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 JOHN AND I.
 
 JOHN AND I. 
 
 As knightly swords, of polished grain, 
 Are proven perfect when they hend — 
 True hearts may swerve, but in the end 
 Will right themselves and win again. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1862. 
 
 The right of Translation is reserved.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY R. BORN, GLOUCESTER STREET, 
 
 REGENT'S PARK.
 
 
 JOHN AND I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It is many and many a year ago — yet how 
 well I remember it! — that journey in the 
 summer morning, through the rosy 
 orchards and green flax-fields of Wiirtem- 
 berg, till we reached its gay little capital, 
 where we stopped ; and buying seventy-five 
 plums for a penny, ate them whilst we 
 speculated on what our future might, or 
 might not, be. 
 
 My brother John was about the middle 
 
 VOL. I. b
 
 2 JOHN AND I. 
 
 height, good-natured, good-looking, with a 
 slight tinge of foppishness about him — the 
 effect partly of vanity, and partly that he 
 felt conscious of having deserved a better 
 place in the world than fate had given him; 
 consequently, by trying to impose his gen- 
 tility on everybody, he in a great measure 
 lost it. 
 
 For my own part, I have been equally 
 aware of the patch on my coat, but have 
 never had the presence of mind to put my 
 hat over it. For instance, as we were enjoy- 
 ing our pennyworth of fruit, two pretty, 
 elegant girls approached, and in the twink- 
 ling of an eye John's plums were slipped 
 into his pocket, and a pair of lemon-coloured 
 kid gloves were drawn on his hands. I, be- 
 ing admonished by his eyes, made a bungling 
 effort to dispose of mine ; but, in doing so,
 
 JOHN AND I. 3 
 
 let them fall down, to the great amusement 
 of the young ladies, and the greater morti- 
 fication of my brother. Thus it is that, 
 whenever I try to seem at all better than I 
 am, I fail miserably; but somehow John 
 always succeeds. If I had not been standing 
 by his side, he might have passed off then 
 for some wealthy young aristocrat on his 
 way to Switzerland. Unhappily, with my 
 alpaca coat, straw hat and gloveless hands, 
 I spoiled the picture. 
 
 " I say, Hendy," said my brother, " I be- 
 lieve we shall find it uncommonly jolly here — 
 only, old boy, do let me smarten you up a bit. 
 Appearance is nine-tenths of morality all 
 the world over, and you would look much 
 more like a Herr Professor, with a shining 
 black coat and decent hat. It was all very 
 well to dress in that old-fashioned, not to 
 
 B 2
 
 4 JOHN AND I. 
 
 say slovenly style, when you were an inde- 
 pendent bookworm at home ; but now that 
 you are beginning life, as it were, with my 
 reputation and success tacked to yours, it is 
 a very different thing." 
 
 Though John was my junior by seven 
 years, he had from our boyhood exercised 
 a sort of authority over me in the minor 
 matters of dress, deportment, et cetera. In 
 graver things, in every serious business or 
 emergency of life, I had that perfect control 
 over his judgment which a parent has over 
 his child's ; and I rather liked this recipro- 
 city of influence, as it equalized us. 
 
 " You are right, John, and we'll see to 
 it," I replied; " we had better now present 
 ourselves to our uncle. He won't want a 
 tutor, you know, so my dress need give me 
 no uneasiness to-day."
 
 JOHN AND I. 5 
 
 " Do you think the old boy will offer us 
 a shake-down and feed whilst we look about 
 us? He could not do less." 
 
 " That's rather a doubtful question. As 
 he is only our poor mother's half-brother, 
 and never saw her after she married, and 
 as my experience of uncles in general is not 
 favourable, I should say ' No,' John." 
 
 "Well, if everything is as cheap as plums 
 and cigars, it would not be a very great 
 stretch on his generosity. Why, Hendy, 
 one might almost live upon nothing here, 
 and yet save money out of it ! Have you 
 noticed what very round faces even the 
 pretty Stuttgard girls have ? It's a pity, as 
 rotundity is vulgarizing — they are uncom- 
 monly neat about the waist, though." 
 
 A band of tidy but juvenile soldiers were 
 playing in the square before the king's
 
 b JOHN AND I. 
 
 palace, and when avc turned into the park, 
 on our way to my uncle's residence, we 
 found the noble centre avenue gay with 
 loungers ; whilst in the narrower ones, on 
 either side, carriages, droskies, and horsemen 
 were continually passing. The fragrance of 
 the orange trees, the babbling of the ducks 
 in the cool basin, the merry parties of nurse- 
 maids and children among the royal flower- 
 beds, the contented enjoyment of the green 
 sunshiny place expressed on every face — 
 all this made a pleasant greeting to 
 strangers. It may be womanish on my part, 
 but I have a great prejudice against enter- 
 ing a new place on a rainy day ; and per- 
 haps the sunshine on this occasion brought 
 out, in no small degree, the cheerfulness 
 of the scene around us. 
 
 We soon reached my uncle's abode ; and
 
 JOHN AND I. 7 
 
 having ascended, I don't know how many 
 dozen stone steps, till the nether world 
 seemed sinking below us, at last reached a 
 glass door, having 
 
 Oberste von Blum 
 painted in red and black letters above it. 
 
 A tall lank woman, with a shiny-brown 
 face, long pig-tails hanging down her 
 back, and bearing a large water-tub on her 
 head, motioned us towards an inner room, 
 grinning silently. 
 
 It was a large apartment, communicating 
 on either side with another smaller one, the 
 doors of which stood open, and all three 
 had a sort of airy, unfurnished look, which in 
 that season of the year was grateful to the 
 senses. Evidently the centre one was the 
 drawing-room, for there were coloured glass 
 pictures hanging in the windows, a little
 
 8 JOHN AND I. 
 
 bower of wire-work covered with ivy, pots 
 of fig and orange trees, fanciful corner- 
 pieces of worsted embroidery fixed on the 
 walls, some imposing family portraits, and 
 numerous walnut-wood stands of china 
 figures and ornaments. Of the two other 
 rooms we could see nothing but high fold- 
 ing-screens, which were evidently there for 
 the purpose of converting them into sitting- 
 rooms in the day-time. From one of these 
 my uncle immediately came forth and re- 
 ceived us with a kindly, old-fashioned court- 
 liness, worthy of the Colonel von Blum. 
 He was a fine old man, about seventy, 
 portly, erect and ruddy, with black hair 
 and mustaches, which I could not help 
 suspecting of dye, wearing a stiff blue 
 neckcloth relieved by a gold brooch, and a 
 tight-fitting surtout, so tight, indeed, that it
 
 JOHN AND I. V 
 
 must have been made years before, without 
 any allowance for the chances of corpu- 
 lency — yet it was not shabby. 
 
 " My dear nephews," he said, holding a 
 hand of each, after having kissed us affec- 
 tionately, " though poor Sophie married an 
 Englishman, and never visited her native 
 country after, I feel that you are of our 
 blood, and bid you hearty welcome. Sit 
 down." 
 
 The mention of my mother, and the« 
 meeting with one who had played with her, 
 and loved her, when both were happy little 
 children " in the sweet primrose season of 
 their youth," had made my smoked specta- 
 cles smokier still; but John, who could not 
 remember her much, and who, though of a 
 very passionate, loving nature, was less im- 
 pressed by bye-gone sorrows than myself,
 
 10 JOHN AND I. 
 
 stroked his mustaches and asked care- 
 lessly : — 
 
 " I hope my aunt and cousins are well, 
 sir?" 
 
 "My wife and youngest daughter Sophie 
 are quite well, and are preparing the dinner, 
 but will have the pleasure of greeting you 
 in half-an -hour's time; Ottilie, the second, is 
 staying with her sister, who is married to 
 the Colonel von Rau, and is residing at 
 Tubingen; Emilie, the eldest, is married to 
 the Councillor Hauf, and lives in this town. 
 They, with their families, are well." 
 
 " That's a fortunate thing," rejoined 
 John; "well, uncle, is there any chance of 
 our getting on here? We are preciously 
 short of cash." 
 
 "Your father died in rather reduced 
 circumstances ? " said the Colonel, looking
 
 JOHN AND I. 11 
 
 at me in a nervous way; "so your letter 
 said, nephew Henderson." 
 
 "My father was one of the unluckiest 
 men in the world," I replied. " He was, as 
 you know, a banker, and as successful and 
 popular as any man in England. Unfor- 
 tunately he began to speculate, and in these 
 speculations got mixed up with a set of 
 men whom he trusted, but who proved to 
 be the very reverse of honest or prudent. 
 They were ruined, and with them fell, not 
 only the fortunes, but the credit of those 
 who had so blindly hazarded them. My 
 father died almost broken-hearted. He had 
 not the courage to begin life anew, and 
 never forgave himself that he had brought 
 us up to no profession." 
 
 "It was mistaken kindness on his part, 
 no doubt. Poor man ! " said the Colonel 
 sadly.
 
 12 JOHN AND I. 
 
 " Yes, my father meant it kindly," an- 
 swered John, with an unusual seriousness 
 on his face; "but it seems rather hard to 
 us now, uncle, when we have grown up 
 with the idea that we were to be independent, 
 to find ourselves without a profession, or a 
 penny, and with a disgraced name." 
 
 "And what are your plans for the fu- 
 ture? " asked my uncle; "have you capital 
 enough to set up a small school ? English 
 education is much sought after here." 
 
 John shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Hendy would make a very good school- 
 master — I should not." 
 
 " And what would you do for ? " said my 
 uncle, taking a pinch of snuff, and looking 
 very doubtful whether to smile or not. 
 
 " I'm sure I've not the least idea. Hen- 
 dy, what can I do? "
 
 JOHN AND I. 1 3 
 
 "My brother is master of several lan- 
 guages, and could fill the situation of corre- 
 sponding clerk in a mercantile house, sir — " 
 
 " That I never could, Hendy," said John 
 in an undertone, and making a grimace as 
 if he had just swallowed a dose of quinine; 
 " the monotony would kill me." 
 
 "He is also an excellent musician," I 
 continued stolidly, "and a respectable artist." 
 
 " In fact, a sort of universal genius, 
 Uncle Blum, and not over-fond of work: 
 It is of no use to deny the fact. I wish I 
 were a steady-going, learned Dr. Johnson 
 like Henderson — but to every Johnson 
 there must be a Bozzy, and if I was born 
 with a sieve in my head instead of a strong 
 box, I can't help it." 
 
 My uncle laughed outright, but, seeing 
 that John was really in a serious mood,
 
 14 JOHN AND I. 
 
 patted him on the shoulder and said en- 
 couragingly : — 
 
 " Your brother, I suspect, is more to be 
 trusted regarding your capabilities. I 
 really think you two young men might 
 do very well here. You had better for the 
 present content yourselves with situations 
 as private tutors, and by-and-bye something 
 better may be done." 
 
 Here the door was slightly rapped, and a 
 red-faced servant-maid bearing a huge white 
 bundle on her head came in. 
 
 " Does the Fraulein want a dress, or a 
 scarf, or a mantelette this morning ? " she 
 asked; "there will not be such another 
 chance before the Festival, and my mistress 
 says she has never had a handsomer lot 
 during all the years she has been Her Ma- 
 jesty's lady's-maid."
 
 JOHN AND I. 15 
 
 My uncle rose, and, bidding her place the 
 bundle on the table in the adjoining room, 
 watched every article as it was taken out 
 with eager interest. 
 
 A heavy brocaded silk, a black-ribbed morn- 
 ing dress, thickly trimmed with velvet, were 
 laid aside as too matronly for the Fraulein 
 Sophie ; but a glittering fabric of pale blue 
 and gold, so intermixed that it looked like 
 the sea in full sunlight, called forth an ex- 
 clamation of delight and admiration from 
 the Colonel. 
 
 u How much is this ? " he asked directly. 
 
 "Thirty-six gulden, Herr Oberste, and 
 was only worn by the Queen during a 
 week's visit she paid to her sister in the 
 spring." 
 
 He held it up to the light for a few 
 minutes contemplatively, repeating "wun-
 
 16 JOHN AND I. 
 
 derschon!" (superbly beautiful!) to himself. 
 
 " If your mistress will take thirty gulden 
 my daughter shall have it. What else have 
 you?" 
 
 " A black lace scarf, Herr Oberste — best 
 lace, and just suitable to wear with the blue 
 silk dress, at twenty -four gulden : a French 
 parasol in flowered silk and white lining, at 
 twelve gulden — a berthe in real Mechlin, at 
 the same. That is all." 
 
 " I think the dress is the only likely 
 thing. The parasol is pretty, but too dear, 
 and the other articles are not wanted. Will 
 you ask the Fraulein to fit it on? You 
 will find her in the kitchen, or in her bed- 
 room." 
 
 The girl having replaced the rejected 
 vanities in her packing-cloth, and folded 
 the selected one temptingly outside, wished
 
 JOHN AND I. 17 
 
 us all " Guten Appetit," and disappeared. 
 We resumed our conversation, but before 
 ten minutes had elapsed the door was 
 suddenly opened, and a pretty, fresh, dark- 
 haired girl burst in. Her plump, youthful 
 figure was arrayed in the sheeny royal robe 
 we had just before lost sight of, and looked 
 in it almost as out of place as a daisy in a 
 hot-house. Seeing us, she stood irresolute 
 on the threshold, growing rosier every mo- 
 ment with vexed confusion ; but my uncle 
 took her by the hand and introduced us. 
 She went through the ceremony very shyly, 
 and then childishly whispered : — 
 
 " Papa, I want you in the next room." 
 And thither the Colonel followed her, 
 stroking her red cheeks laughingly. A long 
 and animated dialogue took place. 
 
 "See, papachen" (I do so love those 
 vol. i. C
 
 18 JOHN AND I. 
 
 pretty German diminutives), said Sophie, 
 coaxingly, " what a lovely dress it is, and so 
 much too long for me that there will be 
 stuff enough to make a new top when this 
 one is worn out. Why, the dress will last 
 me no end of time ! And it will not want 
 very much alteration — a little taking in at 
 the waist and shoulders, a little shortening 
 of the sleeves ; fancy, papachen, my figure 
 being so nearly like the queen's ! You will 
 let me have it, won't you ? and I will take 
 it this very day to Heinrich Haugh to have 
 it altered." 
 
 "Thirty-six gulden is a great deal of mo- 
 ney," replied the Colonel; "and I am not 
 certain whether we can get it for less. 
 Thirty-six gulden is a good deal out of 
 ninety-six,* and you know, my dear, that is 
 
 * Eight pounds.
 
 JOHN AND I. 19 
 
 to be your allowance, as it is your sister s. 
 What else do you think you will want this 
 year r 
 
 " Hardly anything, papa. Oh, yes, I 
 shall want some ribbon for my hat, a thick 
 petticoat for the winter, and a pair of 
 woollen shoes, but positively nothing else, 
 and these will cost very little." 
 
 "The petticoat will be ten gulden if 
 you have one like your mama's," observed 
 my uncle. 
 
 " Oh, no, I shall not have one so good. 
 Eight gulden will buy a very nice grey one, 
 like OttihVs." 
 
 " But you must not expect another silk 
 dress for two years at least, Sophiechen 
 — in fact, not till you are married, I 
 think?" 
 
 At which the Colonel laughed ; and 
 
 c2
 
 20 JOHN AND I. 
 
 Sophie, taking this, I suppose, as a consent, 
 flew past us like a scared young partridge. 
 We did not see her again till she came 
 to lay the cloth for the twelve o'clock din- 
 ner, to which my uncle had cordially in- 
 vited us. She was dressed very differently 
 then, and in a manner much more suited to 
 her girlish simplicity. She had on a skirt 
 of very fine ribbed cotton, with a white 
 ground and tiny bunches of violets and 
 forget-me-nots sprinkled over it ; and a full 
 white cambric bodice, or, as ladies say, 
 top, tied at the waist and wrists with violet- 
 coloured ribbons. Her hair, which was 
 superbly luxuriant and glossy, with a glos- 
 siness that was nature and not art, was 
 brushed off her clear, white forehead, and 
 braided in wide circles on either side of her 
 pretty round head.
 
 JOHN AND I. 21 
 
 With the dinner came my aunt, a brisk, 
 sharp-faced, talkative little lady, with the 
 pleasantest face and the neatest figure in 
 the world. She was pleased to find we 
 could speak German, and asked us ques- 
 tions without end. 
 
 John seemed to get most of her sym- 
 pathy, because, I suppose, he was the 
 younger and better-looking ; for, in spite of 
 John Wilke's well-known assertion to the 
 contrary, I have found all my life long that 
 good looks are a letter of recommendation, 
 needing no translation, all the world over — 
 especially with women. 
 
 The dinner was short, simple, and unce- 
 remonious. I, who am no epicure, and, I 
 think, must have come into the world with 
 a less susceptible palate than most people, 
 managed very well to satisfy my hunger
 
 22 JOHN AND I. 
 
 with the black bread, soup, oleaginous hen- 
 stew, and sugary, floury composition of peas 
 and French beans, even before the pancakes 
 came on. But John, after many vigorous 
 attempts, gave it up in despair, and ac- 
 counted for his want of appetite by the 
 fact that he had a toothache; seeing the 
 pancakes, however, he immediately recol- 
 lected that they were the only things he 
 could eat when so suffering, at which little 
 Sophie's bright eyes fixed sympathetically 
 on him, and she refused any herself. 
 
 "Why, Sophiechen," said her father, 
 good-humouredly, "you said only the other 
 day you liked them better than anything, 
 and we have them so seldom ! " 
 
 She blushed painfully, and stammered 
 something about not being hungry, but the 
 Colonel was unfortunately obtuse, and per- 
 sisted :
 
 JOHN AND I. 23 
 
 "And you thought Cousin John must be 
 hungry, wasn't that it ? " 
 
 At which she blushed deeper still, but 
 John adroitly turned the conversation into 
 another channel ; and soon, the cloth being 
 removed, we went into the garden. 
 
 Why it should be called a garden, I do 
 not know, for it was only a strip of turf at 
 the back of the house, divided from the large 
 orchard adjoining, by a low fence, and 
 shaded by a pear-tree. To reach it we had' 
 to pass through an objectionable little yard, 
 which seemed to be the old bottle, wood, 
 ashes, and general rubbish receptacle of the 
 six families inhabiting the dwelling. Im- 
 mediately beyond this was a real garden, that 
 is to say, a small enclosure, laid out very 
 formally in beds of German asters, and 
 chrysanthemums, but without any notion
 
 24 JOHN AND I. 
 
 of gardening, since the prevailing idea 
 appeared to be, to get the greatest number 
 of flowers in the smallest possible space. 
 There were also unpleasant little refuse 
 heaps in the corners, spoiling whatever 
 effect might otherwise have been gained by 
 so startling a show of colour. An effemi- 
 nate-looking man, with long silky brown 
 locks, and dressed in a loose suit of pink 
 and brown plaid, was pruning among the 
 flowers. He greeted us with a lazy stare, 
 but made no signs of recognition. 
 
 " That is Count Cress, the house-owner," 
 said my uncle with a sly wink, and placing 
 his forefinger alongside his nose (which I 
 afterwards discovered to be an infallible sign 
 of facetiousness), "a particular friend of 
 mine. See how carefully he attends to his 
 garden; but he keeps the enjoyment of it to 
 himself."
 
 JOHN AND I. 25 
 
 We now seated ourselves around a deal 
 table beneath the pear-tree; my aunt busied 
 herself in winding silk on an intricate 
 machine, something like a miniature briareus 
 of a windmill, and Sophie began knitting 
 vigorously at a grey-worsted stocking. The 
 Colonel produced some cigars and pears 
 from his pocket, which were soon disposed 
 of; and then after a long pinch of snuff he 
 said, with the air of a man who had made 
 up his mind, 
 
 " Well, nephews, till you meet with suit- 
 able occupations, I suppose you would wish 
 for comfortable board and lodging, without 
 going to the expense of an hotel. My wife 
 and I have talked it over for some days 
 past, and have come to the conclusion that 
 as we have a spare bed-room just now we 
 can offer it to you."
 
 26 JOHN AND I. 
 
 "That is very kind; indeed, sir, we do not 
 wish to put you to any inconvenience," said 
 John. 
 
