boat, energetically 
 rowing, with his woolen cap pulled down low upon his 
 forehead. He was gazing down into the sea at the side of 
 the boat and seemed to be buried in his own thoughts. 
 The priest saw her glance and inclined his ear closer to her. 
 
 “You did not know my father,” she whispered, and 
 her eyes looked dark and gloomy. 
 
 “Your father? He died, I believe, when you were 
 scarcely ten 3^ears old. What has your father — whose 
 soul I hope is in Paradise — to do with your obstinacy? ” 
 
 “You did not know him. Padre. You do not know 
 jthat he alone is to blame for m}' mother’s illness.” 
 
 ; “How so?” 
 
 ) 
 
12 
 
 l'arrabiata. 
 
 “ Because he ill treated her, and beat her, and kickec 
 her. I well remember the nights when he used to come 
 home in a frenzy. She never said anything to him and die 
 everything he wanted her to. But he kept beating her un- 
 til my heart nearly broke. I used to draw the covers up 
 over my head and pretend I was asleep, but I would cr^; 
 the whole night long. And when he saw her lying on the 
 floor, then, he would change suddenly, and would lift hei 
 up and kiss her, until she would cry out that he was suflb- 
 cating her. Mother forbade my ever saying a word about 
 it; but it injured her so that in all these long years since 
 he died, she has never been well again. And if she should 
 die prematurely — which Heaven forbid ! — I shall know 
 who it was that killed her.” 
 
 The little priest moved his head to and fro, and 
 seemed undecided how far he should concede the point. 
 At last he said : ‘‘Forgive him, as your mother has for; 
 given him. Bo not let your thoughts dwell upon those 
 gloomy scenes, Laurella. Better times are coming for you 
 and they will make you forget all that is past.” 
 
 “ I shall never forget it,” she said with a shudder. “ And 
 let me tell you. Padre, it is on this account I am going to 
 remain unmarried, so as not to be dependent upon any one 
 who could ill-treat me and then caress me. If any oiiC 
 wants to beat me or kiss me now, I know how to defend 
 m^^self. But my mother was not able to defend herself, tci 
 ward ofl* the blows and the kisses, because — she loved him. 
 And I am not going to love any one, to be made sick and 
 wretched by him.” 
 
 “What a child 3"ou are still, and talking like one who 
 knows nothing about what is going on in the world ! Are 
 all husbands like what 3^0111* poor father was, yielding tq 
 every passing fanc3^ and passion, and treating their wiA^e^ 
 badly? Haven’t 3^ou seen enough good husbands in the.; 
 
L ARRABIATA. 
 
 13 
 
 neighborhood and wives who lived in peace and harmony 
 with their husbands? ” 
 
 ‘‘No one knew about my father, how he treated my 
 mother, either, for she would have died a thousand times, 
 rather than have told of it and complained. And all this, 
 because she loved him. If love is that way, that it locks a 
 woman’s lips, when she ought to be calling for help, and 
 makes her defenseless against cruelties worse than the 
 cruelest enem}" could inflict upon her, then I will never set 
 my heart on any man.” 
 
 “ I tell 3’ou that you are a child and do not know what 
 you are talking about. Your heart will consult you a long 
 while as to whether you want to fall in love or not, when 
 its time comes ; then nothing of all this you have in your 
 head will be of any use.” — Again, after a pause : — “And 
 that painter, did you think he was going to ill-treat you? ” 
 
 “His eyes looked as my father’s used to when he 
 begged Mother’s pardon and wanted to take her in his 
 arms and make up again. I know that look in a person’s 
 eyes ! even a man who can have the heart to beat his wife 
 who has never done him any harm, can look that way too. 
 1 was horrified when I saw that look again ! ” 
 
 After this she maintained a resolute silence. The 
 priest too was silent. He bethought himself it is true of 
 several fine sayings which he might have repeated for the 
 girl’s benefit. But the presence of the young boatman, 
 who had become more and more restless toward the close 
 of the confession, sealed his lips. 
 
 When they arrived in the small harbor of Capri, after 
 a two hours’ trip, Antonio carried the priest from the boat 
 through the last shallow waves and set him down respect- 
 fully on the shore. But Baurella had not been willing to 
 wait until he should wade back to get her. She gathered 
 up her skirts, took her little wooden shoes in her right 
 
14 
 
 l’arrabiata. 
 
 hand and the bundle in her left, and splashed nimbly 
 ashore. 
 
 “I shall probably stay quite a while in Capri today,” 
 said the Padre, “and you need not wait for me. Perhaps 
 T shall not go back home till tomorrow. And, Laurella, 
 when you return, remember me to your mother. I shall 
 come to see you before this week is out. You are going 
 back before night? ” 
 
 “If there is an opportunity,” said the girl, giving all 
 her attention to her skirts. 
 
 “You know I have to go back too,” observed Anto- 
 nino, in what he imagined was a very indifferent tone. “I 
 will wait for you till the Ave Maria. If you have not ' 
 come then, it will be all the same to me.” 
 
 “You must come, Laurella,” interposed the little 
 priest. “You ought not to leave your mother alone a' 
 single night. Is it far to where you have to go? ” 
 
 “To a vineyard at Anacapri.” ^ 
 
 “ And I have to go to Capri. God bless you, my 
 child, and you also, my son.” 
 
 Laurella kissed his hand and uttered a “Goodbye,” 
 which the Padre and Antonino might share between them. ' 
 Antonino however did not appropriate an}' of it. He | 
 lifted his cap to the Padre and did not look at Laurella. | 
 
 But when they had both turned their backs upon 
 him he only allowed his eyes to follow the clerg3^man for a i 
 short way, as he toiled along through the deep, loose, roll* 
 ing gravel, and then turned them after the girl who was 
 climbing to the right up the hill, holding her hand over 
 her eyes to shade them from the blazing sun. Just before 
 the path above vanished behind the walls, she stopped a 
 moment as if to take breath and looked around. The boats 
 lay at her feet, around her towered the steep crags, the ! 
 blue sea glittered in rare splendor — it was indeed a scene 
 
 'll 
 
L ARRABIATA. 
 
 15 
 
 well worth stopping to admire. Chance contrived it that 
 her glance, passing over Antonino’s boat, met the glance 
 which Antonino had sent after her. They both made a 
 motion as people do who wish to apologize for something 
 that only happened l\y accident, after which the girl with 
 a gloomy expression around her mouth, continued on 
 her way. 
 
 * * 
 
 * 
 
 It was only an hour past noon and yet Antonino had 
 already been sitting a couple of hours on a bench in front 
 of the fishermen’s hotel. Something must have been on 
 his mind, for every five minutes he sprang to his feet, 
 stepped out into the sunshine and carefully looked along 
 the paths which led, one to the right and the other to the 
 left, to the only two towns upon the island. The weather 
 looked doubtful to him, he told the landlady of the hotel. 
 To be sure it was clear, but he knew that tint in the sky 
 and sea. It looked just so that time before the last great 
 storm when he had such work bringing that English family 
 to shore. Did she remember it? 
 
 “No,” said the woman. 
 
 “Well, you will remember it, if the weather changes 
 before night.” 
 
 “Are there many visitors over yonder?” the landlady 
 incpiired after a while. 
 
 “They are just beginning to come. We’ve had a bad 
 season so far. Those who generally come for the bathing 
 are still only expected.” 
 
 “The spring was late. Have you made more money 
 than we here in Capri? ” 
 
 “ It wouldn’t have been enough to get me maccaroni 
 twice a week, if I had been entirely dependent on my boat. 
 There was now and then a letter to take to Naples or a 
 
16 
 
 l’arrabiata. 
 
 signor to row out to sea to fish — that was all. But 
 you know that my uncle owns the large orange groves and 
 is a rich man. ‘Tonino/ he says, ‘as long as I live you 
 shall not have to suffer want, and after that you will be 
 provided for too.’ So with God’s help, I got through the 
 winter.” 
 
 “Has he any children, this uncle of yours? ” 
 
 “No. He has never been married, and was for a long 
 time out of the country, where he earned many a piaster. 
 Now he intends to establish a large fishing business and is 
 going to put me at the head of the whole concern, to look 
 after everything.” 
 
 “You are a made man, then, Antonino.” 
 
 The young boatman shrugged his shoulders. “Every ; 
 back has its burden,” he said. With this he sprang up ; 
 and studied the weather to the right and to the left, al- 
 though he must have known that there can be but one ^ 
 weather side. 
 
 “I’ll bring you another bottle. Your uncle can pay . 
 for it,” said the landlady. 
 
 “ Only another glass, for 3’ou have a fiery kind of wine ; 
 here. My head is hot already.'’ { 
 
 “It doesn't go into the blood. You can drink as much | 
 as you like. And here is my husband just coming up, 3^011 > 
 must sit and chat with him a while longer.” > 
 
 With his net hanging over his shoulder, his red cap ‘ 
 on his curl}^ hair, the handsome padrone of the little hotel 
 was really coming down the hill. He had been taking 3 . 
 some fish into town which had been ordered by that grand| 
 signora to set before the little priest from Sorrento. As] 
 he caught sight of the 3’oung boatman, he waved his hand| 
 cordiall}" to him in welcome, and then sat down beside himf 
 on the bench and began to talk and ask questions. Hisf 
 wife was just bringing a second bottle of the genuine, una- i 
 
l’arrabiata. 
 
 17 
 
 dulterated Capri wine, when a step was heard on the sand 
 to the left and Lanrella came toward them along the path 
 from Anacapri. She bowed slightly and stopped as if 
 undecided. 
 
 Antonino sprang to his feet. ‘‘I must go,” he said. 
 ‘‘It’s a girl from Sorrento who came over early this morn- 
 ing with the Signor Curato, and has to be with her sick 
 mother again by nightfall.” 
 
 “Come, come, it’s a long time 3^et to nightfall,” said 
 the fisherman. “ She will have time to drink a glass of wine. 
 Halloo, there, wife, bring another glass.” 
 
 “No, I thank 3^011, I don’t wish an3",” said Laurella, 
 remaining at some distance. 
 
 “ Pour it out, wife, pour it out ! She onl3" wants a little 
 urging.” 
 
 “ Better leave her alone,” said the 3'Oung fellow. “ She 
 has a will of her own ; anything she don’t want to do, a 
 saint from Heaven couldn’t talk her into. — And so sa3fing 
 he hastil3^ took leave of them, ran down to the boat, put it 
 in trim for starting, and stood waiting for the girl. She 
 bowed again back to the proprietors of the hotel and then 
 walked with lingering steps down toward the shore. She 
 first glanced all around as if she had expected that some 
 other passengers would make their appearance. But the 
 bay was deserted ; the fishermen were asleep or else out on 
 the water with their rods and nets, a few women and chil- 
 dren were sitting in their doorways, sleeping or spinning, 
 and such strangers as had come over in the morning were 
 waiting for the cooler part of the da3^ for their return trip. 
 She did not have time to look around her long either, for 
 before she could prevent it, Antonino had taken her in his 
 arms and carried her like a child to the boat. Then he 
 leaped in after her, and with a few strokes of the oars, the3" 
 were in deep water. 
 
18 
 
 l’arrabiata. 
 
 She had sat down in the forward part of the boat, and 
 partly turned her back upon him, so that he could only see 
 her profile. Her features were now even graver than 
 usual. Her hair hung far down on her low forehead, and a 
 wilful expression hovered around the delicate nostrils while 
 her rounded lips were firmly compressed. After they had 
 rowed a while in silence across the sea, she felt the scorch- 
 ing rays of the sun, and taking the bread out of her hand- 
 kerchief she tied the latter over her braids. Then she 
 began to eat the bread she had brought for her lunch ; for 
 she had eaten nothing in Capri. Antonino did not watch 
 this long. He produced a couple of oranges out of one of 
 the baskets which had been filled with them in the morn- 
 ing and said : “ Here is something to go with your bread, 
 
 Laurella. You need not think I saved them out for you. 
 The}^ rolled out of the basket into the boat, and I found 
 them when I was putting the empty baskets back into the 
 boat.” 
 
 “Eat them yourself. I have enough with my bread.” 
 
 “They are refreshing in the heat, and you have 
 walked so far.” 
 
 “They gave me a glass of water up there, which has 
 already refreshed me.” 
 
 “As you like,” he said and dropped them back into the 
 basket. 
 
 Another silence. The sea was smooth as a mirror and 
 barely rippled against the keel. Even the white sea-birds 
 wliicli make their homes in the holes along the coast, 
 darted noiselessly upon their prey. 
 
 “You might take those two oranges to your mother,” 
 Antonino began again. 
 
 “We have some left at home, and when they are gone 
 1 will go and bu}^ some more.” 
 
 “Just take them to her with my compliments.” 
 
l’arrabiata. 
 
 19 
 
 “She is not acquainted with 3011.’’ 
 
 “Well, 3’ou could tell her then who I am.” 
 
 “I am not acquainted with 3’^oii, either.” 
 
 It was not the first time that she had thus denied him. 
 A 3A^ar ago, when that artist had just come to Sorrento, it 
 happened one Sunda3^ that Antonino with some other young 
 fellows of the town were pla3dng hoccia on an open plot of 
 ground beside the main street. It was there that the artist 
 had first seen Laurella as she passed along without notic- 
 ing him, carrying her water pitcher on her head. The 
 Neapolitan, struck by the sight, stood still and gazed after 
 her, although he chanced to be right in the wa3^ of the 
 game, and with a couple of steps could have taken 
 himself out of the A ball coming full tilt against 
 
 his ankle, reminded him that this was not exactly the 
 [)lace to lose one’s self in a reveiy. He looked around 
 as if expecting an apology. The 3^oung boatman who 
 had thrown the ball was standing silent and defiant in 
 the midst of his friends, so that the stranger deemed it 
 advisable to leave and avoid any discussion. But there 
 had been some talk about the affair, and it broke out again 
 when the painter began to pav court openl)^ to Jjaurella. 
 “I am not acquainted with him,” the latter said disdain- 
 fully, when the painter asked her whether it was on this 
 rude fellow’s account that she was refusing him. And 3"et 
 the gossip about that afhiir had come to her ears also. 
 Since then, whenever she met Antonino, she had recog- 
 nized him well enough again. 
 
 And the3^ were now sitting in the boat like the ])itter- 
 est enemies and the heart of each was hammering awa3’ 
 furiously. Antonino' s usuall3^ good-natured countenance 
 was scarlet ; he struck down into the waves so that the 
 spra3’ dashed over him, and his lips moved occasional I3' as 
 if he were saying angiy words. She pretended not to 
 
20 
 
 L'ARRABIATA. 
 
 notice this and wore her most unconcerned expression as 
 she leaned over the side of the boat and let the water glide 
 through her lingers. Then she untied her handkerchief 
 and arranged her hair as if she were all alone in the boat. 
 Only her e3^ebrows were still contracted and in vain she 
 held her dripping hands against her glowing cheeks to 
 cool them. 
 
 Now they were out in the midst of the sea, and there 
 was not a sail to be seen far or near. The island was far 
 behind them, the shore la}" far away in the sun’s hot haze, 
 there was not even a gull to break the profound solitude. 
 Antonino looked all around him. A thought seemed to ])e 
 developing in his mind. The flush suddenly vanished from 
 his cheeks and he let his oars float. Involuntarily Laurella 
 looked around at him, excited, but fearless. 
 
 “I must put an end to this,” the young fellow burst 
 
 forth. “ It has lasted too long already and I only wonder ; 
 
 that I have not gone to destruction on account of it long 
 
 ago. You are not acquainted with me, you say. Haven't 
 
 you seen long enough how I went past you like a crazy 
 
 man and how my heart was bursting with what I wanted 
 
 to tell you. And then you only curled }"our lips scorn- ; 
 
 fully and turned your back on me.” | 
 
 < 
 
 ‘AVhat did I have to say to you? ” she retorted curtly, i 
 “ I saw of course that you wanted to make love to me. But : 
 I did not want to set people to gossiping for nothing and 
 less than nothing. For take you for a husband I will not, 
 you nor any other man.” 
 
 “Nor any other man? You won’t keep on saying that 
 always. Because you sent ofl' the painter? Pah ! i^ou 
 were still a child then. You will be lonely some time, and 
 then, foolish girl that you are, you will take the first one 
 that comes along.” 
 
l’arrabiata. 
 
 21 
 
 “No one knows the future. It may be that I shall 
 change in}" mind. But what is that to you? ’ 
 
 “What is it to me?'’ he started and sprang up from 
 the rowing seat, so that the boat rocked. What is it to 
 me? And you can say that when you know how it is witli 
 me? May that man perish miserably, whom you ever treat 
 lietter than you do me ! ’ 
 
 ‘‘Did I ever promise myself to you? Can I help it if 
 your head is full of madness? What right have you 
 to me? ” 
 
 “Oh!” he cried, “it is true it has not been written 
 out, no lawyer has put it down in Latin and sealed it ] but 
 this much I know, that I have as much right to you as I 
 have to go to Heaven if I am a good man. Do you think 
 T am going to look on when you go to church with some 
 other fellow, and the girls pass me by and shrug their 
 shoulders. Am I to let this disgrace be put upon me? ” 
 
 “You can do as you please. I am not afraid of any 
 of your threats. I shall do as I choose.” 
 
 “You won’t talk so much longer,” he said, his whole 
 frame quivering. “ I am man enough not to let my life be 
 spoiled any longer by a stubborn little thing like you. Do 
 you know that you are in my power here, and must do 
 whatever I choose? ” 
 
 She started slightly and her eyes shot a lightning 
 glance at him. 
 
 “Kill me if you dare ! ” she said slowly. 
 
 “There is no use in doing things half way,” he said, 
 and his voice sounded hoarse. “There s room for us both 
 in the sea. I can not save you, my child'’ — and he spoke 
 almost compassionately, as if in a dream, — ^^“but we must 
 go down there, both of us, all of a sudden, and now ! ” he 
 shouted, seizing her suddenly by the arms. The next 
 
22 
 
 l’arrabiata. 
 
 instant however, he snatched his right hand awa}", the 
 blood gushed forth, she had bitten him liercel3\ 
 
 “Must I do what you choose?” she cried, pushing | 
 him away with a quick movement. “ We ll see, whether I j 
 am in your power ! ” This said, she sprang over the edge | 
 of tlie boat and disappeared an insTant in the depths. She | 
 came up again presently, her skirts clinging tightly to | 
 her; her hair loosened by the waves, heavy with water, i 
 hung down her back. She struck out vigorously with her j 
 arms and without uttering a sound, swam stoutl}^ away | 
 from the boat toward the shore. His intense alarm seemed j 
 to have paralyzed his senses. He stood in the Iwat, lean- j 
 ing forward, his gaze following her fixedly as if a miracle 
 were taking place before his eyes. Then he gave himself , 
 a shake, sprang to the oars and rowed after her with all ^ 
 the strength at his command, while the l)ottom of his boat 
 o’rew red with the blood that kept streaming from his . 
 hand. J 
 
 Kapidl}" as she was swimming, he was b}’ her side in an 
 instant. “For the sake of Maria Santissima ! ” he cried, 
 “get into the boat. — I was crazy ; God knows what it was , 
 that obscured m3’ reason, Like a lightning flash fromj 
 Heaven it came into m3" brain, and set me all on fire, and 1 j 
 did not know what I w’as doing or sa3’ing. You need not-j 
 forgive me, Laurella, only save your life and come into the j 
 boat again.” ;| 
 
 She swam oil as if she had not heard a word. | 
 
 “You will never get to shore, it’s two miles awai’ 3’et j 
 — Think of 3’our mother ! If an3’ accident should happen 
 to 3"ou, I should die with horror.” 
 
 She measured the distance from the shore with a 
 glance. Then, without answering, she swam up to the I 
 boat and seized the edge of it with her hands. He stood 
 up to help her; his jacket, which had been lying on the 
 
l’arrabiata. 
 
 23 
 
 seat, slid off into the sea as the boat was tipped over to 
 one side by the girl’s weight. Lightly she swung herself 
 on board and climbed back to her former seat. As soon as 
 he saw that she was safe, he seized the oars again. She 
 wrung out her dripping skirts and squeezed the water out 
 of her braids. As she did this she looked down at the 
 bottom of the boat and noticed the blood. She cast a 
 rapid glance at the hand which, as if uninjured, was still 
 working the oar. “Here!” she said, reaching him her 
 handkerchief He shook his head and kept on rowing. 
 She got up final!} , went to hjm and bound her hand- 
 kerchief firmly around the deep wound. Then she took 
 one of the oars out of his hand, in spite of his protesting, 
 and sat down facing him, without glancing at him, then, 
 looking fixedly at the oar, which was scarlet with his blood, 
 she drove the boat forward with pow'erful strokes. Both 
 were pale and silent. As the}' came nearer to shore, they 
 met some fishermen going out to set their seines for the 
 night. They called to Antonino and said some teasing 
 things to Laurella. Neither looked up nor answei-ed 
 a word. 
 
 The sun was still standing quite high above Procida 
 when they reached the quay. Laurella shook out her 
 skirts which had nearly dried in coming so far across the 
 sea, and jumped ashore. The old woman who had watched 
 their departure in the morning as she spun, was standing 
 again upon the roof. “What’s the matter with your hand, 
 Tonino?” she called down to him. “Jesus Christus, why 
 your boat is full of blood ! ” 
 
 “It is nothing, commare,” the young fellow replied. 
 “I tore mv hand on a nail that stuck out too far. It will 
 be all right tomorrow. My confounded blood is so close 
 to the surface that it always makes a thing look worse 
 than it is.” 
 
24 
 
 l’arrabiata. 
 
 “I will come down and put some herbs on it, compa- 
 rello. Wait, Til be right down/’ 
 
 “Don’t trouble yourself, commare. Everything has 
 been done, and tomorrow it will be all over and forgotten. 
 
 I have a healthy skin that heals up again right away over 
 any wound.” 
 
 “Addio!” said Laurella, and turned into the path 
 which led up the hill. 
 
 “Good night ! ” the young fellow replied without look- 
 ing at her. Then he took the oars out of his boat, with 
 the baskets, and climbed up the narrow stone steps to 
 ins hut. 
 
 * * 
 
 * : 
 
 There was no one but himself in the two rooms ' 
 through which he now paced up and down. Through the ' 
 small open windows which were only closed b}' wooden « 
 blinds, the air crept in more refreshingly than out upon the 
 calm sea, and the solitude did him good. He stood still a 
 long while in front of the little picture of the Virgin Mary, 
 and gazed musingl}^ at the halo of silver paper glued on it. 
 But the idea of praying did not occur to him. What did 
 he have to pray for, now that he no longer had any hope. | 
 
 And the day seemed to last forever. He longed for i 
 the darkness, for he was tired, and the loss of blood had 
 exhausted him more than he realized. His hand hurt him < 
 very much, and sitting down upon a stool, he untied the 
 bandage. The blood, so long repressed, gushed forth 
 again and the hand was very much swollen around the 
 wound. He bathed it carefully and cooled it a long while 
 in the water. When he drew it forth again, he could; 
 clearly distinguish the imprint of Laurella’s teeth. “SheJ 
 did right,” he said. “I was a brute and deserved nothing j 
 better. I will send the handkerchief back to her tomorrow. 
 
l’arrabiata. 
 
 25 
 
 Griuseppe, for she shall never set e3^es on me again.” — 
 iVnd then he washed out the handkerchief and spread it in 
 the sun carefull}^, after he had bound up the wound again 
 as well as he could with his left hand and his teeth. He 
 then threw himself upon his bed and closed his ej^es. 
 
 The bright moonlight, together with the pain in his 
 hand, waked him out of a half sleep. He had just sprung 
 up again to quiet the throbbing in water, when he heard a 
 rustling at the door. “Who is there?” he called and 
 opened it. Laurella stood before him. 
 
 Without making aii}^ ado, she stepped inside. She 
 pulled off a handkerchief which she had thrown over her 
 head, and placed a little basket on the table. Then she 
 drew a deep breath. 
 
 “You have come to get ^^our handkerchief?” he said. 
 “You might have saved ^^ourself the trouble, for tomorrow 
 morning earl 3^ I should have asked Giuseppe to take it 
 to 3^ou.” 
 
 “It is not for the handkerchief,” she quickl3^ rejoined. 
 “ I have been up on the mountain to get some herbs for 
 3^011 that will stop the bleeding. Here ! ” And she raised 
 the cover of the little basket. 
 
 “Too much trouble,” he said, without an3^ harshness. 
 “Too much trouble. It is doing better alread3^, much bet- 
 ter ; and even if it were worse, it would be nothing but 
 what I deserve. But what are 3^011 doing here at this time 
 of night? If an}" one should meet 3'Ou here ! You know 
 how folks will gossip, although they don’t know what they 
 are talking about.” 
 
 “I don’t care for any of them,” she exclaimed vehe- 
 mentl3". “ But I will see 3'our hand and put the herbs on 
 it, for 3"ou can not do it with 3"our left hand.” 
 
 “I tell 3"ou it is unnecessary.” 
 
 “Just let me see it, and then I’ll believe you.” 
 
26 
 
 l’arrabiata. 
 
 Without further words she grasped the hand which 
 could not ward her off, and unwound the bandage. When 
 she saw the excessive swelling, she started and exclaimed : 
 “Jesus Maria ! ” 
 
 “It has puffed up a little,” he said. “That will pass 
 awa}^ in a day or so.” 
 
 She shook her head. “ You can’t go to sea for a whole 
 week with that hand.” 
 
 “ I think I can day after tomorrow. What differ- 
 ence does it make any way? ” 
 
 In the mean while she had fetched a ])asin and bathed 
 the wound afresh, which he suffered like a little child. 
 Then she laid the healing leaves of the herb upon it which 
 relieved the burning at once, and bound up the hand in ^ 
 strips of linen which she had also brought with her. When 
 this was done, he said : “I am very much obliged to you. ' 
 And listen, if you want to do me another favor, forgive met 
 that such a crazy fit took possession of me today, and for- ' 
 get ever} thing I said and did. I do not know myself how 
 it came about. You have never given me the slightest 
 cause for anything of the kind, truly you never have. " 
 And you shall never hear anything again from me tliat 
 could wound you.” ) 
 
 “It is I who should apologize,” she interposed. “I< 
 ought to have explained myself differently, and better, and ;; 
 not liave aggravated you by my silent ways. And then ; 
 the bite — ” 
 
 “ It was necessary for self-defense, and high time that 
 I slioidd be brought to my senses. And as I told you, it 
 was of no consequence. Do not speak of apologizing. 
 You did me a service, and I thank you for it. And now, 
 go home to sleep, and here — here is your handkerchief too, 
 which you might as well take with you now.” 
 
 He handed it to lier, but she lingered, and seemed to 
 
l’arrabiata. 
 
 27 
 
 be having some inward struggle. At last she said : “You 
 lost your jacket too through me, and I know that the 
 mcne}^ you got for the oranges was in the pocket. It just 
 occurred to me on my way home. I can not make it up to 
 you again, for we do not own so much, and if we did, it 
 would be Mother’s. But I have here the silver -cross which 
 that painter laid on the table for me the last time he was 
 at our house. I have not looked at it since then and do 
 not care to keep it any longer in my box. If you will sell 
 it — it is surel}^ worth a couple of piasters, my mother said 
 at the time — it might replace the money you have lost, 
 and if any is still lacking — I will try to earn it by spinning 
 nights when my mother is asleep.” 
 
 “I shall not take anything,” he said curtly, pushing 
 back the bright little cross which she had taken from her 
 pocket. 
 