 " It is quite a chance that we are so 
 situated," pursued my uncle; "for we have 
 hitherto let it to a young gentleman, who 
 had no other vice but that he could not pay 
 his rent, and in consequence of this weigh- 
 ins: on his mind, he would lie awake at 
 night and groan so terribly that I don't 
 know which was hardest to bear, the groans 
 or the loss of the money. About a week 
 before every quarter-day the groaning would 
 commence, and though we pitied him a 
 good deal, and took off several gulden, we 
 could not do it as a principle, and gave him 
 up at last. But you, my dear nephews, I 
 feel sure will not keep Sophie awake by 
 your groans, or me waiting for my money.
 
 JOHN AND I. 27 
 
 There are two beds in the room, and I trust 
 you will find it comfortable." 
 
 " Oh ! never fear, uncle," I exclaimed, 
 "we are but too grateful for your kindness 
 in offering it." 
 
 " I shall only charge you the same amount 
 as I did the young gentleman, viz., ten 
 gulden a week, which will include bed-linen 
 and towels for both, coffee in the morning 
 and supper at night. You can easily get 
 dinner in the town for thirty kreutzers each, 
 and we shall always expect you as visitors 
 on Sundays, when we do not go into the 
 country. I am sorry, nephews, that I can- 
 not do more for poor Sophie's children, but 
 when a man has to give allowance to two 
 married daughters out of his income, he 
 cannot be generous if he would. I can only 
 say that I am very glad to see you, and 
 wish you success."
 
 28 JOHN AND I. 
 
 We thanked him cordially, at which his 
 eyes moistened, and he kissed us both. 
 Then, as if to cheer our spirits, and make 
 all things pleasant, he sent Sophie in for a 
 bottle of Neckar wine, which looked very 
 red and luscious, but proved to be a delusion 
 and a snare; and because of its dire effects 
 upon myself and poor brother John, was 
 not soon forgotten. 
 
 By-and-bye a friend or two joined us 
 — old military companions of the Colonel — 
 coffee was brought, and conversation be- 
 came very animated. The principal topics 
 were the movements of the royal family of 
 Wurtemberg, the fruit crops, the minor 
 political matters of Europe, and the daily 
 gossip of the little capital. I was amazed 
 to see what an amount of argumentation 
 and interest could be bestowed on the mer-
 
 JOHN AND I. 29 
 
 est minutiae of domestic life ; but John 
 entered at once into the spirit of the talkers, 
 and soon made a most favourable impression 
 on the new-comers. His ready wit and ver- 
 satile powers, combined with his good looks 
 and genuine good-heartedness, were already 
 winning him friends, as they had done from 
 boyhood. 
 
 " Well, Hendy," he said at night, as we re- 
 tired to rest, "I don't think it will do at all." 
 
 " What won't do?" 
 
 " Anything and everything. Why, the 
 grass will soon grow in our brains in this 
 sleepy country, if it does not first grow 
 over my grave — which it certainly will, if 
 I drink any more Neckar wine. And then, 
 to give music-lessons for eighteen pence an 
 hour, as my uncle proposes ! Oh ! Hendy, 
 Hendy, it will be a mean, despicable, weari-
 
 30 JOHN AND I. 
 
 some life ! — I cannot bear to think of it. 
 I would rather dig for gold in Australia, or 
 clear a forest in the backwoods — " 
 
 "No work is mean or despicable if the 
 worker is honest," I said; "and I am far 
 from thinking that our proposed occupa- 
 tions as tutors, or clerks, will bring us dis- 
 credit here, where there is no aristocracy of 
 wealth, and no hedges set up between fifty 
 kinds of respectability. Be plucky, John, 
 and look on the sunny side of things. Here, 
 at least, no one will turn a cold shoulder 
 upon us because we are our father's sons. 
 There's a good deal of comfort in that." 
 
 "If it weren't for you, Hendy, I should 
 turn vagabond, I verily believe," he said 
 sadly; "old fellow, am I worth all the 
 trouble you take to keep me from it ? " 
 
 " No, John, not at all. Good night."
 
 JOHN AND I. 31 
 
 By-and-bye he addressed me in a differ- 
 ent strain. 
 
 "I say, Hendy, what do you think of the 
 Sophiechen? Her nose is pretty, but her 
 cheeks are too broad and Suabian for 
 beauty — and then she has nothing to say for 
 herself. I can see she is a coquette though, 
 for all her shyness." 
 
 " Sophie a coquette ! I cannot think it." 
 
 "Wait and see. Did you not notice 
 what a trick she has of letting her hair all 
 down, to show it off? But you know, 
 Hendy, you were always the dullest of 
 beings with women. Good night.
 
 32 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I was awakened next morning by a loud 
 knock at the door, at which, thinking I had 
 greatly overslept myself, I jumped out of 
 bed and opened it. I found, however, no 
 hot water as I expected, but a small tray, 
 on which were two cups of coffee, without 
 saucers, and two rolls of light puffy bread. 
 As it was nearly eight o'clock, and I knew 
 my uncle's household to be a very early 
 one, I imagined this unceremonious break-
 
 JOHN AND I. 33 
 
 fast came as a hint that we were too late for 
 the family meal. 
 
 However, having risen on other occasions 
 at a very early hour, and still receiving the 
 same treatment, I discovered that it was 
 the customary dejeuner, and etiquette. 
 
 At ten o'clock we always found bread 
 and fruit on the dining-room table, and 
 sometimes Sophie and my aunt were there 
 to partake it with us, but not often. We 
 seldom had more than glimpses of them 
 in the morning, when my aunt would be 
 habited in a loose cotton wrapper, and 
 Sophie in a holland dress, like a pinafore, 
 in which she looked more youthful still. 
 After dinner we sat out of doors, and 
 though Sophie was still shy, she left off 
 blushing when we addressed her, and co- 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 JOHN AND I. 
 
 quetted a good deal, John said, though I 
 could not see it. 
 
 As to my uncle, it was marvellous to see 
 how he frittered away his time in a con- 
 tinued state of interest and bustle about 
 the management of other people's affairs. 
 That he sometimes took an immense deal of 
 pains to infinitely small purpose I could see 
 daily, but it was a great comfort that the 
 importance of every occurrence rose in 
 exact proportion to the share he had 
 taken in it. Such men stand the best 
 chance in the world of being happy, since, 
 if they do not turn everything they touch 
 into gold like Midas, they at least turn it 
 into a subject of self-con gratulation, which is 
 more nearly allied to cheerfulness than gold 
 will ever be. 
 
 Consequently, my uncle was never so
 
 JOHN AND I. 35 
 
 blithe as when seeking apartments for a 
 friend, or squabbling with the Count — and at 
 these times he was sure to be amiable abroad, 
 and easy to be pleased at home. If, however, 
 he had no negociations in hand, no petites 
 affaires de guerre, he was irritable in the 
 extreme as to the manner and matter of his 
 meals, sometimes violently passionate even ; 
 and then my aunt, Sophie, and Rosele the 
 maid, would be vexed and quiet, for they 
 all held him in great awe. On the third 
 morning after our arrival, I was aware of 
 some unusual commotion in the house. 
 Rosele was in constant service as bearer of 
 messages to the tenants of the stories above 
 and below, and though she was as silent as 
 ever, she grinned in a manner expressive of 
 enjoyment, and her large dull eyes, though 
 they had no light to sparkle in them, 
 
 D 2
 
 30 JOHN AND I. 
 
 winked with quite as much effect. My 
 nunt's step and voice did double duty, and 
 she now and then kept disappearing behind 
 some neighbour's curtained glass door, 
 whilst the Colonel chuckled, and, with his 
 finger laid across his nose, took more snuff 
 than ever — and there was peace in the 
 house. 
 
 John and I were occupied the greater 
 part of the day in making use of some 
 letters of introduction we had brought with 
 us from one good old friend in England, 
 the only man who had stood up fearlessly 
 to defend our father's name, and had openly 
 owned friendship for his sons. When we 
 returned about six o'clock, we found the 
 sitting-room a very animated seat of Con- 
 gress in miniature — and being invited in, 
 learned the matter of discussion.
 
 JOHN AND I. 37 
 
 My uncle sat at the table evidently as 
 President of the Diet, and was listening 
 with the utmost interest to a tall, lanky, 
 and somewhat eccentric but highly esti- 
 mable elderly woman, who filled the place 
 of house-assistant to a young married cou- 
 ple residing in the third story, and who, as 
 her mistress was too young and timid, re 
 presented her political opinions. Her name 
 was Frederika, abbreviated to the short and 
 inharmonious Ricky, by which she was always 
 called ; and as there was something in the 
 sound of it which implied dilapidation of 
 what was once sound, and a general falling 
 off from former greenness, it seemed certainly 
 applicable. She was gaunt, with an un- 
 usual prominence of knuckle, as though 
 her bones had been fighting all her life to 
 get the mastery of her flesh, and, having
 
 38 JOHN AND I. 
 
 done so, let you know it with distorted 
 grins of satisfaction. Her grey hair was 
 brushed off her face and twisted in a tight 
 knot at the back of her head, to make it as 
 little of an ornament as possible ; and her 
 face, which perhaps in youth had been 
 neither unkindly nor ill -looking, was so 
 flattened and worn by labour, that it had 
 lost all other individuality, like a penny- 
 piece. She was dressed in a scant brown 
 skirt and nankeen jacket, over which was 
 pinned a yellow silk handkerchief, and 
 stood at the head of the table gesticulating 
 and haranguing in the shrillest Suabish 
 German, an odd figure of an orator. Her 
 speech had certainly not much logic in it, 
 and she had a strange incapability of seeing 
 the true relations of things ; but she was 
 fluent, which often covers both these faults
 
 JOHN AND I. 39 
 
 in more gifted speakers, and if she lacked 
 wit she had abundance of animation. 
 
 "If he thinks he is going to frighten me 
 from shaking my carpets out of the window, 
 he is as much mistaken as the man who sold 
 his cow" — (some mythological Suabish al- 
 lusion I cannot explain, and doubt whether 
 she could have done so herself) — "as if there 
 was dust enough to hurt his trumpery 
 flowers, which came every one of them from 
 Carlsruhe ! i Holy Mother !' was there ever 
 such a man? I should like to hear him say 
 ' dirty lodgers,' again — but he said it — he 
 did say it, Herr Oberste ; and though he is 
 the son of a Prince, which I don't believe, 
 if he ever says it again I'll give him an 
 answer. If it rains three days before and 
 three days after, I'll give him an answer. 
 Christine Hermann may be called guadige
 
 40 JOHN AND I. 
 
 Frau* by a Queen in her carriage, but she 
 won't be called so by me. I'll never believe 
 the Count is married to her, not if he told 
 me so till he was hungry; and if he is, much 
 luck may she have with a man who spends 
 all his days fiddling after flowers, and wears 
 pink trowsers loose enough to get his body 
 in." 
 
 " Married or not married to Christine 
 Hermann, he shall be taught to let his 
 tenants alone," said the Colonel; u he shall 
 leave us alone!" he continued vigorously, 
 striking his fist on the table, "or we'll leave 
 the house — your mistress will leave the 
 house, Ricky — and you, Frau Sax— and 
 you, Professor Grelinger — we'll all leave at 
 Martini, and go where we may shake our 
 rugs out of the only window there is for 
 
 * Gracious lady.
 
 JOHN AND I. 41 
 
 the purpose, without spoiling such beautiful 
 flowers. 1 ' 
 
 This last touch of sarcasm met with hearty 
 laughter and applause. 
 
 " And where the landlord is married to 
 the landlady without any doubts on the 
 subject," added the Frau Sax, a quiet 
 matronly lady; "if it were not for you, Herr 
 Oberste, we should have left long ago; only 
 it is not pleasant to change lodgings, and 
 with such a gentleman in the house, we al- 
 ways seem safe from all troubles and respon- 
 sibility, as my husband says." 
 
 At this the Colonel laid his hand on his 
 heart and bowed benignly. 
 
 " But I do think that Count Cress and 
 Fraulein Hermann must be married," said 
 Professor Grelinger, a man whose entire life 
 had been devoted to the study of Substan-
 
 42 JOHN AND I. 
 
 tives, without, I was sorry to learn, any very 
 solid reward, "or he would never live 
 in the same house with her, under the very 
 eyes of the Court." 
 
 " Remember it is not his Court. His 
 father is a Bavarian Prince, and in the 
 service of King Max," replied my uncle; 
 "the story goes, that he has forbidden 
 his son's marriage, under the threat of 
 disinheritance; and that the Count only 
 waits till his father dies, to marry 
 Fraulein Hermann, or proclaim the mar- 
 riage — if it has already taken place. But 
 against her I have nothing to say ; she is 
 never disagreeable or interfering, unless 
 the Count puts her up to it, and I only wish 
 he would leave us in her hands. However, 
 as you have all placed this matter with 
 me, I shall take the earliest opportunity
 
 JOHN AND I. 43 
 
 of meeting the Count, and coming to a 
 clear understanding. We will either 
 shake the dust off our carpets in peace, 
 or leave at Martini." 
 
 The assembly then broke up. My aunt 
 and Sophie had tea, as was their custom, to 
 which John and I were invited, being of 
 English, ergo tea-drinking habits ; but in 
 this meal the Colonel never joined, being 
 usually absent at his club. To-night, 
 however, he was too high-spirited and 
 excited at the anticipated meeting with 
 his antagonist, to think of anything else. 
 Accordingly he sat down with us, and 
 imagined, with much exactness, the forth- 
 coming conversation, taking care to give 
 the Count all the silly speeches, and to 
 reserve the wit and cutting epigram to 
 himself.
 
 44 JOHN AND I. 
 
 It chanced, however, that I was witness 
 of the entire little scene, and found that 
 if my uncle had not perspectively turned 
 the tables, he had at least put them 
 considerably awry. Our bed-room looked 
 towards the back of the house, and 
 directly over the patch of flower-garden, 
 which had been throughout the qucestio 
 vexata. Consequently, as I was read- 
 ing there, later in the evening, I 
 saw my uncle approach the garden 
 gate, and make his most ceremonious 
 military salute to Count Cress, who was 
 watering his flowers. The latter looked up, 
 and returned it stiffly, meeting the Colonel's 
 malicious little smile with the most provok- 
 ing indifference. I viewed him narrowly, 
 and think I never saw so concentrated an 
 expression of indolence in any human being.
 
 JOHN AND I. 45 
 
 His long flossy hair, which looked too lazy to 
 curl, hung in waves to his throat; his green- 
 ish blue eyes had a sleepy depth in them, 
 like sea-water in a calm ; every feature of 
 his pale, fair face seemed as though its tele- 
 graphic chain to the brain had been once 
 strained too highly, and had lost its elas- 
 ticity ever since. His beard looked slowly 
 grown and slovenly cultivated. There was 
 indolence expressed even in his finger-tips, 
 which touched everything cautiously, as 
 though momentarily expectant of being 
 bitten ; and in the soft, creeping tread of 
 his feet. 
 
 " Good evening to you, Count Cress." 
 " I have the honour to wish the Herr 
 Oberste good evening. " 
 
 "I trust that we shall soon have a 
 shower to wash the dust off your flowers,"
 
 46 JOHN AND I. 
 
 said my uncle, pretending to look up on 
 the clouds in a weatherwise way, but keep- 
 ing one eye all the time on the Count, to 
 see how his stray shot should succeed. 
 
 " I trust we shall," replied the other, cut- 
 ting off a dead rose ; " it's devilishly dry ! " 
 And he turned his back to the enemy, and 
 went on with his work, humming Schubert's 
 " Song of the Swan." 
 
 " It's a pity your garden is so near the 
 house, Count." Second stray shot. 
 
 "Indeed!" Another clip, and the air 
 was changed to the " Wanderer." 
 
 This was too much for the Colonel's 
 patience. His face blazed for an instant, 
 and then he puffed out his speech, straight 
 and swift, like a cannon-ball. 
 
 " But we are not going to have our floors 
 dusty, and our lives harassed, for the sake
 
 JOHN AND I. 47 
 
 of a few worthless flowers; and if you 
 think that I, who am a Colonel, late of His 
 Majesty's cavalry, and who lost half an 
 ear in Bonaparte's service, am going to 
 sit tamely by, and have well-born ladies in- 
 sulted under the same roof, by you — you, 
 Count, who never felt the prick of a pin, 
 much less a sword running through your 
 body — you are mistaken, greatly mistaken, 
 Count, and I have come to tell you so." 
 
 "You are quite welcome to run your 
 sword through my body, if it will give you 
 any pleasure," answered the Count, in a 
 lazy drawl. " It is not the first time you 
 have expressed a wish to that effect." 
 
 " Nor will it be the last !" said my uncle 
 fiercely. " Nor will it be the last, of that I 
 am convinced, Count Cress." 
 
 " So am I, Herr Oberste, for it is oftener
 
 48 JOHN AND I. 
 
 pleasanter to talk about a thing than to do 
 it." 
 
 " You may have as many cowardly 
 scruples as you like," retorted my uncle, 
 not acknowledging the implied satire ; "I 
 have none, sir ; if I fell, I should have shed 
 my blood in the cause of misused innocence 
 — and if — if the consequences were un- 
 pleasant to yourself, I could only say it 
 would have served you right." 
 
 " You are not speaking like a gentleman, 
 Herr Oberste," said the Count, good-na- 
 turedly as ever. 
 
 u I am not speaking to a gentleman," re- 
 plied the Colonel with fierceness. 
 
 " You 're devilishly impudent!" said the 
 Count. 
 
 " I can return the compliment," said the 
 Colonel.
 
 JOHN AND I. 49 
 
 Here a female voice called from a lower 
 window " Gustave," and the Count, pocket- 
 ing his gardening knife, locked the gate, 
 and, wishing my uncle good evening, en- 
 tered the house. Soon after the Colonel 
 went in too ; and when I joined the supper- 
 table he was relating, with ineffable glee, 
 the above defeat, which he metamorphosed, 
 however, into a decided victory. Rosele, 
 who had been flirting with two soldiers in 
 the woodyard below, was called up to hear 
 the story; and the oratorical Ricky had also 
 a version of it before bed-time, fragments of 
 which she was constantly repeating to her- 
 self for days after, acting the two speakers 
 with considerable warmth of manner and 
 freedom of expression. 
 
 The next morning my uncle wrote a 
 formal note, in the name of himself and 
 
 VOL. I. e
 
 50 JOHN AND I. 
 
 the other lodgers, to say that, under the 
 circumstances, there was no course left 
 for them but to give notice to leave at 
 Martini. 
 
 The Count wrote in reply that he 
 must refer them on every occasion to 
 Fraulein Hermann, the owner of the 
 house ; so the matter rested. Carpets 
 were shaken ad libitum, and the Colonel was 
 triumphant. As to Count Cress, he 
 gardened as much as ever, and was al- 
 ways either trimming flowers or singing 
 duets with his wife. She was a hand- 
 some woman, about thirty, with a fine, 
 highly-cultivated voice, which had been 
 formerly in the service of the Court 
 opera-house; and a striking figure, al- 
 ways habited in the costliest, though 
 not always the tastefulest, costume. Her
 
 JOHN AND I. 51 
 
 manners, however, were quiet and unob- 
 trusive, and I was pleased to see that 
 my uncle, in spite of the unkind reports 
 about her marriage, always treated her 
 with the utmost reverence and politeness. 
 He was a good chivalric old fellow, 
 after all. 
 
 e 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 IWVFRSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A week passed, and we had as yet ob- 
 tained no employment, though I spent 
 every day in wearisome applications at 
 schools and mercantile offices. From 
 these John had generally begged off. 
 He was too proud and high-spirited to 
 solicit a favour of anyone, and had not 
 yet received that experience which comes 
 with years, teaching us the differ- 
 ence between servility and self-help,
 
 JOHN AND I. 53 
 
 between unreal and real independence. 
 I would rather have stood in the square 
 at Stuttgart, asking every passer - by, 
 " Give me work," than have run into 
 debt with my good-natured but not 
 over-rich uncle. Therefore I persevered 
 with a brute-like stolidity, resolving to 
 succeed at last. For this superabundance 
 of iron in my nature I take no credit 
 to myself. I do not know whether it is 
 a human virtue even, since this very 
 quality is shown in universal biography 
 to have been quite as often the secret 
 of the deepest evil as of the truest, un- 
 limited good. In the case of a book- 
 loving, unambitious man like myself, who 
 have lived, as it were, out of harm's 
 way, and in the reach only of mediocre 
 vices and virtues, this same innate power
 
 54 JOHN AND I. 
 
 of subserving the intention to the ful- 
 filment, has, I thank God for it, made 
 my life better and happier. 
 