 “You must take it,” she replied. “Who knows how 
 long it will be before you can earn anything with that 
 hand. There it lies and I shall never set eyes on it again.” 
 
 “Then throw it into the sea.” 
 
 “ It is not a present I am giving you ; it is no more 
 than your right, and what is due you.” 
 
 “ Eight? I have no right to anything from 3^011. If 
 you ever meet me after this, do me the favor not to look at 
 me, so that I won’t think you are reminding me of what I 
 owe you. And now, good night, and let this be the last 
 of it.” 
 
 He put the handkerchief into the basket for her, and 
 the cross with it and shut the cover down. When he then 
 glanced up and into her face, he was startled. Big, heav}^ 
 tears were running down her cheeks. She let them take 
 their course. 
 
 “Maria Santissima !” he cried. “Are 3^ou sick? You 
 are trembling from head to foot.” 
 
28 
 
 l'arrabiata. 
 
 “It is nothing,” she said. “I am going home,” and 
 she staggered to the door. Her fit of weeping overcame 
 her there, so that she leaned her forehead against the door- 
 post and sobbed aloud convulsivel3^ But before he could 
 go to her to detain her, she turned around suddenly and 
 flung her arms around his neck. 
 
 “I can not bear it ! ” she cried, pressing him to her 
 heart as a dying man clings to life, “I can not listen to 
 3’ou, saving kind things to me and bidding me go with all 
 this guilt on m}^ conscience. Beat me, trample on me, 
 curse me ! — or, if it can be true that 3’ou love me still after 
 all the wicked things I have done to 3^011, then take me 
 and keep me and do with me what you will. But don't 
 send me awa3" from 3^011 so ! — ” Renewed, violent sobs 
 interrupted her. 1 
 
 Speechless he held her a while in his arms. “You 
 ask if I love you still? ” he cried at length. “H0I3" Mother , 
 of God ! do 3^011 imagine that all the blood in m3" heart has - 
 run out of that little wound? Don’t 3"ou feel it hammering 
 away in m3" breast as if it wanted to get out and go to you? 
 If 3"ou are only sa3ung this to tr3^ me or because 3"ou have ; 
 compassion on me, then go, and I will forget this too. < 
 You must not think that 3-011 owe me ai^-thing because | 
 you know what I have been suffering on 3"our account.” ^ 
 “No,” she said resolutely, looking up eagerl3- with ? 
 swimming eyes into his face. “ I love 3-011, and to tell the ' 
 whole truth, I have long been afraid of it and defied it. 
 And now I will be different, for I can not stand it ain" 
 longer — not to look at 3-011 when 3-011 pass me in the streets 
 And now I will kiss 3^011 too, so that if 3-011 should ever 
 begin to doubt, 3-ou can sa3' to 3-ourself, ‘ She kissed me, 
 and Laurella will never kiss any man except the one she is 
 going to marr3\’ ” • 
 
 She kissed him three times and then released herself 
 
l’arrabiata. 
 
 21 ) 
 
 'from his embrace, sa^bng : “Grood night, my dearest one ! 
 iLie down and go to sleep again, and let yonr hand get well, 
 land don't come with me, for I am not afraid of any human 
 j being except of 3^011 alone.” 
 
 And with these words she slipped through the door- 
 wa}' and vanished in the shadow of the wall. But he 
 stood a long while afterward still gazing out of the window 
 across the sea, above which the stars seemed to be dancing. 
 
 -x- * 
 
 * ' 
 
 The next time the little Padre Cnrato came out of the 
 confessional where Laiirella had been kneeling a long 
 while, he was silently smiling to himself “Who would 
 have thought,” he was sa3ing to himself, “that God would 
 so soon have taken pit}" on that strange little heart? And 
 here I have been reproaching m3^self for not having ad m 011- 
 I ished that wicked spirit of obstinac}^ more severel} . But 
 our eyes are short-sighted to the ways of Providence. 
 Well, God bless her, and let me live to see the dav when 
 Lanrella’s oldest lad will row me over the sea in his 
 father’s place ! Well ! well ! 1 ’ Arrabiata ! ” 
 
 . 1 > 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 j 
 
BEPPE, 
 
 THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 [From the German of Paul Heyse.] 
 
 Copyright, 1885, by l. schick. 
 
I N a city of Lombardy, whose name shall not be men- 
 tioned here, as the events which we are about to narrate 
 occurred there not very long ago, there dwelt a married 
 couple with an only daughter. They lived in such seclusion 
 that the husband, who kept his wife and child so cruelly 
 immured in the gloomy house, and would not allow them 
 to take part in even the most innocent gayeties, was de- 
 cried as an eccentric and tyrannical man, and the two vic- 
 tims of his arbitrary humor were universally commiserated. 
 As the son of a wealthy and prominent resident of the city, 
 who had educated him carefully and allowed him to study law 
 according to his own wish, he early attained an enviable inde- 
 pendence, and stepped into his father’s law business upon 
 the death of the latter. When only twenty-four years of 
 age, he married the most beautiful girl in town, a magnifi- 
 cent blonde, with a bright, sunny disposition, named Gio- 
 conda. A certain calmness and moderation which had been 
 peculiar to him as a youth, and which were more attract- 
 ive in the eyes of mature men than of gay, mirth-loving 
 young people, still clung to him during the time of his en- 
 gagement. His friends and neighbors attributed this ab- 
 stractedness, almost bordering on melanchol}^, to his fond- 
 ness for nocturnal studies, which he pursued in a little 
 observatory in the upper story of his father’s house. They 
 
6 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZEH. 
 
 looked for a favorable change in his disposition when he 
 should be once settled down with a charming young wife, 
 whose bright eyes would gaze upon him more cheerily and 
 make his days and nights far pleasanter than the distant, 
 • silent and mysterious lights in the starry heavens. 
 
 Immediately after the marriage cerenion}^, which had 
 to be private, as the bridegroom was in mourning for his 
 father, the 3^oung couple set out on a journe}^, and, to the 
 astonishment of all their acquaintances, were so much 
 pleased with Paris, that for a while indeed it looked as if 
 the young lawj^er intended to take up his residence there, 
 for good ; however, after a j^ear and a half they returned 
 to their home with a charming little creature that was al- 
 ready beginning to look around with its bright eyes ver}^ 
 intelligently. 
 
 Yet the ga^^er atmosphere of France and its capital 
 failed to retain the married pair under its spell. Doctor 
 Griuseppe, or Beppe, as the name was familiarly abbre- 
 viated, re-entered his house with the same calm air he had 
 worn when he left it, only his face was a little paler and the 
 shadow on his brow a trifle deeper. And as for the young 
 mother, it seemed as if none of her friends’ prophecies, 
 that she would brighten up the home and by her gay 
 youthfulness make her husband dislo3’al to his solitary 
 studies, were likel}" to be fulfilled. She herself seemed to 
 be completel}' transformed, though she was a very beauti- 
 ful woman still, and in the e}"es of man}^ people even more 
 attractive, now that she had become a mother. But neither 
 was she ever heard to laugh or make meriy, and when the 
 little face of her Beppina — the child bore its father’s name 
 — smiled at her with the irresistible loveliness of a dawning 
 soul, instead of the mother’s radiant answering glance, her 
 e}^es would be seen to sadden and overflow. It was said 
 that Doctor Beppe had laid out and followed a veiy strict 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 1 
 
 program of work immediately after his return, and had 
 zealousl}^ resumed his long-negiected practice. His office, 
 where he received his clients, his private room and an 
 apartment for his clerks, took up the whole of the ground 
 floor of the house. The next stoiy contained the sitting- 
 room, dining room and parlor, the latter adorned with all 
 sorts of elegant things, Parisian furniture and different 
 works of art, onl}^ making a useless, dreaiy displaj^, as 
 never did a meny compaiy^ cross its threshold. The next 
 floor was occupied by the young wife with her baby, the 
 maid and the old man-servant, who had grown gray in all 
 lo^mlt}" and honor in the service of the Doctor’s deceased 
 father. Alcove these apartments, into which the master of 
 the house never set his foot except to cast a glance at the 
 cradle once a da}", a room in the Mansard roof had been 
 arranged for astronomical purposes, and still contained, as 
 in the Doctor’s bachelor days, his simple iron l^edstead, a 
 work table and his library. 
 
 When the dinner-bell rang, which was not until six 
 o’clock, after the close of office hours, the lawyer ascended 
 to the second floor and seated himself with his beautiful 
 wife at the table, where they were waited upon by old 
 Aristides, who brought the dishes from the kitchen in the 
 upper stor}". The meal was alwa3^s abundant and served 
 with a certain comfort and taste ; yet it never lasted more 
 than a brief half-hour, during which time the husband and 
 wife carried on an indifferent conversation, in which the 
 old servant at times was allowed to take part. The master 
 of the house would rise first, salute his wife with a slight 
 waA^e of the hand, and leave her alone for the remainder of 
 the evening, to repair to the Cafe, where he read the news- 
 papers and spent an hour conversing with other gentle- 
 men. This was the time when Signora Gfioconda also 
 received visits, exclusively from ladies, as was the custom 
 
8 
 
 BEPP^, THE STAR-GAZEB. 
 
 of the place, and even these grew less numerous from 3^eaT 
 to year, as she exhibited little interest in the petty gossip 
 of the neighborhood and other local happenings, and did 
 not return her calls with sufficient energy and promptness. 
 An invited guest never appeared at their table and they 
 themselves never accepted any invitations to the houses of 
 their friends, the young wife pleading ill-health as an ex- 
 cuse, although every one knew that her confinement had 
 been her first and last illness. Her more intimate friends 
 would then venture to tease her, saying this was only a 
 pretext to conceal her real reason, — her eagerness to share 
 in her husband's astronomical observations, as they were 
 well aware that the light in the observatory often burned 
 all night long, and that the Doctor always ‘went home so 
 punctually from the Cafe not to miss a single important 
 constellation. 
 
 Such remarks always silenced the young wife, and the 
 color in her cheeks would alternate from a vivid carnation 
 to a ghastly pallor. She had no friend in whom she might 
 have confided more freely ; her mother had died man}" 
 years before she had become engaged, and no living rela- 
 tive was left to her but an only sister, a nun in quite a 
 distant convent, who notwithstanding the lenient customs 
 of her order, seldom obtained permission to visit her native 
 city. Thus Signora Gioconda gradually became accus- 
 tomed to the silent atmosphere in her husband's house, 
 and when asked if anything were lacking to complete her 
 happiness, and liow she liked married life, she invariably 
 replied, that she had no other wash than to retain wdiat she 
 now possessed, to be able to make her husband as happ}" 
 as he deserved, and to see her child keep on blooming as 
 slie besought her Creator eveiy night. At first this was 
 said with a sigh, which she vainly strove to repress. But 
 as time passed on, even the sigh was no longer lieard. 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZEB. 
 
 9 
 
 For in fact her maternal supplications seemed to have 
 been heard. Little Beppina grew up so lovely and hardy, 
 that she never gave her parents the least anxiety, and even 
 while she was still a child in arms, utter strangers never 
 wearied of watching her sparkling eyes and dainty laugh- 
 ing mouth. When she was sixteen years of age she pre- 
 sented the appearance of a fully developed woman, well 
 calculated to turn the heads of the 3^oung men. She had 
 not so tall and stately a figure as her beautiful mother, nor 
 did she especially resemble the latter, except in tempera- 
 ment and disposition. For Signora Gioconda had also 
 been noted in her girlhood for her bright laugh and her 
 somewhat capricious temper, though there remained so lit- 
 tle trace of either in the quiet lady. Nor did the daughter 
 have her mother’s soft, fair hair but a wealth of heavy 
 brown braids, which she wore wound around her head in 
 their natural beauty, without attempting to disfigure her- 
 self with the tall coiffure and the immense rolls which ugly 
 style was at that time the latest fashion. Her complexion 
 had been rather too dark in her childhood, although her 
 lovel}" dark eyes, the carnation of her lips and the blood 
 which flew to her cheeks at the slightest provocation, made 
 the child sparkle with plenty" of bright vivacity and fire. 
 As time passed on, her skin became whiter, with a most 
 delicate suggestion of the lustre of ivory, and 3^et the 
 bluish-white of the e^^e in which the iris floated, had the 
 same liquid brilliancy as in her childhood’s da^^s, and from 
 her small ear that looked as if it were modelled in wax, 
 hung a red coral drop in a gold band, as if an artist had 
 carefully selected the tints to make this young girl’s face 
 a ver}^ masterpiece. She was well aware also, of her love- 
 liness, aud seemed to have no greater affliction than that 
 the opportunities for allowing herself to be admired, were 
 so infrequent. 
 
10 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 When she went with her mother to church or on a 
 shopping expedition, she would sometimes cast her rapid 
 glances almost beseechingly around, as if wondering 
 whether some angel from Heaven would not take compas- 
 sion on her and cany her away out of the restrictions and 
 dreariness of her home and the monotonous streets of the 
 cit}", out into the great gay world. The wa}' she walked 
 showed that she would have preferred to run or fl}" ; her 
 motions indicated a joy in mere existence, and the high 
 spirits of youth repressed only with difficulty, and even in 
 church, when she knelt on her little stool, she could not 
 keep her head quietly bowed upon her pra^^er book more 
 tlian five seconds at a time, but was peeping now at the 
 pillars, and now at the towering dome, as if she were emy- 
 ing the swallows that darted noiselessly to and fro among 
 the stone cornices and rafters. 
 
 The poor child certainly was not to blame because ^ 
 she longed for more gayety and liberty than fell to her lot 
 under the paternal roof The apartments, which were 
 almost as silent as a cloister, were never entered by any 
 young people, wuth the exception of the daughters of a 
 few neighboring families, and they too were only allowed ^ 
 to converse with Beppina on suitable subjects in her , 
 mother’s presence. On Sunda3^s and holidays when the ' 
 weather was inviting. Signor Beppe escorted his wife into ! 
 the green fields outside the city and the daughter was i 
 allowed to follow along behind them, beside old Cassandra, 
 the maid. Once in a while too the}" had a box at the 
 theatre, when some opera was to be performed. On such 
 occasions the young girl, who longed to sit where her 
 sparkling e}^es would have reflected the radiance of the in- 
 numerable gas-jets, had to sit far back in the shadow, and 
 many a time she shed tears of sorrow and envy in secret, 
 wlien she saw her girl friends in other boxes, surrounded 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. ll 
 
 by young gentlemen in full dress, smiling, casting glances, 
 and carr3dng on a ver}" eloquent b^^-play Avitli their fans. 
 
 Now and then, when her mother had surprised her in 
 some sudden fit of passionate dejection, she relieved her 
 heart b}' complaints that she was more strictl}^ secluded 
 than aii}^ of her acquaintances. Then her mother would 
 clasp her gently in her arms, kiss away her tears and tiy 
 to soothe her, sa3dng that her father wished it so, and what 
 he wished was alwa^^s the best for her, nor would she stay 
 at home forever. Afterwards she might dispose of her life 
 as seemed most agreeable and right to her. Signora Gio- 
 conda was never able to sa}^ things of this kind without 
 silent sighs and finally mingling her own tears with those 
 of her child. these means however, the secret senti- 
 ment of a vague rage against her father in the girl’s 
 heart was onl}^ strengthened. She felt, moreover, that 
 neither was her mother’s happiness complete, that her 
 father seemed to feel but little gratitude toward his loyal 
 and devoted wife for having borne him such a lovel}" child, 
 and although he never addressed an unkind word to her, 
 }^et at the same time, neither did he ever utter a heart-felt 
 or tender one, at least in the presence of his daughter. To 
 this daughter too, although she was and remained his only 
 child, he showed but little of a father’s tenderness ; her 
 prettiest conceits were scarcely rewarded with a smile, her 
 little accomplishments, of singing and piano-playing, were 
 onl^" moderatel}" praised, and at evening when she bade 
 him good night before retiring, he touched her brow with 
 his grave lips in such a cold and abstracted wa}^, that it 
 sometimes made her shiver from head to foot. 
 
 He had selected the best teachers for her, and consid- 
 ered the superintendence of the progress of her studies a 
 serious matter. He also showered upon her numberless 
 prett}' things, upon the slightest pretext, and her little 
 
12 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 room in the third story, adjoining the sleeping-room which 
 slie shared with her mother, was the envy of all her friends, 
 who always declared that Princess Margherita herself 
 could not have more elegant furniture or daintier fixings. 
 Yet she seemed to herself with it all like a bird in a gilded 
 cage, and grew to hate her father only the more intensely 
 on this account, as this kindness and generosity on his 
 part made her conscience accuse her of black ingratitude 
 in that she was discontented in spite of it all and could not 
 help loving less and less the author of her secret wretched- 
 ness as the days passed on. 
 
 This state of things continued on into her sixteenth 
 3^ear, and to her mother’s increasing sorrow, it became so^ 
 visibly intensified, that frequently the girl was no longer 
 successful in treating her father pleasantly and concealing' 
 her consuming resentment. The gentleman, so grave, so^ 
 busily occupied, and absorbed in his own affairs, seemed? 
 not to take the slightest notice of this slight convulsion of 
 a stormy nature, this gloomy hatred of a passionate temper. 
 He went on his way tranquilly as before, purposety avoid- 
 ing coming to any explanation with his wife, who had 
 more than once made up her mind to speak to her husband' 
 about Beppina and the duty of seeking some suitablei 
 matrimonial alliance for her. 
 
 Suddenly, without her mother’s having taken any; 
 steps in the matter, a change came over the young girl’s 
 spirit, which made the former more anxious tlian the pre- 
 vious embittered wretchedness. 
 
 All at once Beppina, who for a long time had scarcely 
 sung a note, was heard singing her favorite songs again, 
 even when she was not at the piano, but seated alone 
 in lier little room with her needle-work. Sometimes when 
 tlie three were sitting at breakfast or dinner she would 
 break out into a merry huigh, and if asked the reason| 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 13 
 
 would try to excuse herself with some very inade- 
 quate explanation. The flowers which she had raised on 
 her balcony and neglected only too often, were now tended 
 with the utmost solicitude, and many an hour was spent 
 by her sitting among them, in a little rocking-chair, with a 
 book in her delicate hands, which, in fact, served simply as 
 a blind for an abstracted revery. The house stood in a 
 lonely quarter of the city, among the old mansions of de- 
 cayed noble families, opposite a palazzo which had been un- 
 occupied for years. The young gallants had found the dis- 
 tance too great to come hither solel y for the sake of a pair of 
 black eyes, particular!}^ as Doctor Beppe’s daughter was sup- 
 posed to be almost as unapproachable as her aunt, the nun. 
 So the parents had not at first any suspicion when the bal- 
 cony began to flourish again and became the favorite resort 
 of their daughter. A mother’s eyes, however, are not easily 
 to be deceived. Signora Gioconda was the more firmly 
 convinced that there had come to her daughter an experi- 
 ence inevitably decreed by Nature to tlie hearts of most 
 sixteen year old maidens, as she had observed during some 
 of their walks of late, a young man who had kept his 
 ardent gaze fastened upon her Beppina with a very peculiar 
 expression, and seemed to have taken note of the hour 
 when they went to mass, and when the party of four were 
 in the habit of leaving the house on Sundays. 
 
 On one of these afternoons the father also was obliged 
 to notice the appearance of this young man, who was evi- 
 dently a stranger. Signora Gioconda felt from a motion 
 of his arm that he was strongly affected by some painful 
 thought, and as she herself felt many distressing recollec- 
 tions revive each time she met the young man, she could 
 not force herself to utter a single wwd to her husband in 
 regard to her previous observations. She cast a rapid 
 glance back at Beppina who was walking along with a 
 
14 
 
 6EPPB, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 radiant countenance as if transfigured. But when the 
 young stranger passed by arm-in-arm with a companion, 
 apparently without paying any attention to her, the mother 
 refiected that she might easily make the evil worse, if she 
 should directly induce her daughter to confess a sentiment 
 to her, of which her young heart might not yet perhaps 
 have rendered any account to itself. 
 
 Thus the following week elapsed without anything 
 further occurring, with the exception of the regular meet- 
 ings on their waj' to church. When the father remai’ked 
 the Sunday after, that their walk would have to be given 
 up for that day, as an important lawsuit would prevent his 
 celebrating the holiday, his wife cast a scrutinizing glance j 
 at her daughter, whose face however, instead of the ill-^ 
 humored disappointment she had feared, expressed a per-,j 
 fectly serene cheerfulness. The anxious mother’s heart 
 was soothed with the hope that she might have been mis-.| 
 taken after all, and that this new cloud over her life, which' 
 aside from this, had not been the very brightest, might pass 
 harmlessly over. Sister Perpetua, the nun, happened to 
 be there on a visit just at this time, and was present at the^ 
 dinner table. After the meal was ended, Signora GiocondOi 
 and her sister withdrew to the sitting-room to discuss coin 
 fidentiallj" various family matters. The father went down' 
 stairs to his legal documents, Cassandra was taking her nap 
 in the kitchen, Aristides was clearing the table, and Bep-i 
 pina flew up to her little room singing a barcarolle, to pass 
 the sultry hours in the shade of the flowers on her balcony. 
 
 * * 
 
 * 
 
 The street was even more quiet and deserted than 
 usual. The gra}’^ palazzo with its closed Yenetian blinds 
 looked as ghostly as some haunted mansion ; a white cat 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 15 
 
 was lying on a window-sill in the house next below, and the 
 breeze had died away so completely that the creature’s 
 snoring could be heard at long intervals. Farther on, 
 at the corner of the street, in front of the little Cafe, sat 
 the onh’ customer, a very old man, who was enjoying his 
 noon-day nap over his newspaper, and opposite him the 
 little waiter asleep in a rickety cane-chair, while the sun 
 poured through the great holes in the awning that had been 
 let down to its fullest extent, and innumerable flies were 
 buzzing in the sunbeams. The few stores in the neighbor- 
 hood were closed, not on account of the observance of the 
 Sabbath, that being a thing unknown there, but because it 
 seemed quite hopeless to expect any customers to stray in 
 this direction at this hour and on such a day. 
 
 In spite of the oppressive desolation and solitude, how- 
 ever, which cast their ghostly breath about the law3^er’s 
 house, a 3^oung face, rosier than the pinks and pomegranates 
 that were growing in the jars near b3", could be seen on the 
 balcon3' in the third stoiy, peeping through the railing. 
 Only the morning sunshine reached the house. A cooler 
 place for a siesta could not be found than up there in 
 front of Beppina’s ro3"al little room. She was reclining in 
 her rocking-chair, a carnation she had just picked held to 
 her delicate nose, whose white, finel3-cut nostrils were 
 dilating gentl3" as she inhaled the fragrance. Resting on 
 her lap in the other hand, was a little red leather portfolio, 
 in which from her childhood she had alwa3"s kept her 
 secret papers, for even the most carefull3-reared maidens 
 usuall3^ possess something of this kind. The little key to 
 this she alwa3-s wore around her neck, together with a 
 medallion containing a picture of the immaculate Virgin, 
 that had been blessed b3" the Pope. Today, however, she 
 had spread out all of her private documents fearlessly on 
 her lap ; for upon entering her room she had locked the 
 
16 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 door behind her, and besides, she was safe from all in- 
 trusion, as both of her parents were occupied. From time 
 to time her rapid, sparkling gaze rested on one of the 
 written sheets, but not for the purpose of reading what 
 was written there in a flowing, beautiful hand. She knew 
 every word by heart ; it was only to convince herself that 
 she did really possess these treasures and had not per- 
 chance only dreamed them. Each time she took one of j 
 the little sheets in her hand, the rose-color in her cheeks i 
 grew deeper and her lips quivered with a charming expres- 
 sion, half smiling and half bashful, so that the whole row 
 of firm little teeth was revealed, as if they were just ready 
 to bite into some tempting fruit. But then she was soon 
 gazing anxiousl}^ again through the balustrade down into ■ 
 the long, deserted street, her foot beating an impatient | 
 tattoo, a shadow of anxiety and displeasure resting on her 
 laughing eyes — the next moment it seemed as if a slight 
 shock convulsed her whole frame, and her chair began to 
 rock as if it would lose its balance. She quickly recov- 
 ered her composure, however. She even cowered down i 
 into the cushions and bent her head in order not to be per- ^ 
 ceived from below. For down yonder, still quite a dis- j 
 tance away, he was advancing, he, at sight of whom lierj 
 young blood surged more rapidly from her heart into her ' 
 cheeks. He could not have discovered her yet, behind the^| 
 rose-bushes and surrounded by her airy barricade, although i 
 from a distance he had cast a falcon-keen glance at the old 
 house. But she could see him distinctly, his handsome 
 face, somewhat haughty and self-satisfied, with the black 
 mustache, his white neck only loosely confined by a light 
 silk neck-tie, every detail in his immaculate attire. He 
 was holding his straw hat in one hand, so that his curly, 
 hair looked all the blacker in contrast with his white fore-^ 
 
 L 
 
 head; in the other hand he was canying a light cane with*: 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 17 
 
 which he touched the pavement now and then, keeping 
 time to one of Verdi’s melodies, which he was humming 
 carelessly to himself. Taking all in all, he was a fasci- 
 nating young fellow, although perhaps rather more fasci- 
 nating in the eyes of the young girls than of their mothers’, 
 who have learned that the words which are written in the 
 Book of Fate cannot always be set to an operatic air. 
 
 Having reached the house, he stopped and looked up 
 more earnestly, indeed, with almost defiant audacity, 
 itoward the balcony. His face clouded over when he still 
 failed to discover what he was looking for. He caughed 
 once or twice, but there was no movement behind the iron 
 railing of the hanging garden. Then he seized the knocker 
 on the closed door, and after holding it for a moment hesi- 
 tatingly in his hand, he at length, with sudden decision, 
 struck it three times against the metal plate. 
 
 At this moment a red carnation fell down from above 
 just at his feet, and a girl’s sweet, smothered laugh reached 
 his ears through the quiet air. A low exclamation escaped 
 him in response, he stooped for the fiower, but had barely 
 time to pick it up and conceal it in his breast-pocket, be- 
 fore the door opened and the haggard countenance of old 
 Aristides appeared at the threshold to inquire whom the 
 gentleman wished to see. 
 
 Then the door closed again behind the visitor, and the 
 street, disturbed in its Sunday calm by this short episode, 
 ^elapsed into the old brooding silence. 
 
 * * 
 
 ' * 
 
 Up there on the balcony, however, all calm was at 
 in end. The solitary child had only crouched down again 
 n her chair for a moment when she heard the servant’s 
 v^oice, as if he could discover her from the threshold of the 
 
18 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 house-door, and suspect that she herself was concerned in 
 this visit. Then she sprang up as nimbly as a kitten, 
 gathered up the papers which had slipped out of her port- 
 folio when she threw down the flower, and after carefully 
 locking up her treasure once more, carried it back into her 
 room and concealed it in what she considered a secret 
 drawer of her bureau, because she was accustomed to place 
 a large box of ribbons and laces in front of it. But she was 
 possessed with a spirit of unrest, and went from her little 
 writing-desk to her mirror, from there to a small hanging 
 book-case containing nothing but books into which she 
 never looked; her father had himself selected them for 
 her and there were no novels among them ; then she 
 stroked the coat of a stuffed pet dog which she had idolized 
 as a child and whose death she had mourned with floods ; 
 of tears ; his sightless glass eyes, however, as she looked 
 into them now, struck her for the first time as some- 
 thing uncanny. 
 