 One or two tutorships in schools had 
 been offered to us, but the salary was 
 so low, the hours so heavy, and the 
 living so meagre, that I had not the 
 heart to close with the principals, even 
 for a trial month. They were generally 
 good-hearted, frugal men, by no means 
 of Mr. Squeer's pattern. Having been 
 accustomed all their lives to the same 
 hard fare and daily drudgery, they saw 
 in them neither humiliation nor hard- 
 ship, and dilated on the duties required 
 with the utmost openness and since- 
 rity. 
 
 "If saur-kraut is your objection," said 
 one benevolent old gentleman to me,
 
 JOHN AND I. 55 
 
 "it is easily removed. Having had se- 
 veral English pupils of late years, we 
 have found it expedient to abolish it 
 entirely from the school-room table." 
 
 "My pupils pay two hundred and 
 forty gulden a-year " (twenty pounds), 
 said another, "and I could not afford 
 to give an English professor more than 
 that sum. I assure you in this coun 
 try it is considered fair remuneration." 
 
 But I did not allow myself to be cast 
 down. I felt assured we should succeed 
 in time, and anything was better than 
 to return to England, where white hands 
 and a tarnished name are the very 
 worst canvassers for a respectable employ- 
 ment. 
 
 Meantime John had regained his old 
 boyish exuberance of spirits, and troubled
 
 56 JOHN AND I. 
 
 himself little about either the past or 
 the future. Whilst the present was easy 
 to him he wanted nothing. Sometimes 
 this utter regardlessness to the grave re- 
 sponsibilities of a newly-begun life vexed 
 me ; but when I thought of the shadow 
 and sorrow that had passed over his 
 early manhood, I could but rejoice that 
 it was so. 
 
 At last I heard of a vacancy in a 
 mercantile house at Cannstatt (the very 
 pretty, almost suburban spa on the banks 
 of the Neckar), and set off early one 
 morning to secure it, if possible, for John 
 or myself. 
 
 "Mind and make good terms if you 
 close a bargain for me" called out my 
 brother, as he waved an adieu from the 
 garden, where he smoked a cigar, with
 
 JOHN AND I. 57 
 
 a romance of Muhlbach's in his hands. 
 I had no sooner crossed the road than 
 he was at the orchard fence vociferating 
 at the top of his voice : — 
 
 " Only from ten to four, Hendy. I 
 could not undertake closer work than 
 that, anyhow. And stand out for the 
 florins." 
 
 It was a very pretty walk to Canns- 
 tatt, lying all the way through the 
 royal park. What a pity that such a 
 park, abounding as it does in countless 
 fragmentary gardens, bosky shades, and 
 noble trees, forming I do not know how 
 many church-aisles, with the delicate fret- 
 work of their branches — what a pity 
 that all this, and so much more that 
 is pleasant to the heart, should be dis- 
 figured by the foul stream of refuse
 
 58 JOHN AND I. 
 
 which runs amid the greenery, every 
 now and then greeting your eyes and 
 nose with a most dispellent power upon 
 enjoyment. Otherwise the place is lovely. 
 There is a rusticity about the coarse long 
 grass, the wooden duck-houses, the careless 
 groups, almost tangles of flowers, which 
 contrast with the majesty — miniature, per- 
 haps, but majesty still — of the large pa- 
 lace in the distance, before which two 
 lads keep guard as sentinels; the sound 
 of the drums as the soldiers beat round 
 the town, the monster statuary, and the 
 royal equipages dashing about, rather 
 shabby in the main, but with servants 
 standing behind in grand scarlet coats, 
 like London postmen on the Queen's 
 birthday. 
 
 All this pleased me. I am fonder of
 
 JOHN AND I. 59 
 
 the homely and the humorous element 
 in life than I am of the sublime and 
 over-refined. When I state that I like 
 a country fair, and have even held up 
 a stray child or two to see Punch give 
 the final beating to his wife — that I 
 have often in the course of my ex- 
 istence made great intimacies with 
 members of the so-called Great Unwashed of 
 society, and have had reason to mistrust 
 the social arithmetic of the world in 
 consequence — I fear the reader will feel 
 that he is making a very vulgar ac- 
 quaintance. As my vulgarity, however, 
 will always be put plainly before you, 
 without any varnish or false colouring, 
 there is no chance of anyone involun- 
 tarily catching the trick of it. 
 
 I soon found the house of the mer-
 
 60 JOHN AND I. 
 
 chant to whom I had been referred, 
 and received from him a polite greet- 
 ing. He was a middle-aged, good-look- 
 ing, but heavily - formed man, who im- 
 pressed you with the idea that he had 
 all his life acted up to one great pre- 
 judice, till it had become dignified in his 
 eyes to a principle; whilst he looked 
 upon the principles of other people as 
 mere prejudices only. His opinion of the 
 English as a nation seemed to be high, 
 but as individuals low enough. My 
 face, however, was honest, he said, and 
 he thought there was good stuff 
 in me. Finally, it was settled that 
 the place of English and French cor- 
 respondent was offered to my brother 
 or myself, on condition of furnishing a 
 letter of security for our trustworthiness
 
 JOHN AND I. 61 
 
 from the Oberste Von Blum. The 
 salary was not high, but sufficient for a 
 bachelor's wants in so cheap a country, 
 and altogether I congratulated myself 
 on the affair. 
 
 I did not hurry home, but strolled round 
 the town, which is prettily situated — every 
 road leading to it, an orchard, every hill 
 round it, a vineyard. Hither, the mi- 
 neral waters of the Neckar attract crowds, 
 all through the summer months ; and as it 
 was now July, the bathing season was at its 
 height. Omnibuses and droskies were con- 
 tinually driving in from Stuttgart, full of 
 pleasure-seekers, who soon dispersed in the 
 bath-rooms, or in the pretty gardens a- 
 round them, where tables and benches 
 were provided in plenty for their accommo- 
 dation. There was a table d'hote at one
 
 62 JOHN AND I. 
 
 o'clock, and feeling considerable appetite 
 after my light and early breakfast, I sat 
 down to dinner. The tables were crowded. 
 Immediately opposite to me sat Count 
 Cress and his handsome wife — he looking 
 lazy and good-tempered as ever, she very 
 talkative and showy. She did not look 
 happy, however, and once or twice I caught 
 her eyes fixed upon him with a strange, 
 anxious, watchful look. But I did not 
 notice them much. Every one else was so 
 cheerful and sociable, that I soon forgot 
 their existence even. The dinner was well 
 cooked, and I ate the ?iuclel-suppe, and the 
 boiled beef with its condiments of sugared 
 horse-radish, and pickled herring, and the 
 veal-cutlets, and fowl-pudding, and the 
 venison and potato salad, and paid my 
 eighteenpence with a cheerful heart.
 
 JOHN AND I. 63 
 
 After dinner the company take posses- 
 sion of the tables and benches, coffee, wine, 
 and rolls are in request, and the waiters 
 have an uneasy time of it. Poor fellows ! 
 I think they are about the only harassed- 
 looking people one sees in a German bath- 
 ing place ! 
 
 I was smoking a cigar in a solitary nook, 
 from whence I could contemplate the ani- 
 mated groups below, when I was suddenly 
 aroused by a voice that I knew. It was 
 the slow drawl of Count Cress, who was 
 walking with his wife in the secluded path 
 behind me. 
 
 " You won't see the matter in the right 
 light, Christine," he said, with an attempt 
 at energy. "I always thought till now 
 that you were the most clear-headed and 
 far-seeing of women — but you are all
 
 64 JOHN AND I. 
 
 alike. You make mountains of mole- 
 hills — you strain at gnats, and swallow 
 camels." 
 
 " No," she answered in a quiet deter- 
 mined way, " I am not making moun- 
 tains of mole-hills, Gustave. Whatever 
 you like to say, you must know in your 
 heart that I am right and whilst I 
 know I am right, I will not be put 
 aside by anyone or anything" 
 
 "But I can't help it," interrupted the 
 Count; " think of it, Christine — was ever 
 man so unfortunately circumstanced as I 
 am?" 
 
 "Then you own that you are in the 
 wrong ? Gustave, why do you deceive 
 me, and treat me like a child ? If you 
 would only be honest and straightfor- 
 ward with me, I would not care." She
 
 JOHN AND I. 65 
 
 said this passionately, and gasped out the 
 last words, as if sobbing. 
 
 He kissed her several times, and tried 
 to soothe her in a penitent, caressing way, 
 called her his own love, his beautiful 
 Christine, his life's treasure, many times 
 over; still she wept on without speaking. 
 
 " You know I never loved any one 
 but you. Can you not trust me for 
 so short a time? Think of the conse- 
 quences to myself, and make a sacrifice, 
 Christine." 
 
 "It is you who have to think of the 
 consequences to me," she exclaimed in- 
 dignantly; "it is you whose duty it is to 
 make the sacrifice. A man who will not 
 do this for a woman cannot love her." 
 
 " I have done this — I have given up 
 everything for you. You are very hard 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 JOHN AND I. 
 
 upon me, after all the proofs of devo- 
 tion that I have shewed you, Christine. 
 Have I not thrown up position, and 
 family connections, and chances of bet- 
 tering myself — " 
 
 " If you cannot be generous, be just. 
 Have I lost nothing for your sake? A 
 man can but sacrifice position, and it is 
 by no means proved that you have 
 done so ; every word you utter only 
 testifies your reluctance to endanger it — 
 but a woman sacrifices her beauty, her 
 youth, her reputation, her all — " 
 
 "You speak as though you had gained 
 nothing. Could anyone have loved you 
 more faithfully than I have done during 
 these five years ? Have you not had 
 everything your heart could desire ? " 
 
 " I was not complaining of your con-
 
 JOHN AND I. 67 
 
 duct to me. I only ask what you have 
 no right to refuse — what you cannot re- 
 fuse. Stay with me or declare me to be 
 your wife in the eyes of the world." 
 
 He had been on his knees before her, 
 fondling her hands and kissing them 
 now and then with whispered expressions 
 of endearment; he suddenly rose and 
 lighted a cigar. 
 
 "This is cursed folly, you know, Chris- 
 tine ! Have I not told you a thousand 
 times what the consequences of such a 
 mad act would be? Only wait in pa- 
 tience till I am my own master, and 
 then you shall have all as you wish. 
 Come, we have had enough of this un- 
 pleasant conversation, and it is really 
 too hot to talk much to-day. Let us 
 go below and have some coffee. You 
 
 f2
 
 68 JOHN AND I. 
 
 must want it after being in such a passion." 
 They went, and I, who had been so 
 unwilling a listener, seized the opportu- 
 nity of escaping from my nook, lest I 
 should be again taken into some lovers' 
 confidence. In half an hour's time I 
 reached home, and found John chatting 
 gaily with Sophie and a young lady 
 friend in the garden. The two girls 
 were knitting, but trusted all the work 
 to their fingers, whilst their bright eyes 
 were busy elsewhere. I quite envied 
 John all the saucy friendly glances he 
 obtained, and wished I knew his secret 
 of drawing from their rosy lips such 
 unconstrained talk and playful laughter. 
 But my presence seemed to check their 
 mirthfulness, so I seated myself a little 
 apart and drew out a book.
 
 JOHN AND I. 69 
 
 John immediately rose and came to 
 me. 
 
 " Well, old fellow, what news ? " 
 
 "Very good. The situation is open 
 to one of us — if you don't take it, I 
 shall. But I do think, John, it would 
 suit you. We are not likely to hear of 
 any more clerkships, and I should be a 
 better tutor than you." 
 
 "It is hardly fair for me to have 
 the choice, being the younger; still, as 
 you say, Hendy, I am not at all fitted 
 to have anything to do with youngsters. 
 I have not patience enough. And a 
 clerkship, after all, is a more gentle- 
 manly thing. I expect I shall like it 
 very well. I can live here, you know, 
 and walk or ride up every morning. 
 It will be very pleasant, especially as
 
 70 JOHN AND I. 
 
 Sophie is such a lively little thing. 
 But the time and the salary, Hendy ? " 
 
 I told him, and he looked grave at 
 both. 
 
 "It won't do, Hendy. You certainly 
 never thought I would slave from nine 
 till five for seventy pounds a-year! It's 
 preposterous, and if you undertake it I 
 shall think you have lost your senses." 
 
 " No, John, just think it over. A 
 tutorship will involve much more weari- 
 some work and smaller pay. Here, the 
 salary will increase and may ultimately 
 be a fair competence; you will have all 
 your evenings to yourself, and be, as it 
 were, your own master. For the present 
 I should certainly advise you to take 
 it." 
 
 He walked up and down before me
 
 JOHN AND I. 71 
 
 with his hands in his pockets, as he al- 
 ways did when undecided. At last he 
 said : — 
 
 " Of course you know best, Hendy — 
 but it seems a poor beginning. How- 
 ever, I'll take it, and so let the matter 
 rest for to-day." 
 
 " But Herr Schneider wants an inter- 
 view with you at once — to-day," I said; 
 "as it is necessary he should decide 
 the matter before other candidates pre- 
 sent themselves. You had better, there- 
 fore, walk to Cannstatt this afternoon." 
 
 "That I won't, if I lose the situation 
 by it," he exclaimed pettishly. "I don't 
 see why I should spoil the girls' plea- 
 sure or my own by running off just 
 now. We are having such fun. Sophie 
 says the prettiest little pertnesses in the
 
 72 JOHN AND I. 
 
 world, and the other is a sharp girl — 
 come and be polite to the ladies for 
 once in your life, Hendy." 
 
 " I will, if you start off for Canns- 
 tatt," I said slily. 
 
 It was of no use to try and per- 
 suade him. He joined the young ladies, 
 and I resumed my book. For an hour 
 their merry nonsense lasted without in- 
 termission, and then there was a hush. 
 Sophie and her friend hurried in-doors, 
 whilst John came up to me. 
 
 " I've thought better of it, and am 
 going to Herr Schneider's," he said, with 
 the half-penitent manner which had al- 
 ways been so irresistible in him as a 
 boy. "Don't scold, Hendy, you know I 
 intend to act sensibly, only my inten- 
 tions and deeds are unruly steeds, and
 
 JOHN AND I. 73 
 
 won't keep up together. One gallops 
 and the other trots, and flog or pull as 
 you may, Hendy, you can't bring them 
 to an even pace." 
 
 " I suppose you find it easier to leave 
 now that you have lost your companions?" 
 I said, insinuatingly. 
 
 He smiled and looked conscious. 
 
 "The young ladies are going with me, 
 and we shall have coffee in the New 
 Bath gardens, and enjoy ourselves. Isn't 
 that much better than wandering about 
 alone? You see, Hendy, I always find 
 out the pleasantest way of doing things." 
 
 The orchard seemed a lonely place to 
 me without their gay young voices. 
 Could I never, like John, find out the 
 pleasantest way of doing things?
 
 74 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 On the same day that John commenced 
 his duties at Cannstatt (I can see him 
 now as he started off, well-dressed, con- 
 fident, and happy, enticing Sophie to 
 nod a second farewell from the window, 
 and looking so handsome with that 
 bright mood upon him), I was engaged 
 by a Stuttgart banker as resident tutor 
 in the family of the Baroness Weiler. 
 She was a widow lady, living in great 
 seclusion in the country, about twenty
 
 JOHN AND I. 75 
 
 miles from Stuttgart, and my only pupil 
 was a boy of eleven years, whose edu- 
 cation had been much neglected. The 
 salary contented me; so did the pros- 
 pects held out by Herr Roser. 
 
 "You will find," he said, "that your 
 comforts will be in every way consi- 
 dered; separate rooms will be assigned 
 you, and the Baroness is one of those 
 women who are kind and attentive to 
 everybody. The life in Schloss Weiler 
 will, no doubt, be retired, as most 
 country lives are, but the estate boasts 
 of lovely vineyards and romantic sce- 
 nery, and to a lover of nature and 
 philosophic contemplation, as, by your 
 look, I should judge you to be, sir, I 
 can fancy no more desirable location." 
 
 A dissertation on Kantism followed,
 
 76 JOHN AND I. 
 
 in no way relating to the subject in 
 question, but which gave me opportune 
 time for reflection; and at the end of 
 it I was ready to accept the offer. The 
 only and heavy drawback to my satis- 
 faction in so doing was the thought of 
 being separated from my brother. Still, 
 as I knew the misery of idleness, I set 
 the matter before my eyes as cheerfully 
 as I could. So when John returned at 
 night he found me busily packing my 
 portmanteau (it contained little but 
 books), and wanted to know the reason; 
 he looked very grave at my explana- 
 tion. 
 
 "No, Hendy, don't go. Old boy, you 
 are father, and mother, and brother, and 
 sister, and house, and home to me. 
 What shall I do without my dear, dry,
 
 JOHN ASD I. 77 
 
 old Johnson, to preach to me, and say 
 just the right and wise things, when I 
 get into the dumps, and all the world 
 seems going wrong? On my word, 
 Hendy, you are a deal too clever and 
 book-learned, and that sort of thing, to 
 be wasted on a child, whom Sophie 
 might teach. Do you know, I've been 
 planning all sorts of pleasant Utopias 
 to-night, as I walked home from office. 
 I'm to be made partner in the Schneider 
 business and marry Sophie, and you are to 
 become head professor at some college or 
 other, and marry Ottilie." 
 
 I was saved from the necessity of an 
 argument by a summons to supper. As 
 it was my last night, in addition to the 
 usual sausage, ham, and potatoes, a grand 
 kuchen of apricots and almonds, eggs
 
 78 JOHN AND I. 
 
 garnished with anchovies, and a delicate 
 little loaf of that kind of brown bread 
 called Englische, were provided. My 
 aunt, in her bustling, kind-hearted way, 
 made the most of both the feast and the 
 occasion. 
 
 " Remember, nephew Henderson," she 
 said, helping me to an appalling pele- 
 mele of delicacies, " to-morrow evening 
 you will not be here to eat of our 
 dishes, so you must do double justice to 
 them to-day. We shall think of you 
 when we finish the remainder of the 
 kuchen another day. I dare say you 
 will live well at the Schloss, but home- 
 spice is not tasted abroad, as my poor 
 mother used to say ; and however good 
 cooks may be, you can't get them to 
 feel as if things were their own, and
 
 JOHN AND I. 79 
 
 what they don't waste they often steal. 
 Is the cake good ? I half feared Sophie 
 put too much cinnamon in it. She is so 
 careless sometimes ! " 
 
 "It is delicious ! " and I looked at the 
 wilful little housekeeper, and would have 
 complimented her on her skill, had she 
 not been too much occupied to listen to me. 
 She was trying to pronounce some Eng- 
 lish words after Johu. Her eyes were 
 alight with girlish frolic and enjoyment; her 
 pretty round mouth made a dozen enticing 
 little moues in the endeavour, and between 
 each came a merry peal of laughter. It 
 almost pained me to see her so gay, for 
 it testified that by her, at least, I should 
 not be missed or regretted. 
 
 " Oh! mamachen," she exclaimed, when 
 she had fairly tired of her tfis and rs;
 
 80 JOHN AND I. 
 
 "Emilie is going to take the children 
 and myself to the Silberburg to-morrow; 
 the Saxes are going, and my cousin 
 John thinks he can get there by seven 
 o'clock. Will it not be delightful ? You 
 must go too, mama, and I may make a 
 fruit-cake to carry with me, may I 
 not ? " 
 
 " There will be quite enough left of this 
 one," said my aunt; " with a few anise- 
 brods, it will do very well." 
 
 Sophie looked disappointed, but held 
 her peace. She never questioned her 
 parents' authority, even in the most 
 trifling matters. 
 
 "Stay here at any rate till to-morrow, 
 Hendy boy," urged John ; " the evening 
 will not be half so pleasant if you are 
 away."
 
 JOHN AND I. 81 
 
 Sophie said nothing. I think if she 
 had only looked up I should have 
 stayed; as it was, I shook my head. 
 