 She presently stepped out on the balcony again and 
 leaned over the railing with folded arms. Yet everything 
 about her was disturbed as by an inward tempest, every 
 fibre was trembling, the little ringlets on her neck were^ 
 quivering, although the air was still utterly motionless, her ; 
 teeth were gnawing the rounded lips, her little feet were^ 
 mechanically tapping the stone floor of the balcony and| 
 her bosom was heaving so violently that the pomegranate; 
 tree she was leaning against rocked to and fro, as if its 
 branches were shaken by a sirocco. Again she listened 
 through the locked door to the sounds in the house. But 
 what could she hope to hear when the visit was intended 
 for her father? To be sure, if everything came about as 
 she wished and expected, the silence below would soon 1)6 
 ended, footsteps would come up the stairs and approach 
 her door, her father’s measured trecid — or perhaps, if the 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 19 
 
 Madonna were particularly gracious, a younger, more im- 
 pulsive step, which would leap up three stairs at a time. 
 
 And still the silence continued. 
 
 At length she slipped away from the door and out to 
 the flowers again. And this time her presentiments had 
 not deceived her. Hardly was she leaning again upon the 
 balustrade, when the outside door below opened and closed 
 again almost immediatel}^ But the one who had come 
 out stood motionless. In what state of mind he might be 
 she could not at once discover, as her balcony projected 
 directly above the front entrance and the wider balcony of 
 the second floor lay beneath it. Finally the individual at 
 [the door moved, took a few steps down the street, stopped 
 lagain and clenched his fist. 
 
 I “Zanetto ! ” was whispered from above. 
 
 The young fellow hastily turned his head and looked 
 up toward the balcon}^ His face bore the traces of violent 
 iexcitement, drops of perspiration were standing on his 
 forehead, his lips were pale and compressed. The charm 
 of his fresh, audacious youth had suddenly departed. 
 
 ‘‘Zanetto! ” the voice from the balcony repeated. It 
 seemed like an attempt to awaken a sleeper, for he cast 
 such dreamy glances around, as if he knew not where 
 he was. 
 
 “ Grood night ! ” he called at last in a stifled voice. 
 “Farewell, Beppina ! Go into a convent! May the 
 Madonna be with 3^0 u ! ” 
 
 This was accompanied b}- a gesture signifjdng that 
 everything was at an end and all hope lost. The next in- 
 stant, however, a capricious sort of defiance seemed to have 
 taken possession of the young man’s soul. He raised his 
 hat, swung it in the air once or twice and set it on one side 
 of his head. Then putting his hand into his pocket, he 
 
20 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 produced the red carnation, kissed it three times with ex- 
 aggerated, burlesque pathos, and then picked it to pieces 
 and scattered the leaves to the four winds. 
 
 Just then a man passed with a lighted cigar in his 
 mouth. Zanetto stepped up to him, and touching his hat, 
 asked for a light, then sending a cloud of blue smoke from 
 his cigarette before him, he left the house with slow, indif- 
 ferent steps and without once casting his e3^es back up 
 toward the balcoii}^, from which a 3^oung face was gazing 
 after him in bewildered despair. 
 
 What had happened? What had they been saying to 
 each other? Was this the same sky which had looked 
 down into this quiet street half an hour ago? Were these 
 the same flowers behind which she had concealed her 
 blushes, her impatience, her roguish delight in being so near 
 her lover and invisible? Had he actually' intended to say 
 that all was at an end forever? And that it was not of 
 much more importance to him than the ashes of his ciga- 
 rette or the remains of a flower he had picked to pieces? 
 But this was surely impossible ! — this could not be the end 
 of a happiness on which she herself had been living for 
 weeks, as the one thing which she considered a truth and a - 
 realit}^, of whose imperishableness each day had onl^^ the; 
 more strongly convinced her ! 
 
 Her wretched little brain threatened to burst, her still ; 
 more wretched sixteen year old little heart all at once lay 
 as if paralyzed, as heavy as some dead thing in her breast, 
 devoid of feeling ; it seemed to have ceased beating ; her 
 eyes were burning without being cooled b}^ a tear, her teeth 
 were softly chattering. She sank down in her chair like 
 one in a swoon, and yet with full consciousness, and, press- 
 ing her hands to her face, lay in a pitifully dazed state, 
 without a distinct sensation or a single coherent thought 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 21 
 
 but the one: “He did not even turn around to look back 
 atme!— 
 
 * * 
 
 * 
 
 Suddenly she heard a knock at her door and started 
 up. She could not look any one in the lace. If her mother 
 wished to see her, she would have to be patient and 
 imagine that her child had fallen asleep in the sultry after- 
 noon air. But the knock was repeated and presently she 
 heard her lather’s A^oice saying: “Beppina, open the 
 door!” — her father, whom of all people in the world she 
 least wished to meet. She stood leaning against the 
 balcony door, holding her breath, hoping lie might go 
 away soon if the silence continued. However he knocked 
 again, saying : “I know that you are in there ! Open the 
 door ! ” — in his usual firm, quiet voice, which no one could 
 resist. She pressed her little hand to her heart ; her face 
 grew dark, almost malignant, she drew a deep breath, like 
 one coming to a dilRcult decision, and then walked slowly 
 to push back the bolt. 
 
 But she did not look at her father, as he stepped into 
 the room, defiantly as she had intended to resist him. 
 Had he rushed in angrily and overwhelmed her with re- 
 proaches, she would perhaps have found courage to openly 
 oppose his tyrannical will, which made her so wretched. 
 But he entered very quietly, as was his way, when he 
 wished to inquire about her studies or to bring her a new 
 book. His face, which to be sure, she did not see, was 
 somewhat paler and sadder than usual. It eA^en looked as 
 if he had been shedding tears ; but then his eyes had been 
 of late weakened and slightly inflamed from his excessive 
 reading and his nightl}' study of the heavens. 
 
 He paced up and down the little room a few times, 
 while she stood with her head sunk on her breast, and her 
 
22 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 hands upon the table for support, as if she were dreaming 
 all alone. His face was turned away from her ; he passed 
 his hand through his luxuriant hair, which was beginning 
 to turn gray at the ends, though there were no traces of 
 age in his black beard, that made his not reall}^ handsome, 
 but intelligent and kindly face, look still paler. “ Beppina,” 
 said he at length, stopping before the door of the balcony, 
 “you know without doubt why I have come to you. Some 
 one has been with me with whom I have spoken today for 
 the first and last time. He will never enter this house 
 again while I occupy it. But as he has found means to 
 approach my daughter without m}^ knowledge, to exchange 
 letters with her, perhaps more than this — ” 
 
 He paused and looked at her. She shook her head 
 earnestly but still scarcely perceptibly, and stood as if 
 chained to the spot. 
 
 “I am not going to reproach you,” continued her 
 father. “What has happened grieves me, because it must 
 give you pain, which I would gladly have spared you, but 
 which will be perhaps as wholesome as it is unavoidable. 
 If you had had more confidence in your father — ” 
 
 She was trembling from head to foot with inward ex- 
 citement, but her lips were only pressed more firmly 
 together. 
 
 “Or in your mother — you would have opened ^^our 
 heart to us at the first of these secret messages, and we 
 should have told you that 3 ^ou must not ' accept a second 
 letter, nor cherish any hopes and wishes that could never 
 be fulfilled.” 
 
 The young girl made a powerful effort to break the 
 spell which her father’s presence cast upon her. 
 
 “Why not? ” came almost inaudibly from her lips. 
 
 “ Because — because it is impossible 1 Beppina — my 
 poor child — hard as it may be for you, believe me, it ha§ 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 23 
 
 not been easy for 3'our father to cause you pain. If I have 
 been obliged to do so, it was because of very serious and 
 inexorable reasons, which I cannot impart to j'ou, I assure 
 you. I know that you have at times borne me ill-will, 
 drinking that I needlessly refused y’ou this thing or that, 
 to which 3’ou thought you had a right, or that you would 
 have liked. Perhaps because I am rather chary of words 
 and caresses, you have doubted my heart. Much has hap- 
 pened to me, my child, to render me gloomy and silent. I 
 know there are some fathers with whom their daughters 
 are better satisfied than you are with yours, who laugh and 
 joke with them and let them have their own way. I blame 
 no one for this, though for my part, I act as I must and 
 can. Perhaps you will one day see that it was for your 
 good that I allowed j'ou less liberty than other girls have. 
 I know your nature ; you are like a sapling that has grown 
 up rapidly in very rich soil ; it must be carefully tended and 
 bound to a firm stake, if it is to escape being bruised over- 
 night by some sudden gust of wind. A few years more 
 and I can hope to let you do as you choose without any 
 dano'er. Will vou trust in me a little longer, mj' child, 
 and believe that I have your welfare at heart? ” 
 
 No answer came from the young girl, who seemed lost 
 in thought; her eyes gazed fixedly at the floor, and she 
 appeared not to see the hand her father held out to her. 
 
 Again he took a few steps, as if to* give her time to 
 consider. As she maintained an obstinate silence, he said 
 in a somewhat more emphatic tone : 
 
 “Over your thoughts and feelings I have unfortu- 
 nately no control ; today is not the first time that I have 
 despaired of influencing your heart, and perhaps I am 
 partly to blame for this, as I lack the power of winning 
 your confidence. But over your actions, Beppina, over 
 your conduct I have full authority, and this I shall not re- 
 
24 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 sign. Henceforth there must not be the slightest inter- 
 course between yourself and this young man. I know not 
 how conscientiously he will keep his promise to avoid 3^011 
 personally, as well as to abstain from all letters and verbal 
 messages to you. Cassandra will leave the house this very 
 day, if it turns out as I surmise, that she was the go- 
 between. But 3^ou must promise me, my child, that 3^ou 
 
 will never send another written or spoken word to this 
 
 Zanetto, although 3^011 cannot banish him from 3^our 
 thoughts immediately, that you will never seek an3" more 
 opportunities to see him, and if chance should bring about 
 a meeting with him, that you will turn 3'Our eyes awa3" 
 from him, as if he were a perfect and perpetual stranger. 
 Will 3^ou promise me this, my poor little daughter? ” 
 
 Suddenly, as if she wished to shake off her fetters, she 
 turned her face toward her father, who had laid his hand 
 upon her shoulder. For a moment she looked him straight ? 
 in the e3"e, her bosom heaving painfull3^, her colorless lips 
 quivering. 
 
 “ No ! she ejaculated in a low tone. “ Kill me ! cast 
 me into a dark dungeon ! I will never, never renounce 
 him ! I — I could not, even if I would ! ” ^ 
 
 Then she dropped her eyes again, a deep blush rose i 
 to her cheeks, heavy tears fell from her eye-lashes; she ■ 
 groped for a support, as if she had lost all command of > 
 her senses, and, bursting into loud sobs, threw herself upon ‘ 
 the small low sofa that stood in the centre of the room. 
 
 For some time the father stood motionless, looking 
 down upon the 3^oung girl, whose slender figure la3" upon 
 the coucli tossed as if with the most violent convulsions. 
 
 “Poor little one ! ” he said finalW “The poor, 3’oung 
 life ! But it is all in vain. No words can still this tem- 
 pest. Only listen to one thing, if 3^011 are still able to 
 listen ; what T am going to do with 3"ou, I shall some da3" 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 25 
 
 have to answer for before my Creator and J iidge, although 
 1 am conscious of no blame in this matter. You have not 
 learned to love 3 ’our father, Beppina ; }'et you know him 
 well enough to know that he does inexorabl}" what he con- 
 siders his duty. You will not leave this house, until I can 
 permit it again. I shall lock this door, and shall not open 
 it again, until I have the assurance from ^^our lips, that 
 you will be my obedient child, though you cannot be my 
 loving one. Compose yourself, m}^ poor daughter ! This 
 uncontrollable grief — ” 
 
 The door opened noiselessl}^ and the mother entered. 
 She cast a glance of the intensest consternation upon the 
 sobbing girl and upon her husband’s stern face. “For 
 Heaven’s sake ? ” she was about to ask ; but a gesture from 
 him silenced her. 
 
 “I have said to her what I could,” he said softly. 
 “See if you can soothe her. — It is as we feared,” he added 
 in a more suppressed tone. “The resemblance did not 
 deceive us. Poor child ! ” 
 
 With these words he left the room, with a look at his 
 wife expressive of deep suffering, but not a shadow ot 
 reproach. 
 
 She heard him descend the stairs. She herself, how- 
 ever, stood in the middle of the room like a lifeless statue, 
 with both hands pressed to her brow, as if benumbed by 
 some shock that had deprived her of her senses for a 
 moment. Yet she quickl}" recovered herself ; the sounds 
 which fell upon her ear from the sofa awakened her to a 
 consciousness of her dut}" as a mother. But when slie 
 drew near her unhapp}^ child, and knelt down on the floor 
 beside her, and, tenderly speaking her name, put her arm 
 around the quivering figure, she was alarmed at the vio- 
 lence with which the weeping girl started up and pushed 
 her awa 3 \ 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZEB. 
 
 26 
 
 “What do you want of me, Mother?” cried Beppina,' 
 as if beside herself “ Do you also want to torment me, 
 call me your poor child, and at the same time be tearing 
 my heart out of my bosom? Leave me alone, go to him 
 with whom you have conspired to bring me to my grave, 
 before I have learned what it is to live ! From him it does 
 not surprise me nor grieve me ! He does not know how to 
 smile and does not wish to see a happy face ; he thinks of 
 the stars and forgets the poor creatures who are on earth 
 and dependent upon him. He knows too that he makes 
 me unhappy and he does not wish it otherwise, for he has 
 no knowledge of anything but his solitaiy thoughts ; he , 
 was never young, oiid has never wished and hoped, loved 
 and suffered. 0 , Mother, how could 3^ou ever have loved 
 him? How was it 3"our heart did not fear him, and his j 
 coldness send* a chill through your 3^oung blood? I — I 
 hate him, I have always hated him, but for 3^ears I thought j 
 it could onl3" be reverence or fear that made me shrink : 
 away from him. And just now, when he was pronouncing ; 
 m3" death-sentence, with as gentle a voice as if he were 
 bringing me some heavenly grace, then I saw clearl3" into ; 
 my heart for the first time, and knew that I had hated him i 
 from my very childhood. Mother, I shall die of this j 
 hatred and that shall be m3" revenge. M3" father shall find y| 
 that despair and a horror of him w"ill put an end to his * 
 daughter’s life. Then, Mother, then 3-011 can tell him that -1 
 he must not gaze at the stars any more, for a wretched 
 being is living up there, who has carried her grief and her 
 liatred with her into eternity. Then if he still has the 
 heart — ” 
 
 “My dear and 01113- child!” her mother interrupted 
 her, pressing her caressing hand with gentle force upon 
 the young girl’s lips, “do not sin so deepl3", do not aban- 
 don 3"our poor soul to such wicked and foolish thoughts, ^ 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 27 
 
 which you will bitterly repent when this storm has sub- 
 sided. Hate him ! — Your father, who has never shown 
 you an3"thing but loving kindness, who purchased your 
 happiness and 3"our peace at a greater cost than you have 
 any idea of, and has deserved only 3"our love and rever 
 ence and everlasting gratitude, even when ^^ou ma}^ not 
 have understood his actions — and 3^011, unhappy child, 3^011 
 can rebel so bitterly against him, 3^ou can complain even 
 in secret, to sa3^ nothing of accusing him with such mad 
 words? And all for a happiness which 3"ou have 01113" 
 dreamed of, which perhaps — ” 
 
 “Sa3" nothing against A/m, Mother, if 3"ou would not 
 actuall3^ drive me distracted ! ” cried the weeping girl. ‘^0, 
 Mother, 3"ou do not know him, 3-011 do not know how this 
 dream of him, which 3^ou would degrade, has filled m3^ whole 
 soul. I have been a prisoner for sixteen long 3^ears, and am 
 I not to regard as a messenger from Heaven, the one who 
 wishes to lead me into libert3", who came at last to win for 
 me air and light, joy and love — all that a poor human being 
 requires — and now that he is dismissed, banished from m3" 
 sight forever — I am to resign this rescuer — to keep still 
 and be bound hand and foot, and not even tell him with 
 my e3"es how much I am suffering on his account — no. 
 Mother, never will I consent to this ! I am not a saint, 
 like 3"ou. 0 Mother ! A life such as 3^ou have endured for 
 
 3"ears and years, would be bitterer than death itself to me, 
 and mark my words, if 3"ou think to compel my obedience 
 133" force — the balcon3" is high enough, thank God, for me 
 to put an end to all torment and slavery with one leap 
 from it ! ” 
 
 After these words, all was silent for a while. The 
 young girl, exhausted with her grief, lay on the sofa, her 
 face concealed in her moist handkerchief, without once 
 looking at her mother, who was still kneeling beside her on 
 
28 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 the floor. Suddenly she heard a trembling voice close to 
 her ear : 
 
 “Lie stillj my child — there! weep all you want to. 
 What you have experienced is sad, but what 3^our mother 
 has to tell 3"ou now is far sadder. I cherished the hope 
 that 3"ou would never need to hear it, though it has been 
 on my lips to tell 3^011 more than once, when I saw how 
 your heart rebelled against your father. You do not know 
 him, my child, as 3^our poor mother has learned to know 
 Jiim in the last seventeen 3"ears. There was a time when I 
 did not know him either. At that time 3^our mother too, 
 was a gay young creature and 3^our father was even then a 
 man, who laughed 01113' when there was a reason for it, not 
 for the mere sake of laughing, as foolish 3^oung people do. 
 And 3'our mother — but no, no 1 I can not ! It is too hard 
 to confess to m3^ own flesh and blood — ” 
 
 She ceased and pressed her e3^es, from which the tears ? 
 suddenl3" burst forth, against the girl’s shoulder. 
 
 The latter raised herself up SI0WI3' and put her arms 
 around her weeping mother, as her own tears suddenl3V 
 ceased to flow. 
 
 “Tell me eveiything. Mamma,” she whispered, her 
 voice broken 113' sobs. “It wall not make aiyy difference.’ 
 But how often when I have seen 3'ou going around so' 
 quiet and uncomplaining — and I could see veiy well wliati 
 an effort 3’'ou made to smile at Father, while he — not a 
 muscle of his face changed — 0 Mother, how many, many 
 times I have been tempted to fall on your neck and appeal 
 to 3'ou to tell me why 3^011 are sad, why 3'ou do not talk to 
 him as other wives do, and tell him that he makes 3'ou 
 wretched, 3^ou and 3'our daughter — and always when 3'ou 
 smiled like a saint — ” 
 
 “Hush, hush, my child!” remonstrated Signora Gio- 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 29 
 
 conda. ^‘Yoii do not know wliat you are saying. And 
 now it must be done. I owe it to him and to you, come 
 what may. I will sit down, however, and you must sit 
 on m}' lap, as I have so often held you, when you 
 were a little girl and I told you fairy tales to console you 
 for some broken pla3^thing. My child, if I had had a 
 mother, perhaps the sad story of m^^ life would have ended 
 dhferentl}". But mj" father had no control over me, he 
 idolized me because I was very prett}^, and everybody com- 
 plimented m}^ blonde hair and sparkling eyes to him, and 
 repeated the saucy things I said in my young impertinence. 
 And I m3’self felt proud that no one could dictate to me, 
 that I could dress and laugh and sing all day long, and 
 that there was not a 3^oung man in the whole city whom I 
 could not have induced by a word or a look to do whatever 
 I wished. Besides we were wealthy and I had everything 
 that heart could desire, beautiful clothes and jeweliy and 
 a home that was much richer and more elegant than this 
 little room of yours, my child. Yet I thought it was all 
 onl3^ my due; for such a beautiful picture the costliest 
 frame was onl3" suitable, and I considered myself far too 
 good and precious to esteem an3^ one of m3’ many suitors 
 worth3’ of me, though I did not reall3^ dismiss any of them, 
 for it flattered my vanity to have such a train of followers. 
 
 At that time, 3"ou see, 3’our father came back from 
 Padua as a 3’oung doctor of law. I had known him well 
 years before ; we lived for some time in one of the houses 
 near by, until the street seemed too lonel3’ and our house 
 too dilapidated for me and I persuaded my father to ])uy a 
 far more beautiful residence on the Corso. In those earl3^ 
 da3’s we had pla3’ed together as neighbors’ children, and 
 even as a ver3’ 3"oung girl T was proud that little Beppe, 
 who was always the quietest of bo3’s, would do m3’ bidding 
 and patientl3’ let me abuse him. When he came back, a 
 
30 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 mature young man, lie at once sought us out. I was not 
 pleased with him, however. I considered him neither 
 handsome nor gallant ; he was the only man who did not 
 flatter me, and when I carried on too freely, he was apt to 
 shrug his shoulders and quietly withdraw. And this very 
 behavior piqued me. 1 tried all my arts to bring him to 
 my feet, and it required no great effort or skill on my part ; 
 he was at heart much more deeply in love with the pla}"- 
 mate of his youth, than was any other of my admirers. 
 When I perceived this, I did not feel the least pity, onl}^ a 
 cold-hearted, malicious triumph, and I treated him even 
 more indifferently than any one else. However he did not 
 change for a moment on that account. He only smiled in 
 that way of his to himself, when I called him by his nick- 
 name of ‘ Beppe, the Star-gazer’, and ridiculed him, sa3flng. 
 that any one who knew the sky so well, would surely" lose 
 his way on earth. In spite of all the ridicule I heaped, 
 upon him, he came almost every other day to see my 
 father, who had been accustomed to consult Doctor Beppe’s 
 father in regard to all sorts of legal matters, and this con- 
 fidence was now transferred to the son. My father was 
 Consul for a foreign countr}" and carried on a complicated; 
 banking business. In all this the 3"Oung law^^er assisted; 
 him. ^ No matter if he does make all sorts of nonsensical 
 mathematical calculations to ascertain the orbit of a star,’! 
 my father would say — ‘ he knows how notwithstanding, to' 
 find his wa3" in the exchange-list too, and through the para- 
 graphs of his law-books. You should not treat him so 
 coldl}", Gioconda.’— H am not a constellation,’ I would 
 retort saucily. ‘ But he does not cut a good figure in the 
 sunlight. J list look how black he is. It seems as if he 
 had buried laughter and were wearing mourning for it.’ 
 
 “ Thus I constantl}' evaded my father and Beppe too, 
 when he succeeded in finding me alone. I secretH felt a 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 31 
 
 fear of him, which was in reality nothing else than a kind 
 of shame that I could not pass him by. 
 
 ‘^One day, however, when he met me in the garden 
 and I had been showering him with the most unkind rail- 
 lery, to conceal my secret dread of him, for I felt that he 
 could see into my innermost heart, I saw his calm face 
 suddenly assume a deeply-grieved expression. ‘ I pity 
 you, Grioconda,’ said he, ‘3^011 dissemble too much. But 
 that can not blind me in regard to 3^0 u. You will never 
 have a truer friend than I.’ 
 
 ‘^At this I suddenl3' ceased laughing, but these kind 
 words of his onl3^ piqued m3^ childish spirit still more. I 
 did not want a friend, least of all, one who could believe 
 me capable of dissembling. 
 
 “ I was so angry with him and so provoked with my- 
 self, because I could not give him a scornful answer, that 
 the tears came into my e3^es. The same evening I began 
 talking to m3" father about Beppe, sa3"ing that I did not 
 wish to see him an3" more, because he did not behave po- 
 litel3’ enough, and if my father could not forbid him the 
 house, he should at least tell him that his society was dis- 
 tasteful to me, and that all attempts to improve me and 
 make me submissive to his will were in vain. 
 
 “ But m3^ father did not, as was his wont, yield the 
 point at once, even before I had quite finished speaking. 
 He looked grave, remained silent for a while and then in- 
 formed me that I would do very wrong to reject Doctor 
 Beppe. He was the only man in the city who had an 
 accurate knowledge of m3' father’s business situation and 
 was making every exertion to prevent the failure of our 
 house, yet that very morning he had formally proposed for 
 m3" hand, and m3" father had given his consent, in case 
 he could obtain mine. 
 
 “ It seemed as if the earth had opened under my feet. 
 
32 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 and a sudden dizziness were about to plunge me into the 
 ab3'ss. 
 
 “I did not answer a word, but returned to room 
 with despair in my heart, and did not close my eyes all 
 night. Should I renounce everything that had hitherto 
 filled my life, and live on in future as a poor girl, pitied, per- 
 haps ridiculed, and hear my envious companions exulting 
 over me, or should I place myself forever in the power of 
 this gloom}^, stern and monosyllabic friend,’ and in order 
 to preserve the appearance of prosperity, forfeit eternall}^ 
 my true happiness, which I could only picture to mj^self as 
 ga}^ and light hearted.'’ 
 
 Beppina, who had buried her face in her mother’s 
 bosom, nestled closer to her, and a sigh shook the young 
 figure, which had remained quite motionless on the 
 mother’s lap. “0 Mother,” said she. “how you must have 
 suffered ! ” 
 
 “I deserved it,” said the lad^^ and gently touched her 
 lips to her child’s dark hair. “ But I was not 3 "et suflficientty 
 humiliated. I was not yet willing to believe that there 
 was no other deliverance. When Dr. Beppe came the next 
 morning, I locked mj^self into my room. He had a long 
 conversation with m^^ father. Then he sent word to ask if 
 I would listen to him for a few minutes. I appeared before 
 him colder and more repellent than ever. If I were to be 
 sold, I would not have the air of consenting to my own 
 degradation. But he seemed to overlook all that. He 
 knew, he said, that I had no feeling of love for him 3 ^et. As 
 long as I had prospects of a rich dowr}^, he had not ven- 
 tured to offer himself. Nor should I decide too hastily 
 now. Disinterestedness was certainty the least merit an 
 honest friend could attribute to himself ; and in his case 
 there could not even be a question of that. His long- 
 seated, deep affection for me made the possession of me 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 33 
 
 seem in liis eyes a treasure that ^ could not be outweighed 
 i by millions, if he had them to bestow. But the genuine 
 j and uuchaugiug love of an honorable man was also a great 
 ! treasure, and he could not abandon the hope that I would 
 f some day. learn to appreciate this, and taking it into 
 ' account, would place a low estimate upon many other gifts 
 which he lacked. 
 
 ; He then extended his hand, in which I laid my cold 
 
 ^ hand without a word of consent or refusal, just as one 
 would dismiss any casual visitor. 
 
 “From that morning peace and gayety were at an end 
 I for me. He now came daily, but never spoke to me of 
 love. Nor did my father urge me. I knew however that 
 they both regarded me as engaged, and when I thought of 
 this, a cold shiver would creep over me. 
 
 “And then one day there came — ” 
 
 She paused. Beppina felt her mother’s heart begin- 
 ning to beat more violently, her knees were trembling and 
 a few moments passed before she gained strength to 
 continue. 
 
 “My child,” she said in a scarcely audible voice, “I 
 would give the remainder of my life, if I might be spared 
 the pain of telling you this sad story, which still causes me 
 such deep shame, though I have long since repented. But 
 your peace of mind depends upon it, my darling ; you will 
 never let your mother regret having confessed to you — to 
 save your own happiness — how weak she was? ” 
 
 A passionate embrace from Beppina prevented her 
 from sa3dng more. The girl now pressed her face so close 
 on her mother's bosom that their e^ es did not meet. 
 