 But when the next morning came, and 
 I knew that she had risen early on purpose 
 to say good-bye, I felt angry with myself 
 for having adhered to my first resolution. 
 The son of the Baroness Weiler could 
 afford to lose a day's study infinitely 
 better than I could spare a day's pleasure. 
 
 " You will not forget me, Sophie ?" I 
 said as I stood on the threshold. 
 
 She answered with a dewy smile in 
 her eyes, and a few words of timid kindly 
 greeting. My aunt and uncle kissed 
 me with much affection; the former 
 stuffing some milchbrods and slices of 
 sausage into my pocket, the latter present- 
 ing me with a pair of worsted gloves, 
 
 vol. i. G
 
 82 JOHN AND I. 
 
 prefacing the gift with the intelligence 
 that he had bought them for himself, 
 but finding them too small, had luckily 
 thought of me. 
 
 "They are not bad gloves," he said; 
 "and had the sewing been better, the 
 price would have been fifty kreutzers at 
 least. Wear them, my dear nephew, 
 and prosper. Make my respects to the 
 Baroness, and when you come home 
 to see us, mind you bring word what 
 wages she gives her housemaids." 
 
 On the staircase we met Ricky, who 
 bore on her head an immense tub of 
 water, the weight of which had the effect 
 of stiffening her neck, and impeding, 
 in no small degree, her oratorical per- 
 formances. 
 
 "Going!" she exclaimed, with many
 
 JOHN AND I. 83 
 
 half-formed inarticulations ; " you going 
 from above, and he from below ? Name of 
 Jesus ! Who isn't going to-day ? I 
 thought something was to happen, it 
 rained so hard last night. Well, rainy 
 or fine, I shall have a happy time of it 
 when the Count is gone ; and my mistress's 
 carpets will not disgrace my mother in 
 heaven. Acle, ade, it will be a beautiful 
 day for those who go, or those who 
 stay." 
 
 The entrance - hall was littered with 
 goods and chattels in different stages 
 of packing, and we had to pick our 
 way carefully through piles of clothes, 
 music, books, pots of flowers, and other 
 miscellaneous articles. 
 
 The Count was kneeling before a 
 valise on the threshold of his room, and 
 
 g2
 
 84 JOHN AND I. 
 
 looked up as we passed, to speak sharply 
 to a slovenly-dressed boy of five, who 
 was amusing himself with picking at the 
 flowers. Another child, almost a baby, 
 was gazing on from the floor, with large- 
 eyed surprise; whilst the nurse, a heavy, 
 untidy girl, who seemed to have only 
 just enough sense to be cunning, had 
 seized the opportunity to steal a few 
 minutes' conversation with the blue- 
 jacketed porter waiting outside the 
 door. 
 
 But the saddest feature of this domestic 
 scene was the figure of Christine Her- 
 mann. We could see her sitting in the 
 inner-room, her fine figure drooped de- 
 spairingly; her handsome, healthful face 
 lined and scarred with weeping. 
 
 I had never mentioned to anyone,
 
 JOHN AND I. 85 
 
 not even to John, the conversation which 
 I had so unwillingly heard in the bath- 
 garden, and which explained to me the 
 secret of this miserable scene ; but my 
 brother was too much interested in me 
 just then to notice it, and we passed 
 through the street and into the park, 
 busily chatting of my prospects. 
 
 Just as we reached the basin in front 
 of the palace, where the ducks were 
 pluming their feathers ready for the day, 
 the sound of a hasty step caused us to 
 turn round. 
 
 It was Sophie. She came bounding up 
 the avenue, and with her hat in her 
 hand, her long, lustrous braids falling to 
 her waist, her cheeks glowing with the 
 exercise and the pleasure of it, her scarf 
 flying out like a wing, she looked the
 
 86 JOHN AND I. 
 
 prettiest personification of haste ! Having 
 reached us, she stood still, palpitating and 
 smiling, but for some moments was too 
 much out of breath to speak. 
 
 " Papa desired me to give you this," 
 she said at last, holding out a little 
 packet to me; "but I thought I should 
 never catch you, you walked so fast. 
 So now I will bid you good-bye again, 
 Henderson, I am too tired with running 
 to go as far as the station." 
 
 "But I shall soon be back — do wait 
 for me here," John exclaimed; "it is 
 very pleasant to smell the orange - trees 
 and watch the ducks." 
 
 She shook hands with me, smiled an 
 assent to John, and seated herself on 
 the bench near. 
 
 It was a pretty picture, and has often
 
 JOHN AND I. 87 
 
 risen to my memory since. The sky was 
 almost an Italian one, as the skies of 
 Southern Germany often are, so tran- 
 quilly, and, if I may so express it, so 
 religiously beautiful; whilst the intensity 
 of the clearness and the colouring left 
 nothing further for the mind to imagine 
 of heavenliness. The avenue through 
 which we had come was shaded almost 
 to twilight by trees now in the superb 
 splendour of midsummer, and the luxury 
 of them made the surrounding distance 
 one soft, velvety mist of green. 
 
 But near us, the sun was dancing 
 gaily on the cool basin, kissing the 
 marble Venus and Psyche beside it, and 
 pricking with gold the balmy orange- 
 trees whose wet blossoms were strewed 
 around. A gentle air shook them off,
 
 88 JOHN AND I. 
 
 even as we stood, and the last glimpse 
 I caught of Sophie was as she stooped 
 to pick them up. I never feel the 
 beauty of a dewy, grand summer morn- 
 ing — I never smell the sweet breath of 
 orange-trees — I never hear the gentle 
 plash of ducks, or the awakening note 
 of the wood choir, but I think of her 
 as I saw her then.
 
 89 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 It is the easiest thing in the world for 
 a book-worm to fancy himself a philo- 
 sopher superior to all the petty vexa- 
 tions of life. When I lived in a lazy 
 enjoyment of study with an income 
 more than adequate to my wants, and 
 with no hindrances to my selfish indus- 
 try, I used to fancy that the world 
 might turn topsy-turvy if it pleased. If 
 it would only light me on my feet, with 
 my brains somewhere in my body, and
 
 90 JOHN AND I. 
 
 a volume of Homer within reach, I 
 thought I could bear such an earth- 
 quake better than most people. 
 
 Alas! the world was turning round as 
 comfortably as the sails of a mill — my 
 brains were in their right place — not 
 Homer alone, but all his noble kin of 
 poets were only divided from me by a 
 few yards — yet because I had just tasted 
 for the first time in my life a glimpse 
 of happy domestic life — of home, in fact — 
 and was about to enter upon laborious 
 duties, beyond the reach of that sweet 
 and good influence I felt gloomy and 
 discontented. My uncle's packet in some 
 measure distracted my sulkiness. He had 
 enclosed three gulden (five shillings) in 
 a small piece of paper, on which was 
 written the following : —
 
 JOHN AND I. 91 
 
 "Dear nephew Henderson, 
 
 "I feel assured you will do well, 
 and only wish I could give you more 
 substantial encouragement at your first 
 step in life ; but a florin is a florin, 
 and you will find your wants few at 
 the Schloss. Rest assured that I will 
 watch over your brother like a father; 
 and it is no small relief to me to have a 
 lodger who neither runs into debt nor 
 groans half the night long. You would 
 do well to read the works of Professor 
 Gauter of this town, on the English 
 and German languages ; they would 
 greatly improve your method of instruc- 
 tion. 
 
 "Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 "J. Von B." 
 I could not help smiling at the home-
 
 92 JOHN AND I. 
 
 liness of my uncle's generosity ; yet it 
 was so genuine and hearty that it touched 
 me. 
 
 The journey by rail from Stuttgart to 
 Ludwigsburg occupied little more than 
 half an hour ; from the latter place I 
 was to take the eilwagen to Marbach, 
 where the Baroness's carriage would 
 meet me ; but the post-boys were only 
 half-way through their tin cans of gar- 
 lic soup and cones of black bread, so 
 I had time to ascertain that the old- 
 fashioned town boasted of no end of sol- 
 diers, a large castle with a handsome 
 park, and opposite to it a pretty, but 
 now neglected, residence of some favour- 
 ite of the former king. 
 
 Being very hungry, I turned into the 
 Restauration near the railway station,
 
 JOHN AND I. 93 
 
 and procured some stale .rolls and cold 
 coffee, for twopence-halfpenny. I would 
 willingly have paid more, but better fare 
 was not to be had — indeed, there was 
 nothing else, excepting beer of that 
 deep-red, frothy kind, which deceives you 
 into the idea that it is very brisk and 
 strong. Of this the landlady continu- 
 ally drew supplies for some soldiers who 
 were lounging in the room, and whose 
 conversation turned upon beer only. It 
 struck me as being a pity that such 
 strong young fellows should have no- 
 thing better to do, especially as during 
 my journey I had seen numbers of wo- 
 men working like men in the fields. 
 
 I was soon summoned by the post- 
 boy, a consequential little fellow, small, 
 but old, dressed in a gaudy yellow coat,
 
 94 JOHN AND I. 
 
 rather abrupt in the tapering of the 
 tails, blue trowsers, and a black hat 
 with slight pretensions to brim. His 
 horn was tied round his neck with cord 
 and green tassels, and though there were 
 only places for four victims, and we were 
 packed in so tightly that my uppermost 
 thought during the whole way was about 
 the impossibility of getting unpacked again, 
 he still kept on blowing his horn with 
 quite a martial air. This made me think 
 that he was fond of creating a sensation, 
 but only an old woman at a bread and 
 cherry stall, and a flock of geese, were 
 there to be impressed by him. An im- 
 portant man, dressed like a policeman, 
 mounted the dickey by his side, and at 
 last the old carriage started off, the 
 two officials quarrelling good - temperedly
 
 JOHN AND I. 95 
 
 all the way, and we unfortunate pas- 
 sengers learning acutely every moment 
 what the feelings of pigs and sheep 
 must be when packed up for Smith- 
 field. 
 
 I was so squeezed that I could not 
 reach my head to the window to look 
 out. I could only see the boughs of 
 fruit-laden trees which seemed to over- 
 arch our heads all the way; and one 
 can imagine the feelings of delight with 
 which I hailed the dirty village of 
 Marbach where Schiller was born. Here 
 I found an old-fashioned open carriage, 
 with two good horses, awaiting me ; and 
 though the roads were bad and hilly, 
 the grand moustached coachman drove 
 at a brisk pace. The landscape had a 
 pleasant, prosperous, fruity look, that I
 
 96 JOHN AND I. 
 
 liked. All the surrounding hills were 
 vineyards, whilst the level land skirting 
 them was irregularly planted out with 
 flax, Indian and Welsh corn, tobacco, 
 and beet-root; the whole scene remind- 
 ing you of an artist's palette, where 
 many shades of green and purple, burnt 
 sienna, chrome yellow, and pale maize 
 are rubbed promiscuously. What would 
 a Suffolk farmer say to these hedgeless 
 fields ? On either side of the road were 
 strips of orchard, and the trees dropped 
 so luxuriously, that I could have plucked 
 the fruit as I passed beneath. 
 
 Here and there a few women with 
 bare heads were cutting grass and 
 digging fallow land ; or a stout girl, 
 venderess of course green earthenware 
 from the town, would be resting by the
 
 JOHN AND I. 97 
 
 way-side, with her basket for once off 
 her head. Otherwise the scene was as 
 solitary as the Snowdon district, till 
 when you came to a village. Then the 
 sound of our wheels brought out the 
 geese, the children, and the cows, from 
 the lower compartments of the houses 
 to the slough of despond which formed 
 a kind of washy embankment in front 
 of them — the men and women, combing 
 flax by their doors, would look up and 
 give a courteous Gruss Gott to me ; — 
 even the stork on the quaint wooden 
 tower of the church would shift its stand- 
 ing leg, as if bound to notice our coming. 
 
 At length a sudden turn in the road 
 brought us in sight of the Schloss. I 
 must own that the first view of it 
 surprised me, for I had heard that it 
 
 vol. I. h
 
 98 JOHN AND I. 
 
 had been built in the thirteenth century, 
 that not a stone of it had shaken since; 
 and my idea of an old German castle 
 was of something extraordinarily impos- 
 ing, and hoary with mediaeval majesty. 
 I saw before me a square, gaunt build- 
 ing, rising abruptly from a wooded hill, 
 its great height enhanced by a low 
 roof, and a small pointed turret at each 
 corner, and by its bare grey walls, whose 
 monotony was only broken by a few 
 narrow windows irregularly made. As it 
 faced me I was reminded of one or two 
 very old farm-houses I had seen in 
 England, but a nearer approach shewed 
 me the extreme loftiness and thickness 
 of its walls, the battered escutcheons 
 engraved over the portcullis, and the 
 traces of an old stone wall which had
 
 JOHN AND I. 99 
 
 formerly encircled it, now, however, 
 choked up by blooming orchards. There 
 must have been a trench or moat in the 
 feudal times, for the descent from the road 
 into the castle garden was so steep, that at 
 first I thought the man was driving me down 
 the cellar. However, I held tight to my 
 seat, and alighted safe and sound in a 
 circular courtyard. Here a slim man- 
 servant, dressed in neat grey, and of so 
 quiet and gentlemanlike a demeanour 
 that I at once judged from him of the 
 tone of the household — ushered me up 
 two flights of winding stone stairs, to 
 the end of a long gallery — finally into 
 the presence of the Baroness. 
 
 It was a spacious and airy apartment, 
 
 h v 
 h2 
 
 having several alcoves hung with white
 
 100 JOHN AND I. 
 
 linen curtains, each containing a small 
 table and high-backed chair. The walls 
 were painted in light blue and grey, 
 with pretty imitations of panels and 
 cornices, and the floor was of smooth 
 white wood, inlaid with stripes of pol- 
 ished brown. On one side of the room 
 was a table, around which stood a sofa 
 and several chairs, all of dark shining 
 oak and blue cloth, ornamented on the 
 backs with family quarterings in tapestry 
 work, and of the same stately, old- 
 fashioned shape. A curious clock in 
 green enamel and gold, formed like an 
 obelisk, stood in one corner; there were 
 also some portraits of ladies dressed in 
 the style of a hundred years back, with 
 powdered hair, low-cut bodices, and bare 
 bosoms; an antique carved oak cabinet,
 
 JOHN AND I. 101 
 
 and stands for bagatelle, chess and mill- 
 boards. 
 
 The Baroness was a tall, slight woman, 
 about five-and-thirty, with a graceful bend 
 of the neck and shoulders, and a small 
 spirited head, reminding you of a beauti- 
 ful Arab steed. Her features, even her 
 hands, and slenderly arched feet, had 
 the same character, an intensification of 
 mental strength and susceptibility being 
 combined with the utmost delicacy and 
 refinement of physical outline. Her eyes 
 were of soft deep blue, with a ring of 
 gold round a dark pupil, and had that 
 spiritual, earnest look which renders 
 the portraits of Shelley and Schiller 
 so beautiful ; the sweet sensitive mouth, 
 indeed the whole face, called up a 
 vision more especially of the former
 
 102 JOHN AND I. 
 
 poet. But though there was that in 
 it which told you she had suffered, 
 perhaps still suffered, from some great 
 cause of sorrow, it was not an habit- 
 ually sad face. On the contrary, I 
 never saw one with so much vivacity 
 and play of expression. 
 
 She wore a dress of black cloth, richly 
 trimmed with jet, fitting closely to 
 her supple figure, and relieved at the 
 bosom and wrists with old point lace. 
 Her burnished brown hair, instead of hang- 
 ing around her neck with the pretty untidi- 
 ness so common in the present day, was 
 elegantly and simply dressed, so as to 
 give dignity and repose to the head ; 
 and she wore no jewellery. 
 
 As she advanced, I thought I must have 
 gone back to the middle ages, and that
 
 JOHN AND I. 103 
 
 it was some brave and tender mistress of 
 the castle in feudal times who walked 
 out of a picture frame to greet me. 
 
 " Mr. Brown, you are very, very welcome 
 to Weiler," said a voice, sweet and clear 
 as the note of a thrush at spring-tide; 
 " you see I can speak English, so that 
 you will not feel utterly isolated from all 
 that is home-like. I hope and trust that, 
 in spite of its dulness, we shall be able to 
 make our country-house tolerable to you." 
 
 I thanked her for her kind consider- 
 ation, and we chatted in a friendly un- 
 constrained manner about various subjects. 
 Naturally one of my first inquiries was 
 after my pupil. Just a shade of sadness 
 was in her face and voice as she re- 
 plied, 
 
 "You will find Carl very backward
 
 104 JOHN AND I. 
 
 and wild, Mr. Brown; but he has an 
 affectionate heart, and if you once win it 
 your task will be an easy one. I am 
 sorry to say he has been much indulged 
 by an aunt who had the care of him till 
 he was nine years old. I feel assured, 
 however, by your face that you are firm, 
 and shall trust him to you with the 
 utmost confidence." 
 
 She then rang the bell, and ordered that 
 her son might be sent in at once. 
 
 Half-an-hour passed and no one came. 
 I saw her glance impatiently towards the 
 door, and bite her lip with mingled pain 
 and vexation for several minutes before 
 she spoke. At last she said, 
 
 " May I trouble you to ring the bell, 
 Mr. Brown? I am ashamed that Carl 
 should appear so ungracious."
 
 JOHN AND I. 105 
 
 Here the gentlemanly servant appeared, 
 looking rather frightened. 
 
 " Heinrich, why have I to speak twice ? 
 Where is my son ? " 
 
 "We cannot find him, Madame." 
 
 "Where have you sought him?" she 
 asked quite calmly. 
 
 " Everywhere, Madame — in the orchard, 
 the garden, the pavilion, in the vineyard 
 even." 
 
 "Send Friedrich to me." 
 
 The man bowed ; soon after the door 
 was burst open by an older servant, who 
 fell down on his knees before his mistress, 
 sobbing and praying for forgiveness. 
 
 " This is childishness, Friedrich," she 
 said with vexed impatience; "you would 
 have better served me by doing your duty 
 than by all these tears and apologies.
 
 106 JOHN AND I. 
 
 When and where did you leave Count 
 Carl?" 
 
 " Not half-an-hour since on my honour 
 — not half-an-hour since," he cried. 
 
 " "Where was he — what was he doing?" 
 
 " He was swimming his porcelain ducks 
 under the fountain, Gnadige Frau." 
 
 She rose to her feet and said in a 
 voice of deep, quiet anger, 
 
 " You are telling me lies, Friedrich ; I 
 have only returned from the garden 
 within a quarter of an hour, and during 
 the space of two hours that I sat in the 
 pavilion Count Carl never came near the 
 fountain. Stand up, look at me and 
 speak the truth." 
 
 The stupid, frightened fellow obeyed 
 like a child — who, indeed, could have 
 stood against her noble anger ?
 
 JOHN AND I. 107 
 
 He was too frightened to weep now, for 
 the Baroness had turned from him as from 
 an insect that had stung her, and sank pale 
 and trembling into her chair. 
 
 I motioned him to leave the room, and 
 then she said, 
 
 " It seems foolish to be alarmed, but 
 my son is so heedless and passionate, that 
 I am never quite easy unless he is at home. 
 I suppose the anticipation of your coming 
 made him resolve to run away; and 
 Hermine being — " 
 
 She broke off abruptly and rose, saying 
 she must give orders to the servants to 
 continue the search, and would send 
 Heinrich to show me my rooms and 
 serve me with luncheon. Then with a 
 kind smile, though I could see that tears 
 were in her eyes, she left me.
 