 “ One day there came to m^^ father’s house a young 
 Venetian — the son of a rich jeweler. He had a letter of 
 credit upon our bank, which at that time was still as flour- 
 ishing as ever in the e3"es of outsiders. He was a handsome 
 
34 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 young man with rather free, conceited manners, and expe- 
 rienced in everything that would please a vain young girl. 
 When he first saw me on the street, he stopped with a ges- 
 ture of the most reverent admiration, as if he had met a 
 heavenly apparition. I felt, what I had never felt before, 
 a sensation of peril, and a thrill of delight, which I only 
 concealed behind my fan with some effort. Yet I met the 
 stranger again that very evening in my father’s house. 
 Before three days elapsed, he had laid his heart at my feet 
 and I had confessed to him that he was my first love. 
 
 “My father, was not in the secret. But I do not 
 doubt that he was aware of the condition of my poor, vain 
 heart, and was by no means dissatisfied with this turn of 
 affairs. He had had no objection to accepting Beppe’s 
 assistance at the cost of my life’s happiness. However, if 
 things happened more fortunately, if he could be rescued 
 from his precarious situation by a son-in-law after his 
 daughter’s own heart, he was quite ready to undo all that 
 had been done, and break faith with the earlier friend. 
 Onlj% as a cautious business man, he did not want to act 
 rashly, but to let whatever had been decreed by Heaven 
 come to pass of itself. 
 
 “ His unfortunate daughter was less wise and cautious. 
 When, after six weeks that had flown by like a dream, my 
 lover in secret took his leave, in order, as he said, first to 
 obtain his father’s consent and then to hasten back to his 
 betrothed on the wings of yearning love, I was left as one 
 forever lost, although I did not yet realize the full extent 
 of my misery ; day after day I locked mj'self in my 
 chamber and did not even venture to look my father in the 
 face, feeling that my sin and my misery were written on 
 my brow, and when I heard Doctor Beppe s step in the 
 house, I trembled with agony, as if my judge were coming 
 to annihilate me with one merciless look.” 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZEll. 
 
 35 
 
 Again she became silent. Her daughter on her lap 
 sat without uttering a sound, holding her breath even. 
 Only her arms clasped her mother more closely. 
 
 must finish,” the latter continued at length. ‘Hn 
 fact, I have nearly reached the end. I wrote to him every 
 day. It hurt my feelings that he did not reply immedi- 
 ately, but I felt no forebodings as yet. He is probabl}' 
 waiting for a favorable opportunity to inform his father, I 
 thought. Thus two interminably long weeks wore awa}'. 
 At last there came a letter from Venice. He did not even 
 have enough compassion upon me to break the terril)le 
 tidings to me gradually. He wrote quite calmly that the 
 happy hours we had passed together had been, alas ! too 
 brief, and were not to be repeated. He was obliged to take 
 a long journey on some business for his father, and was 
 utterly uncertain as to when he should return, and I was 
 not to be so foolish as to wait for him, but accept, for 
 Heaven's sake, the addresses of the worthy Doctor — he 
 had become slightly acquainted with Beppe — and forget 
 that there was a being in the world who might perhaps 
 have made me happier — if it had been so written in 
 the stars. 
 
 He had the cruelty to tell me this, although in my 
 last letter I had confessed to him with tears my expecta- 
 tion of becoming a mother. 
 
 ^‘The days that now ensued — the sleepless nights 
 spent in weeping — 0, my child, what a price I had to pay 
 for you ! 
 
 “ At that time I thought I could not survive the day 
 when I should first look into your eyes and read in them 
 shame and my grief ! When I realized that I was be- 
 trayed, and betrayed by the one on whom,! had so madl}' 
 lavished all I possessed, an icy calm came over me. I 
 could even appear before my father, or exchange a word 
 
36 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZEK. 
 
 with the friend of my youth, whom I now feared so much, 
 without disclosing my secret. I had strength to cany out 
 my part, so that my name might be free from disgrace, 
 when it could no longer affect me. For it seemed to me 
 inevitable from the very first, that I must put an end to 
 my life. 
 
 “ I do not know, however, how long I might have hesi- 
 tated, I was so young and I had once so loved life. 
 
 “ But there came an hour that decided my fate. 
 
 “ It was one afternoon late in the summer ; the days 
 were already growing short. Beppe had dined with us, 
 only we three at a small table. He was looked upon in 
 the city as my betrothed lover, although there had been no 
 public announcement of our engagement. As I entered 
 the dining-room, he regarded me with a look which curdled 
 the ver}^ blood in my veins. For the first time I dared not 
 look at him openly ; but through the entire meal I felt his 
 e3'es resting upon me, and the little that I ate was bitterer 
 to me than gall. 
 
 “I hastened to seek refuge in my room, and burst into 
 a flood of tears. Thus I did not notice that some one had 
 come to my door and entered without knocking. Beppe 
 was standing before me. I could not see his features 
 through my tears, and only motioned him hastily to leave 
 me, as I was not feeling well. He remained, however, and 
 was silent for quite a while. 
 
 “‘Gioconda,’ he said at length, Giave you nothing to 
 confide to me? Do you not know that 3^011 have not a 
 truer friend than I, not one who would be so ready to do 
 eveiy thing that is necessaiy to 3^our happiness? — every- 
 thing — everything — ! ’ he repeated twice in a voice that 
 pierced me to the heart. 
 
 “I onl}^ shook my head vehemently". 
 
 “ ‘ Consider this, Gioconda ; night often brings good 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 37 
 
 counsel/ he continued, Ho you — and to me. Believe me, 
 one can find the way all the better upon earth for being 
 familiar with the stars.’ 
 
 He spoke thus for some time longer, then left me — 
 more wretched than before. For the first time I had a full 
 realization of what a man he was, and how blindly and 
 madly I had cast away genuine gold for a bright bit of 
 broken glass, which was now giving me a fatal wound. 
 
 But the thought of being indebted to him, whom I 
 had so deeply injured, was all the more unendurable to me. 
 I waited till it had grown dark, then with a veil thrown 
 over me I walked through the garden — at that time we 
 were living in the villa on the outskirts of the city — and 
 went on, as I had already done many an evening, farther 
 and farther between the walls until I had passed entirely 
 out into the countiy. The air was perfectly motionless, 
 the distant roar of the river could be heard — ‘ It is calling 
 me ! ’ I thought, and turned through the fields, where they 
 were shaded by the mulberry trees, so that I thought I was 
 quite unobserved. Once indeed it seemed as if some one 
 were following me, but when I stopped and looked around, 
 all was still again. So I reached the river. For a long 
 time I gazed into its depths, till the first stars were gleam- 
 ing in the dark fiood. My whole unhappy life glided past 
 me like the stream ; when I saw the false eyes looking at 
 me again, and heard the whisper of the voice that had de- 
 ceived me, there came into my heart such an abhorrence of 
 this disgraced existence, that it seemed to me it would be 
 a heavenly kindness to wash away all the contamination 
 from my body and my soul by a deep plunge, from which 
 I should never emerge. I no longer had any dread to 
 overcome ; ^ Good-night ! ’ I said aloud to myself, then 
 drew my veil closel}^ over my face to walk quickly, blind- 
 folded, the short distance through the reeds. 
 
38 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 “All at once I felt a hand upon my arm. I screamed 
 as if a murderer had attacked me. However, I knew im- 
 mediately who it was, before I had looked around. 
 
 “^Come with me, Grioconda,’ I heard Beppe’s voice 
 saying — ‘You are out of your senses; it is a fortunate 
 thing that I happened to be passing. Let us go home.’ 
 
 “He still held me firmly by the arm, I felt that I no 
 longer had any will-power, that he was the stronger. So I 
 went whither he led me, without making any resistance. 
 He presently released his hold upon my arm and neither 
 of us spoke a word. Only when we saw the top of the 
 villa above the garden-walls, he asked casually : ‘ He prom- 
 ised you that he would make you his wife? ’ 
 
 “I could only answer with a motion of the head. 
 Thereupon he was again silent till we reached the garden. 
 Here he stopped and said : ‘ One thing more, Gioconda ! 
 
 I shall not leave you, till you solemnly pledge me your 
 word, that you will not again take this walk nor a similar 
 one, before I come back, three days from now. I have 
 business in Venice. Will you promise me to wait for my 
 return? After that you shall be mistress of your own 
 actions.’ 
 
 “ I could do nothing but raise my eyes to Heaven and 
 whisper ‘ Yes ! ’ 
 
 “ ‘ It is well,’ said he, ‘ I believe you. Good-night ! ’ 
 
 “ So he left me. 
 
 “I felt paralj^zed, all my mental faculties were sus- 
 pended, I did not even feel aii}' pain, nor hope, nor fear ; 
 indeed, it actually seemed as if I were no longer in this 
 world, as if Beppe had withheld my body alone from the ■ 
 plunge into the depths, but that my soul had really been ; 
 drowned. 
 
 “In this condition three days passed. I pleaded • 
 indisposition as an excuse for keeping my room, for I i. 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 39 
 
 could not endure ni}" father’s society. From morning till 
 night I lay dressed upon my couch, and felt like a corpse 
 that is awaiting burial. 
 
 “On the evening of the fourth day I awoke with a 
 start from a light slumber into which I had fallen, for 
 during the night I never closed my eyes, but wandered 
 restlessly to and fro, like one under sentence of death. — 
 Beppe stood at my bedside. 
 
 “‘You have kept your word,’ said he. ‘Forgive me 
 for not coming sooner. He played at hide-and-seek with 
 me for a while. But nevertheless I found him out at last.’ 
 
 “‘Hid you — ? ’ I began with a shudder. 
 
 “‘No, I spared him, hard as it was for me. Veril}-, 
 not for his sake. But the wretch — he has a young wife 
 and a boy four years old. I dared not burden my soul 
 with the misery of a widow and a fatherless child.’ 
 
 “ Thereupon we were silent for perhaps a quarter of 
 an hour. I lay with my lips pressed together that I might 
 not cry out, while glowing tears burned my eyes. Beppe 
 had taken his place at the window and seemed entirely ab- 
 sorbed in the contemplation of the starry sky. 
 
 “ At length he turned around toward me again. 
 
 “‘You are now mistress of your own actions,’ said he. 
 ‘I do not know what you will desire. But I am the same 
 as before, and should consider m3’self a coward, if, after 
 once pledging m^^ faith to ^^ou, I should leave you to bear 
 alone the heav}" burden resting on your shoulders. Nor 
 will it do for 3^ou to take cowardl}- refuge in a sin to escape 
 unhappiness, simply to flee from yourself. You must live, 
 Gioconda, for yourself and for the sake of another life. 
 Not for mine, understand me well. I no longer hope for 
 happiness at your hands. But although 3^011 can no longer 
 be mine, as I once dreamed, I am still 3"ours. You shall 
 bear my name, and 3"our child shall l)e called my cliild. Tn 
 
40 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 other respects — we will live together as strangers. This 
 is what I have read in the stars. I will give you this 
 night to reflect upon it. Tomorrow morning I will go to 
 your father and ask him if he consents to hasten the wed- 
 ding. Then he will ask your opinion, and if you say yes, 
 we can be married and away from here in a week. Never 
 by word or look will I remind you, that I had once hoped 
 to be more to you than a brother who will stand by his 
 sister through life, for better, for worse ! ’ ” 
 
 * * 
 
 * 
 
 The lady’s voice had grown lower and lower, now it 
 died away utterly. It was already dim twilight in tlie 
 chamber, the evening breeze floated in at the open door of 
 the balcony and fanned the hot, tear-stained faces of the 
 mother and daughter, as they were pressed close against 
 each other. 
 
 “Now 3"ou know all ! ” whispered the former, pressing 
 a long kiss on the young girl’s brow. “ But no, one thing 
 more, the saddest part, which concerns you more than all 
 the rest. The sins of the mother are visited upon the 
 daughter : He on whom 3^011 have bestowed your heart is 
 the son of that false man ” 
 
 A half-smothered scream from Beppina interrupted 
 her. The girl sprang up from her mother’s lap and the next 
 moment fell down upon the carpet, as if she had been shot 
 through the heart. 
 
 The mother rushed to her, terrified, and endeavored 
 to lift her up and clasp her again to her breast with tender 
 caresses. But the poor child pushed her awa}’ so passion- 
 atel}^, and indicated her desire to be left alone hy such 
 touching gestures and inarticulate words, that to quiet her, 
 Signora Gioconda finally yielded and withdrew to the 
 
41 
 
 i BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 adjoining room, where Beppina’s bed stood beside her own. 
 She had closed the door opening on the balcony and left 
 the one between the two rooms ajar, being pursued with a 
 secret fear, lest the poor young creature should carry out 
 her threat and do something desperate to escape the tor- 
 ment of so many agonizing emotions. 
 
 She sat down upon the edge of the bed and tortured 
 herself with doubts, as to whether she had done wisely in 
 opening Beppina’s e^^es to the sad events of which she had 
 hitherto had no suspicion. But before she could arrive at 
 any clear decision, the door opened and her daughter stood 
 on the threshold. 
 
 “ Mother,” said she in quite a composed tone, '' I beg 
 3"ou to calm yourself. I — I only wish to go down stairs 
 to Father. Then I will come right back again. But 
 first — ” 
 
 She sprang to the bed, threw her arms around her 
 mother’s neck, and kissed her lips impetuously, as if she 
 would stifle every question on them. 
 
 The next instant she had left the room. 
 
 ‘ Below in his office on the ground floor sat the lawyer 
 
 in front of a desk entirely covered with bundles of legal 
 documents and papers. A lamp suspended from the ceil- 
 ing illuminated the quiet features of the lonely man, who, 
 however, seemed anything but absorbed in his labors. He 
 sat leaning back in a small leather chair, a law-paper in 
 one hand, the other shading his eyes ; he looked as if he 
 were overcome Vv^ith sleep or some waking vision. 
 
 There came a gentle tap at the door. He supposed 
 Signora Glioconda was coming to talk over with him the 
 events of this day. But as he rose and advanced to meet 
 her, he started involuntarily. Beppina had entered and 
 was standing near the door in the most humble attitude. 
 
 “Father,” said she, “T am disturbing you, I will not 
 
42 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 detain you long, only until I — till you have told me, that 
 yon — have forgiven me the sins I have been guilty of 
 against you for so many years.” 
 
 She had scarcely said this ere she lay at his feet, con- 
 vulsed by such violent sobs, that he could not understand 
 a word of what she falteringly pronounced. 
 
 Her father bent over her and raised her np in his 
 arms like a little child. 
 
 ^‘Will yon be reasonable at last?” said he in a voice 
 broken with emotion. “How then shall I forgive you, if I 
 do not know what your crime is? That you could give 
 your heart away without asking my permission — have you 
 not had to suffer so deeply for this, that 3^onr father can no 
 longer be angry, but can only pity you? And moreover — ” ' 
 He tried to press her to his breast and kiss her brow, ' 
 ]>ut she slipped out of his arms, and before he could pre- 
 A^ent it, she was lying at his feet once more. « 
 
 “No,” she cried, “there is much that is hard to con- ^ 
 fess and atone for, and when you know all, 3^011 will neA^er 
 take me to your heart again. 0 , Father, I have hated 3 ou ! 
 From the time I was able to reason and could compare ^ 
 and reflect, I have hated 3^011, because 3^ou were not like ■ 
 other men. If I had seen 3^011 die, I should only have ] 
 thought : We are set free ; now Ave shall begin to live ! < 
 And you — 3^011 — whom I considered a hard, unloving man, ^ 
 who could make his wife unhapp3^ and keep his daughter a ■ 
 prisoner — 3^011 have been a saint, 3^011 have — O HeaA^ens — 
 if I could speak — if I could find AAwds — I am not Avorthy 
 to lie here in the dust at 3^0111* feet — ” 
 
 “Are 3’Ou craz3^, Beppina? ” cried her father in a 
 veiy serious tone. “Glet up immediateh", come to A our 
 senses and tell me the meaning of these exaggerated 
 speeches. You knoAV T am not fond of declamation, and I 
 liave not the remotest idea of Avhat 3^011 mean bv what vou 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 43 
 
 are saying. Will 3^011 obe}^ me? I am severe, I know, and 
 if I have been so toward 3^011, I had good cause for it. 
 The blood in your veins is too quick and too easily excited, 
 and must eaii3^ be held under control, that it ma3^ not 
 work harm. For this reason I had to guard 3^ou stricth^, 
 and as I, being 3^ our father, am responsible for your unde- 
 veloped soul, I have had to bear it patiently, when 3^011 
 secretl3" called me a t3H’ant. But what you sav about 
 hatred is foll3^, m3^ child. You must first learn to live, 
 first learn to know good and evil. Not till then will you 
 learn that an upright human being hates evil onl3^, and 
 that he must love good from the depths of his heart, 
 though he does not at once comprehend it. And let this 
 suffice for toda3\ You know that I have much to do.” 
 
 The 3"Oung girl had risen to her feet, her tears had 
 ceased to flow, but her pale face was still glistening with 
 them, as she now stood before the stern man in a modest 
 attitude. 
 
 “Pardon me,” said she, when he ended ; “I am going 
 now. I have freed 1113" mind, 3^011 ma3^ l)elieve as much as 
 3"ou choose of w^hat I have said. What has taken place in 
 the past — I shall strive to forget it and to forgive m3^self. 
 From this time forth there is not a human being in the 
 world, whom I love so warml3" and devotedly as I do you. 
 m3^ father. I shall have but one thought, how I can repay 
 3’ou for what 3^011 have done for me, and 1 shall know no 
 other will than 3’ours. And now I should like to make a 
 request — it would be eas3^ for you to grant it.” 
 
 “ A request, m3" child? ” 
 
 “That 3"ou will let me go to Aunt Perpetua for a 
 while. 1 feel the need of being entirely by m3"self, to 
 think over all that lias happened to me. You know that I 
 shall be well taken care of in the convent — and when it is 
 time. T wall come back again.’' 
 
44 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 “Does your mother know of your wish? Has sIk 
 agreed to the plan? ” 
 
 “I did not want to say anything to her about it, untr 
 I knew whether 3"ou would give j^our consent. ’ 
 
 “Very well, my child. Go back to 3^our mother and 
 ask her. 1 will consent to anything that seems right and 
 proper in her e3"es. And tr3^ to banish these strang€ 
 thoughts. You hate me ! It is almost as fantastic as that 
 T should hate you ! Good-night, my poor Beppina ! ” 
 
 He took her in his arms and clasped her to his breast, 
 touching her forehead with his lips. “Good-night!” he 
 repeated, with a wave of the hand. Then he saw the silent, 
 dejected face turn awa3" from him and disappear through 
 the door-way, without a word in response. " 
 
 * * ' 
 
 * 
 
 He remained at home for an hour longer, but without 
 going on with his work again. He appeared to be waiting 
 for some one ; for as he paced up and down the room, full 
 of restless thoughts, he would sometimes pause to listen at 
 the door. He was disappointed each time however ; no 
 one was approaching, neither Beppina nor her mother.^ 
 Then an expression of pain would cross his face, and he| 
 would resume his walk in the narrow apartment. ' 
 
 When the accustomed hour arrived, he left the house! 
 to go to the Cafe. He did not speak with an3" one there, ' 
 but seated himself in a quiet corner and became absorbed 
 in the “ Perseveranza. ” At ten o’clock he rose, saluted his 
 acquaintances wifh a slight bow and went home. 
 
 The 3^oung girl, who lay in her bed near her mother, 
 awake, and with weeping eyes, heard her father as he 
 ascended the stair-case to his lonely observatory in the 
 upper storv. She had not put out the light till she heard 
 his familiar step in the street l)elow. “Are you asleep, 
 
45 
 
 fet:PPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 Mother? ” she asked in a whisper. 0, Mother, this is the 
 way he has come home for eighteen ^^ears ! ” 
 
 There was no reply to these words. They had spent 
 the remainder of the day together rather silently. Signora 
 Gioconda had only answered Beppina’s request to be 
 allowed to go to her aunt by an acquiescent nod. It 
 seemed to her the most salutary thing for her poor child, 
 that she should for a time leave the house in which 
 she would now necessarily see everything in a different 
 light. Besides, in the convent she would be safe from any 
 meeting with the man on whom she must never smile again. 
 
 Accordingly the very next morning she began her 
 preparations for the young girl’s departure. Her trunk 
 was soon packed, the light carriage which sometimes con- 
 veyed the lawyer into the country to his suburban clients, 
 was already standing by eleven o’clock in front of the house, 
 Aristides seated on the box, and Aunt Perpetua on the soft 
 leather cushions. When Beppina had torn herself out of 
 her mother’s arms and received her father’s kiss on her 
 l)row, she turned back once more and hastily whispered a 
 few words in Signora Gioconda’s ear. Then springing into 
 the little carriage, she drew her veil over her face and fell 
 to weeping so violently, that passers-by would have sup- 
 posed that here was a daughter being carried away from 
 her parent’s house against her will, to offer her young heart 
 as a sacrifice to Heaven. 
 
 '‘She reminded you of something more that you were 
 to tell me ; I heard it distinctl3\ Wlmt is it about? ” asked 
 the father, who, controlling his emotion with a great effort, 
 was gazing after the carriage as it rolled away. 
 
 "She wanted you not to let Cassandra suffer for her 
 fault,” said his wife timidly, as she turned back into the 
 house, that they might no longer afford a spectacle for the 
 neighbors. 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GA2^ER. 
 
 46 
 
 ‘‘Do as you like with lieiy’ answered the law3^er, fo 
 lowing her over the threshold. “You know you are th 
 mistress of the house. It would in fact, have been n 
 crime — if the old fate — ” 
 
 He ceased speaking, and went into his study with 
 slight bow to his wife. 
 
 The day wore on as if nothing had occurred, onl 
 there was one vacant place at the table, and instead of th 
 old man-servant, Cassandra brought the dishes in from th< 
 kitchen, with her eyes so red and swollen that it was eas^ 
 to see how in spite of her mistress' kindness, she realizec 
 her guiltiness and attributed Beppina’s removal to hersell 
 
 As twilight was approaching, Aristides returned wiO 
 the carriage, the convent being onl^^ a few miles distaif 
 from the city. He brought messages from the reverenc 
 Sister and the Signorina to all at home, and a letter to tin 
 master of the house, which the latter took with him intf 
 liis study, where he first opened and read it. 
 
 That night too he visited the Cafe, although Signor? 
 Gioconda was thus obliged to spend this first evening sr 
 utterly" and entirel}" alone. But he onl}' remained there 
 few moments to speak with some one who was expecting 
 him. Then, with a plea of another engagement, he left the 
 brilliantly-lighted apartment, which resounded Avith talfc 
 and laughter, to stroll alone through the most deserted 
 streets of the place. He walked on, either looking doAvn 
 at the ground or up at tlie stars, which he knew so well. 
 Without any definite intention, he found himself on the 
 outskirts of the city, and then Avalked on a little distaiK^e 
 furtlier into tlie quiet country night, and as he came at 
 last to a small bench standing in front of a garden gate, he 
 sat down and, leaning his liead back against the Avail. gaA'e 
 liimsell iq) to a contemplation of the heavens, as long and 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 47 
 
 aarnestly, as if he meant to forget for the time being, every- 
 thing connected with the earth. 
 
 Yet his senses were keenl}’ alert, and when he lieard 
 :he nearest clock strike nine, he rose rapidly and set out on 
 iiis homeward way. Fifteen minutes later he unlocked the 
 ;loor of his own house. 
 
 The little lamp in the hall which stood ready for him 
 ixery evening, seemed to look at him inquiringly as if ask- 
 ng w^hy he had returned so early this evening. His hand 
 ihook as he took the lamp from the shelf, to light his wa}' 
 ip the stairs. He walked more slowly than usual and was 
 )bliged to stop on the landing-place of the next story to 
 'ecover his breath. When he reached the second floor, 
 vhere the apartments of Signora Grioconda and her 
 laughter were situated, he made another pause. He set 
 lown the lamp, the flame flickered too restlessly, for there 
 vas a window open in the hall, and the night breeze swept 
 ip the stair-case. He stood there listening for a while. 
 Chen drawing a long breath, he knocked at the nearest 
 loor. 
 
 “Are you still up, Gioconda? ” 
 
 The door was opened immediatel}^ ; it seemed almost 
 LS if some one must have been standing near the threshold 
 nside the room, listening to sounds from the hall. 
 
 “It is 3"et so early,” said his wife, who was still 
 Iressed and stood before him with downcast eyes. “Are 
 oil not well, that you have left the Cafe before the usual 
 .our?” 
 
 He did not reply. His whole soul seemed concen- 
 rated in his eyes, as they rested with a peculiar expression 
 >n the beautiful drooping eyelids of the motionless woman 
 )eside him. 
 
 “Gioconda,” he said at last, “I — I have a word to say 
 0 you — tonight — it has haunted me all day long — I do 
 
48 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 not know why I was unable to utter it. You have dom 
 something superhuman— that Beppina might not hate me, 
 you have told her — what we meant to keep from her for- 
 ever. She is a good girl, she knows that she must onl}) 
 love you the more for this. And yet — perhaps it might 
 have been better — perhaps we might by some mildei 
 means — ” 
 
 He paused ; his heart was throbbing so violently that 
 he could feel the pulsations in his temples. He hoped 
 that she would come to his assistance and make some re- 
 sponse. But she was standing before him equally embar- 
 rassed. The blood had mounted to her cheeks, and restored 
 the lovely color of youth to the soft outlines of her beauti- 
 ful face, which was as blooming as of old. 
 
 ^‘See what she has written me,” he continued, drawing 
 Beppina’s letter out of his pocket. “ I know her well, you 
 know her too, and know that in spite of her buoyant 
 spirits, even inclining to levity, she does not easily change 
 her mind, when once she is in earnest. And now she 
 writes me this ! ” 
 
 He extended the unfolded sheet to his wife, who 
 stepped up to the light with it, and leaning over the table 
 read the following lines : i 
 
 “After all I have deceived 3^011, Father ! Forgive me^ 
 it is the last time I shall ever grieve you. I shall iieA^ei^ 
 come back to you, I can not enter the house again, with 
 the consciousness that I alone am to blame, if happiness 
 does not dwell within it. You might perhaps have par- 
 doned my mother for the wrong she did 3^011, if the sight of 
 me had not daily reminded 3^011 of an old sorrow. How 
 could I continue to stand between you two? 0, Father, I 
 love in3" mother too dearl3^ to endure a life which is the 
 cause of her unhappiness. And you. Father — you, whom 
 I worship — no, I will not return to 3'our presence agaia 
 
BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZER. 
 
 49 
 
 Here in the convent I will seek and find that peace, which 
 the world constantl}^ menaces, and your love — although I 
 am not worthy of it — ” 
 
 The paper slipped out of the mother’s hands, before 
 she had finished reading it. Her hot tears gushed over it. 
 But before she could collect herself and turn to her hus- 
 band again, she felt herself enfolded in a pair of loving 
 arms. 
 
 ^‘Gioconda!” he faltered in a choked voice — ‘‘My 
 wife! Shall we remain solitary to the end and leave tlie 
 child solitary — shall we continue to orphan her, as we have 
 led this widowed existence, for half our lives long? ” 
 
 A sob from the depths of the noble woman’s heart 
 was the only answer. As if rendered insensible by an ex- 
 cess of joy, she sank at his feet. But he lifted her up in 
 his arms and held her in a loving embrace, not to release 
 her again. 
 
 * * 
 
 * 
 
 Summer had come again. Doctor Beppe’s carriage 
 was standing at the old convent gate, to which the rever- 
 end Sisters with Aunt Perpetua at their head, had just 
 accompanied their 3"oung guest, Beppina, with many regrets 
 that after all, this daughter of the world would never be- 
 come a nun, notwithstanding all the heavenly grace which 
 seemed to have illuminated her mind at first. 
 
 The young girl’s face had grown more earnest and 
 mature during her novitiate, but now her eyes shone bright 
 and tearless, though she had enjoyed so much that was 
 good among the kind sisters. When the parting was at 
 length over and the honest Aristides was cracking his whip 
 to urge the brown horses into a quicker trot, her first ques- 
 tion was, how her parents were prospering. 
 
 “You will not recognize your father, Signorina,” said 
 
50 
 
 BEPPE, THE STAR-GAZEB. 
 
 the old man with a smirk, as he turned half-way around 
 toward Beppina. “ Everybody says he has grown a dozen 
 years younger since the miracle was wrought and you were 
 presented with a little sister. Now, your Mamma is, to be 
 sure, quite a young woman yet, and I who know her so 
 well, can bear witness that she still has all of her beautiful 
 golden hair, and on the street for instance, when she is 
 taking a quick walk, she could easily be taken for ten 
 years ^^ounger than she really is. And little Grioconda — 
 Cospetto ! She is the most perfectly formed little creature, 
 and laughs alread}- as rationally as if she were three 
 months old instead of three days, and then to see the 
 Doctor laugh, when he carries the little thing around in 
 his arms — You will be astonished, Signorina ! The whole 
 house is transformed. There is only one thing you may| 
 perhaps not like — you are to sleep upstairs in your Papa’s ' 
 little room. ^ Is the Signorina going to learn star-gazing; 
 too? ’ I made so bold as to ask, for one can venture to^' 
 joke with the master now. Said he : M think she won't 
 have any objections. She knows that many things which 
 seem mysterious to people on earth, grow clear when one 
 is familiar with the stars.’ Is it really so, Signorina?” J 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 [From the German of Paul Heyse.] 
 
 Copyright, 1885, by l. schick. 
 
We had slept almost the whole of the hot summer 
 day away in the close, lumbering stage-coach, for the 
 windows were too narrow for ns to feast our eyes with any 
 comfort on the cloudless outlines of the mountain range 
 
 we were approaching, and for weeks past the dust and heat 
 had been parching the intervening country. My friend, 
 the artist, sat opposite me in a state of defiant weariness 
 and melancholy suspension of all his faculties, and sprang 
 out of his sultry quarters with an emphatic exclamation of 
 delight, when we stopped at evening in front of the post 
 house of the last village at the threshold of the mountains. 
 Throwing his valise down beside mine in a corner of the 
 
 office, he pulled me immediately out into the cool street 
 again. 
 
 The place had that promiscuous look which is only to 
 be found in such outposts of the plain that are crowded up 
 among the foothills. The houses seemed to be well pro- 
 tected against the climate of this elevated region, some 
 being entirely covered with a scaly coat of mail composed 
 of shingles, their roofs weighted down with stones, while 
 others were decked out with all the superficial elegance of 
 I city buildings. A swift-flowing brook ran through the 
 I centre of the town, and it was so clear that we could not 
 I resist the temptation to cool our dusty hands in it In 
 
6 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 doing this, my friend produced a very singular and alarm- 
 ing appearance, as in stooping over, his hair fell down over 
 his face and blended with his beard, so that he looked as if 
 he were some mighty water-god, with springs in his head 
 and face. A closer inspection, to be sure, revealed that 
 this ^errific growth of hair did not harmonize with the 
 childlike, sensuous expression of his countenance. If 
 shorn, he could have passed quite well for a pretty girl 
 still, in spite of his thirty-six years. And it was the same 
 way with him in regard to his inner nature. It could 
 indeed be said that he had cut his eye-teeth, for where it 
 was necessary to inspire respect in others, he was never at 
 a loss. But in regard to the rest, with that old hero who 
 was renowned for his locks, he shared the weakness that 
 many a Philistine had succeeded in outwitting him and 
 many a Delilah had known how to wound his unsuspect- 
 ing heart. 
 
 When he had rinsed off the day’s dust and rising to 
 his feet, enjoyed the pure, fresh evening breeze that was 
 blowing through the streets, he felt entirely refreshed, and 
 laughed over the uncomfortable journey. Taking my arm he 
 strolled along the street beside the brook, studying the blue 
 sky as it turned to gray. “I am as happy,” he exclaimed, 
 “as a caterpillar that has escaped from some school- 
 boy’s box, and crept into a green shrub, where it intends 
 to turn into a chrysalis without satisfying the desire for 
 knowdedge of any pr^dng human eje. You shall see how 
 fleet I shall be tomorrow, when our walking tour begins.” 
 
 I rejoiced at his cheerful mood ; for when I had met 
 him four weeks before, after a separation of several 3^ears, 
 I had been quite disturbed at the depression that was 
 weighing down his mind. It is true I knew b}' mere hear- 
 say that he had lost his wife in the meanwhile. I had 
 never met him during the years of his married life, and as 
 
MARIA FRANCISOA. 
 
 7 
 
 people usually do not like to speak of their dead loved 
 ones except to those who were at least acquainted with the 
 appearance of the departed, I avoided making any inquiries 
 about his sorrow. It was mainly to divert his mind that I 
 had so eagerl}^ made all the arrangements for the moun- 
 tain trip, and I now saw with great satisfaction, that every- 
 thing bade fair to go according to my wishes. 
 
 While we were strolling thus aimlessly along, and 
 looking about us on all sides with the attentiveness that 
 one bestows on even the most insignificant objects at the 
 commencement of a journey, we discovered near the out- 
 skirts of the town a low, one-story house, covered with a 
 flat roof in Italian fashion. An awning was stretched 
 across on top, and under it a number of men were sitting 
 drinking wine. Over the door an oddly-carved metal sign 
 was swinging, with the rude inscription: “Puppet-show 
 and Rosolio, kept by Alessandro Tartaglia.” We were 
 both longing for the breezy place above, where we also 
 hoped to study the people, who are full of sensational ele- 
 ments, and as no means of ascent could be espied from the 
 outside, we entered the tavern which was not particularly 
 clean. A confusion of strange voices reached our ears, 
 while we were greeted at the same time by an offensive 
 mixture of odors of the most varied brewed and distilled 
 beverages, that almost took our breath away. To the left 
 of the entrance a clums}^ counter or bar had been erected, 
 behind which a pale woman was sitting, her dark hair 
 loosely arranged and an infant at her uncovered lireast. 
 She was gazing absently into a glass of red wine that was 
 standing before her, from which she drank from time to 
 time. On the shelves behind her were bottles of various 
 kinds, whose contents gleamed in all colors. A spinning- 
 wheel was leaning up in the corner, a yellow cat asleep on 
 the treadle, still holding firmly in its sleep a thread it had 
 
8 
 
 MARIA FRaNCISCA. 
 
 pulled out of the yarn. The woman too seemed to be half 
 asleep. At least, she looked at us, as we entered, with an 
 absent, inhospitable glance, scarcely nodding her head, 
 and busied herself with the child that was growing restless. 
 
 Our attention too was drawn to the rest of the para- 
 phernalia of the establishment. A large number of country 
 people and mountaineers were sitting or standing in front 
 of quite a large box of puppets at the back of the room, 
 which certainly looked fantastic enough with its tw^o dim 
 candles at the side, and the little stage lighted from above. 
 It was skillfully arranged in such a way that no one passing 
 the house, and casting a glance into the bar-room, could 
 help seeing the glaringly painted faces of the puppets. 
 But the context of the play could onl}^ be understood by . 
 entering and listening intently. For the voice of the pro- 
 prietor, Alessandro Tartaglia, seemed to have lost not a 
 little in fullness of tone, owing to the circumstance that he 
 combined the saloon business with the puppet-show, to say 
 nothing of the fact that the language which issued from 
 his hoarse throat was a dubious medley of German, French 
 and Italian sentences, of which sense could only be made 
 by some little practice. 
 
 While our eyes were still vainly seeking a stairw^a}^ to 
 the roof and we stood uncertain whether to go or to sta}^ 
 the outer row of the attentive audience had noticed us, and 
 with involuntaiy politeness had made way for us among 
 them. It could have been no unusual thing for strangers 
 to pass an evening in this place, for before we knew^ wdiat 
 we were about, we found ourselves pushed forward to a ; 
 vacant bench directly in front of the stage, where we then ? 
 had to sit down whether we wanted to or not. I for mv i 
 part submitted willingly to the honor. The lively motions ^ 
 of tlie grotesque figures that were acting some tragedy of -• 
 Ariosto’s, and did not alter their jaunty, laughing faces or ; 
 
MARIA RRANCISCA. 
 
 9 
 
 their expression of profound gravit}', even in the most ani- 
 mated flogging scenes, seemed very comical to me. When 
 I had become more familiar with the jargon of the ^‘per- 
 forming artist,” T admired his skill in changing his voice 
 and the number of shrieking, squealing, lisping and snarl- 
 ing tones at his command, which at times aroused the 
 highest enthusiasm among his audience. However, the 
 more contagious the merriment of the pla}’ became to me 
 in spite of the stifling atmosphere in the gloom}^ hole, the 
 more restless and gloom}" grew the face of my friend. He 
 twisted uneasily around on the bench, and turned crossly 
 to see whether escape was not possible, and when he saw 
 the living wall which had closed again inflexibly behind 
 us, he gnawed his heavy moustache and closed his e3"es. 
 Not even the most successful joke of the invisible owner of 
 the voice had power to coax a smile from him. 
 
 So the piece went on to its conclusion, and the impos- 
 ing tragedy of the flnale, which piled up all of the figures 
 tliat had taken part in the play in a heap of rags, did not 
 flul to produce the deepest impression upon the spectators. 
 All at once however, a hand that looked colossal, appeared 
 above the field of the dead and swept off from the stage 
 with its whole crowd of heroes, queens and clowns, all the 
 mists of poetic illusion. Then a stirring and moving was 
 perceptible behind us, such as usually precedes the break- 
 ing up of such an assembly, until the shrill sound of a 
 bell at the back of the stage attracted our attention once 
 more. From the depths of the box a head then made its 
 appearance, gigantic also in comparison with the propor- 
 tions of the side-scenes, and of such peculiar aspect that I 
 was in doubt for a moment whether a living soul were con- 
 cealed behind this mask or not. The short black hair 
 stood stiffl}^ on end, a large scar on the forehead extended 
 from the eyes over to the l)ack of the head and iiad made 
 
10 
 
 MARIA PRANCISCA. 
 
 for itself a broad red clearing in the black bushy growth. 
 The e^'es moved rapidly but automatically in the long, nar- 
 row sockets, the grinning open mouth disclosed two rows 
 of dazzlingiy white teeth, the rings in the ears sparkled — a 
 combination of brutality and good-natured jollity was ex- 
 pressed so singularly in every line of the head, that it had 
 almost the appearance of one of those exaggerated studies 
 that painters of the Dutch school are so fond of making. 
 
 The owner of this head gazed out into the dark tavern 
 for a while through the frame of the stage, and seemed to 
 be taking note of the faces, so that no one could get away 
 without paying. He then spoke in his monotonous pro-, 
 fessional tone: “Tomorrow we present una hrava Conir 
 media lirica^ called Castruccio Castracani.” . . . . Here the 
 announcement ended as abruptly as if it had been cut off. 
 The showman had at length discovered the two strangers, 
 who had been below his line of vision, as they were sit-j 
 ting so far forward. I noticed that his eyes were fixed in 
 speechless consternation upon my friend wdio, on his side, . 
 was scrutinizing the features in the box more calmly, but 
 by no means indifferently. This mutual mysterious recog- ; 
 nition lasted but a moment. Then the puppet-man dived [ 
 down like a flash, the long curtain which hung down in ; 
 front of the platform moved, and right in front of us stood' 
 the thick-set figure of Mr. Alessandro Tartagiia himself, in t 
 shirbsleeves and bare feet. ' 
 
 I had risen, for I felt as if a cat that had been feign- 
 ing innocence for a while, were suddenl}' preparing to 
 si)ring. My friend however, remained immovable in liis 
 seat, onl}^ I saw him grasp his stout walking-stick with its 
 long iron point more firml}^ in his hand. All apprehem^ 
 sions were groundless however, for after the first shock of. 
 surprise, tlie tavern-keeper’s comical face cleared, and with 
 a friendly grin he said : “ Cite diavolo! So it is not 3"our 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 11 
 
 ghost, Professor, but reall}^ the son of 3’our mother him- 
 self? Aspetta^ aspetta^ in two minutes I shall be at your 
 i service. I have midte cose, miilte cose to tell 3^011.’* 
 
 I ‘‘I have no business with 3^011,” growled the painter. 
 
 I “If I had known that 3^011 haunted this smok3" den — ten 
 wild horses could not have dragged me in here, Caiiuccio.” 
 
 “ Hush ! ” said the man la3ing his broad finger on the 
 painter’s lips. “My name is Sandro Tartaglia, let me in- 
 form 3^011, and don’t you forget it. Are 3^011 afraid? Do 
 you think I am going to pa3" 3'OU back for the pretty draw- 
 , ing 3^011 made on m3" forehead? ” 
 
 The other shook his stick significantly and muttered : 
 “You Gnl3" got what you had richl3' deserved before. Be- 
 sides I tell 3"OU once for all — I am done with 3-011. You 
 can take it as 3-011 think best. This will pa3- for toda3-’s 
 performance, and we will let by-gones be by-gones.” 
 
 He tossed him a few twent3--centime pieces and rose 
 to his feet. But the fellow at once seized him and poured 
 into his ear a stream of ejaculations in some muffled Italian 
 dialect, that sounded to me like Neapolitan. The painter 
 passivel3- allowed it to fiow on for some time. One sen- 
 tence, however, seemed to excite him strangely. He 
 glanced keenh- at the offlcious fellow and put a question to 
 him in the same dialect. At the reply his face grew still 
 more gloom3-, but his curiosit3^ did not seem to be 3^et sat- 
 isfied. He passivel3- allowed himself to be pushed down 
 on the little bench again, and leaning his head on his 
 g^walking stick so that his hair fell over his face, he sat in 
 yfront of the platform oblivious to what was going on 
 around him, and full of anxiet3-. I inquired what this all 
 meant. “I’ll explain afterwards!” he answered hastil3-. 
 “Then I will go up on the roof in the meanwhile and wait 
 for 3 011 there,” 1 said, and while the proprietor was going 
 around with the plate, I ascended a staircase in the corner 
 
Maria francIs^A. 
 
 12 
 
 from which I soon emerged into the open air under the 
 awning on the roof. 
 
 The incomprehensible adventure that m^^ friend had 
 encountered, together with the oppressive heat in the aparh 
 ment below, had given me a sort of vertigo, which only 
 passed gradually away as I lay on a bench close to the 
 railing around the roof and slowly inhaled the fresh even- 
 ing air heavy with perfumes from the little garden bloom- 
 ing below. The waiter who was serving the guests at the 
 other table— men prominent in the lower ranks of societ}^ 
 — placed some bread and a bottle of black Lombardy wine 
 on the table beside me and left me to my meditations. I 
 was not in a mood to intrude myself upon the conversation 
 of the company opposite me. Nor did it escape my atten-; 
 tion, that they treated me rather distrustfully and lowered 5 
 their voices at my approach. Accordingly I turned my-, 
 gaze to the other side, where the mass of the nearest? 
 mountain range was growing perceptibly dimmer and dim- ' 
 mer in the twilight, while above their smmits the stars 
 were softly coming out one b}" one. I enjo^^ed watching 
 for the sudden flashing forth of each single star, at the ' 
 same time keeping in my mind the number that were( 
 already visible, till it finall}^ seemed to me all at once as if | 
 the innumerable eyes of the Armament were twinkling at ; 
 me as if making fun of me, and I sank into a dreamy, ? 
 motionless revery, oblivious of the world around me. At "' 
 intervals I would weaken out of this state, aroused perhaps 
 by some louder exclamation from m}^ companions. Theif 
 I would rack my brains as to what my friend could possi-- 
 bly have to discuss so long and so important with this out - ' 
 lawed rascal of a tavern-keeper, and as I could think of 
 nothing under the sun that could explain it, I would aban- 
 eon myself anew to the sensation of delicious rest which is 
 so refreshing after a day’s journey in a stage-coach. 
 
MAHIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 13 
 
 In this way an hour or more might have elapsed. The 
 others arose, poured the dregs of their wine over the railing 
 on the trees in the garden and left all together, without tak- 
 ing ail}" notice of me. I heard them go noisily down the nar- 
 row stairway, and then I expected to see m}^ friend appear 
 at any moment from the depths below. But I had plenty 
 of time after that to empty another bottle of wine and to 
 :lo full justice to a dish of trout. The last sound around 
 me had died awa}", even the frogs had finished their con- 
 3ert, and I was just considering whether it would not be 
 advisable to see how matters were going down stairs, for 
 die burlesque visage of the tavern-keeper afforded but poor 
 ^ecurit}" that other free arts were not practiced in the estab- 
 ishment to which the sign-board took good care not to 
 nvite the customers’ attention. Just then the waiter re- 
 ieved my uncertainty by calling me down stairs, where 
 die other gentleman was waiting for me. 
 
 I found a dubious illumination in the saloon, proceed- 
 ng from a brass lamp which stood on the counter in front 
 )f the woman. The child had fallen asleep long ago and 
 vas l3dng on its mother's lap, while she was spinning 
 Jowly and awkwardl3\ A few stragglers were pla3dng 
 lards in the bare corner opposite, while a ragged fellow 
 ;Jretched out on the bench, was snoring aloud. Not until 
 L had paced up and down for quite a while in the dreaiy 
 [ipartment and had vainl3^ sought to draw the woman into 
 conversation with me, did the door in a side partition open, 
 ind m3" friend appear at the showman’s side. I saw 
 hrough the open door that the3" had been sitting with a 
 candle at a table upon which a large glass full of red wine 
 vas standing untasted. M3" friend at once seized my arm 
 ind strode without lingering to the door. On the thresh- 
 >ld he turned around again and seemed to wish to sa3" 
 lomething more. Alessandro Tartaglia was acconipan3"ing 
 
14 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 US. His obsequious gestures were so lithe and flexible 
 that the image of a cat was again called to my mind. H 
 assured us of his humblest devotion, to which the artis 
 responded with a hasty wave of his hand. He then close( 
 the door behind us and we w^ere standing outside in tli 
 deserted street under the starry sky. 
 
 I could plainly distinguish some profound sorrow in th 
 features of my friend, and the tone of his voice confirme( 
 me in the idea that his conversation with the tavern-keepe 
 must have affected him deeply. As we walked slowl; 
 toward the post-house arm in arm, he asked me to set oil 
 with him at once and walk on a few hours while the nigh 
 lasted. He said he was not in the least tired, and he hate( 
 the idea of shutting himself up in a suffocating room. ' 
 consented gladl}^ and we were soon wending our way witj 
 vigorous strides toward the mountains, with our knapsack! 
 on our backs. The road, which shone before us like 
 white stripe in the increasing darkness continued for quitli 
 a distance on level ground. It was lined with apple-trees| 
 behind which extended fields of grain and pastures ii| 
 the starlight, alive with immense swarms of crickefe 
 ceaselessly, almost passionately, vying with each other i| 
 their chirping. Not until the road approached the foo| 
 hills, did it grow quieter around us. Here however, in;' 
 friend suddenly threw his knapsack down from his shoii| 
 ders, cast himself down beside it in the damp grass am 
 while I stood helpless beside him, abandoned himself U 
 the most unbounded grief, that found violent expressioi 
 in tears and groans. 
 
 I did not venture to utter a word, nor did I stir, ii 
 order that he miglit give unrestrained utterance to his sor 
 row. At length, the violent attack seemed to have passec 
 over. He raised liimself partiall}^, looked around him anc 
 up toward me, and held out his hand to me, while the tea« 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 15 
 
 were still pouring from his eyes. Not until then did I 
 speak soothingly to him, and I soon succeeded in getting 
 him to stand up and shake off with one violent effort his 
 tears, the dcAV, and his effeminate weakness. ''Forgive 
 me,” said he, "but it had to come out. I could choke back 
 these tears before that wretched scamp of a tavern-keeper. 
 But here in the darkness, alone with you, they would 
 force their way out. Come, let us start on again. When I 
 tell you all about it, you will comprehend how this came 
 upon me unawares and overwhelmed me so irresistibly.” 
 
 We continued on our way more slowly, and after quite 
 a pause he spoke again. 
 
 , "You know, dear friend,” he said, "that I have had 
 some strange experiences in the last few years, but you 
 cannot have heard the particulars. Nor do my other 
 friends know anything about the truth of the matter. I 
 never was one to write letters, and since we separated that 
 evening in Dusseldorf, I have had no settled abiding place, 
 but have led a wandering, gypsy life. 
 
 " On that very evening however, the unfortunate oc- 
 ‘currences began that sent me forth on my wanderings, and 
 ithis evening, unexpectedly enough, was destined to solve 
 :the last mystery connected with them. I took it very 
 deeply to heart that time that I was obliged to part from 
 ; you. When I saw the carriage roll away with you, I stood 
 on the same spot for a long while and considered how very 
 solitary you left me. You had always supplied me so 
 bountifully with all the intellectual food that one needs to 
 sustain life, even though one is ' only an artist.’ I got along 
 with the light-headed and moustachioed fellows who wanted 
 I to be my brothers in art, simply because I could dispense 
 : with them entirely as long as you were with me. I felt a 
 horror now of being dependent upon these good and hon- 
 est fellows alone, and of becoming one of them perhaps in 
 
16 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. ' 
 
 the end. And so as soon as your carriage was out o 1 
 sight, anxious thoughts of flight arose within me, and ] 
 vowed to myself to flnish only what I wrs at work upon 
 just then — possibly you remember that dancing-scene from 
 the October festival in Rome — and then to shake the dusi 
 from off my feet and seek a permanent change of air. 
 
 “ 111 such a mournful frame of mind it sometimes hap- 
 pens that people grasp at things the most opposed to theii 
 taste, simply to feel the firm ground of every-day life undei 
 their feet again. Therefore when I passed by a rope- 
 dancer’s booth, to which up to this time I had never vouch- 
 safed even a single glance, I did not pause a moment to 
 reflect, but went right in as if impelled by destiny. 
 
 “ The performance had but just begun, and a little six 
 year old fellow was going through his part under the 
 supervision of his father, the director of the troupe. l’ 
 looked on with painful sensations. The efforts to smile 
 and be graceful while his equilibrium was still a matter of 
 uncertainty, imposed a certain restraint upon the pretty 
 boy, which in my eyes spoiled everything. I drew a long 
 breath when the child Anally sprang to the ground,, 
 eagerli" picked up the candy that was tossed to him and 
 ran off with some comical little bows. ; 
 
 “It was then Bajazzo’s turn. It was then that I be-* 
 held the rascally face of my friend Alessandro Tartaglia' 
 for the first time, and upside down at that, for he rvalkedi 
 in upon his hands. I must confess that I was not dis- 
 pleased with the scamp on that occcasion. Although he 
 must have been taught his art a long time before with the 
 whip, as the little boy was then acquiring his, j'et the 
 stripes had healed over long ago, and at that time it would 
 have been necessari' to flog him well to keep him from the 
 delightful practice of his talents. Moreover he made all 
 his jokes in that Neapolitan dialect that smacks so of 
 
MARIA FRANOISCA. 
 
 17 
 
 oysters and boiling oil, mixing with it onl}" a few French 
 sentences, and his gestures were so strongly suggestive of 
 the clowns in San Carlino, that I was really quite amused, 
 much to my surprise, and during the insipid performances 
 of the rest kept this fellow constantly in view. 
 
 “ The troupe was not very numerous. Besides the four 
 children of the director, who had converted his German 
 name Ebert into Eberti, there appeared only Bajazzo, a 
 beauty b}" the name of Clelia, very much faded, and a negro, 
 with a magnificent physique who performed gymnastic 
 feats between the dances. I will not go into details how- 
 ever, although whenever I recall that evening, every trivial 
 circumstance rises vividly in my mind. Suffice it to say, 
 that after all the numbers on the program had been played 
 except the last, and the two younger Misses Eberti had 
 also given proof of their great security and shamelessness 
 on the tight rope, they appeared again in the concluding 
 act with the eldest daughter who, according to the play 
 bill, was named Maria Francisca, to execute a pas de trois 
 on three ropes stretched side by side. 
 
 At the first glance this eldest sister seemed to me 
 the most insignificant member of the whole company. She 
 was somewhat slenderer than her sisters, but seemed to 
 move the most awkwardly of the trio as she came on the 
 stage between them. While the sparkling eyes of the 
 others were wandering in every direction trying as best 
 they could to elicit some spark of admiration, and display- 
 ing some tender understanding with certain adorers on the 
 front seats perhaps, Maria Francisca’ s eyes were cast down 
 upon the floor with a shy pride. Her face was by no 
 means beautiful. She inherited from her father her low 
 brow, large mouth and pale complexion. But the shape 
 and radiance and expression of her eyes made up for all 
 defects. I liked too the way she was dressed ; she wore 
 
18 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 a white dress — a hand’s )3readth longer perhaps than her 
 sisters’ floating muslin draperies — belted in with a black 
 ribbon embroidered with golden stars, and a similar ribbon 
 around her modestly covered throat, with a narrow silver 
 crown on her forehead, while her black hair was cut short 
 all around. 
 
 “But you should have seen her as she swung herself 
 up on the rope and the uncouth awkwardness which I had 
 noticed as she entered fell off from her all at once. J ust as 
 in a conflagration the flames dart up to the topmost ridge 
 of the house, she climbed and swayed and leaned over, dart- 
 ing upward with a light swinging motion, until it seemed as 
 if she received that electric elasticity, from the rope, each’ 
 time she touched it with the tips of her toes. The sym-; 
 metry and the delicate outlines of her form enraptured me,' 
 as they were revealed more and more in the dance. To be' 
 sure, her arms alone were entirely exposed, but we painters? 
 know that Nature in most cases casts the entire frame iifl 
 the same mold and is not in the habit of lavishing perfect 
 limbs on stunted bodies. Besides this, the flowing gar- 
 ments, that were evidently intended to conceal the contour . 
 of the figure as much as possible, could not long resist 
 her impetuous movements, and clinging closer, revealed^ 
 the most enchanting figure, at least to the eyes of ai 
 connoisseur. ' 
 
 “As the girl’s face grew flushed it increased in, 
 thoughtful and at the same time passionate earnestness, i 
 and I thought to myself what a treat it would be to see 
 her, in the costume of a Greek dancing girl, perform one 
 of those pantomimes, of which we come across a descrip- 
 tion now and then, but of which we are only able to I 
 form a vague conception nowadays, owing to our present j 
 wretched comprehension of the art of dancing. This 
 brought the October Festival tJhat I was painting to my 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 19 
 
 mind, and the more my e3^es dwelt upon the entrancing 
 figure of the dancer, the more intensely I longed to get 
 hold of a sheet of paper and a cra^^on somewhere, to retain 
 a few of her most exquisite movements. Her sisters, who 
 played various antics about her, were entirely lost sight of 
 by me, and when they finally even took the wreaths of 
 roses from their heads, and flung the separate flowers 
 among the spectators as they danced^a fitting emblem of 
 their frivolity — the eldest was really sublime in compar- 
 ison, as she stood still with her arms crossed upon her 
 bosom, and then kneeling upon the rope she suddenlj^ 
 sprang down and escaped all the applause and encoring. 
 