 108 JOHN AND I. 
 
 It was a lovely, hazy summer afternoon, 
 and feeling indisposed to my usual oc- 
 cupations, as one generally does in a 
 strange place and at the commencement 
 of a new existence, I made an extended 
 survey of the Schloss. In front (for the 
 entrance by the courtyard was at the 
 back) was a small terraced garden, stone 
 steps leading from one terrace to the 
 other, and in the lowest a little foun- 
 tain, whose waters dripped with a plea- 
 sant indolence on the neglected china 
 ducks. Rising with a steep ascent from 
 the garden, lay one interminable orchard, 
 the boundaries being lost in some places 
 in a deep foss, in others by little wil- 
 dernesses of fruit-trees. From the highest 
 spots ran down flights of ancient stone 
 steps, mossed and incrustated with the
 
 JOHN AND I. 109 
 
 rains and damps of centuries, and con- 
 nected here and there by fragments of 
 the old wall I have before mentioned. 
 Rude bridges of stone or wood, having 
 a locked gate at the head, opened on 
 to the common road, which, winding 
 around the Schloss grounds, could be 
 seen for miles, " like a thread of silver run- 
 ning through a tapestry of green," towards 
 Ludwigsburg. On the highest orchard 
 ground stood a large and lofty circular 
 pavilion built in wood. You ascended 
 by a spiral staircase, and whilst the lower 
 part was open all round, thus being espe- 
 cially adapted for summer, the upper was 
 walled and plastered, as if the owner 
 liked to be abroad in autumn and spring 
 days as well. From the latter, the view 
 was extensive, combining the best features
 
 110 JOHN AND I. 
 
 of the country I have already described, 
 with glimpses of white villages, and, far- 
 ther off, the spires of Ludwigsburg and 
 the hoary old fortress which watched it 
 opposite, like a lion crouched before the 
 prey it intended to devour. A carriage 
 toiling slowly up a distant hill looked 
 like a fly on the coloured landscape of 
 a window blind. 
 
 The buzzing, perfumed, voluptuous sum- 
 mer air was delicious to me, and I sat 
 down on the pavilion steps and drank it 
 like wine. It has been a happy circum- 
 stance for me throughout life that my 
 two leading passions have been a love of 
 nature and a love of books. Even the 
 poorest man has a fair chance of gratify- 
 ing these, and the richest and busiest can 
 have no purer and better for his holidays
 
 JOHN AND I. Ill 
 
 of thought. I put the love of nature 
 first, for in an age of such high intellec- 
 tual culture as the present, books, even 
 the truest and best, may be the means of 
 teaching us a nobler but at the same 
 time a more egotistical humanity. In 
 fields and woods, where the linnets and 
 daisies are all thoughts of heaven to the 
 heart that is rightly tuned, we learn the 
 only simple, loving, earnest religion. 
 
 My reverie was interrupted by the voice 
 of the Baroness, who had approached so 
 softly that I quite started to see her 
 before me. She smiled at my look of 
 surprise. 
 
 " I am delighted to find you here, 
 and looking really as if you felt at 
 home, Mr. Brown. Will you prefer 
 to stay or to accompany me into the
 
 112 JOHN AND I. 
 
 village ? I generally make a round of 
 visits there every week amongst my 
 poor people, and you have no idea how 
 much business I find to do. Sometimes 
 I am called in as doctor, sometimes as 
 lawyer, sometimes as priest, and just now 
 I feel especially anxious for work, being 
 so uneasy about Carl." 
 
 I rose at once, and begged permission 
 to carry a certain mysterious little bas- 
 ket which she held on her arm, but 
 on catching sight of the distant carriage 
 she sat down, saying, 
 
 " I am rather expecting my daughter 
 from Ludwigsburg, where she is now 
 staying; we will therefore wait till this 
 carriage is near enough for me to see 
 if she is there."
 
 JOHN AND I. » 113 
 
 She watched very, very eagerly in the 
 direction of the coming vehicle, and, 
 strange to say, grew a shade paler and 
 looked unmistakably grieved as she turned 
 to me with a quiet — 
 
 "Yes, it is my daughter." 
 
 Soon the carriage was lost behind the 
 wooded basement of the hill, and then 
 we heard the wheels grating on the 
 road beneath the pavilion. The Baroness 
 walked to the orchard's edge and looked 
 over the old wall. 
 
 " Hermine, you can alight here," she 
 said. 
 
 I heard no answer, but in a minute 
 or two a young lady, fair, fashionable, 
 and gracious-looking, sprang up the steps. 
 
 "Are you quite well, mama? Is it 
 not dreadfully dusty ? " 
 
 vol. i. i
 
 114 JOHN AND I. 
 
 She clasped her mother's hand lightly 
 for a moment, just touched her lips on 
 hers, and that was all. I thought it 
 rather a cold greeting between mother 
 and daughter — and such a mother too ! 
 There was not a passing expression on 
 her face, or a tone from her lips, that 
 did not tell the intense lovingness of 
 the Baroness's nature. 
 
 "Do not go away, Mr. Brown," she 
 said; "come and be introduced to my 
 daughter." 
 
 " How do you get on with Carl ? " 
 were that young lady's first words to 
 me. 
 
 "Mr. Brown has not yet seen him," 
 said the Baroness, with a pained look; 
 "He has run away, and is not to be 
 found. Ah ! Hermine, Hermine, be more
 
 JOHN AND I. 115 
 
 patient with him in future. You do 
 not know how much anxiety you cause 
 me. 
 
 " Mama, it is unjust of you to say 
 so. It is Carl who renders everybody 
 miserable; do I not try all day long 
 to make him better and more obedient? 
 Certainly his improvement is slow, but I 
 should never feel as if I had done my 
 duty if I did not persevere with him." 
 
 "You will never succeed, Hermine; 
 your method might do with some chil- 
 dren, but it is the very wrong one for 
 Carl. Shall I never convince you of 
 this ? " said the Baroness with gentle 
 firmness. 
 
 Hermine burst out laughing. 
 
 "Rest easy, dear mama, Carl will be 
 •left entirely to you and Mr. Brown 
 
 i2
 
 116 JOHN AND I. 
 
 for some time to come. Indeed, I think 
 I shall give him up altogether." 
 
 The Baroness looked up inquiringly, 
 and the young girl continued: — 
 
 "I am going off to Munich with Aunt 
 Carline next week, and shall not return 
 home till the Yolk's Fest in September. 
 She talks of Switzerland, but that at 
 present is only an idea." 
 
 "And you will really be away so 
 long, Hermine ? " 
 
 " Of course I consult your wishes on 
 the subject. That is why I am here 
 to-day." 
 
 There was a pause, during which Her- 
 mine plucked abstractedly at a shrub 
 near, and her mother's eyes followed her 
 with inexpressible sadness. 
 
 "Hermine, if you respect my wishes
 
 JOHN AND I. 117 
 
 you will not go anywhere with your 
 aunt Carline." 
 
 " Mama, why will you always be so 
 unjust towards her? Why do you try to 
 set me against my best friend ? Who can 
 be more anxious for my welfare than she 
 is ? Who can love me better ? " This was 
 said with angry haste and flushed cheeks. 
 
 " Your mother can," said the Baroness, 
 softly. 
 
 " But you cannot take me to Court, or* 
 to watering-places, or to Switzerland," an- 
 swered Hermine in a gentler key ; "and 
 you know, mama, that I should die in 
 this dull place. At my age such a feeling 
 is surely natural. You would not have me 
 old at eighteen ? " 
 
 The conversation was now becoming too 
 private for the ears of a stranger, so I
 
 118 JOHN AND I. 
 
 withdrew to a distant seat, and taking out 
 my book (I never, upon any occasion, go 
 out of doors without a book in some pocket 
 or other) began to read. For an hour the 
 Baroness and Hermine remained standing 
 where I left them, engaged in earnest con- 
 versation. Sometimes the voice of the 
 latter would be raised to a high and angry 
 key ; but she evidently gained her point at 
 last, for when they joined me, her face was 
 radiant and her spirits exhilarated. The 
 Baroness looked pale and sad. The sadness 
 wore off at dinner-time however, for Her- 
 mine was so bright, so witty, and so 
 amiable, that there was no withstanding 
 her. Indeed, had I not remembered the 
 petty capriciousness and irritability of her 
 voice an hour before, I could have fancied 
 nothing pleasanter or prettier than her
 
 JOHN AND I. 119 
 
 apple-blossom cheeks, light, loose-flowing 
 hair, bright eyes, and piquante conversation. 
 
 The dinner was simple but elegant. We 
 seated ourselves in high-backed, stately 
 chairs at an oval table, on the middle of 
 Avhich stood a dewy pyramid of flowers and 
 fruit. The solemn, moustached Heinrich 
 waited on us with admirable attentiveness, 
 and there was something baronial and 
 romantic in drinking the wine of the vine- 
 yard that we saw from the windows, and 
 in knowing that everything composing the 
 dinner, beginning with the soup and end- 
 ing with the preserved quince, was produced 
 on the estate. 
 
 The white drawing-room, whither we 
 adjourned for coffee, led out of the dining- 
 room. The Baroness again grew silent, 
 and, standing at a window, looked out
 
 120 JOHN AND I. 
 
 thoughtfully, no doubt anxious for her 
 truant child. Hermine challenged me to a 
 game of chess in a distant recess, but when 
 I began to place the men she stopped me, 
 saying in a low voice, 
 
 " Don't think me very wicked, Mr. 
 Brown, if I say that I have no intention of 
 playing, and that it was only a little ruse of 
 mine to have some conversation with you 
 respecting my brother Carl " 
 
 " The Baroness has already informed me 
 of his shortcomings and idiosyncrasies of 
 disposition," I interrupted quite coldly, 
 " and I am fully prepared for the difficul- 
 ties of my undertaking." 
 
 " But I assure you," said Hermine, with 
 a smile, and taking my implied reproof 
 very good-naturedly, "Mama, kind and 
 clever as she is, does not understand Carl's
 
 JOHN AND I. 121 
 
 character. How should she, when the child 
 was never much with her till he was nine 
 years old? I, on the contrary, have been 
 with him constantly, and you will find him 
 headstrong, ignorant, and self-willed " 
 
 " Precisely the account given me by the 
 Baroness," I interposed again. 
 
 " Mama would treat him as if he were 
 reasonable, loving, and unselfish. She has 
 treated him so for two years, and the con- 
 sequence is that, instead of improving, he 
 has gone backward," continued the young 
 lady, without heeding my interruption. 
 "It is of no use, Mr. Brown, and if you 
 wish to save yourself a good deal of trouble 
 you will begin by firmness and not indulg- 
 ence. It is natural that I should be so 
 anxious about my only brother, the future 
 head of the family : and I cannot tell you
 
 122 JOHN AND I. 
 
 how much I am relieved and comforted by 
 the thought that in my absence there will 
 be some one wise enough and firm enough 
 to govern him." She added, after a pause, 
 " It is very probable that I shall spend 
 some weeks at home in the autumn — I 
 do hope I shall find you here, Mr. Brown 
 — I hear so much of your scholarly 
 attainments, that I think twice before 
 I speak to you; and if I promise to be 
 a very docile and diligent pupil, will 
 you give me a few lessons in Italian 
 during the winter evenings ? " 
 
 " I shall feel proud to be of service to 
 you," I replied still coldly. 
 
 " That is very kind ; I really already 
 anticipate some long studious winter 
 evenings." 
 
 "Hermine," said the Baroness, still
 
 JOHN AND I. 123 
 
 standing in her old place by the win- 
 dow, " it is time for you to go, my 
 child, or you will arrive so late at Lud- 
 wigsburg." 
 
 " Directly, mama ; " she dropped her 
 voice to a lower key and added : " Do 
 tell Carl that I love him — do speak 
 kindly to him for me, Mr. Brown — he 
 does not love me — I know, I feel that he 
 does not, yet I am never unkind to him — 
 I only urge him to be more manly and 
 tractable. If you could make him feel 
 kindly towards me, I cannot say how glad 
 and grateful I should be ; for it is very 
 hard that, with the best and kindest mo- 
 tives, I only bring upon myself dislike and 
 distrust. You do not know how hard it 
 is!" 
 
 She leaned her cheek upon her hand,
 
 124 JOHN AND I. 
 
 and for a minute or two looked very 
 grave. Then she turned to me and said : 
 
 " Will you use your good influence with 
 Carl for me, Mr Brown ? " 
 
 " I will certainly do all that I can, Frau- 
 lein." 
 
 " Thank you very much. I shall go 
 away quite happy now. I do so want 
 Carl and mama and every one to under- 
 stand and love me. Adieu, Mr. Brown. 
 Adieu. Many thanks."
 
 125 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The carriage could no longer be traced on 
 the far white road, and the dropping of 
 the sun behind a distant hill shewed that 
 evening was unmistakeably approaching. 
 Still Carl was not found. I could see that 
 the Baroness grew every moment more 
 anxious, but she sat quite silent and mo- 
 tionless. Once I heard her murmur to 
 herself: 
 
 "Carl — Hermine— you will break my 
 heart ! "
 
 126 JOHN AND I. 
 
 I wanted to join in the search, but she 
 would not let me. 
 
 " If night comes, and he is still missing, 
 I will go too, and will ask you to give 
 me your protection. I cannot rest in 
 the house till I know where my child is; 
 but for the present stay with me. I cannot 
 be alone." 
 
 Just then the door opened softly, and a 
 fair childish face, with dark, peering eyes, 
 looked in. 
 
 " Carl ! " cried the Baroness, with a voice 
 and face expressive of joy only — " Oh ! 
 Carl, how can you be so naughty, so cruel?" 
 She twined her arms round his neck, 
 kissing his eyes, his forehead, his long, soft 
 hair ; then, as if she felt that she was 
 caught in an act of weakness, she put him 
 away from her, saying with mild reproach,
 
 JOHN AND I. 127 
 
 " You do not love me, Carl, or you would 
 never pain me thus." 
 
 " I do love you, mama ; I love nobody 
 else in the world but you ; it is only Her- 
 mine who makes you think I do not — 
 and I hate her ! " He burst into passionate 
 tears. " We are always unhappy when she 
 is here ; and because I knew she was com- 
 ing, I hid up in the North Tower. I 
 played at being Baron Trenck, mama. 
 I watched the spiders, and wrote verses on 
 the wall, and didn't mind being prisoner 
 at all, till I had done all my milchbrods 
 and apples. But it grew rather dull at 
 last — so, when I saw that she was quite 
 gone, I came down. You will forgive me, 
 will you not, mama ? " 
 
 "I have forgiven you already so many 
 limes, and yet you are continually giving
 
 128 JOHN AND I. 
 
 me fresh cause for sorrow. Carl, Carl, why 
 not try to love and conciliate your sister, 
 instead of hiding from her as from an 
 enemy — " 
 
 " She is my enemy, and I will never 
 humble myself to her," said the boy, 
 proudly. 
 
 The Baroness looked at me wistfully, in- 
 quiringly, as much as to say — " Is your 
 heart firm as a lion's, and tender as a 
 woman's ? May I trust you with the wilful, 
 impressible, mistaught nature of a child 
 whose love has been estranged from me ? 
 Will you win him to me, or will you keep 
 him to yourself, and thus render me doubly 
 solitary?" 
 
 My heart was honest, and it answered for 
 me. 
 
 "It is not myself alone \ Mr. Brown
 
 JOHN AND I. 129 
 
 has also a great deal to forgive," said the 
 Baroness. "What must he think of a 
 pupil whose first acquaintance is made 
 under such circumstances? If he punishes 
 you I shall be sorry, but I shall say that 
 you deserve it." 
 
 " Carl," I said, " come here." 
 
 He did not turn pale or falter or rebel, 
 but for a minute or two gazed at me fixedly ; 
 his dark eyes dilated, his breath held, his 
 hands hanging listlessly by his side. Just 
 such an expression of stolid inquiry, a de- 
 murred "How far is it safe to rebel — how 
 far is it necessary to obey?" I have seen in 
 young heifers before they will retreat from 
 forbidden herbage. 
 
 With a kind of instinctive prudence he 
 came to me. 
 
 "I am sure you are going to scold me 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 JOHN AND I. 
 
 very much," he said. " Hermine told me you 
 would ; but I had rather be killed by you 
 than petted by her ; and if you are not her 
 friend, I will love you." 
 
 " If you cannot give me your love without 
 conditions, it is not worth my acceptance," 
 I replied ; " and I must have your obedience 
 without it, which will be very disagreeable 
 for both of us." 
 
 He came closer to me and looked into 
 my eyes. 
 
 " Your mouth is hard, but if you took off 
 your spectacles I believe your eyes would 
 look kind. I thought you would be a very, 
 very tall man, with black hair and sharp eyes, 
 and a strict voice. I don't feel afraid of 
 you now. People who are short and stout, 
 and have blue eyes and dimpled hands, are 
 always good-natured."
 
 JOHN AND I. 131 
 
 " Yes, they are good-natured, Carl, when 
 everything goes on smoothly and right, and 
 they have nothing to irritate or try them ; 
 but if they are provoked, and trifled 
 with, and deceived, the anger of tall, 
 dark, stern-looking men is nothing like 
 theirs." 
 
 " I think I should love you if I felt sure 
 you were not a friend of Hermine's," he said ; 
 " and if I tried to please you, you would, 
 never be angry with me, would you, Mr. 
 Brown?" 
 
 "The first thing you must do to please 
 me, will be to love your sister." 
 
 " I cannot — I will not I" he cried, break- 
 ing out into vehement weeping. " If I love 
 her ever so much, she will not be kind to 
 me. I wish I were a man, and then no one 
 would dare to make me miserable. Mama, 
 
 k2
 
 132 JOHN AND I. 
 
 mama, if you let me be alone with you I 
 will never vex you again." 
 
 He would have thrown himself into her 
 arms, but she put him gently towards me, 
 whilst her tearful, earnest face pleaded in 
 silence. 
 
 I let him weep on for a few minutes; 
 then spoke to him calmly and tenderly. 
 
 " Carl," I said, " you are a child, and I 
 am a man more experienced than yourself 
 by many years. But there is one, Carl, to 
 whom I am but a little child, in spite of 
 all my book-learning and knowledge of life 
 — and He, the best teacher man ever had, 
 saw what great misery was in the world, by 
 reason of there being so little brotherly love 
 to bind people together, and make them 
 forgiving towards each other's faults — so 
 He spent his whole Divine life in teaching
 
 JOHN AND I. 133 
 
 us Love as a duty and happiness. If you 
 live to be a man, Carl, you will often have 
 to mix with those whose faults of character 
 are so different from your own, that you 
 may fancy they are inferior to you, and not 
 worthy to be loved. But, unfortunately, 
 we cannot think so humbly of ourselves as 
 of others; and thus often despise where, 
 if we looked closer, we should find much 
 to admire. You will never be happy, Carl 
 — take my word for it — you will never be 
 happy till you can be kind in your heart 
 towards all." 
 
 The Baroness had risen at my last words ; 
 she now approached us, and, laying one 
 slender hand on her son's shoulder, said, 
 with filling eyes, 
 
 " Oh ! Carl, listen to him ! Be loving and 
 good, and make me happy ! "
 
 134 JOHN AND I. 
 
 I think the boy's nature was really pliable 
 and easy of control — for he melted into 
 penitent tears, and promised to do all that I 
 should desire of him. Afterwards, when 
 he found my treatment to be reasonable 
 and affectionate — my severity to be justice, 
 and not ill-temper — he was ready enough 
 to like me, and to look upon me as a 
 friend. 
 
 I am quite of opinion with the large- 
 minded and far-seeing Herbert Spencer, 
 that children have their rights as well as 
 grown men — and think of writing a book 
 upon the subject, when I have saved suffi- 
 cient money as a tutor to retire to literary 
 ease, and such auream mediocritatem as the 
 Roman poet recommended.
 
 135 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 It was a pleasant life at the Schloss, re- 
 minding me, in its quietude and untroubled 
 leisure for thought and study, of my old 
 bachelor days at Cambridge. I missed, how- 
 ever, my brother's cheerful voice and jolly 
 supper-parties — the latter with much less 
 regret, since I had more than compensation 
 for any other society but John's, in the 
 sweet, womanly influence of the Baroness.
 
 136 JOHN AND I. 
 
 She was one of those women who seem as 
 if they only lived to bestow their love and 
 fondness on those around her ; and her man- 
 ner, when she knew and liked me, was so 
 tender and yet so motherly, that I frequently 
 forgot she was still beautiful and still young. 
 How often did she remind me of the words 
 of the sweet American poet : — 
 
 14 She doeth little kindnesses, 
 
 Which most leave undone, or despise ; 
 For naught which sets one heart at ease, 
 Or giveth happiness or peace, 
 
 Is low-esteemed in her eyes." 
 