 ‘‘ When the sisters were called out at the conclusion of 
 the performance, the younger ones appeared alone, and I 
 learned from the man sitting next me that the eldest always 
 did that wa}' and probably thought it made her all the 
 more interesting. 
 
 “With this the performance came to an end. But I 
 did not think of leaving yet. I felt that I must that very 
 night learn for a certainty whether I was always to depend 
 onl}^ on what anybod^^ could see here for a few groschen^ or 
 whether I might succeed in feasting my longing eyes more 
 abundantl3\ This did not seem to me particularly difficult. 
 A number of my friends had had the negro for a model, 
 and judging from what I had seen of the director, his 
 daughters, each one according to her talents, were none 
 too good in his eyes to help fill his purse. Nor did an}' 
 kind of wishes foreign to my art mingle with my longing, 
 and I would have submitted to the father’s escort without 
 any objections. 
 
 “So while Bajazzo was distrustfully eyeing me 
 askance, I sought the director in the space partitioned off 
 at the end of the stage which contained the wretched 
 abode of the chief performers, together with the dressing- 
 
20 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 room. I acquainted him with my wishes without any cir- 
 cumlocution, and offered him quite a sum of money, if he 
 would bring his daughter to my rooms for a few sittings. 
 The man listened attentively and grinned at my offer. 
 Propositions of this kind seemed to be no new thing to 
 him. He asked me to sit down on a trunk, and regaled 
 himself from a wine-glass that he poured full of brandy, 
 while I went on to speak of the harmless character of my 
 intentions ; finally, as he stopped familiarly in front of me 
 with his hands in his trowsers pockets, he remarked that 
 this was a peculiar matter. True it flattered his paternal 
 heart that an artist like myself considered his dear child 
 so fine looking that he should wish to paint her, but this 
 oldest daughter of his had a very strong will of her own 
 and always wanted to have things her own way. Either! 
 one of his j^ounger daughters would consider it an honor 
 to contribute so much to art, and he proposed that I should, 
 first try one of them. But when I told him that it was the^ 
 oldest alone I wanted to paint, he made an odd sound with 
 his tongue, held out his hand to me, which I overlooked 
 however, and begged me to wait for him where I was. At 
 all events he was her father and would do what he could. 
 
 “He at once stepped into one of the side rooms andj 
 left me in a strange ill-humor. The whole affair seemed 
 to me all at once in this father’s presence, disgraceful and ! 
 wrong. I arose and walked to and fro in the low-ceiled - 
 apaitment. In one corner on a scanty bed of straw cov- 
 ered with a ragged cloak, lay the little boy who had 
 opened the performance. He was asleep and of course 
 had not heard anything of my intentions in regard to liis 
 sister. He was still grasping one of the boxes of candy 
 that had been thrown him. The sugar plums in them had 
 perhaps been his entire supper. As I saw the poor child 
 lying thus, in his sleep drawing nearer to a future that 
 
31AKIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 21 
 
 would obliterate the stamp of purity and human dignity 
 from his brow and imprint in their place the brand of the 
 slave, I seemed in my own eyes a wicked wretch, that I 
 should wish for my own part to help to impel this family 
 further outside the bounds of simple, honest morality, and 
 for filth}’ lucre’s sake, to humiliate the only one in this cir- 
 cle who still seemed to experience any consciousness of her 
 degradation. I was on the point of stealing silently out 
 of the shanty, when some disconnected words of the con- 
 versation in the next room detained me. I heard this 
 model father, evidently to show me that he was doing all 
 in his power, declaiming in a loud voice upon the subject 
 of the high aim which sanctified this brief setting aside of 
 modesty. He reeled off such an absurd rigmarole about 
 art and artists that I would have wanted to laugh, if the 
 matter had not seemed to me entirely too contemptible. 
 After he had then concluded in a lower tone, saying that 
 she must be his good little girl and not let her father suf- 
 fer, when such an easy and profitable means of earning 
 money was offered, I heard nothing for some time but the 
 sound of stifled sobbing, and then the distinct words, im- 
 ploringly repeated again and again : ‘ For the love of 
 
 Christ, not that, of all things, not that! The Madonna 
 will never let you fall into such straits, that you will have 
 to force me into that ! Father, I will dance a whole year 
 longer, I will try and learn to smile as my sisters do, so 
 that you need not say any longer that I scare people away 
 with my face ; but in the name of all the saints, do not in- 
 sist upon that ! ’ 
 
 should long since have hastened to calm the poor 
 girl and put an end to the matter once for all, if the ex- 
 pressions of religious enthusiasm in this place had not 
 surprised me more than they aroused my compassion. 
 Besides, there was such a wonderfully touching quality in 
 
22 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 the voice that, to my shame be it confessed, I almost 
 wished that the old man would urge her again, simpl}^ that 
 I might hear her plead and lament still longer. The con- 
 versation became unintelligible however, and I only heard 
 the girl exclaim once : ‘Does Carluccio know? He would 
 never consent. Father, never ! ’ — I had already seen this 
 name on the program ; it belonged to Bajazzo. But how 
 came this degraded clown to have so much authority in 
 the family, even in the daughter’s eyes? For I presently 
 found that she had not appealed to him in vain, when the 
 old man appeared again, and announced to me with an 
 angry shrug of his shoulders and silent imprecations upon 
 his own soft heart, that his daughter, as I had probably 
 heard, would not consent to it at an}' price, the silly girl ! 
 However, he would not give up hope yet, and would let 
 me know of the results of his endeavors ; but I was not to 
 say a word about it outside. He hastily whispered this ! 
 last to me, just as Bajazzo entered the room, and hurried ' 
 me out almost impolitely, so that I scarcely had time to ! 
 beg him to let the matter rest, and not trouble his daughter ' 
 with it any further. 
 
 “You can imagine in wdiat a low-spirited state of - 
 mind I returned home, and how provoked I was with my- I 
 self. Was it not enough that T had lost a friend that . 
 evening? Must I needs lose at the same time the inno- ' 
 cent balance of mind, which alone makes life endurable in 
 solitude? You will laugh at me for taking the matter so 
 deeply to heart. If you had been there, you would proba- 
 bly soon have reasoned away this sentimentalism of mine, 
 as you had so often done before. There now remained 
 only the one consolation for me, which, thank God ! always 
 comes to my rescue in time of need. 3Iy phlegmatic tem- 
 perament prevailed over my harrassed nerves, and I fell 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 23 
 
 asleep as peacefully as if I had sustained no loss and had 
 nothing to repent. 
 
 However, as soon as I awoke the next morning, the 
 mood of the previous evening returned. I sat down before 
 my easel and rejoiced at my discovery that my picture was 
 simpl}^ wretched — by wa}^ of a penance, as it were. This 
 was not a difficult task. When I compared these dancing- 
 girls from Trastevere with my remembrance of Maria 
 Francisca, they seemed more likel}^ to be engaged in a 
 regular St. Vitus’ dance than in a gay Saltarello. One of 
 the figures that happened to be resting one arm upon the 
 hip in precisely the same attitude that the eldest Miss 
 Eberti had occasionally assumed, struck me as so intoler- 
 able, that T scratched it off the canvas without a moment’s 
 delay. The central figure alone, which I had considered 
 the most idealized, still held its own, with the exception of 
 the neck which looked to me very awkardly set on the 
 shoulders. While I was reflecting how much that beauti- 
 ful figure would have benefited me as a model for such 
 details, as the rope-dancer's throat and the poise of her 
 head were especially incomparable, I happened to think 
 that I might gain this advantage at least without injuring 
 the poor girl in any way. She could certainly be per- 
 suaded to give me a sitting in costume, and in this way I 
 hoped best to be able to prove to her that I had really r(‘- 
 garded her only with an artist's eye. 
 
 “My mood suddenly became a cheerful one, and I 
 went down town to carr}" out my project immediately. I 
 noticed however, that it was still very early, and did not 
 wish to arouse the people in the booth, who had well earned 
 their sleep, at such an untimely hour. I therefore strolled 
 along a few streets further, to wait till the da}^ had waxed 
 somewhat, and entered the old cliurch which stands next to 
 the Carmelite Convent. Some incense lingering in tiie air 
 
24 
 
 MARIA RRANCISCA. 
 
 from early mass enticed me in. * The cool, dimly-lighted 
 place was quite empty, the windows glowing softly in the 
 rays of the morning sun, and some swift-winged church 
 swallows were darting about the capitals of the pillars to 
 their nest, which the}^ had cunningly built in the topmost 
 flower of the canopy over the pulpit. I seated myself 
 close to the entrance in the rear-most pew, and presentl}^ it 
 seemed to me as if I could see the slender figure, that kept 
 haunting my mind, moving with dancing steps along the 
 edge of the farthest pew, then gliding with a light spring 
 to the next, and thus floating over all of them in turn till 
 it reached the lighter foreground and vanished. Not long 
 afterwards however, the graceful apparition again made its 
 appearance, but this time high up on the cornice that pro- 
 jected far beyond the columns, and now it danced out to j 
 the extreme edge, where it again vanished into nothing. 
 While tills was going on, I was examining mvself and • 
 attempting to keep up within me the visionary self-decep- 
 tion, to enjo}^ this pleasure longer, when suddenl}^ there 
 arose from one of the confessionals in the back-ground the 
 figure of a woman that I had entirely overlooked up to this ; 
 moment, as with her dark dress she had not been dis - 1 
 tinguishable in the deep shade. A few moments after an j 
 old priest left his seat within the confession-box and went ^ 
 back into the choir. The woman however, dropping the i 
 veil on her hat, approached the door after a low bow in the ‘ 
 direction of the high altar. 
 
 As she passed b}", without casting a glance of her 
 downcast eyes upon me, I started in strange confusion, for 
 I recognized distinctly through her veil the features of the 
 eldest Miss Eberti, and her walk, besides left no room for 
 doubt. I collected my senses soon enough not to lose 
 sight of her, and followed her through the nearest streets, 
 hesitating all the time whether to address her or not. At 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 25 
 
 length in a veiy narrow street there was a deky occasioned 
 by a hand-cart that blocked the way. I stood beside her for 
 a while, expecting that we should be allowed to pass on, 
 and could see that she had not recognized me in the slight- 
 est. When we were able to proceed on our way, I spoke 
 to her with the utmost politeness, calling her Miss Frnn- 
 cisca and apologizing for taking the liberty of accompany- 
 ing her, as I was about to call upon her father. She then 
 looked at me for the first time and stood still a moment. 
 Fear, aversion and consternation were expressed in her 
 face, so that I likewise stopped and asked in alarm, 
 whether she were ill. She shook her head. ‘ Leave me, 
 she suddenly exclaimed, ‘You are mistaken, sir, if you 
 suppose that I am not able to defend myself against 
 humiliations. These morning hours at least belong to me 
 and to Heaven. If you are seeking the rope-dancer, come 
 to the performance this evening.’ 
 
 “ I comprehended all at once that she had recognized 
 me by my voice, and was expecting proposals from me 
 similar to those I had made through her father. Instead 
 of leaving her however, I told her earnestly and miniitel\ 
 how repentance had overtaken me and that m3" visit to hei 
 father was intended mainly for herself, that I might clear 
 myself in her eyes. She listened with an unmoved though 
 not incredulous face, but did not vouchsafe me a glance 
 again till I began to speak of the boy and how his un- 
 troubled slumber had sent a pang to m3" heart the night 
 before. She sighed, but said nothing and continued to 
 walk on slowly by my side. I found time yet to beg to be 
 allowed to make a drawing of her in costume, and she an- 
 swered neither 3"es nor no. Finall3' as we were drawing 
 near to the more frequented streets, she whispered to me : 
 ‘I entreat 3-011 to leave me now. But if you are sincere in 
 all you have said, come to cliurch again tomorrow. I want 
 
26 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 to see whether 1 can confide in 3^011. I am so alone in the 
 world, 3^011 cannot imagine how terribl3" alone. Perhaps 
 3^011 will not consider me unworth3^ of 3^oiir advice and 
 assistance. And if 3 on wish to prove to me that there was 
 no deceit in 3' our words, sta3^ away from the performance 
 tonight. Promise me this ! ’ 
 
 “ She hastil3" extended her slender white hand to me, 
 which I cordially grasped instead of making any protesta- 
 tions. Then I saw her hurriedly disappear in the crowd 
 of people going to market. 
 
 “It seemed as if the day would never end. I was 
 obliged to exert m3^ will considerabl3" that evening to re- 
 frain from going in spite of her request, to the rope- 
 dancer’s booth, where she was to go through a dance alone. 
 When the wretched music inside had died awa3" and every- 
 thing was dark again, I stole around to the place and laid 
 my ear against the slight board partition at the end of her 
 chamber. It was easy to distinguish that she was repeat- 
 ing her pra3^ers ; I also heard the sound of beads slipped 
 along a rosary. Then the door inside was thrown noisily 
 open, Carluccio, the bajazzo, shouted something in his vari- 
 egated jargon which I did not understand, the voice of the 
 old man interfered, and the noisy scene ended with the ' 
 father’s dragging the obtrusive fellow away, who seemed * 
 to be very much intoxicated ; after this the bolt of the ; 
 chamber-door was shot to, and after a pause, the mur- ; 
 mured prayers became audible again. I cannot tell you 
 how man3^ conflicting moods and thoughts there were 
 within me. I almost wished tliat I had never set e3xs 
 upon this problematic girl, for the atmosphere in which 
 she lived breathed riotousness and rottenness, and I had 
 always had an innate liking for purity. Besides, my 
 feeling for the girl was an3Thing but love or even liking 
 for her. The fact that I kept thinking of her was due to 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 27 
 
 the singular contradiction between her nature and her 
 surroundings, and, not to do myself an injustice, com- 
 bined certainly with a profound compassion at seeing her 
 wrestling and struggling against conditions wliich yet I 
 could not hope to alter. 
 
 “ So I went to the church again early the next morn- 
 ing, rather with the sentiment of performing a sad dut}^, 
 tlian of obeying any kind of an attraction. On this occa- 
 sion mass was not quite over 3'et ; I saw a few isolated 
 pews filled with Carmelite nuns, and to m^^ great astonish- 
 ment my little friend w^as close beside them. Indeed she 
 seemed, while her head was bowed upon her liook, to l)e 
 cariying on an animated conversation with the one seated 
 next to her, whose snow}^ white cap with its broad flaps 
 was turned in her direction. When the service was over 
 and the other Sisters returned to the convent, the one with 
 whom Francisca was talking remained behind for perhaps 
 a quarter of an hour, and then closed the confhreiK^e with 
 a gesture as if of blessing, and imprinted a kiss upon tlie 
 brow’ of tlie girl who stood humbl}’ before her. 
 
 ‘‘I waited in silence at the entrance to the church and 
 let her pass me, as if we had never seen each otlier before. 
 Onl^’ when she reached the same short, narrow street 
 through which we had passed the day before, wliere a gate, 
 opened into a deserted coui^ard, did she stop and wait 
 for me and enter with me into this confidential, out-of-the- 
 wa}’ nook. She first thanked me for keeping my promise 
 the previous evening, whereupon I was frank enough to 
 confess to having listened at the board partition. Her 
 colorless face flushed scarlet. She said, I had indeed in 
 this wa}’ almost forfeited the right to her confidence 
 again, but it was done, and she would now be oliliged 
 to initiate me into all of her misery, tliat T might not 
 wrong her liy false suppositions. And so I learned all 
 
28 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 about her situation on this one occasion. She had lost 
 her mother, to whom she owed all the nobler impulses of 
 her heart and mind, while still very young. This gentle 
 woman had been able also to control her husband and his 
 coarse passions. Since her death Francisca had come to 
 i*ealize the wickedness of this way of living, in addition to 
 her grief over the loss of her mother. A few religious ^ 
 books, which had fallen into her hands in some wa}^, in- I 
 creased her anxiety and her longing to retire from this ' 
 degrading profession, and whenever and wherever it had 
 been possible, she had sought the advice of priests and 
 noble-hearted nuns, in order to consecrate what was im- 
 mortal in her at least, although she might not be able to 
 extricate what was mortal from her father’s power. All 
 her attempts to sever her connection with the troupe and , 
 be spared the detested exhibition of herself by entering 
 upon some respectable employment, had been thwarted by ! 
 the cool selfishness of her father, who did not want to lose ; 
 his best dancer. For the most remarkable part of it all — 
 for which she reproached herself with bitter tears — was that 
 she had really given proofs of the most striking talents for 
 this art, ever since her earliest years. ^ Ah ! ’ she ex- ^ 
 claimed, ^ my heart so often bleeds, when I feel as if there j 
 were two natures within me, a good angel and an evil i 
 spirit, and that the wicked spirit actual!}^ exults, when 
 am on the tight rope, because he alone is ruling me, and ; 
 then in the midst of m}^ reckless leaps, in which he helps 
 me, m}^ guardian angel sudden!}^ looks at me, sometimes 
 in the form of some honest woman sitting in one of the 
 boxes, sometimes in that of an innocent girl, so that I 
 cannot jump down quick enough to rush to my chamber 
 and weep.’ 
 
 took her hand, while her tears were flowing, andC 
 said to soollie her, that T could not discover in her occu-^ 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 29 
 
 pation — lightly as it was generally esteemed — an} thing 
 dishonorable in itself. It depended upon the way in which 
 it was followed. In my estimation she stood all the 
 higher, because she did not allow herself to be dragged 
 down into the mire by her circumstances, but turned her 
 thoughts toward spiritual matters. 
 
 “‘You talk just like a man,’ she replied. ‘A poor 
 girl has nothing that she ought to and must guard more 
 sacredly than her person. And that I am obliged to allow 
 any one that comes along to gaze at me night after night 
 for money — that I must call art to my aid that he may not 
 consider his money thrown away, oh ! it is shameful ! — 
 that alone is enough to drag me down into the mire, and 
 it can never be wiped off nor the stain removed.’ 
 
 “ She dwelt upon this point at some length ; among 
 the rest she compared her lot with that of singers and 
 actresses, and kept reiterating her assertion that her own 
 wicked delight in her profession while she was practicing 
 it, was to her the most intense torture of it all. She re- 
 ferred merely casually to the penances which she imposed 
 upon herself for this, for there was not the least suggestion 
 of boastfulness in her way of giving expression to her 
 relio;ious reflections. The severe and strained exaltation 
 to which she also abandoned herself afterwards was a gen- 
 uine relief for her agonizing and apprehensive spirit. I 
 admired her more and more, and the hour we spent in 
 the little courtyard behind the open gate passed so quickly 
 for me in listening to the confessions the poor girl made 
 me from the depths of her heart, that I did not remember 
 until after she had left me at length, how little she had 
 communicated in regard to the other members of the 
 company. 
 
 “We met again the next day at the same place, and 
 her face looked into mine more confidingly, gratefully and 
 
30 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 even more cheerfully. She extended her hand to me at 
 once and called me • my friend ’ several times. This em- 
 boldened me to ask questions and unfortunately 1 learned 
 more than I wanted to know. Her father had at last ceased 
 to protest against her expressed wish to go into a convent, 
 as she had declared with decision that if he prevented her 
 from doing so, she would not dance any more and would 
 rather suffer the worst treatment at his hands. Thereupon 
 a sort of treaty had been concluded between them, in which 
 she pledged herself to remain with the company until l)y 
 her dancing she had helped to raise a certain sum of , 
 money. With this sum her father intended to defray the 
 expenses of some enterprise, the nature of which she did 
 not confide to me, and then he would give her his permis- 
 sion to enter a convent. She acknowledged that her Evil 
 Spirit, as she called him, had urged her to this agreement ; 
 for he had a horror of the convent, as a matter of course, 
 and as he would be finally subdued by the Good Spirit, 
 he had at least secured a reprieve in which he could work 
 his own will with her. When I asked whether this delay 
 would last much longer, she shook her head and suddenly 
 became very serious. ‘ Alas ! ’ said she, ‘ When the time 
 comes for me to serve the Holy Virgin alone, then the 
 hardest part is before me. That wretched fellow. Bajazzo, 
 has taken a fancy to me, and unluckily my father is in his 
 power on account of some compromising affair tliat Car- 
 luccio knows about. Then it will be necessary for me 
 to decide my own and my father’s fate at once. But, 
 however it may turn out, I will never be the wife of that j 
 dissolute wretch, though it should be the ruin of us all.’ ^ 
 “She expressed only the greatest coldness and con- 
 tempt for her sisters. As T afterwards learned, only one ^ 
 ol* the gii-ls was the daughter of the old man by a former 
 prima donna of the troupe, the other on the contrary was 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 31 
 
 some strange child that the unscrupulous Mr. Eberti had 
 coaxed away from some poor woman with whom it was 
 boarding, with the help of a certain amount of money, and 
 had thus stolen it from the parents. Carluccio was ac- 
 quainted with this secret ; but this was probabl}" not the 
 only one by means of which he had the famil}- in his 
 power, and reminded them of his right to presume. 
 
 “When I reflected in solitude upon this network 
 of shame, danger and misery in which the poor creature 
 was entangled, I despaired more and more of finding a way 
 to rescue her. It was of course eas}' to invoke the jirotec- 
 tion of the Church, which would certainly have been 
 powerful enough to ensure the security of a heart that was 
 seeking shelter in its arms. Then too, such an unusual 
 circumstance as a rope-dancer’s taking the A^eil, without 
 even being impelled to it by an unhappy love-affair, prom- 
 ised to create a sensation, and bore so nearly the sem- 
 blance of a miracle, that the occurrence would certainly 
 have been gladly seized and made the most of. Howe\ er, 
 even if the danger that threatened her father had not been 
 so great from this sharer in his crimes — I could not bring 
 myself to believe that my little protegee had a genuine 
 and unmistakable vocation for a conventual life. More 
 and more did it seem to me like an exaggerated fancy with 
 which she occasionally consoled herself in imagination for 
 her daily suflerings — seeking to balance one extreme with 
 the other. That strained exaltation, to which I have 
 already referred, had blended with all its sincerity a touch 
 of the recklessness of the rope-dancer. She was as free 
 from dizziness in her mind as on her feet, and felt the 
 need of pleasurable excitement, just as her delight in leap- 
 ing through the air was an innate quality of her physical 
 nature. It seemed to me that her only hope of salvation 
 lay in a prompt marriage with some kind and honest man. 
 
32 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 some woodsman or farmer for example, with whom she 
 would have plenty of opportunities for exercising in the 
 open air, and even jumping on horseback, while in the 
 country quiet she would be as far removed from perform- 
 ers’ booths as from nunneries. But where was an honest 
 fellow of this kind to be found at a moment’s notice, one 
 who besides, would not be prejudiced against her? And 
 was there not also the additional query as to whether she 
 would be contented with such a man? 
 
 I noticed also to my regret that she was becoming 
 more and more attached to me, while I, at that time, really 
 only wished to play the part of a fatherly confidential 
 friend to her. Not a trace of intentional advances or sud- 
 den reserve on her part betrayed this. Her glance how- 
 ever, and her eager restlessness when I happened to be a 
 few minutes late at our rendezvous, her perfectly passive 
 actions in compliance with my wishes and advice, and her 
 daily increasing disinclination to put an end to our inter- 
 views, all this showed me plainly how matters stood. It 
 was natural enough that she should passionately recipro- 
 cate the first unselfish sentiment that had ever been enter- 
 tained for her. And you can readilj^ understand that it 
 did not lower her in my estimation. But I considered alf 
 ideas of devoting my life to her as idle fancies, and onej 
 evening in a reflective mood I examined my mind and 
 heart conscientiously, in order to come to some definite 
 conclusion in regard to the whole affair. 
 
 “When I arrived the next morning however, at the 
 quiet garden-gate, armed with the most excellent reasons 
 why a continuance of our intercourse would be injurious to 
 both of us, and saw her at length coming toward me down 
 the narrow street, her unusual appearance impressed me 
 even while she was still quite a ways off. She grasped my 
 hands impetuousl}", drew me into the courtyard and, hold- 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 33 
 
 ing my hand all the time, threw back her veil. Her eyes 
 were red with weeping, her cheeks still glistened with tears, 
 and her full lips were passionately quivering. ‘ It is all 
 over,’ she burst forth, ‘I have no longer any hope, death is 
 before me, and I shall have to succumb ! ’ — For the first 
 few moments I could get nothing else out of her. I put 
 my arm around her as if to protect her — I had never done 
 anything of the kind before — and insisted upon being in- 
 formed as to what had happened. Then she told me what 
 was almost too despicable for belief The old man had 
 been gambling with Carluccio the night before and had 
 lost his last dollar to him. Previous obligations of this 
 kind had always been set down in the general account; 
 but this time the wretch had insisted upon his claims being 
 satisfied at once, or else having Maria Francisca given to 
 him for his wife. If neither demand were complied with, 
 he said he would open wide the box in which he preserved 
 the secrets of the troupe and would invite the city author- 
 ities to inspect its contents. The result of this was that 
 her father had rushed into her room in the middle of the 
 night, partially sobered by these threats, and had an- 
 nounced to her that it was all over with the convent plan, 
 in an}^ case, for she must and should become the wife of 
 her well-known suitor before a week had passed. To all 
 reminders of the old compact, to all her prayers and en- 
 treaties, he had only replied with a fierce roar of rage and 
 hatred toward his future son-in-law, who was even more 
 obnoxious to him than to his poor daughter. 
 
 “After having confessed all this to me, she begged 
 me, for the love of Christ, not to let her be dragged down 
 into this hell upon earth but to take her life ; thus she 
 would see whether I really felt any friendship for her. 
 Her religion forbade her to put an end to her own life, and 
 yet she could not continue to live. She would go with me 
 
34 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 to my apartments and there I might perform this last 
 friendly service for her. With these entreaties there was 
 such a despairingly dark light in her eyes, that they might 
 have impelled some men to commit the maddest of crimes. 
 However, I still retained command of my reason, and 
 lirushed awa}^ these wild fancies without ceremon}', advis- 
 ing and urging her to seek refuge in flight. The miscreant 
 would certainly not carry his deviltry so far as to make 
 her father suffer for something of which he was innocent. 
 
 I begged her in God’s name to seek out some secluded con- 
 vent where, for the present, she could be concealed, and 
 afterwards take the veil. She listened to all this with in- 
 telligent consideration, and her desire to die seemed sud- ’ 
 denl}^ to cool off. When I finally offered her all the assist- ; 
 ance that lay in my power, she looked up at me with eyes ; 
 full of relief ‘ Ah ! ’ she said, • now I am going to become a ' 
 burden to my friend, and shall lose him on that account ! ’ , 
 I stroked her cheeks soothingly, feeling firmly convinced ? 
 the while that all this was a dispensation of Providence in 
 my behalf which would sever these relations between us 
 that had begun to grow dubious. I promised to accom- 
 pany her to the threshold of her place of shelter and to i 
 take all the consequences upon myself. \ 
 
 “ These words effected a complete transformation in i 
 her. Her countenance actually beamed, she spoke of her , 
 flight like a child that is to go into the country again for ! 
 the first time after a long winter. Now and then to be 
 sure a shadow flitted over her face. However, she had no 
 doubt of the success of our plan, indeed she interpreted all 
 manner of dreams and visions she had previousl}^ had, as 
 indicative of a prosperous result. And when a cross old 
 woman, who had sometimes shown herself at the only 
 window overlooking the little courtyard without inter- 
 fering with us in any way, opened the little window" today 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 35 
 
 and ordered us out of her yard with some sharp words, we 
 looked upon this as the most positive sign from Heaven 
 that our stay in the place was not to last much longer. 
 We had just finished making the final arrangements and 
 we then separated with the significant words : ‘ Goodbye 
 
 till tomorrow ! ’ It was far from being advisable to take 
 the night for our fiight, for, as she confessed to me with 
 some embarrassment, the jealous Carluccio had sought her 
 in her room more than once in the middle of the night, or 
 had sent her father to her upon some pretext. And even 
 during the early morning hours he would certainly have 
 kept watch over her, if he had not been obliged to sleep 
 oflT his intoxication. 
 
 ^‘For this reason she was to pretend to get ready for 
 church — only an hour earlier than usual — and call for me 
 at my rooms. A man’s suit and an artist’s broad-brimmed 
 hat promised to afford a more secure protection for her 
 than if I had spirited her away in a carriage and horses 
 under cover of the darkness.. As she had sometimes, 
 before we had become acquainted, spent the entire day un- 
 til the evening performance with the kind-hearted Lady 
 Superior at the convent, her absence would not be noticed 
 and we should have many hours before us to gain a con- 
 siderable start even on foot. 
 
 “You can imagine in what a dream-like state I went 
 home. To tell the truth, the affair was not at all repug- 
 nant to me ; what troubled me most was, that I believed I 
 had discovered that day for the first time a dawning affec- 
 tion for her in my heart. Her child-like rejoicings, her im- 
 plicit confidence in me made her seem infinitely charming 
 in my eyes. ‘It is a good thing,’ I said to myself ‘that 
 her mind is so set upon the convent. Who knows but 
 what it might not in time come to seem very pleasant and 
 a real duty to me to bring back into a natural shape this 
 
36 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 little being so warped by a false system of self-education 
 and a total lack of parental training. I should have! 
 something to be proud of if I succeeded in making a^ 
 rational woman of her. But it would be risky in any case.’j 
 ‘^That night I slept uneasily and kept thinking I 
 heard her knocking at the door. When she at last really i 
 did knock — in the gra}^ twilight — I had long been dressed 
 and was preparing our breakfast. She slipped in with a 
 blushing face and a childlike, almost uncontrollable alarm, 
 such as we experience in playing hide-and-seek when we 
 are young. I had resolved for the safety of both of us, 
 to take the whole affair very seriously and judiciously and 
 by no means to let our project degenerate into a wild 
 masquerading frolic. As soon as she perceived this dispo- 
 sition in me, her restless, fluctuating gayety disappeared 
 and gave place to a despondent stillness. She took a seat 
 at the corner of the table, almost like a beggar who has 
 been called in from the street, and ate but little, after hav-' 
 ing first softh^ murmured a prayer to herself She scarcely 
 ventured to look around the room and kept gazing onl}^ at 
 the picture on the easel which just then in the rosy morn- 
 ing light presented a very creditable appearance. I opened 
 my wardrobe and asked her to select her disguise. A light; 
 summer suit was soon chosen, not from m}^ belongings, 
 however, but from among poor Horner’s clothes— you 
 doubtless remember him, the little sculptor who was, 
 drowned while bathing, and who had been living with me 
 for some time before his death. I carried the suit for her 
 into my bed-room, where she began at once and hurriedly 
 to change her attire. While I was waiting for her in the 
 next room I thought how strangelj^ it had come about that 
 she was after all obliged to disrobe in these ver}^ rooms, 
 where I had first hoped to draw her as my model. How- 
 ever the consciousness that she was in my power was borne 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 37 
 
 ill upon me only for a moment. Then I remembered the 
 vows I had secretly sworn to myself and remained at some 
 distance from the door which she had not even bolted. 
 
 “And my patience soon had its reward. For the 
 short coat and light trousers in which she now issued from 
 the chamber w^ere charmingly becoming to her. To add 
 the finishing touch I put a gray felt hat on her shingled 
 hair and gave her a portfolio to carry, so that she looked 
 exactly like a jaunty young student at the Academy. The 
 blood rushed to her cheeks as I scanned her with evident 
 satisfaction, and her embarrassment made her ga3^er and 
 gayer. Before long we had left the house, I being like- 
 wise laden with a portfolio and a small satchel, and walked 
 through the cool streets, which were still almost deserted, 
 and out through the city gate, through which in Duessel- 
 dorf a few disciples of art who devote themselves to land- 
 scape painting, can be seen vanishing every day. 
 
 “ The old people with whom I resided were still asleep 
 when Francisca arrived. The}" had long been accustomed 
 to my going away without leaving word when I should 
 return, and I had put the girl’s clothes carefully away, 
 locking them up in a trunk. So I left with really no 
 apprehensions of our being discovered. I had not formed 
 any very definite plan ; but I had firmly resolved not to 
 let our journey take us beyond Mayence at the farthest, 
 where I intended to place my protegee either in a convent 
 or in the safe hands of an elderly lady friend of mine. I 
 told her this, and she listened with an air of gratitude, but 
 without making any response. 
 
 “It was now July and the day was so wonderfully 
 clear that the sun soon became oppressive to us. Accord- 
 ingly I raised the gray linen umbrella which was a part of 
 our landscape-painter’s outfit, and she took my arm with- 
 out any affectation. When we saw in our shadows cast in 
 
38 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 front of US, the strange spectacle we presented we could 
 not help laughing. This dissipated completely the solemn 
 frame of mind in which we had left the city, and we chatted 
 just like a couple of good comrades who had gone out to 
 enjoy the fresh air together for a da}^ In the wanderings 
 of her father’s troupe she had traveled over a large part of : 
 Germany, a portion of France and all of Belgium, and yet 
 she had seen little more of any of the cities, than the 
 streets nearest the square in which their booth stood, and 
 a few churches in which she was accustomed to pray and 
 to go to confession. In this way she had obtained an ex- 
 tremely odd idea of these cities, such as might be got from i 
 a stereoscopic view or from an engraving. Yet she could ’ 
 delineate her impressions with such striking power of 
 description in a few words that it amused me very much;;l 
 she judged people by the few limited specimens with whom 
 her occupation had brought her in contact. There is a 
 certain class of coarse, would-be gallant dandies who had 
 approached her that are much the same in all parts of the 
 world, and our gay talk grew graver as she related some of 
 her unpleasant experiences with them. 
 
 “She gave me a long and animated account of all the^ 
 kind priests and nuns who had taken an interest in lieri 
 perturbed soul. She congratulated herself upon her good^l 
 fortune which she now thought so near, in communing ^ 
 in some quiet, sunii}^ cell with a higher world alone, and i 
 only contemplating the lower world from a grated pew. 
 When she noticed that I coincided in this renunciation of 
 the w^orld only by an equivocal : ‘ Yes, Yes ! ’ she changed 
 the subject and induced me to talk about my art. I sought 
 out for her illustrations of this and that elementary princi- 
 ple of coloring, light and drawing in the country through 
 which we were walking, and was delighted with myself to 
 see how much like a pedagogue I was behaving, although^ 
 
 i 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 39 
 
 to tell the truth, a longing now and then came over me to 
 put the shadow of our umbrella to an unwarrantable use, 
 and press a kiss upon the listening, half-parted lips of my 
 slender comrade without further ado. 
 
 ‘‘ I wdll not weary you with all the trivial details of 
 our first day’s journey. Suffice it to say, that our happy, 
 contented mood increased rather than abated, and I felt 
 somewhat like the children in fairy tales, who run away 
 from the wicked ogre out into the wide world. However, 
 wdien we arrived in Cologne just at nightfall, I thought it 
 by no means advisable to spend the night there. More 
 than anything else I feared to lodge under the same roof 
 with this dear little creature, whom I could sway with a 
 motion of my finger. I told her that from this time on we 
 could not be safe from pursuit for a moment, and therefore 
 proposed to her that we should continue our journey to 
 Mayence in a row-boat. We found a boatman who received 
 us into his conveyance and soon fastened his slender skiff 
 to a large Dutch coal brig, in whose broad wake we went 
 gliding up the stream almost without any rocking. The 
 lireeze was stiff and kept up all night long, so that tlie ves- 
 i sel made good progress. I saw that my protegee was 
 I chill}^ in her light clothing as the night advanced. Fortu- 
 ^ nately there was a blanket on the large ship wliicli the man 
 j at the wheel readil}" tossed us, as at the start we had 
 I secretly purchased our way into his good graces. I made 
 i the girl lie down in the smooth bottom of the l)oat, with 
 I her head pillowed on the travelling bag, and tucked her up 
 ' with brotherly care. She smiled at me before crossing 
 herself and closing her eyes. I sat on the seat at her feet 
 ^ and gazed into her calm, sleep}^ face as it lay turned 
 toward the evening sky. I said to myself again that 
 I she was not beautiful. But her lips tempted me more 
 and more strongly, and only the presence of the l)oatman. 
 
40 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 who was meditative!}^ smoking his short pipe, restrained 
 me from breaking my vow. Then I too was overcome 
 witli weariness ; 1 stretched myself out in the bottom of 
 the boat at her feet as best I could, and slept as if I had 
 been at home in my own bed and had never thought of 
 sucli a thing as escorting a young lady performer on the 
 tight rope to a convent. 
 
 “ When I awoke just before daybreak, I saw her sit- 
 ting on the little seat above me contemplating me with a 
 roguish, dreamy expression. She was holding the port- 
 folio on her knees and had drawn with a pencil on a sheet 
 of paper a few immense strokes which were intended to 
 represent the outlines of my face. The boatman was 
 now taking his turn snoring at the other end of the boat, 
 and on both sides of us lay the beautiful banks of the 
 Rhine in the witchery of early morning. I had no idea 
 where we were. Behind the ruined castle on our right the 
 moon was setting, and soon nothing but the morning-star 
 was shining in the clear sky. Besides this there was the 
 dashing and murmuring of the waves, the crowing of the 
 cocks in the sleeping vineyard villages, and the sweet 
 voice of the girl who was inquiring how I had slept — no 
 wonder that it blended into a beautiful dream in my mind. 
 — Soon after the coal-ship anchored off a picturesque little 
 village. An inn stretched out its signboard so hospitably 
 over the stream toward us adorned with a wreath of grape- 
 leaves, that I at once made up my mind to spend the day 
 here, where we were not likely to be looked for, and not to 
 journey onwards until toward night. My companion nod- 
 ded acquiescence to everything I proposed. Before we 
 could think of landing, she stepped upon the oarsman's 
 seat and, with an agility that astonished the boatman not 
 a little, she sprang to the shore across a tolerably broad 
 stretch of shallow water. There it first occurred to her 
 
MARIA RRANCISCA. 
 
 41 
 
 that this feat was a reminder of the life to which she had 
 bade farewell forever. She cast down her eyes as she 
 tiiimed to me and followed me into the house silent and 
 depressed. 
 
 “ The day bade fair to be so warm that it did not seem 
 advisable to walk up the Khine along the shore— by which 
 means we might have made our wajr to Mayence most 
 safely. As the Dutch ship was to continue on its way up 
 stream that night, I proposed that we should spend our 
 time until then in the little inn and hire a row-boat again 
 at night, which for a small fee could be fastened to the 
 stern of the vessel. , ‘We need not reveal to the boah 
 man that his cargo is highly inflammable matter,’ I re- 
 marked.— This was the first time I had made any allusion 
 to love-making. She did not seem to understand me at all. 
 
 “ We had closed the blinds in our little room, and some 
 cherries and wine were standing on the table. The higher 
 the sun rose, the cozier the room became, flooded with a 
 golden, green-tinted light. I watched her as she sat in one 
 corner of the sofa eagerly poring over a little prayer-book, 
 until the poise of her head upon that superb neck im- 
 pressed me to such a degree, that I silently took out a 
 slieet of paper from the portfolio and began to sketch her. 
 She blushed, but sat as still as a mouse, only closing her 
 book and looking down into her lap. However, I did not 
 succeed at all with my drawing; her bowed, constrained 
 attitude did not suit me at all for any length of time. But 
 as she herself began to speak of my October festival and 
 asked what it represented, and I described to her those 
 scenes as I had witnessed them on the spot with ever in- 
 creasing delight, she threw back her head of her own accord, 
 and her constraint vanished. I asked her to stand up and 
 assume the position of that one dancer in the foreground, 
 which she remembered well. She did so without embar- 
 
42 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 rassment and with the greatest ease. Nor did she need 
 much urging to throw aside her coat. When I removed 
 her neck-tie however, and was about to turn back her col- 
 lar, she pushed me away in some confusion and with an 
 appealing air, and arranged it herself, leaving her neck 
 bare to the shoulders. She bared her arms too and seized 
 a plate skillfully in both hands, holding it over her head 
 like a tambourine. She gave me an innocent and friendly 
 smile and begged me to be diligent, as she could not keep 
 it up very long. I felt strongly inclined to clasp her in my 
 arms, but I barricaded myself against the enemy behind 
 my portfolio, for fear of the danger of spoiling the beauti- 
 ful lines of the exquisite tableau. I had sketched just 
 what I wanted when her arms dropped wearily at her side, 
 and she asked leave to rest a little. 
 
 “I urged her to drink some of the wine, which she cau- 
 tion si}" mixed with water. Then we sat down facing each 
 other at the window ; she took the plate of cherries on her 
 lap and we ate our breakfast together, at the same time 
 indulging in all sorts of childish talk and trying with infi- 
 nite pains to toss the cherry-stones between the slats of 
 the Venetian blinds so scientifically that they would go 
 through without touching them and fall into the river 
 below after describing a curve. I cannot give 3-011 any 
 idea of the singularl}" innocent merriment of that hour. 
 The fact that this was an adventure, a regular elopement, 
 and 3"et that there had not been the slightest idea of a love- 
 affair — but on the contrary, that the most serious earnest- 
 ness la}" before and behind us, all this made the present 
 brief moments of our friendship all the more precious to 
 us, stimulating and yet subduing our mood at the same 
 time. After the last cherry-stone had been tossed out 
 through the green blind, we gazed for a long time out upon 
 the river, where all kinds of vessels were gliding past in 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 43 
 
 
 the brilliant sunshine. It all seemed as if it were a spec- 
 tacle arranged for our especial benefit, at which we were 
 looking from our concealed and dusky station at our ease. 
 ■\Ye felt so safe, so joyous and so entirely removed from 
 every-day life so full of care. Many a glance was directed 
 by travelers on the decks of the steamers up to our little 
 green window, and one English lady even made prepara- 
 tions to sketch our little house as she sailed past. We 
 laughed behind the bars of our cage and I puffed tiie 
 smoke of my cigar through the Venetian blind in order to 
 show wdiat kind of secret accessories were contained in the 
 landscape. Next we saw a procession marching on the 
 opposite bank, the priest at the head carrying a crucifix, 
 banners at the sides and we heard singing from thirtj 
 tired, parched throats. There was not a single shadow, 
 not even as wide as a finger, on the road opposite us, 1 
 was just about to exclaim, when my companion silently 
 knelt down and with her face turned away from me 
 remained for some time kneeling in prayer in front of hei 
 chair. When she arose once more, I had a peculiar feel- 
 ing, almost a sense of estrangement. Fortunately how- 
 ever, the landlord came up stairs just then, — I ordei'ed a 
 meal to be brought to our room, and at table our confiden- 
 tial mood returned quicklj' and without any restraints. I 
 bade her play the hostess, and notwithstanding the fact that 
 she was so clever in adapting herself to her disguise and 
 assuming the character of a lively boy, j'et she was ever3 
 inch a girl when she arose to serve the soup. The move- 
 ment of her hands was charming and graceful, her wrists 
 were extremely delicate and so for a while at first I ate 
 nothing, being wholly occupied in observing how daintily 
 she handled everything. Not until she began to blush did 
 I follow her example, and begin to teaze her because she 
 understood how to pla\' the housekeeper so scientifically'. It 
 
44 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 would really be a pity, I told her, to let such a decided 
 talent go to waste in a convent. Would she not rather re- 
 main with me and keep on traveling around the world with 
 me? Besides I had never felt any desire to marry, 
 although I did not want to dispense with domestic com- 
 forts, and I would formally adopt her as my brother. 
 These remarks made her silent and embarrassed and she 
 replied only with a melancholy shake of the head. After 
 dinner when I seated myself beside her on the sofa with 
 my cigar, and took her hand in mine, she did not seem to 
 resent it. Suddenly however, I perceived that the tears 
 had come into her eyes and, on my releasing her hand in 
 my consternation at this sight, she rose hastily and left the 
 room. I appreciated too well what oppressed her heart to 
 have afflicted her with questions. Indeed it seemed to 
 me too, more and more unnatural that Mayence was to ' 
 be the limit to our journey, our friendship and her liberty. 
 Moreover you know, my dear friend, that up to this time, : 
 without being in the least averse to women and in spite of 
 many a slight adventure, I had really sought men alone as 
 my associates. The feeling that I was actually dear to a 
 woman, came over me then for the first time filling me wdth 
 a delight never before imagined, and with pride, strength ^ 
 and gayety ; and when I considered in what surroundings ; 
 this girl had remained so womanly, my reverence for her 
 almost surpassed my affection. ; 
 
 “ All this darted through my mind when she had left 
 me alone in the room, and in the confusion of these 
 delicious and blissful sensations that crowded upon me, 
 
 I suddenly made up my mind to oppose with all my might 
 her plan of entering a convent, and to retain her safe in « 
 my arms, I was now perfectly calm, I walked up and 
 down the room, whistling and singing to myself, and 
 awaited her return with impatience, that I might reveal my 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 45 
 
 heart to her without aii}^ long preface. But still she did 
 not appear. At last I went down stairs and inquired for 
 her. I was directed to the garden, where I could not find 
 her at first, for in my thoughts I associated her so insep- 
 arabl}^ with the idea of a woman, and my wife, that several 
 times I carelessly passed by the young man in the grape 
 arbor wearing the painter’s hat. However, she came up to 
 me herself, and as if she had guessed with what intentions 
 I had sought her out, she began such an animated conver- 
 sation concerning certain matters which had no connec- 
 tion with us, looking at me at the same time so serenely, 
 that a man’s natural diffidence in regard to offering him- 
 self to a girl as her husband soon arose within me and the 
 hours passed b}^ unimproved. 
 
 ‘‘Not until that night, as we glided along in the wake 
 of the coal ship in a small boat we had hired, while the 
 crew of the Hutch vessel, with the exception of the man at 
 the wheel, trusting to the favorable wind and a few draught 
 horses on the shore, were all fast asleep, not until then 
 did the bold mood of the forenoon return to me, aided 
 not a little by the charm of the night and the conscious- 
 ness that my loved one could not escape me there. She 
 was sitting on the seat beside me and frequently swayed 
 involuntaril}^ nearer me as our little boat rocked to and fro. 
 I put my arm around her shoulder and let it rest there, 
 although she trembled. ‘Francisca,’ said I, ‘we are far too 
 I well suited to each other, to let this convent plan become 
 ‘ a reality. You are much safer too with me than you 
 would be as a novice, in which condition your father would 
 i demand you back, because you went away against his will. 
 I do not want to coax from you at once an answer which 
 I would make me very happy. Sleep over it tonight and 
 tell me tomorrow whether you can make it agree with your 
 : inclinations. I need not protest to you at any great 
 
46 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 length that I love you dearl} . But it is very necessarv 
 that 3^011 should love me dearl}" too, if there is to be happi- , 
 ness between us. Consider it well. I could not be made 
 more unhapp^^ than if ^^ou should accept me from a mis- 
 taken sense of gratitude or from some lingering dread of 
 the convent. Therefore lie down and think the matter 
 over, dream upon it, and tell me tomorrow what is to 
 become of us.’ 
 
 “I spoke somewhat in this wise and was especiallj- 
 careful not to add an^^ more lover-like speeches, for I 
 wanted my wooing to avoid every appearance of precipitate 
 passion, and did not wish the idea to even occur to her, 
 that I w^as not an^^ more in earnest than those others who ‘ 
 liad admired her. She did not heed my entreaty however, -• 
 but spoke at once, with an impetuosity^ and decision ^ 
 which induced me to think her mind had already been pre- ’ 
 pared for a scene of this kind. She said that there never \ 
 could ])e the least possibility of such happiness for her ; ? 
 her birth, her life had made her an outcast from society^, 
 from the peace of a home and a fireside of her own. There ■ 
 was no refuge left for lier but God, and the more she felt 
 attached to me — and as she spoke she looked into my^ ey^es ' 
 frankly and affectionately — the firmer she must remain, ( 
 and the more she must harden her own heart to my words. ( 
 Besides, she knew only^ too well that I was blinded by^ my ’ 
 pity and my kindness. I would get over all this when she ■ 
 was once clad in a nun’s garb and would some day' be ' 
 tliankful to her for having been steadfast. — This last w'as : 
 spoken with falling tears which showed me how much 
 steadfastness she possessed. Slie firmly' refused all further.^ 
 discussion of the matter, although she was weeping as if^ 
 her heart were broken, and when I seized her liand and 1 
 pressed a passionate kiss upon it, she started and turned * 
 away' from me in the greatest excitement. ‘Do not de-J| 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 47 
 
 grade yourself! ’ she moaned. ‘I am not worthy to inspire 
 you with anything but pity, so long as the Savior has not 
 washed me white in his blood.’ 
 
 “After this I saw clearly that nothing was to be 
 gained for the present. I hoped that the ensuing days 
 would bring some relief to this over-excited frame of mind, 
 and had no doubt of my ultimate victory. She had 
 crouched down on the bottom of the boat and entirely con- 
 cealed her face. So I left her to herself, and watched the 
 play of the waves and the constantly changing banks with 
 that secret sensation of pleasure which the change of scen- 
 ery always affords us when our hearts are really at peace 
 for the first time. I went over in my mind all she had 
 said, and it confirmed me more than ever in the belief that 
 winning her would be for my happiness. Strange as it 
 may sound, I was by no means violently excited, as would 
 have been only natural after such a sudden resolution 
 made under unusual circumstances, but I looked upon all 
 this as a necessary and inevitable step toward my future 
 welfare. And in the midst of these peaceful thoughts I 
 fell asleep, and did not awake until our Dutch vessel 
 Inimped violently against the shore in the early morning. 
 
 “ My poor little friend had not slept as well as I, but 
 had passed the long, warm hours of the night in a violent 
 mental conflict. When we ascended the bank again near a 
 neat little mn, she begged me to leave her alone, for she 
 could scarcely stand owing to her fatigue, and wanted to 
 sleep. So I was obliged to consent to her shutting herself 
 up in a little room. To my request that she would answer 
 my question of the night before, she responded only with 
 a silent, melancholy and decisive shake of the head. But 
 the pressure of her hand was warmer than usual, and this 
 consoled me somewhat while I strolled alone through the 
 little town, and climbed the hill behind it, feeling more and 
 
48 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 more keenly all the time how much I missed her. At noon 
 I returned ; her door was still locked. So I had to dine 
 alone, and was surprised to find how solitary I felt in doing 
 so, as I had had only one opportunity of enjo 3 ing her deli- 
 cate attentions at the table. I sat in the garden where, to 
 be sure, the oppressive heat was not specially endurable, 
 but from ini' summer-house I had a view of her window, 
 the curtains of which were still drawn. Not until the 
 shadows were beginning to lengthen did her face appear at 
 the window above the tops of the apple-trees. On discov- 
 ering me, she greeted me with a cordial nod and called 
 down to me that she would come to the summer-house 
 right away. I welcomed her with the greatest delight, and 
 she seemed more affectionately inclined toward me than 
 ever, only she avoided all conversation on the subject; 
 which was of the most importance to me. Her face was 
 fresh and blooming again after her sleep, her eyes wonder- 
 fully bright. She dined, drank a little wine, asked the' 
 waiter about the road, and how far we had to travel before 
 reaching Mayence, and seemed to me in her roguish, self- 
 possessed ways more fascinating and more enigmatical at 
 the same time than ever. We arranged with the landlord to 
 let us have a small carriage for that night, as the Dutch ves- ■ 
 sel had not lain at anchor all day this time and the Rhine 
 journej’ in a small boat against the current would have ' 
 been fatiguing. It was beginning to grow cool in the twi- ; 
 light, the light carriage which was to convey us had been 
 drawn out of the shed, when suddenl}' a rapid, one-horse 
 vehicle came rattling into the court-yard, a figure only too 
 well known, alighted from it. Francisca, who was just 
 starting to return to the house to get her portfolio, was the 
 first to behold our pursuer, who was no other than Car- 
 luccio, the clown, and she came back to the summer- 
 house, pale as death. 1 too was veiy much alarmed. To 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 49 
 
 go from the garden to the house it was necessary to cross 
 the court-yard ; I had discovered a side gate however, that 
 led directl}^ to the bank of the river. ‘ Let us leave every- 
 thing,’ I hastily exclaimed, ‘and try to reach the river. 
 We surel}^ can find a row-boat that will carry us down 
 stream and thus throw that scoundrel oft' the track.’ — She 
 took my arm trembling convulsively and we reached the 
 water’s edge in safet}^, where a number of sail-boats and 
 skiffs were rocking. She sprang into one, and I was just 
 unfastening the rope which was tied to a stake on the 
 shore, when I saw our hated enemy rushing like a mad- 
 man out of the house and down toward us. I had only 
 time to spring into the boat and push it off with the oar. 
 But the nimble scamp was upon us like lightning ; he 
 seized hold of the rope that was trailing after us in the 
 shallow water, and with cries of triumph and derision, be- 
 gan to pull our boat back toward the shore with all his 
 strength. I raised the oar in a rage and threatened to 
 smash his hands, if he did not let go of the rope. He only 
 pulled the harder ; I raised the oar and the furious blow I 
 dealt him descended on his forehead with such force that 
 you can see the broad scar to this day. At the time, 
 however, I had no idea but that I had killed the wretch, 
 for he instantly let his hands drop, the blood gushed forth 
 over his brow and eye^, and he fell down senseless. 
 
 “ The whole scene had been witnessed from the house, 
 and people now came hurr3ing out to the aid of the 
 wounded man. Our situation was getting critical, for al- 
 though the actual circumstances were not suspected, yet 
 our hast^" flight from the garden betokened an uneasy con- 
 science. However, I had previously won the favor of the 
 waiters b}' liberal fees, and as the landlord himself was 
 not on the premises, I easily persuaded the other inmates 
 of the house to believe the hastily' patched-up stor}’^ which 
 
50 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 I told them. The unconscious man was put to bed, a phy- 
 sician was speedily at hand, to whom I gave some money, 
 and then I left directions as to where he should apply in 
 case the worst came to the worst. After everything had 
 been thus arranged and I had received the assurance that 
 the wound would not endanger the man’s life, I immedi- 
 ately hastened our departure. We had no time to lose, for 
 just as our swift horses were carrying us away we saw in 
 the distance the police force of the town advancing, with 
 measured tread toward the inn, where however they found 
 that their birds had flown. 
 