 Our life was regular to monotony. 
 The whole household was up by six 
 o'clock, and at eight we breakfasted ; from 
 that time till one I was engaged with 
 Carl, after which I refreshed myself with 
 a cigar in the pavilion. The dinner 
 hour was two. After coffee the Baroness
 
 JOHN AND I. 137 
 
 would join us in a long walk through 
 the vineyards or orchards — sometimes 
 calling on the pastor and head-steward in 
 the village; but though these visits were 
 made in the friendliest way, and she was 
 far too well-bred to be condescending, there 
 was, properly speaking, no more inter- 
 course between them, than there would 
 be in England between a lady and her 
 shoemaker. The Herr Pfarrer was a 
 worthy, jolly old fellow, supporting a wife 
 and several daughters (all as jolly -looking 
 as himself) on sixty pounds a year, with 
 only the addition of wood and wine from 
 the barony ; this kind of tithe being 
 customary in Wiirtemberg. I was often 
 invited to the Pfarr-haus, to partake of 
 one of the numerous daily meals of 
 coffee, bread and fruit, and have every
 
 138 JOHN AND I. 
 
 reason to praise the family hospitality 
 and good-nature. The young ladies 
 were very amiable. Indeed, if they had 
 not accustomed themselves to wear low 
 dresses all day long, and to put their knives 
 into their mouths, I think I should have 
 gone to the Pfarr-haus oftener still. The 
 Amtmann was an ambitious, money- 
 getting individual, extremely jealous of 
 the Baroness's confidence, and, I have 
 good reason to suspect, more careful of 
 other people's encroachments on her 
 property than of his own. He had a son 
 of Carl's age, whom he wished to make a 
 gentleman — thus spoiling the boy's 
 naturally good abilities and amiable 
 disposition, by an inordinate desire of 
 a higher station in life. No sooner was 
 it known that Carl had an English tutor,
 
 JOHN AND I. 139 
 
 than Christian must have one too; and 
 soon after my arrival I encountered in my 
 walks a meek-eyed youth, whom I recog- 
 nized as the son of my landlady's milk- 
 man in Cambridge ! Between Carl and 
 Christian, patrician and proletarian, 
 naturally waged a sharp war, only now 
 and then varied by a short interim 
 of peace. 
 
 We had no neighbours but these, and 
 few visitors. Sometimes an old officer 
 and his family would drive over from 
 Ludwigsburg or Stuttgart for the day, 
 and enliven us with the intelligence that 
 the King was at Mon Repos, and the 
 Queen at Wildbad; that Prince Weimar 
 had lost two dozen bottles of Moselle 
 out of his cellar; that two Hohenheim 
 students had cut each other's fingers in
 
 140 JOHN AND I. 
 
 fighting a duel; and so on, ad infinitum. 
 
 Sometimes I wondered that, with a 
 nature so sensitive, a heart so large and 
 loving, a mind so feminine and refined, 
 the Baroness could support this lonely, 
 unsatisfied life. That she was often 
 unhappy, I could not doubt; yet when 
 we made pleasant little picnics to the 
 wood, or she listened to me as I invented 
 grotesque legends and fairy-tales for Carl 
 in the summer twilight, her laugh was 
 the heartiest, her humour the sprightliest, 
 most playful of all — thus testifying to her 
 capability of enjoyment. 
 
 "Her mine is away, and mama knows 
 that I love her," said Carl one day to 
 me, with large-eyed wonder ; " has she 
 done anything wicked, that she is not 
 happy ? "
 
 JOHN AND I. 141 
 
 " Oh ! Carl, Carl, how can you speak 
 of your mother and of wickedness in the 
 same breath ? It is the good who often 
 suffer most.'' 
 
 " But mama was wrong in not loving 
 papa — Aunt Carline said so. She always 
 told me, when I was with her, that I must 
 love papa best; and I did till she went 
 away, and now I have nearly forgotten 
 him. I only remember that he took snuff, 
 and had a very small waist, and used to 
 swear very much. I don't like people who 
 take snuff; and I know mama does not, 
 for she cannot bear to see Herr Popp do 
 it. Still, I think she ought to have loved 
 papa — don't you, Mr. Brown ? " 
 
 I reminded Carl that, as it was high 
 time to begin his Eutropius, he had better 
 leave such psychological questions till
 
 142 JOHN AND I. 
 
 another time; but I could not forget his 
 words, and, coupled with other things I 
 afterwards heard, was enabled to frame 
 from them the sad outlines of the Baroness's 
 story. 
 
 It seemed that, at the age of sixteen, 
 beautiful, impulsive, and carefully educated 
 by her mother (an English lady), she had 
 attracted the Baron Weiler — a man many 
 years older than herself, and of jealous 
 disposition. Her father, who was a poor 
 officer in the Prussian army, was only too 
 glad to marry his daughter so advantage- 
 ously, as far as worldly circumstances 
 went, and did not question the matter of 
 her future happiness. But what sympa- 
 thy could possibly arise between a young 
 girl of romantic, unsullied mind, and fresh, 
 warm heart, and a man cold, calculating,
 
 JOHN AND I. 143 
 
 and worldly? How could she love him? 
 Even had he tried, would he have made her 
 life complete ? But when the first charm of 
 her beauty had worn off for him, he did not 
 try. He took her from her cheerful home 
 in Frankfort to his solitary castle, gave her 
 no companion but a sister-in-law who 
 hated her, and then was enraged because 
 she did not look happy ! 
 
 Their married life soon grew to be miser- 
 able. His habits were selfish and dissipated; 
 and she had too much spirit and conscious 
 rectitude of heart to stoop tamely to the 
 place of slighted mistress of his house, when 
 she was no longer his honoured wife. She 
 was good and pure as an angel, but not so 
 patient. What she did bear — and no one 
 could tell how much bitterness and mortifica- 
 tion she suffered from her husband and
 
 144 JOHN AND I. 
 
 sister-in-law — was all for the sake of her 
 children. Year after year she saw their im- 
 pressible natures almost in the hands, as 
 it were, of the only woman in the world 
 who was her enemy. At last, when she 
 found that she was daily misrepresented 
 to them — that their love was waning 
 — the mother's heart could endure no 
 longer, and she fought a desperate bat- 
 tle for the sacred right of her children's 
 love. 
 
 She fought it and won. Young, gentle, 
 womanly as she was, her woe and wrath 
 made her terrible. So often has that scene 
 been described to me by old faithful lovers 
 of the Baroness in the village, that I can see 
 it all — the slight, brave, outraged woman, 
 and the worldly, heartless sister — her only 
 relative in the world — as they stood face to
 
 JOHN AND I. 145 
 
 face. How grand she must have been in 
 her indignation ! They told me that her 
 eyes seemed to burn Carline with their in- 
 tense passion of reproach ; and, as she 
 clenched her hands, and called on Heaven 
 to judge betwixt them who had the justest 
 claim to her children, the woman shrank 
 away, as from the presence of an avenging 
 angel. 
 
 It was now explicable to me, how, with 
 so much good sense, firmness, and tact dis- 
 played in every other matter, the Baroness 
 should humour Carl and Hermine to the 
 utmost capability of fondness. Naturally 
 Carline had endeavoured to obtain all pos- 
 sible influence over their minds— an influ- 
 ence not easy to undo — which had never 
 been undone in fact, with Hermine; but Carl, 
 whom the mother always kept at home with 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 JOHN AND I. 
 
 jealous affection, really seemed to love her, 
 in his wild, impulsive way, better than any- 
 thing else in the world. 
 
 Meantime I received frequent and pleasant 
 letters from John. He did not find desk- 
 work so hard as he had expected to do, he 
 said, and really his home was as comfortable 
 as possible ; indeed, he had almost got re- 
 conciled to the frequent recurrence of sau- 
 sage and noodle soup, and could now drink 
 the Colonel's wine without any fear of after- 
 results. Ottilie had come home, and he 
 liked her amazingly. She was not so pretty 
 as Sophie, but cleverer and a finer girl — 
 taller, by the head. She had seen more of 
 the world, too, and could talk on any sub- 
 ject. On Sundays they made little excur- 
 sions into the country, where there was 
 generally a hill to climb, pretty tea-gardens
 
 JOHN AND I. 147 
 
 at the top, and no end of neighbours to join 
 them in coffee and ices. " Do come and see 
 us, Hendy, boy," he urged, affectionately; 
 " it seems ages since I saw your wise, comic, 
 honest, true, old face." 
 
 I had been about a month at the Schloss 
 when the Baroness proposed a delightful 
 excursion to Ludwigsburg, where John, the 
 Colonel, my aunt, and cousins were invited 
 to meet us. 
 
 " I seldom — in fact, I never go out," she 
 said to me, with the kindest smile ; " but 
 your uncle is an old friend of mine, and I 
 want to see you enjoy a really happy day 
 with your brother. You deserve it, for 
 nothing can equal the assiduous and loving 
 care you give my boy" — her noble voice 
 broke down — " oh ! Mr. Brown, good, true 
 friend, what a man you will make of Carl, 
 
 l2
 
 148 JOHN AND I. 
 
 if you only finish the work you have begun ! 
 What can I do to make your life here hap- 
 pier and worthier of you ?" 
 
 I am a strongly-built man, with plenty of 
 pluck and sinew, small in stature (what a 
 kindness 1 feel towards the tall, slender, 
 chivalric Leigh Hunt for his nice page 
 about little men ! — and to Lord Clarendon, 
 who has left us so charming a group of small 
 heroes), and rough in the main, but tender 
 on the subject of women and children ; and 
 when a good and beautiful woman speaks 
 tenderly to me, I slink away like a fool, 
 without having said one of the hundred 
 pretty speeches I could write down on 
 paper. So I merely bowed very low, and 
 attempted to take off my hat ; which I 
 could not very well do, as it was not on 
 my head.
 
 JOHN AND I. 149 
 
 What a lovely, sparkling, bird-singing 
 day it was ! Could one think, to look upon 
 the landscape, glowing like Aladdin's en- 
 chanted garden with rich jewellery of 
 purple, golden, and ruby-coloured fruit, 
 with the vine-hills and beech-coppices cut 
 out so clearly against an enamel sky, with a 
 constant ringing in the air of birds — could 
 one think then of the trees bare, of the 
 wintry sleet shrouding the soft pasturage, 
 of the empty nest or frozen lark ? 
 
 We alighted at the castle gates outside 
 the town, where the whole party awaited 
 us — John, blithe and handsome as ever; 
 the Colonel, stout, and squeezed, and witty 
 (he was always wittier when he wore his 
 tightest coat, as if the compression sent up 
 all superfluous liveliness to his cerebellum, 
 from whence it was forced to evaporate) ;
 
 150 JOHN AND I. 
 
 my aunt unceasingly gesticulating, nervous 
 (all German ladies are nervous), and talk- 
 ative; the two girls dressed both alike, in 
 pink muslin. Sophie shrank back blushing 
 and smiling like a child at the appearance 
 of the Baroness ; but Ottilie, who seemed to 
 be put forward by her parents as a sub- 
 stitute for them all, advanced with proper 
 politeness. 
 
 " If it is quite agreeable to you," she said, 
 after the first salutations were over, "we 
 will go at once to the ruins and take some 
 lunch ; as all of us have had a journey I 
 think it will be welcome. John, will you 
 come with me to call the old man who 
 keeps the keys — he is so deaf that I shall 
 never make him hear alone. Sophie, you 
 had better show Cousin Henderson the 
 way."
 
 JOHN AND I. 151 
 
 She ran off with John, who was delighted 
 to be busy, and they turned down a wooded 
 slope towards a little house or hut, on the 
 shutters of which they hammered vigorously 
 with stones, calling out — " Gottlieb, Gott- 
 lieb, willst Du uns den Schlussel bringen ?" 
 Meantime, leaving the town and castle on 
 our right, we followed a winding path 
 through the wood before us, and, after 
 many mimic dells and glades, caught sight 
 of a round, grey tower. 
 
 I turned to my companion. 
 
 " What a pleasant day ! — what a pleasure 
 it is to me to see you again, Sophie !" 
 
 She did not answer for a moment, and I 
 saw that tears were on her dark eye-lashes, 
 and that her cheek was flushed, as if from 
 vexation or annoyance. 
 
 " Yes, Henderson,'* she said, demurely.
 
 152 JOHN AND I. 
 
 I felt so happy at being with her bright 
 little self again, so glad to find John and 
 myself onee more together — and together 
 without any cares or anxieties — that I did 
 not think much of Sophie's tears then ; in 
 fact, I hardly noticed them till afterwards. 
 It seemed impossible that she could be un- 
 happy on such a day ! 
 
 " How merry you must be at home now, 
 with Ottilie back again, and John so full of 
 fun and spirits! I often think of you, 
 Sophie, and wish I could pop in now and 
 then." 
 
 Again a mechanical " Yes." 
 
 We now reached the ruin, or ruin well 
 imitated ; for the tower is new, and only a 
 pretended antiquity. Here Ottilie and John 
 soon joined us, followed by an old man, 
 who kept repeating to himself, " Eight
 
 JOHN AND I. 153 
 
 hundred and one — that was the year !" Evi- 
 dently he was a believer in the make- 
 believe ruin. There were two rooms — one 
 with a table and benches for picnic parties ; 
 another hung with armour, and containing 
 an iEolian harp, which played mournfully. 
 But its sounds were soon drowned in the 
 clatter of knives and forks and the cheerful 
 confusion of voices which generally ensues 
 on the occasion of a promiscuous dinner. 
 The room was too small to admit of the 
 stately Heinrich ; so, after having deposited 
 his basket of venison and quail pasties, 
 cream cakes and bottles of Riidesheim on 
 the table, he was dismissed. 
 
 I saw the Baroness under a new aspect 
 that day. There was much well-meant 
 but fussy homage done to her by my uncle's 
 family, which I am sure must have been
 
 154 JOHN AND I. 
 
 most disagreeable to a nature so unostenta- 
 tious as hers ; but she received all with such 
 sweet good-nature, neither deprecating nor 
 seeming to perceive it, and entered so 
 genially into the spirit of our enjoyment, 
 that soon the homage died off of itself. 
 
 " Oh ! Ottilie, what a Kuchen this is !" ex- 
 claimed John, who contrived to wait upon 
 everyone very gracefully, and cut a hearty 
 lunch too — " from this day, Ottilie Blum, 
 you are immortal ; and, were I rich, I 
 would erect a monument in vour honour, 
 inscribed — 'To the memory of one whose 
 skilfulness in cakes was never equalled in 
 the known world !' " 
 
 He added something in a lower tone, 
 which I did not hear, but which made her 
 blush and smile reprovingly at him. 
 
 " You are indeed a clever little house-
 
 JOHN AND I. 155 
 
 keeper," said the Baroness. " They excel 
 Hermann's — do they not, Carlchen ?" 
 
 u No one praises thy Kuchen, Sophiele," 
 said the Colonel, patting his youngest 
 daughter's head, "so I will eat it, to do 
 thee compliment." 
 
 " Ottilie does everything better than I 
 do," Sophie exclaimed pettishly; " if she 
 is cleverer than I am, I cannot help it." 
 
 She looked angrily, tearfully, towards 
 the place where her sister sat ; but Ottilie 
 was so much engaged in talking to John, 
 that the poor little arrow fell harmless. 
 
 They made a bonnie pair, John and 
 Ottilie. As he leaned over her, so blithe, 
 so frank-looking, so manly and active, I 
 thought how well he was matched by that 
 intelligent, lively, helpful girl, a girl whose 
 clear eyes and open brow showed you un-
 
 156 JOHN AND I. 
 
 mistakeably her good sense, her energetic, 
 hopeful nature. I fancy the Baroness 
 thought the same, for I observed her look- 
 ing intently at them just then. 
 
 When our repast was over, Ottilie pro- 
 posed that we should call the old man to 
 light us down the subterranean chambers, 
 these being the greatest curiosities of the 
 place. 
 
 "Oh! how delightful!" exclaimed Carl, 
 clapping his hand, "it will be ten times 
 better than the prison at Weiler, Mr. 
 Brown; and now you won't want to bring 
 that into your stories again, you can get 
 twice as many hobgoblins into such large 
 places." 
 
 The old man lighted his lantern, and 
 the ladies having looped up their skirts, 
 we prepared to follow him down some
 
 JOHN AND I. 157 
 
 narrow winding steps, smelling very 
 mouldy. 
 
 " Sophie, are you not coming ? " I said, 
 as I observed the young girl slip into the 
 open air. 
 
 " I have been down often before — I don't 
 care to go." 
 
 " Then I will stay and keep you com- 
 pany." 
 
 "No, go, Cousin Henderson, I would 
 rather not have you wait on my account. 
 Carl is calling you — please go." 
 
 She sprang like a fawn towards the 
 wood, and I followed the rest of the party 
 down-stairs, vexed and puzzled at Sophie's 
 unaccountable caprice. It was a weird, 
 unearthly place, smelling like the vault of 
 a church. Having descended the steps, we 
 were ushered through a dark, damp passage,
 
 158 JOHN AND I. 
 
 the old man holding the lantern above his 
 head, still muttering to himself " Eight 
 hundred and one." Suddenly he stopped 
 and faced us. 
 
 "Here," he said, "is the holy Peter the 
 Hermit, reading his Bible, as seen by Ru- 
 dolph Kurz, who made this exact image in 
 the year eleven hundred." 
 
 It was a ghostly figure, in coloured 
 plaister, representing the great Anti-Saracen 
 Moor as seated at a table, his head raised 
 to heaven, his hands lying on an open 
 Bible. The colouring of the flesh and 
 hair, the wrinkles even, were given with 
 an exactitude amounting to unpleasantness, 
 and one could almost fancy the holy hermit 
 had taken refuge there hundreds of years 
 since, and, instead of dying, had been 
 petrified.
 
 JOHN AND I. 159 
 
 " What an uncomfortable looking old 
 gentleman !" exclaimed John ; " Ottilie, let 
 me get behind you, I feel quite frightened." 
 
 " You will put him into your next tale, 
 Mr. Brown, won't you?" whispered Carl, 
 " and make him come to life again, and 
 frighten the deaf old man almost out of 
 his wits!" 
 
 Further on, in another niche, sat the 
 figures of a knight and his squire, clad in 
 complete armour, looking fresher and haler 
 than the hermit, as if petrifaction had over- 
 taken them in a jolly period of their lives. 
 This was a renowned Duke Hubert, who 
 cut oft 7 the heads of two hundred Saracens 
 in battle, and was wonderfully pious in the 
 matter of genuflexions. We were also 
 shown some infernal machinery of torture, 
 used in the glorious days of chivalry; and
 
 160 JOHN AND I. 
 
 I noticed that our old guide's spirits in- 
 creased pro rata with the grimness and 
 hideousness of his curiosities. 
 
 We were returning ; the cicerone fore- 
 most, then the Baroness, followed by 
 Ottilie and John, when we heard a 
 curious creaking noise over our heads, 
 and immediately afterwards some loose 
 stones fell heavily from the roof; John 
 caught back Ottilie in time to save her, 
 but one of them struck the Baroness 
 just over the temple ; and, with a sharp 
 exclamation of pain, she reeled and fell 
 — not on the damp steps, for John, with 
 his usual promptitude of action, pushed 
 by Ottilie, and caught her in his arms. 
 
 Carrying her easily as he would have 
 done a child — for he was a strong, active 
 young fellow — he half flattened the old
 
 JOHN AND I. 161 
 
 man against the wall, and in a minute's 
 time she was placed in a chair of the 
 picnic room. Thither we all hastened, 
 anxious enough, not the less so when we 
 saw her deadly white, almost fainting, and 
 with blood trickling fast from the wound. 
 
 Quickly and tenderly Ottilie loosened 
 her bonnet and dress, whilst John bathed 
 her brow, and — for we had no better 
 remedy at hand — tore his pocket-hand- 
 kerchief into strips, dipped them in 
 brandy, and bound them round the in- 
 jured temple. Then he held some water 
 to her lips, and was still holding the 
 glass and supporting her head, when she 
 revived. 
 
 With the first faintest glow of return- 
 ing colour to her cheeks she was her 
 old self again. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 JOHN AND I. 
 
 " How unpardonable of me to give 
 you all so much trouble ! " she said, smil- 
 ingly. "Thank you, Fraulein Ottilie, thank 
 you, Mr. Brown, for your kind care of 
 me, but I am much better now — do not 
 let me hinder your enjoyment any longer. 
 Please — please, leave me and make the 
 most of this lovely afternoon." 
 
 Thinking she would really be better 
 without so many buzzing round her, 
 especially without Carl, who was incon- 
 solable at the sight of his mama's pale 
 face, I took him with me to go in search 
 of Sophie. The Colonel also went out, 
 and I was amused to hear him cross-ex- 
 amining the old man as to the accident, 
 in his military, Napoleonic way. 
 
 " Explain to me, if you please, the 
 cause of so unheard of, so unpardonable
 
 JOHN AND I. 163 
 
 an accident; a pretty scrape you will all 
 get into, whose business it is to keep 
 the ruin ! " 
 
 " Indeed, Herr Oberst," began the old 
 man tremblingly; "it was nobody's fault, 
 but a very, very old tree was being cut 
 down overhead, and that I suppose was 
 the cause of it; so you see, Herr Oberst, 
 I am innocent and the woodman too, for 
 he couldn't help it if the roots were 
 tough, and he had to cut hard; how 
 could he tell that the stones were loose 
 beneath ?" 
 
 I left the old Colonel vituperating and 
 threatening in his best style, and went to 
 look for Sophie. 
 
 I called, "Sophie! Sophie!" many times, 
 but no one answered. At length I came 
 to a little hollow in the innermost re- 
 al 2
 
 164 JOHN AND I. 
 
 cesses of the wood, where I found her. 
 She was sitting on the trunk of an old tree, 
 with her head bowed on her knees, and 
 weeping so violently that the sobs shook 
 her whole frame. Luckily Carl was be- 
 hind me in the narrow path. 
 
 " Carlchen," I said softly, so that the 
 young girl was not disturbed; "run back 
 by the same way that you came, I will 
 follow, and don't lose sight of me." 
 
 The child turned at once, and I 
 approached Sophie. 
 
 il Little Cousin Sophie, you are trou- 
 bled? — may I speak to you? — may I 
 comfort you if I can ? " 
 
 She started up ! — could that be my 
 bright, little, saucy Sophie? It went to 
 my heart to see her so sorrowful, so 
 utterly woebegone.
 
 JOHN AND I. 165 
 
 "No, Henderson, please don't leave the 
 others to trouble about me. I will join 
 them directly, indeed I will. Don't say 
 that you caught me crying. I have 
 nothing to cry about — it is only — 
 only " 
 
 Then she sobbed afresh, and I could 
 bear it no longer. I took her dimpled 
 little hands away from her dripping 
 cheeks, and wiped her eyes with my 
 handkerchief. I do not know what I 
 said, but I remember using one or two 
 pet names, such as I used to Carl — for 
 she seemed almost as much of a child 
 then, in her helpless abandonment to 
 grief, in her tacit childish acceptance of 
 my sympathy. 
 
 " I've done crying," she said at last, with 
 a faint little smile ; " and if you think they
 
 166 JOHN AND I. 
 
 won't notice my red eyes, I will come 
 with you now." 
 
 " We will walk round the ruin first," 
 I replied, drawing her hand through my 
 arm ; "by that time the little stars will 
 twinkle again." 
 
 "Promise me first," she asked, hesitating 
 and blushing, "promise me that you will 
 not mention to any one having caught 
 me cry — crying. I don't mind you, 
 Cousin Henderson, you are so much older 
 than myself, and like an old friend some- 
 how, but I shouldn't like" — here her 
 voice dropped to a whisper — "I shouldn't 
 like John to know." 
 
 We walked once, twice, three times 
 round the ruin ; by that time all traces 
 of her weeping were gone. I felt almost 
 a selfish regret in seeing her bright and
 
 JOHN AND L 167 
 
 happy again, for I could be tenderer, 
 nearer to her in her sorrow. And she 
 had confided, as it were, in me, had 
 received comfort from me, and from no 
 other. I found a joy and satisfaction in 
 this, greater than the occasion accounted 
 for.
 
 168 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 When we entered the tower, John and 
 Ottilie were still in attendance on the 
 Baroness, who was, however, much better, 
 and talking to them in a quiet, kind way, 
 happily choosing the very subjects on which 
 they could converse freest and best. Seeing 
 us, she begged them to take a little walk, 
 insisted on it even. 
 
 "You will stay with me, will you not,
 
 JOHN AND I. 169 
 
 my child ? " she said, taking Sophie's hand; 
 " I am sure you are a quiet, loving, little 
 nurse." 
 
 Sophie blushed to her ears and sat down, 
 still retaining the slender white hand be- 
 tween her own dimpled ones. At first she 
 was very shy, but by-and-bye she grew to be 
 quite as much at home with the Baroness 
 as Ottilie had been, who was several 
 years older, had travelled, and was natur- 
 ally more clever and self-possessed. An 
 hour passed quickly, whilst we — the most 
 sociable, friendly trio in the world — chat- 
 ted about the ruin, its sham antiquity, 
 its funny hobgoblin legends, its probable 
 history, past and to come. Now and 
 then Sophie glanced in the direction of 
 a distant bench under the trees, where 
 John and Ottilie sat in lover-like seclu-
 
 170 JOHN AND I. 
 
 sion. Perhaps she wondered, with girlish 
 curiosity, what they were saying. 
 
 At the end of an hour, the Colonel, 
 who had been smoking a cigar in the 
 shade, with his wife knitting and gossip- 
 ing pleasantly beside him, came up and 
 informed Sophie she must find her sister 
 and get ready, or they should miss the 
 train to Stuttgart. 
 
 " I have a favor to ask of you, Herr 
 Oberst," said the Baroness — " a very, very 
 great favour." 
 
 The Colonel made a military salute, 
 in order to testify his obedience to 
 her wishes. 
 
 " You have two daughters, will you 
 spare me one for a few weeks ? It 
 would make me so happy to have your 
 Sophie near me, till I am quite recovered 
 from this hindrance."
 
 JOHN AND I. 171 
 
 The Colonel was delighted, he said — 
 nothing, he felt sure, could give Sophie 
 more pleasure; my aunt was sure of it 
 too. Sophie said nothing, and held down 
 her head. 
 
 Just then Ottilie came in, followed by 
 John. 
 
 "Only fancy," exclaimed my aunt, 
 "the Baroness has invited Sophiele to 
 the Schloss! — will it not be a treat to 
 her!" 
 
 Ottilie's first expression was that of 
 slight disappointment, her next of genuine 
 sisterly pleasure. 
 
 "Dear Sophie, how kind of the 
 Baroness ! — pray thank her." 
 
 Sophie looked up, but there were tears 
 in her eyes, and she tried once, twice, to 
 speak, in vain. 
 
 "There is nothing to thank me for,
 
 172 JOHN AND I. 
 
 Sophie," said the Baroness; "all the 
 gratitude is on my side, since you 
 consent to cheer our solitude. But 
 your cousin Henderson and I will try to 
 make you very happy." 
 
 Sophie was still silent, and looked 
 beseechingly at her sister. The two girls 
 then went outside the ruin, and talked in 
 whispers, walking up and down. Once I 
 heard Sophie say, 
 
 "Ottilie, how can you be so unkind? 
 — as if he cared for me — as if I wanted 
 him to care for me ! " 
 
 And Ottilie answered angrily, decisively, 
 as elder sisters are apt to do. 
 
 " You silly child, I don't mean to tease 
 you, I only speak the truth — why will 
 you not have the sense to think so? Of 
 course you must go, anyhow."
 
 JOHN AND I. 173 
 
 They were still in eager conversation, 
 when the Colonel called out that it was 
 time to go home. Sophie bade her sister 
 an unwilling good-bye, and nestled close 
 to the Baroness, so that John hardly got 
 a word from her at parting. 
 
 John and I walked to the station 
 together. 
 
 " Well, John, we are both jogging on 
 pretty comfortably now, and settled for a 
 time, I think?" 
 
 " Oh ! Hendy, I don't know — I shouldn't 
 like to think that I was settled for many 
 years at that dismal old counting-house." 
 
 " But work is the necessary good as 
 well as evil of life, John ; and when one 
 has a pleasant home, and a bonnie face 
 to welcome you to it, the day's work, 
 however monotonous, soon passes."
 
 174 JOHN AND I. 
 
 "The home and the face would be 
 none the less bonnie, after seven hours' 
 fagging, than after nine or ten," he said 
 discontentedly. 
 
 " And the nine hours won't grow a 
 minute less by being grumbled over. 
 Work is work, John, all the world over ; 
 but if a man puts a plucky face on it, 
 the most uncongenial drudgery is 
 wonderfully smoothed down. Melius 
 quidquid erit pati ..." 
 
 " One never gets anything but that 
 sort of philosophy out of you, Hendy," 
 said my brother, smiling; "I should like 
 for once to see you in a regular grum- 
 bling, uneasy way, as I often am — then 
 you would pity me." 
 
 "You will not be uneasy or grumble 
 when you are married, John."
 
 JOHN AND I. 175 
 
 He started a little, coloured, then 
 looked me full in the face. 
 
 "Married! What am I to marry 
 upon? My dear old Johnson, you are 
 dreaming ! " 
 
 "No, John, I am not dreaming. Do 
 you think that I — who am all eyes and 
 ears where your interests are concerned — 
 do you think that I have not noticed 
 your fondness for Ottilie?" 
 
 " I do think I could be fond of Ottilie, 
 Hendy; she is so lively, and, without 
 being pretty, has the nicest face in the 
 world. She is clever, too — clever and 
 accomplished, and well-mannered — just 
 what one would wish to see in a wife. 
 But, bless me, Hendy, boy, I haven't any 
 idea of marrying yet." 
 
 He tried to laugh the matter off, but 
 I would not let him.
 
 17G JOHN AND I. 
 
 "Then you ought to have, John. No 
 man, be he in a position to marry or not, 
 ought to win the affections of any girl 
 till he is fully determined to make her 
 his wife. Oh ! John, John, be warned 
 in time — never enter into flirtations, with 
 the mere idea of amusement. It is the 
 most unmanly, cruel thing a man can 
 do, to possess himself of the first, freshest 
 love of a woman, then throw it away 
 as worthless. God knows, I am faulty 
 enough myself, John, but I could not 
 forgive you if you acted towards Ottilie 
 thus." 
 
 " Oh ! Hendy, don't be frightened. I 
 assure you Ottilie is as heart-whole as 
 ever she was, up to the present moment; 
 and I will not make love to her till 
 after I have proposed — that won't be too 
 soon, will it ? "
 
 JOHN AND I. 177 
 
 "It is not a jesting matter, John. I 
 was never more in earnest than I am 
 now." 
 
 He stopped short and said in a different 
 voice, 
 
 " Don't be vexed, and don't look 
 so serious, dear old Johnson ; I would 
 not make a jest of your word for the 
 world, but on this score you are really 
 alarmed for nothing." 
 
 We had now reached the station, and I 
 turned back alone. Not alone — who 
 could be alone, with such sweet hope in 
 his heart as mine held then? 
 
 Oh ! tender eyes, that first teach a 
 man's heart what a paradise the working 
 world may become ! — oh ! rosy lips, whose 
 lightest word move him more than all 
 the eloquence of grand old poets — oh ! 
 
 vol. I. N
 
 178 JOHN AND I. 
 
 happy, happy secret of love ! I feel 
 young again as I recall ye from the 
 past! 
 
 We were a very happy party — .the 
 Baroness, Sophie, Carl and I. On the 
 brightest days we made little picnics 
 to the woods, or to the summer-house, 
 miles away amid the vineyards, where the 
 Baroness would call some broad-faced 
 Babele or Rickele from the flax fields, 
 and fill her lap with our leavings of 
 fruit and cinnamon cakes, delighting all 
 the time to chat with her in her droll 
 Suabish dialect, and bring out the no 
 (noch) nit (nicht), bisk (bischen), &c, in 
 full proportion. 
 
 It was sometimes a drawback upon 
 my enjoyment to find that, even after so 
 much daily and hourly intercourse,
 
 JOHN AND I. 179 
 
 Sophie still remained reserved and shy, 
 often flying from my approach, often 
 shrinking from any attempt on my part 
 at exclusive conversation. But she was 
 so young, so unsophisticated and so 
 retiring, that I consoled myself, and 
 hoped to see her soon more happy and 
 at ease in my companionship. 
 
 In South Germany it is not unusual 
 for the country-houses to be filled with 
 visitors during the summer months. 
 Many a year had passed since hoary old 
 Weiler had been cheered with this jolly 
 custom; for the Baroness's life, as I have 
 before suggested, had hitherto been 
 especially secluded and painful. But in 
 Sophie's bright young presence she 
 seemed to grow young and happy again ; 
 and, accordingly, to please Sophie and 
 
 n2
 
 180 JOHN AND I. 
 
 Carl, and perhaps myself, she sent a 
 general invitation to the Colonel's family, 
 for the inauguration of the vintage. My 
 uncle never did a thing by halves, in 
 the way of giving to it its due 
 importance — believing himself born, I 
 think, to testify in his own generation 
 how many words, conclusions, affirmations 
 and negations, may go to the smallest 
 mite of an affair. It took him, therefore, 
 a full fortnight and a dozen long letters 
 to arrange the matter satisfactorily; but 
 at the end of that time the whole 
 dear little party — my uncle and aunt, 
 Ottilie and John, who I hoped would 
 appear in the light of her lover — made 
 their appearance at the Schloss. 
 
 When I look back upon my childhood 
 I can remember no day of great
 
 JOHN AND I. 181 
 
 anticipated pleasure, on which a thunder- 
 storm, a missing companion, a sprained 
 ancle, or some other unpleasant disillu- 
 sion, did not happen to mar the expected 
 enjoyment. So was it now: the weather 
 was superb ; the Baroness was an 
 admirable hostess, forming plans for her 
 visitors' pleasure with so little apparent 
 effort, that everyone could only feel 
 himself in a delightfully enjoyable 
 home; the Colonel's good-humour and 
 gallantry knew no bounds; my aunt's 
 nerves were not obtrusively disagreeable; 
 the girls were amiable, unaffectedly 
 pleased, and looked their best. I think 
 the fault must have been with John. 
 He was one of those people who, like 
 mercury in a barometer, mark the point 
 of the social atmosphere around him.
 
 182 JOHN AND I. 
 
 When I left Stuttgart, it seemed to be 
 set fair with him — now I was sorry to 
 observe it was change, and even promised 
 to be stormy. 
 
 Yet I had never before felt so proud 
 of him. Plain, insignificant men naturally 
 are apt to overrate the advantages of 
 handsome features and a fine, strong 
 physical organization ; but if John had 
 not been my brother, I should have 
 liked him at the first glance of his frank 
 English face, broad shoulders, and straight 
 athletic limbs, and have loved him 
 afterwards for his hearty laugh and 
 manly, easy voice. He was one of those 
 independent-looking fine young fellows 
 who bear the stamp of being born to a 
 thousand a-year, which perhaps they 
 don't get, but would use handsomely if
 
 JOHN AND I. 183 
 
 they did; and who, if they have nothing 
 a - year, cannot help showing their 
 generous free-hearted natures. 
 
 He was clever, too, or I should rather 
 say sharp, constantly getting at a good 
 deal of knowledge in an imperfect, 
 impatient way, and making the utmost 
 use of it. I was often amused and 
 surprised to find how stray thoughts and 
 expressions of my own were caught up 
 by him, and made really brilliant and 
 effective by his ready wit. 
 
 My rooms were on the second floor, 
 accessible to the third by a spiral stair- 
 case of cast-iron, or by a long passage 
 leading to the general stone stairs I have 
 before mentioned. The paper on the 
 walls was painted with views of Alpine 
 scenery, in which the trees reached
 
 184 JOHN AND I. 
 
 to the ceiling; and the effect was very 
 pleasant to a sedentary student like 
 myself, especially in morning or evening 
 twilight, when I seemed to be in 
 Switzerland, without the trouble or 
 expense of getting there. On the third 
 floor were the Baroness's and the visitors' 
 rooms, built in suites of three, leading 
 one into the other, and opening on to 
 the gallery which ran round the Schloss- 
 From the windows of this gallery you 
 could look down into the court - yard, 
 and it would take some minutes to 
 count all the irregular windows studding 
 the pink walls. Below were stables and a 
 prison, and Carl told me many a ghostly 
 story of knights who had been kept there 
 in feudal times, and were afterwards 
 led out to be beheaded. My own
 
 JOHN AND I. 185 
 
 windows, which were small, and made 
 deep embrasures by the thickness of the 
 wall, overlooked the terraced garden 
 and little fountain dripping plea- 
 santly throughout the burning summer 
 days. Owing to the deep shadows 
 made by the walls, and to the fact of 
 my rooms looking to the east, the light 
 there was always pleasant and subdued, 
 a light especially grateful to my eyes, 
 now paying me with a vengeance for 
 having been somewhat too hardly used in 
 earlier life. 
 
 One evening, as I had finished a 
 letter, and sat smoking my hap- 
 piest cigar of all the day — for at 
 such quiet times my heart would be 
 filled with peace and happiness to think 
 of the Providence that had guided my
 
 186 JOHN AND I. 
 
 brother's steps and my own to a life 
 so wholesome and honest ; and I 
 would follow out the future trustfully, 
 allotting to him a safe and honourable 
 life, aided by the love and energy of 
 a woman so worthy to be loved and 
 trusted as Ottilie ; and to myself a 
 sweet, sweet home, with a little wife, 
 from whom I wanted love, and smiles, 
 and sympathy, and nothing more. 
 
 My reverie this time was disturbed 
 by Ottilie, who had opened the door 
 at the stair-head and asked gently, 
 
 " Henderson, are you there? — may I 
 speak to you ? " 
 
 1 invited her at once to come down ; 
 and, seating herself in the window-seat, 
 with her face turned from me, she said 
 nervously and quickly,
 
 JOHN AND I. 187 
 
 " Have you received any bad news 
 from England — has anything happened 
 to you ? " 
 
 "Thank God, no. Why do you ask, 
 Ottilie ? " 
 
 "Because — because," she replied, still 
 with some nervousness, " I cannot 
 otherwise explain the change which has 
 come over John lately. He has seemed 
 so unsettled — so restless — so unlike his 
 former self; you know, Henderson, he 
 used to be very happy with us, and 
 contented with his employment. But 
 yesterday he even told me he should 
 throw it up, and try something else in one 
 of the large commercial northern cities — " 
 
 I started up, surprised. 
 
 "He has never said anything of that 
 kind to me."
 
 188 JOHN AND I. 
 
 " I knew it would vex you, and I 
 thought it right you should know 
 what is going on in his mind, for I 
 believe you can influence him when 
 no one else can. I — that is, we should 
 all grieve so much, if he made a false 
 step — and there is no telling what he 
 may do if he continue in this reck- 
 less mood. That is the worst thing 
 in England, Henderson — young men 
 want to grow rich at once, and can- 
 not think it possible to be happy on 
 a small, humble income. Who can be 
 happier than papa, and he has only 
 two hundred a -year! — yet out of this 
 he allows something to my married 
 sisters, and supports us all respectably 
 — we want no more. I have read a 
 great many English novels, and I
 
 JOHN AND I. 189 
 
 always see the same sort of thing in 
 them ; all the young men and women 
 are striving for refinement and luxuries 
 which we know nothing about. I like 
 to see people energetic, and I think 
 there is a great deal too much of the 
 sleepy Michel about us Germans ; but 
 there is a difference between discontent 
 and ambition ; John will not content 
 himself to work on in the path which 
 lies open to him, but wants to choose 
 a higher and an easier one." 
 
 "You are right, Ottilie." 
 
 "After all," she continued, "his 
 prospects are not so very bad. If he 
 went to Hamburg or Dantzic, ten 
 chances to one if he could get a more 
 remunerative situation than this to 
 begin with. And it would be such a
 
 190 JOHN AND I. 
 
 pity ! — oh ! Henderson, there would be 
 so much danger in his going away 
 from us all. Here he has friends about 
 him, who are interested in his well- 
 being, and a home always open to 
 him ; but in a strange place he would 
 have none of these good influences to 
 balance any bad ones that might 
 surround him." 
 
 Just then we heard the voices of 
 Carl and Sophie in the gallery above. 
 
 "The others are home from their 
 walk," she said ; " I will join them. 
 You won't think me bold or interfer- 
 ing in what I have said to you, Cousin 
 Henderson ? " 
 
 "Dear Ottilie, no." 
 