 ‘‘Not until we had left the scene of this terrible fright 
 behind us could I attend to ni}^ companion, who had me- 
 chanically followed me in everything, in a benumbed con- 
 dition without any volition of her own. The aflectionate 
 inquiry which I addressed to her broke the spell which 
 seemed to have been over her. She began to weep and 
 sob convulsively, and the first sentence she was able to 
 utter was a request that I should turn back and leave her 
 with the wounded man. She said she was only beginning 
 to realize how wickedly she had drawn me into the whirl- 
 pool of her misery, and how much danger, trouble and in- 
 convenience she was making me. She would rather go 
 back to her father than to expose me in future to aii}^ more ' 
 such scenes. ‘Nothing would be ’easier,’ said I, ‘than to 
 set our minds at rest forever. If you will consent to be- 
 come my wife, then my authority over 3 on will be superior 
 to 3^our father’s, and we can calml}^ bid defiance to all his 
 claims.’ She was silent and kept on weeping. Her lips 
 moved and I thought I heard the words of a pra3xr. Then 
 she leaned back in the carriage for some time with her face 
 buried in her handkerchief At last she looked up. She 
 seemed to have been tranquilized b}’ some sudden idea. 
 She extended her hand to me with a look of intense feel- 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 51 
 
 ng. ‘You are so good/ she whispered, ‘I feel on too 
 leeph^ that 3^011 are all in all to me. But I should forever 
 lespise m^^self if I abused 3^0111’ kindness. No, 3-011 shall 
 lot spend 3^our life with a rope-dancer. Nevertheless I 
 iccept the means of escape 3^011 offer me. Let me be mar- 
 led to 3^ou tomorrow^ b3' a priest. But from the altar, 
 ,vhere I shall have vowed perpetual fidelit3" to 3 011, my 
 lath will lead to the nearest convent. I will confess to 
 rou that 1113^ bitterest grief is, that I cannot belong to 3^ou 
 11 an3^ other wa3^, that the disgrace of my previous life 
 nust forever separate us. However it will alwa3"s be a 
 consolation to me in my penance and solitude to know that 
 ; belong to you in spirit. And if m3’ father should suc- 
 ceed in finding me and should claim me during my noviti- 
 ite, then 3’ou can interfere, and your consent to this step 
 vill ensure m3' peace of mind and protect me from a return 
 o the world.’ 
 
 “ I could scarcel3" believe m3’ ears as I listened to this 
 laring stratagem, this exalted love and renunciation all in 
 he same breath. However as all opposition was useless, 
 ind she insisted that she would accept this alone from my 
 Tiendship, or else she would return to where she pictured 
 o herself with a shudder, Carluccio lying upon his sick- 
 )ed, I promised to do exactly as she said, and as the 
 )ugg3’ rolled merril}^ along beside the Bhine we entered 
 nto one of the most singular engagements ever made, per- 
 laps. She allowed me to kiss her while she quietly 
 jressed 1113^ hand in both of hers, murmuring to herself 
 M3" dear one, m3" best beloved, my only friend, may all 
 fie saints bless you ! ’ and so on without ceasing. 
 
 “At midnight w"e arrived at Coblentz. 1 insisted 
 ipon it that we should not continue our journe3" fiirtlier, 
 ind should have our mock marriage take place there early 
 he next moiming. While she remained at the inn, I 
 
52 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 went in haste to a clerg 3 ^nian with whom I had become 
 acquainted on a previous journe 3 \ I roused him out of 
 his sleep and placed the matter before him in the most 
 favorable light to myself, explaining that I had carried 
 the girl away from a barbarous father and degrading pro- 
 fession, as her soul was in danger of becoming contami- 
 nated. By observing a judicious reticence in regard to the 
 convent, and especially by making a liberal donation to 
 the church, 1 obtained a dispensation from all further 
 formalities, and a promise that he would be ready to unite 
 us in marriage the next morning after early mass. With 
 this good news I returned to our inn where m}^ lovely 
 fiancee had carefully locked herself into her room. I in- 
 formed her through the ke^^-hole of the success of my 
 efforts and received in return the tenderest, most grateful 
 good-night. Then I laid myself down to sleep, feeling' 
 very well satisfied with this turn in our affairs, and fell to 
 dreaming the pleasantest of dreams. 
 
 The next morning there was a gentle tap at my door, 
 just as I was racking my brains in anxiety as to where 1 
 should get hold of a suitable wedding-dress for my sweet- 
 heart, her disguise having become an annoyance to me now 
 for the first time. But the door opened and there my dar-. 
 ling stood before me clad in a simple black silk dress, a; 
 wedding-veil and a wreath on her head, and behind her the, 
 landlady, whom she had initiated into our secret the night 
 before, and to whom she had applied for assistance. I was 
 delighted to be able in the presence of a third person to 
 kiss her sweet smiling face, which expressed great pleasure 
 at my astonishment, and I joyfull}^ invited the landlady 
 and her husband to be the witnesses of our marriage. 
 
 “All passed off beautifully. When we came onto! 
 the neighboring church hand in hand, it was still so earh' 
 that our little party created no sensation. We breakfasted 
 
31ARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 53 
 
 together in great gayety, which was especially encouraged 
 the stout landlady, and the good woman, who did 
 not seem to be at all shocked by anything about the affair, 
 gave me advice as to how I could provide my young wife 
 with a small wedding outfit in a brief space of time. I pre- 
 ferred however, to have her continue the wedding journey 
 in the old disguise, and after we four had partaken of a 
 wedding banquet, on which occasion the landlord did not 
 si^are his best wine, we took our places once more and 
 drove away in our light carriage which the girls in the 
 house, amid much laughter, had decorated for us with two 
 large gay colored wreaths. 
 
 “‘Which road shall we take?’ asked my wife, when 
 we were alone. ‘Is the convent outside of the city?’ — 
 ‘Not the convent, my darling, but our life and our home.’ 
 — She looked at me and turned pale. ‘ What did you say? ’ 
 she said gravely, casting down her eyes. — ‘ I shall not be 
 such a fool, child, as to give 3^011 up to any one else in the 
 world, now that 3"ou belong to me. I have all the author- 
 ity over 3^ou that my heart could wish, and 1 intend to 
 maintain it honestly. 0nl3^ in case you retract the con- 
 fession that 3^ou love me . . . . ’ 
 
 “ She cast herself into m3^ arms and kissed me ten- 
 derly. ‘Is it possible? ’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you want to 
 risk a life with me? Are 3 on willing to forget m3" past? 
 Am I to have a future, a husband who belongs to me 
 before all the world, a home, a fireside, a life of m3" own? 
 No, 3"ou will repent it, 3"ou will some day remember 
 where 3"ou picked me up, and 30 U will cast me out. But 
 it makes no difference, I would not have loved you from 
 the first, if I were strong enough now to think of what is 
 to come. God is my witness that I had no idea this morn- 
 ing even that this could be possible. This thought alone 
 _ made me happ3" — that 3"ou could not be the husband of 
 
54 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 any one else in future, as long as I was alive. And now 
 you want to marry me and to have me for your wife ! Is 
 it really true? Are 3 0U in earnest? ’ — I held her for a 
 long time in the most loving embrace. ‘ Trust in me,’ said 
 I, ‘and you will always see me happy.’ 
 
 “God knows that I did not promise too much, for 
 during the five years that she was my wife, there were no 
 sad days or weeks for me, save when a shadow of distrust 
 came between us. She had never known what it was to 
 lead a pure, safe and confidential life with any one, for the 
 people who came into the closest contact with her, regarded 
 her with suspicion on account of her earnest piety, and 
 even her father, subdued by a peculiar sort of respect for 
 her, assumed in her presence the semblance of an honor- 
 able nature, which to be sure dropped away from him all 
 the more hastily in his nightly carousals. Thus she was 
 accustomed to be upon her guard constantly, and to fear 
 worse things than she saw ; and although I am not con- 
 scious of ever having given her any cause to doubt my 
 love, even in my hours of inward discontent, such as every 
 struggling artist experiences at times, yet she interpreted 
 every cloud upon my brow to be her fault, and accused 
 herself passionately of rendering me unhappy, beseeching 
 me with tears to cast her away from me, and finding in the 
 course of time that scenes of this kind only excited and 
 grieved me more and more deeply, she again sought refuge 
 in the church and concealed from me her silent distress, 
 which indeed she might better have confessed to me than 
 to any priest. For who but me could give her any com- 
 fort? At such times I suffered unspeakably. I almost 
 despaired of ever being able to eradicate that which 
 was warped in her nature, and to lead back to the straight 
 and peaceful level of an every-day happiness a soul that 
 had for years been experiencing the unwholesome effects 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 55 
 
 of the most contradictor}^ excitement. However thankfully 
 she might receive all that I could do for her sake, yet I 
 remarked an ineradicable tendency to the adventurous, to 
 extravagant flights of fancy lurking in her blood. At the 
 same time there was nothing repellent about this tendency ; 
 on the contrary it fascinated me and I felt wonderfully re- 
 freshed and elevated by these flights of her imagination, 
 especially as she lavished her best enthusiasm upon her 
 love for me, and even after the first raptures of the honey- 
 moon were past, she still clung to me with a fantastic im- 
 petuosity wdiich was irresistibly charming. 
 
 “We spent the rest of this first summer in Munich, 
 and she devoted herself with an almost anxious energy to 
 the various duties of a housewife. How charming she 
 was then, how radiantly her unspoiled womanliness shone 
 forth in the privacy of our life ! 
 
 “We heard nothing more from her father for a long 
 time — until, a year after our flight, just after she had given 
 birth to a fine little girl, there came a letter from a remote 
 corner of Poland, that had reached me l)y the most round- 
 about way. The old man had been informed against on 
 account of some disgraceful crime, in regard to which Car- 
 luccio did not care to enter into details this time on 
 account of having been an accomplice himself, and Eberti 
 had preferred to flee with a few remnants of his troupe. 
 The illegible sheet did not contain any reproaches, but was 
 merely a request for assistance, which of course I could 
 not refuse to grant him. At the same time however, I 
 forbade him to annoy me in future with any similar impor- 
 tunities, and 1 kept the whole matter a secret from my 
 wife, wlio constantly rejoiced that her little child had none 
 of its mother’s features, and besought Heaven to avert all 
 other resemblance to herself. 
 
 “ At that time I protested against this prayer, but now 
 
56 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 and forever I nriust lament that it remained unanswered. 
 
 “The sweet little creature was scarcely two years old 
 and could just stand and walk firmly on her delicate limbs, 
 when a desire to climb and leap and dance awakened with- 
 in her, which was not to be repressed by kindness nor 
 severity. I for my part considered her movements far too 
 graceful, not to be delighted with this innocent maternal 
 inheritance. Only when she would climb too high in the 
 little garden, or would try to balance herself upon the back 
 of the bench, I would take her down at once and forbid all 
 such alarming play. Her mother however, would fall into 
 a state of the most intense excitement, whenever she saw 
 the child jumping or climbing upon a chair. She, from 
 whose lips a violent word so rarelj^ escaped, would then 
 scold the innocent little creature in passionate anger, and 
 if the same thing was repeated during the day, would pun- 
 ish her darling so severely that she would afterward re- 
 proach herself most bitterly. ^ Alas ! ’ she would say, ' I 
 knew it, sooner or later there will be retribution. You 
 have taken misfortune into your home, it will bring forth 
 bitter fruits, and now it is too late to prevent it. ’ 
 
 “ I endeavored to talk her out of this foolish grief, to 
 make her understand that it was no disgrace to a girl to 
 delight in jumping and dancing, and that she herself in ‘ 
 spite of it had become such a good wife. However it had ! 
 no effect on her prejudices, and she actually brought things 
 to sucli a pass that the poor child only dared to walk with 
 regular, measured steps, and learned to consider any incli- 
 nation to climb a tree or to walk on the garden wall, as the 
 most heinous sin. 
 
 “Thus our little darling had reached the age of four 
 years ; she could sing little songs in a clear silveiy voice ; 
 with tlie greatest energy she would draw figures upon her 
 slate which bore considerable resemblance to birds and 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 57 
 
 flowers, Riid delighted ever^^body with the most cuptiv^ citing 
 smile that I have ever seen beaming on a child’s face. 
 We had been in Innsbruck several months, and the autumn 
 was approcaching. One evening I returned earlier than 
 usual from a walk with my wife, who felt impelled to 
 hasten home on account of some vague presentiment. We 
 were having an addition built to our house, and numbers 
 of beams and planks were lying around. We had warned 
 the servant girl again and again not to allow the child to 
 climb into the yard, and above all, not to let her climb on 
 the beams. Nevertheless a flirtation with one of the car- 
 penters had tempted her down to the court-yard, and just 
 as w^e entered we saw our little girl climbing quite a large 
 beam, one end of which was resting on a window-sill in the 
 second story, while the other end lay on the ground. The 
 servant had disappeared for a moment ; the workmen were 
 standing above and below and mischievousl}^ encouraging 
 with loud cheers the fool-hardy child, who to be sure was 
 ascending the sloping beam so easily and so calmly with 
 her little arms akimbo, that no one had any idea ol the 
 danger. My hair stood on end with terror. I had only 
 sufficient presence of mind to la}^ my hand over the lips of 
 m}" wife, wdio was looking on with a face like death, so that 
 •she should not frighten the child by can exclamation, just 
 now when she was approaching the window. The catas- 
 trophe however, was not to be averted. I can see before 
 me now the lovel}" little face as she stopped at the upper 
 end of the beam and turned around to the spectators with 
 the merriest smile in the world— then the child beheld her 
 mother and myself, suddenly remembered our commands, 
 and, forgetting all caution in her alarm, fell to the ground 
 with a scream that I shall hear till the Judgment Day.”— 
 He ceased speaking and for some time we walked on 
 side by side in silence, for the horror of that fearful mo- 
 
58 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 merit, which had been revived in his memory and strangely 
 agitated even me, sealed the lips of us both. At length 
 with a deep sigh he rolled back from his heart the weight 
 of recollection and said, as if speaking to himself : “ That 
 
 was the beginning of the end ! Ah ! my dear boy, if the 
 lightning had struck down the little angel at m3" side, it 
 would have been a less terrible fate than that. Then T 
 
 should at least have kept rn}^ wife ! But as it was the 
 
 one cruel blow made a lonel3" man of me. 
 
 “The effect which this terrible event produced upon 
 the mind of m3" beloved wife was almost more deplorable 
 tlian the sight of our dead daughter. She fell into an 
 apathetic state, an almost insane insensibility to every- 
 thing about her except the pale little corpse, which she 
 carried up stairs all alone, washed, dressed and laid in 
 the little bed as if to sleep. She said nothing to me, she 
 would not reply to an3" question, onl3" lay her finger on her 
 lips and point toward the couch. Now and then I would 
 hear her murmuring : ‘ I knew it all the time ! ’ — M3" heart 
 was ready to break, and I rushed out into the air to give 
 vent to m3" grief and to regain m3" composure. 
 
 “ Not until we had buried our poor child and w"ere 
 leaving the churchyard hand in hand, surrounded bv a 
 great crowd of S3"mpathetic people, did she speak to me 
 again. The tone of her voice was low and tender, and the 
 effort of speaking brought tears of relief But this gentle 
 mood did not continue and was soon replaced b3" an obsti- 
 nate aversion to all consoling words. At night she would 
 shut herself up hi a little room, where she would lie upon 
 the hard floor, sleepless, praying, lamenting and deaf to all 
 my pra3"ers and entreaties. Nor did the journe3" upon 
 which we set out immediatel3" after the funeral, have any 
 effect upon her clouded intellect. For a quarter of an hour 
 at a time she would, it is true, appear to be her old self 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 59 
 
 again. But soon a glance at the small gold cross which 
 our little one had worn at her throat constant!}^ and which 
 was now suspended from her mother’s neck, would cause a 
 return of her despondenc3\ Then in a species of soliloquy 
 slie would utter the severest accusations against herself, 
 confer with God regarding her soul and the inexpiable sin 
 she had committed against me, and would inquire at eveiy 
 house whether it was the convent and whether she would 
 be turned away because she had come live years too late. 
 I only occasionally succeeded in banishing this fatally 
 despondent mood and arousing her b}^ means of redoubled 
 warmth and tenderness, so that she would promise me to 
 live for my sake. After two weeks had passed away how- 
 ever, and no change had taken place in her condition, I 
 lost courage entirel} , and abandoned myself to a hopeless 
 apathy, and for half a da}^ at a time we would not exchange 
 a word. 
 
 I onl}^ revived a little for the first time when we 
 issued from the lonely mountain district and rode through 
 the cit}" gate at Vienna. The bustling life in the large cit}- 
 seemed to deliver my wife too from her torturing visions. 
 She quieth^ consented to my leading her at noon down to 
 the tahle d' liote^ where there was a numerous company of 
 liA^el}^ people. The appearance of Francisca in deep mourn- 
 ing, her shingled hair bound down over her forehead by a 
 black ribbon, her mournful eyes that scarcely glanced at 
 the people present — all this made a sudden impression 
 upon the compan}^ While the rest however soon recov- 
 ered from this, I observed that the glances of several 
 gentlemen at the other end of the table were constantly 
 directed toward us, and that we were without doubt the 
 subject of their whispered conversation. 
 
 “ I paid no particular attention to this fact until Fran- 
 cisca suddenly turned to me and whispered that she felt 
 
60 
 
 MARIA RllANCISCA. 
 
 ill and wished to go up stairs. We left the table and when 
 we were alone in our room, she said to me, with a strangel}^ 
 troubled face : ‘ I have been recognized ; they know who 
 
 I am, who I was. Let us flee ! ’ — I took great pains to 
 convince her that nothing had happened that could injure 
 her in any way. She had attracted attention because of 
 the style of her hair, and her mourning dress. However, 
 if it would calm her, we would set out again the next day. 
 Only I should have to go to a banker's first and provide 
 myself with money. This soothed her apparently; she 
 urged me to go immediately and to come back again soon. 
 Meanwhile she would sleep. — And so I left her. 
 
 “ I sprang into a cab, that took me to the bank and 
 back again in less than an hour. As I entered the hotel 
 again, full of anxious thoughts, the porter handed me the 
 key of our room, saying that Madame had gone out on an 
 errand. But she had not intended to deceive me b}^ this 
 message. On the table in our room I found a sealed letter 
 which, as I had long feared, contained a farewell. She 
 thanked me with the most touching tenderness for all I 
 had been to her and would ever continue to be. Our chil- 
 dren however, if God were willing to vouchsafe to us a 
 substitute for the child who had been torn from our arms, 
 would be branded because of their mother’s 3^011 th, and the 
 curse clung to her. The gentlemen who had recognized 
 her at dinner had annoyed her with their attentions some 
 years before in Brussels, and while I was gone, she had 
 heard the servant-girls in the court openl}^ talking about 
 the lady up stairs being a rope-dancer. It was decided now. 
 She was going to return to God’s protection. He in His 
 merc}^ would not reject her. She asked me to pra}^ for her, . 
 as she w^ould pra}" for me and for her child eveiy da}' of her 
 life. It would be in vain however, to look for her. The 
 letter ended with a wonderful blending of the most pious 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 61 
 
 blessings and the most glowing protestations of love. I 
 jpiit it into my pocket and with iniseiy and death in my 
 heart, rushed out into the city, went up one street and 
 down another, staring in at every window, knocking at the 
 gate of every church and ever}" convent, until at midnight 
 I sank down like a drunken man in a little coffee house in 
 the outskirts of the city and lay there until morning. 
 
 “Two 3"ears have passed since that unhappy da}", 
 during which time I have not known whether she was alive 
 or dead. To this day I cannot understand how she could 
 have succeeded in so completely obliterating every trace of 
 herself and eluding the desperate search which I instituted 
 for her. After that I wandered aimlessly around, roamed 
 through Bohemia, Hungary and Lombardy, went rushing 
 suddenly to Mayence, impelled by some delusive presenti- 
 ment, and then, hearing no tidings of her there, I went 
 down the Rhine to the northern coast of Holland. With 
 what emotions I beheld again the banks of the Rhine and 
 the little Auntagers’ villages that had once sheltered our 
 dawning happiness ! I thought I learned then for the first 
 time through my sorrow how precious she had been to me. 
 Tlie thought that I had been depriA^ed of my wife, not 
 through death which God sends, but because of a Avillful 
 delusion, and that perhaps she herself in her conA^ent-cell 
 had already realized how deeply and wickedly she had de- 
 frauded us both of our sacred right to happiness, now, 
 when no repentance could restore her to me — this thought 
 lay upon my breast like a nightmare and weakened all my 
 vital powers. 
 
 “So I am eternally grateful to you,” said my friend, 
 turning to me and putting his arm around me as we 
 walked, “for dragging me out of my living torn!) and bring- 
 ing me into this region, where the clouds are breaking OA"er 
 my head and the sky ought to clear, though it Avill hence- 
 
62 
 
 MARIA PRANCISCA. 
 
 forth remain dark and sunless. Since I know that she is 
 dead, the thought of her has lost its keenest sting, and I 
 can hope that the wound in my heart will heal in the 
 course of years. Whether I shall become a happ}' man 
 again — God knows ! 
 
 “ Even the hardened sinner Caiiuccio is no longer the 
 same man and told me in his own rude way that the fate 
 of the unfortunate woman pursued him like a shadow. 
 He had scarcely recognized her with her eyes so dim 
 and her lips so pale. She looked at him like a saint. I 
 could only ascertain from him by degrees how it all had 
 come about, for he could not stop sounding her praises. 
 At the time he came in pursuit of us, it was true, his heart 
 contained nothing but rage and jealousy, and he could 
 have strangled her without a scruple simply to snatch her 
 awa}" from me. Through the boatman who saw her make 
 that spring from the skiff to the shore he learned the road 
 we had taken. It had occurred to him then that a girl ' 
 might be concealed in the painter’s costume and on his 
 return home he had related the odd incident. After being 
 wounded, Carluccio had to give up the idea of following 
 us any further. And when he at length reached Duessel- 
 dorf again, old Eberti was already too deeply iin^olved in | 
 his villainous scheme, for him not to think first of all of i 
 his own safety. So they escaped to Poland, the boy died - 
 on the road, and the rest kept on in the old way. But ; 
 even in Poland they could not remain undisco^^ered. AVher- 
 ever they went they read published descriptions of them- 
 selves to aid in their detection, and one day Carluccio 
 secretly took his departure and b}" means of his deviltries 
 made his way to the Crimea. The ground there was ripe 
 for him on account of the war. He brought his manifold 
 talents into play as sutler, spy and clown, and, as he said, 
 always kept carefully beyond the range of shots. In spite * 
 
MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 63 
 
 of this however, one da}- a Eussian ball reached further 
 than he had calculated. When he opened his e^^es again 
 in the hospital, they were met by a sight that made him 
 wonder in his weak condition whether he were awake or 
 had come to himself in the next world. A sister of charity 
 was standing by his bedside renewing the bandage on his 
 arm. He could not speak to her till the next day and ask 
 her if it were she. She laid her finger on her lips and did 
 not come near him again. He learned from others that 
 she was called Sister Maria, that she tended the wounded 
 indefatigably and shared the privations of camp-life with- 
 out a murmur. He saw her afterward now and then from 
 a distance, but her severe look and the consciousness of 
 how much wrong he had committed against her in days 
 gone by, restrained him from approaching her. 
 
 “One evening however, after a terrible fight, as he 
 was walking along thoughtlessly between the ambulances, 
 and helping now and then to lift up some wounded man, 
 he reached a slight elevation, which had been for a time 
 the central point of the battle, until the Russians had been 
 obliged to withdraw nearer to the city. There lay the dead 
 and wounded thickly strewn together. But among the 
 weapons and uniforms the Italian’s keen eye recognized 
 the black and white habit of a sister of charity, who had 
 arrived upon this fatal spot sooner than the army phy- 
 sicians. Now however, she lay motionless with the rest, 
 shot in the breast by a stray bullet. Carluccio lifted the 
 veil that had fallen over her face. Then he recognized her 
 and the sudden sight gave him a fearful shock. As the 
 cool air touched her face she opened her eyes once more. 
 He bent over her and called her by name. She made an 
 effort to move. But only the soul within her was still 
 active. The golden cross hung at her throat ; she looked 
 at it and said : ‘ Take it to my husband, Carluccio. Tell 
 
64 
 
 MARIA TRANCISCA. 
 
 him* good-bye for me. He’ — At that moment a priest 
 drew near with the sacrament. She was still able to fold 
 her hands over her bosom and receive the communion. 
 Then she breathed her last. 
 
 “ That night the poor fellow dug a grave for her with 
 his own hands, and laid her in it. He then removed the 
 cross from her neck, kissed it and sat the whole night long 
 like a faithful dog upon the level grave, weeping, as he 
 told me, for the first time in his life other tears than those 
 of anger and impotent malice. As he gave me the cross, 
 which he had carefully preserved in a box by itself, he 
 begged permission to kiss it just once more. I could not 
 refuse him this. When I rose to depart, I laid a gold 
 piece upon the table ; he could not be persuaded to accept 
 it, however. Then he wanted me to promise to come again 
 and tell him more about her than I had had already com- 
 municated at his urgent request. He will wait for me 
 in vain.” 
 
INDEX TO PAGES 
 
 OF THE 
 
 “COLLECTION SCHICK,” 
 
 on which may be found the first paragraphs of each page of the 
 English Translation. 
 
 O 
 
 L’ARRABIATA. 
 
 Engl ish. 
 
 German. 
 
 English. 
 
 German. 
 
 English. 
 
 German. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 5. . . 
 
 ... 5 
 
 14. . 
 
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 23. . . 
 
 22 
 
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 24. . . 
 
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 6 
 
 16.. 
 
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 17. . 
 
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 ....8 
 
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 27. . . 
 
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 28 . . . 
 
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 11. . , 
 
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 12. . , 
 
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 21. . 
 
 . . . .19 
 
 
 
 13.. 
 
 .. ..12 
 
 22.. 
 
 ....20 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 0 
 
 
 
 
 BEPPE, THE 
 
 STAR 
 
 GAZER. 
 
 
 English, 
 
 German. 
 
 English. 
 
 German. English. 
 
 German. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 5. . 
 
 .... 5 
 
 21. . 
 
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 36. . . 
 
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 6 . . 
 
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 ....23 
 
 39. . . 
 
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 ....33 
 
 
 
INDEX TO PAGES 
 
 I ' i 
 
 OF THE I 
 
 “COLLECTION SCHICK,” j 
 
 on which may he. found the first paragraphs of each page of tlie^ 
 
 English Translation. 
 
 O 
 
 MARIA FRANCISCA. 
 
 Englisli. 
 
 German. 
 
 English. 
 
 German. 
 
 Engl ish. 
 
 German. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 5 ... 
 
 ... 5 
 
 25 . . . 
 
 . . .24 
 
 46 . . 
 
 ....48 i 
 
 G. . . 
 
 . . . G 
 
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 7 . . . 
 
 ... 7 
 
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 ... 9 
 
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 IG. . . 
 
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 86 . . . 
 
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 17 ... 
 
 ...16 
 
 87 . . . 
 
 ...34 
 
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 . . . ^55 
 
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 ... 17 , 
 
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 ...30 
 
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 ....50 i 
 
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 ...18 
 
 89 . . . 
 
 ... 86 
 
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 ....57 
 
 20 . . . 
 
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 40 . . . 
 
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 62 ... 
 
 ....57 J 
 
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 ...38 
 
 63 . . , 
 
 ....59 i 
 
 22 
 
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 . . . 89 
 
 64 . . , 
 
 . ... 59 i 
 
 28 . . . 
 
 . . .21 
 
 44 . . . 
 
 . . .41 
 
 
 
 24 ... 
 
 . . .23 
 
 45 ... 
 
 ...42 
 
 
 ■; 
 
r 
 
 

 I 
 
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 ] 
 

i 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 I