 "And you will persuade John from 
 these unsettled ideas, and reason him
 
 JOHN AND I. 191 
 
 into a happier frame. Ah ! you will 
 be able to do it, you love him so 
 dearly ! " 
 
 She blushed deeply as she said this, 
 and turned to the window. From 
 where I sat, I could see two figures 
 walking slowly among the orchard trees, 
 but was unable to distinguish who they 
 were. Ottilie stood for some minutes 
 looking out, and then moved away. 
 
 " Let this be in confidence between 
 us — do not breathe a word of our con- 
 versation to anyone," she said hastily. 
 
 I took both her hands, and looked 
 into her quiet, clear eyes. 
 
 " You are a famous counsellor, Ottilie ; 
 and though John shall never know it 
 from me, I am sure it would make 
 him very happy if he knew that you
 
 192 JOHN AND I. 
 
 cared for his success. One day, 
 perhaps " 
 
 She broke away laughingly and flew 
 up-stairs.
 
 193 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 It was Sunday, and the last day of 
 our visitors' stay. The morning was 
 very rainy, and my uncle, though 
 particularly attentive to his religious 
 duties, not having his every-day coat 
 with him, was obliged to forego the 
 pleasure of hearing the Herr Pfarrer 
 Popp preach, and to content himself 
 with listening to my aunt instead. 
 Her manner of religious reading was 
 vol. i. o
 
 194 JOHN AND I. 
 
 peculiar, but no doubt highly edifying. 
 She opened the Bible on her knees, and, 
 with her knitting-needles as busy as pos- 
 sible, read a verse or two aloud, inter- 
 spersing them with commentaries, by 
 turns secular and scriptural. 
 
 This kind of edification having gone 
 on for the space of half-an-hour, the 
 kindly old couple walked backwards and 
 forwards in the gallery, amusing 
 themselves with peeping into the many 
 odd corners and ante-rooms with which 
 it abounded. On one side of the 
 Schloss, and divided from the surrounding 
 wilderness of flowers and fruit-trees by 
 a gravel path, was a long roofed 
 pavilion, or riding-house; and here the 
 rest of us resorted, not minding a dash 
 of rain which would wet us now and
 
 JOHN AND I. 195 
 
 then. After some time the sky cleared, 
 and we distributed ourselves amid the 
 Schloss grounds. I did not much 
 notice the movements of the rest of 
 the party, for Sophie was with me; but 
 when she stole away, under the pretext 
 of getting her hat, I sought my 
 favourite seclusion, the pavilion on 
 the hill, and endeavoured to console 
 myself with a book. 
 
 But I had no sooner ascended the 
 stairs, and seated myself comfortably at 
 the door, where I could inhale the 
 sweet refreshment that a summer rain 
 leaves, than I heard voices below, 
 which caused me to start up with a 
 sudden panic. 
 
 "It is not much to ask," said the 
 first voice which was John's ; "I only 
 
 o 2
 
 196 JOHN AND I. 
 
 beg permission to speak — to speak for 
 the first, last, only time. That you 
 surely will not refuse me ? " 
 
 " No," replied the Baroness, firmly 
 but sorrowfully, " I would not refuse 
 you if I thought that my consent 
 could make you happier, or in any 
 way serve you — but it cannot. I must 
 not listen — I must not speak, because 
 whatever may be said by you or 
 by me will be better unsaid." 
 
 "It cannot be better for me," broke 
 in John passionately, "and it can do 
 you no harm, since you are as far 
 removed from me as if you lived in 
 another sphere. To-morrow I shall 
 leave you, and never see you again ; 
 what my life will be I should not dare 
 to think, if I valued it a thought
 
 JOHN AND I. 197 
 
 more than I do ; but as it is, I do 
 not care how mean, or drudging, or 
 base it may be. I shall go to labour 
 as a cart-horse, that must work because 
 it must live, and has no future. My 
 past will be a better, more beautiful 
 one than I ever dreamed it possible 
 any part of my life could be, since I 
 have known and loved you. But the 
 future? What right has a poor clerk 
 to a future, who loves a woman I 
 infinitely beyond him in character — in 
 education — in station? I despise society 
 — 1 hate it, when I think of the bar- 
 riers it sets up between a poor man and 
 the noblest, holiest ambition of which 
 he is capable ! " 
 
 " You are unjust," said the Baroness, 
 with an apparent effort to still the
 
 198 JOHN AND I. 
 
 trembling of her voice; "you are more 
 than unjust, you are cruel. Where a 
 true-hearted woman loves, there are no 
 barriers of the world's setting up ; and 
 if it be your misfortune to love, do 
 not impute it to the lowest motive, 
 that love cannot be given you in 
 return. Is there nothing else, think 
 you, that can divide hearts but the 
 paltry differences of money-made rank ? " 
 
 "But," replied John bitterly, "if it 
 were possible that you might one day 
 love me — I do not admit of the 
 possibility, except to prove to you 
 that I am not unjust — would not these 
 obstacles stand in the way of every 
 hope I might otherwise cherish?" 
 
 " No, they would not stand in the 
 way. I do not speak of myself, be-
 
 JOHN AND I. 199 
 
 cause it will be better and happier 
 for you that I should not. I speak 
 of any true woman ; and I say that 
 between her and the man she loved 
 these obstacles would never exist." 
 
 " Heaven bless you for saying so ! " 
 said John, brokenly ; " and pardon me — 
 oh, I ask your pardon on my knees, 
 that I have spoken thus to you ! It 
 was cowardly, unmanly, of me ! But 
 could you know all that is in my 
 heart — all the deep reverence and 
 respect that I feel for your presence, 
 you would forgive me. As it is, you 
 will only remember my violent 
 reproaches and angry indignation at 
 the self-made misery my folly has 
 brought on me. If there is anything 
 better and worthier in my nature you
 
 200 JOHN AND I. 
 
 will never know it — no one ever will, 
 since I have no object to lead me on 
 to better things. Could I hope to win 
 your friendship — your esteem even — it 
 might have been different; but as it is, 
 I can never, never reach you ! " 
 
 " You are unjust again," said the 
 Baroness; "can you not trust to my 
 word ? — whatever you do, speak to me 
 as to a woman." 
 
 " But speaking to you as a woman, and 
 putting aside all other considerations, I 
 could never reach you. You stand so 
 far above me — your intellect and heart 
 could never be content with the love of 
 a nature so imperfect and faulty as mine. 
 If we were not so unequal — why is it that 
 my presence is indifferent to you — that 
 whilst I speak, and my whole heart is
 
 JOHN AND I. 201 
 
 trembling on my lips, you are utterly 
 unmoved ? Why is it that I shall go and 
 never be remembered by you, whilst my 
 own life will be but one long memory of 
 the last few days? Since I came here, not a 
 word from your lips, not a tone of your 
 voice, not an expression of your face, but 
 has been impressed on my memory ; be- 
 cause of my very imperfections can I love 
 you so much the more passionately, since 
 what is love, where a man and woman 
 meet as equals, becomes worship when the 
 woman has all the goodness, and beauty, 
 and grace, and the man all the disadvan- 
 tages of a character formed in such a 
 school as mine has been. How much 
 your love would exalt me — how much even 
 the intercourse of your friendship would 
 raise me — I will not think; for the one
 
 202 JOHN AST) I. 
 
 is as far from me as heaven, and the 
 other — were you disposed to give it me 
 — would be dangerous from its sweetness, 
 and in the end would make me even 
 more unhappy than banishment from 
 
 you " 
 
 " I entreat you to say no more !" 
 "We are parting — I have no chance of 
 ever being happy again — no hope of ever 
 hearing your voice, or looking upon your 
 face — I who love you so madly. The 
 best years of manhood are before me, 
 which, to other men, have such joyful pro- 
 mise of home and wife, but which can 
 only be but tolerable to me, and a dreary 
 looking back to a few days' happiness. 
 Think of this — a hopeless life-time set 
 against a few days' happiness ! " 
 
 " I do think of it — I am not heartless.
 
 JOHN AND I. 203 
 
 Would to God I could say something that 
 you might take away as a kind remem- 
 brance of me ! " said the Baroness, her sweet 
 voice breaking down under her agitation 
 — " believe me, it would make me happier 
 and better, if I could respond to such 
 affection as yours — I should feel less lonely 
 if I could begin life over again, with such 
 a love to strengthen and console me ; 
 but, oh ! be kind, and understand what I 
 would say, without the painfulness of hear- 
 ing it said by me — for could I love you 
 with the one fond, passionate love of a 
 woman's life, there is between you and 
 myself — between myself and any happiness 
 love might give — a bar of separation, that 
 the world never set up — a bar I cannot 
 break ! " 
 
 I heard a deep-drawn, shuddering sound
 
 204 JOHN AND I. 
 
 — then a low sob. Oh! my God, had it 
 come to this ? 
 
 " No — not tears — I cannot bear it ! " 
 continued the Baroness, in a voice of forced 
 calm; "I shall never be happy again, if 
 you leave me thus. I shall reproach 
 myself for having added to your grief in- 
 stead of lessening it, when I tried to speak 
 to you as a friend." 
 
 " I am parting from you — I love you ! — 
 oh ! forgive me ! " 
 
 " Forgive me, since it is I who have 
 caused this misery; but if it will in any 
 way soften your remembrance of me, think 
 of me not as of one who has had so much 
 happiness or so much love that she does 
 not feel herself honoured — does not better 
 esteem herself for the good gift of your 
 honest love. Do not think that I shall
 
 JOHN AND I. 205 
 
 forget you because my life and heart are 
 occupied with affections and joys only, or 
 because I hold them so much higher 
 than all that your love might have been 
 to me, could I have accepted it." 
 
 Then John cried, vehemently, fiercely, 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, do not speak gently 
 to me, or it will seem impossible that you 
 are sending me from you for ever ! That 
 is the hardest of all — I can never have a 
 kind word, or look, or smile from you, as 
 others can — I who love you ! — I who am 
 parting from you." 
 
 "Then 1 must only say — go, and Heaven 
 bless you ! " answered the Baroness, with 
 sweet patience. 
 
 " Not yet — do not say that yet. Grant me 
 a few minutes more-»-it is the last time — 
 the last time ! "
 
 206 JOHN AND I. 
 
 "You must listen to me, then; and if 
 I may seem to speak cruelly and heartlessly 
 now, in after -years you will thank me 
 for it. You are so young, and have so 
 much that is pleasant and enjoyable be- 
 fore you, that it is impossible for you 
 to remember me many years with the 
 bitterness and despondency that you feel 
 now. I too have suffered, and have over- 
 come suffering — oh ! be guided by me — try 
 to be happy — try to make another happy. 
 No one can tell the misery of looking back, 
 through lonely years, to a happiness we 
 once had, but can never have again." 
 
 Her voice trembled and broke down. 
 
 "You, too, know what sorrow and lone- 
 liness are," said John, sadly. " You can 
 pity me, then — you can feel for me. Think 
 of me as of one who would have loved
 
 JOHN AND I. 207 
 
 you with a love that was the religion of 
 his life — who would have loved you so 
 well that his love might almost have 
 made him worthy of you. Will you remem- 
 ber me so ? " 
 
 " I will remember you as a friend — a 
 true friend, whom it was my misfortune to 
 lose early ; in any other way, I must not, 
 ought not " 
 
 "Then let it be so!" answered John, 
 impetuously. " If you can think of me in 
 any way that will not be painful to you, I 
 shall go away with one thought in my 
 heart that will, at least, give me comfort. 
 But to be utterly lost in your memory — to 
 feel that I shall never be connected with a 
 single hour of your past life — that you will 
 never pity me in my loneliness — this I could 
 not bear ! "
 
 208 JOHN AND I. 
 
 " Let me think of you as being happy," 
 said the Baroness, very gently. 
 
 " What have I to make me happy ? My 
 prospects in life are miserable. Only one 
 person in the world — my brother Henderson 
 — loves me or cares what becomes of me ; 
 and you, whom I love, I shall never, never see 
 again. I have not the energy to shake off 
 grief as some people can ; nor can I, like 
 Hendy, sit down and philosophize it away. 
 Oh ! I am utterly, contemptibly weak and 
 miserable ! " 
 
 He sobbed afresh, and then the Baroness's 
 voice dropped to its sweetest, lowest key. 
 
 " Will you leave me so ? Will you leave 
 me such a remembrance of you — a remem- 
 brance that must always be a bitter reproach? 
 Oh ! friend, I am lonely ! — I cannot afford 
 so much unhappiness to be added to my
 
 JOHN AND I. 209 
 
 life — never too happy. Be strong, that you 
 may help me to strength. Be generous 
 — I do not deserve generosity of you, 
 but for your own sake I ask it, since 
 the only service you can render the wo- 
 man you love, is to accept her friend- 
 ship." 
 
 " I dare not take it. I cannot see you 
 again ; if I am to die, let it be quickly, 
 and not by slow tortures. I had better go 
 now." 
 
 "Yes, you are right. You had better 
 
 go-" 
 
 There was a silence of perhaps a minute 
 
 — not more ; yet what a long agony it was ! 
 
 I felt that my brother was looking for the 
 
 last time on the face of the woman he 
 
 loved. I felt how that look was burning 
 
 her soul with its unspeakable, despairing 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 JOHN AND I. 
 
 tenderness ; how to him it was the last 
 wrenching away of love, of hope, of joy; 
 an eternity of feeling concentrated into 
 a lesser space than would take the com- 
 monest friend's greeting ! 
 
 The cold sweat rose to my forehead 
 — I held my breath, and shuddered as I 
 had not done since I witnessed the last 
 unquiet moments of my father. What a 
 pause of time it was ! What an intolerable 
 weight and oppression seemed to hang 
 in the fresh summer air, in the gentle 
 swaying to and fro of the wet leaves, in 
 the slow movement of the white clouds. 
 God ! that one minute could hold so 
 much sorrow ! — that grief could make 
 Nature so awful ! 
 
 I drew in a deep breath of thankfulness
 
 JOHN AND I. 211 
 
 when I heard him walk quickly away from 
 the pavilion, for I knew then that the 
 struggle was over. 
 
 p 2
 
 212 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 An hour before the usual dinner hour 
 of two, John left the Schloss. It was 
 not difficult for him to frame an excuse, 
 as by reaching Stuttgart that night he 
 would be in readiness to begin the 
 week's work, whereas the journey occu- 
 pied so many hours that if he waited 
 till Monday the whole day must be 
 lost. After having had a holiday, he 
 said, he did not wish to encroach upon
 
 JOHN AND I. 213 
 
 Herr Schneider's good-nature; and my 
 uncle and Ottilie both warmly approved 
 of his resolution. 
 
 Poor Ottilie! I saw her look anxiously 
 from him to me, as if to ask whether 
 this sudden idea augured well or ill; 
 still, at parting, she was quite composed, 
 and gave him a frank, bright smile of en- 
 couragement — such a smile as any man 
 might be proud to win from a woman. 
 Indeed, one could almost have fancied 
 Sophie to be the one most interested in 
 him, for her colour heightened, her eye- 
 lids drooped over wet eyes, and her little 
 dimpled hand shook in his as he said 
 adieu. 
 
 "I shall walk with you to Marbach, 
 John," I said; "we don't often get a 
 walk together now. You, I know,
 
 214 JOHN AND I. 
 
 Ottilie, will take care of Carl for 
 me." 
 
 " It's a pity you should do that, 
 Hendy — you will have to go before 
 your dinner, and it's a good stretch to 
 Marbach." 
 
 "A dinner more or less is of no 
 consequence to me. Don't you remem- 
 ber the old times in Cambridge, when 
 you used to have to remind me that 
 such things were necessary?" 
 
 He said nothing, but buckled the 
 strap round his valise with mechanical 
 haste. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. John! Mr. John!" cried 
 Carl, who had just rushed in — "you 
 are not going without saying good-bye 
 to mama? — what will she say?" 
 
 I tried to frame an answer, but John
 
 JOHN AND I. 215 
 
 said quickly, without the quiver of a 
 muscle, 
 
 "I have already bid your mama good- 
 bye, Carl." 
 
 He turned round at the door with a 
 nod and smile, and then we hastened 
 out, Carl accompanying us to the gate ; 
 once, as we descended the old stone 
 steps leading to the front entrance, I 
 saw him look towards the pavilion ; but 
 there was that in his face that made 
 me turn away my eyes with a feeling 
 of sharp pain. 
 
 "When will you come again, Mr. 
 John?" asked Carl, who idolized my 
 brother, as all imaginative children are 
 apt to idolize grown men, when they 
 are handsome, ready-witted, and good- 
 natured.
 
 216 JOHN AND I. 
 
 "We'll see, Carl — but I can't stop 
 now. Good-bye, my boy." 
 
 " I know you can stop a minute, 
 Mr. John — do come again soon, please. 
 I like you, and I know mama does, 
 because she always asked you to hold 
 her gloves when she gathered flowers or 
 fruit in the greenhouse. Wouldn't you 
 like some flowers — mama always gives 
 them to visitors when they go away." 
 
 "Another time — not now, Carl, thank 
 you." 
 
 "Are you angry with me, Mr. John?" 
 asked the boy, his large sensitive eyes 
 filling with tears. I had never seen 
 him look so like his mother : an ex- 
 pression of unspeakable tenderness and 
 suffering passed over John's face. 
 
 "Why should you think so, Carl?
 
 JOHN AND I. 217 
 
 I never dreamed of being angry with 
 you — but I really am in haste, so good- 
 bye again." 
 
 He held out his hand; but Carl, 
 who, in spite of his uncontrollable spirit, 
 had a good deal of the woman in him, 
 raised his cheek with an evident design 
 to be kissed. John kissed him hastily, 
 and then walked on without looking 
 back. 
 
 We did not speak a word till we 
 reached the summit of the hill where I 
 had seen Hermine's carriage, on the first 
 day of my arrival at Weiler, and from 
 whence could be caught a glimpse of 
 one grey old turret amid the trees. 
 Then I spoke, for my brother's white, 
 silent face was more than I could 
 bear.
 
 218 JOHN AND I. 
 
 "John, I know your secret. Bear it 
 bravely, old fellow." 
 
 "No, Hendy," he replied, stopping 
 short, and looking me full in the face, 
 with a hard, resolute expression; "if I 
 have betrayed that mad folly to you, 
 let the matter end so. Never speak to 
 me of it — never recall the time by 
 word or look ; in everything else, as you 
 know, there must always be perfect con- 
 fidence between us, but in this, it is 
 impossible. I know that what you wish 
 to say would be kind, and wise, 
 and considerate ; but because I cannot 
 listen to you, you will well understand 
 how I feel about it. Therefore, Hendy, 
 do not give us both cause for vexation 
 by trying to say what I cannot, will 
 not hear from anyone now. If I seem to
 
 JOHN AND I. 219 
 
 be harsh, or unkind, forgive me, and 
 think that I do it only to prevent a 
 quarrel, which might make us feel like 
 enemies towards each other. Nothing 
 that you could say would show me my 
 folly clearer than I can see it now; 
 and the cost of it — good as you are, 
 and affectionate as you are — you cannot 
 help me to pay. We had better part 
 here. I want to be alone, and it can 
 only vex you to see me as I am." 
 
 " One moment, John — don't look at 
 me so. Good God ! — do you think I 
 am so much less than a man that I 
 should wish to prate and preach my 
 own wisdom to you when there is, as 
 it were, a heaven and a hell between 
 your heart and mine ? And do you 
 think I should call that a folly, John,
 
 220 JOHN AND I. 
 
 which has set you up in my love and 
 esteem higher by a hundred-fold, which 
 is the most solemn sorrow a man can 
 have? Do you think I am so miserably 
 mean-spirited that I can find no better 
 acceptation in my own mind, for a 
 thing, than such as the world would give 
 it?" 
 
 "Don't heed what I say, Hendy, 
 but shake hands and go. I could no 
 more help hurting your feelings now 
 than you can help hurting mine — 
 generous as you are. Oh! let me be 
 alone." 
 
 I gave him my hand. I had, how- 
 ever, something else to say — something 
 I was determined he should hear. 
 
 " Nothing can ever divide our lives, 
 John — remember that; the good or evil
 
 JOHN AND I. 221 
 
 that comes to you must come in part 
 to me; and however we may appear 
 to be distanced, my heart will always 
 be as much yours as it is now." 
 
 He wrung my hand a second time, 
 and, without speaking, hastened on. 
 
 Slowly and sadly I retraced my steps 
 to the Schloss, for the first time realiz- 
 ing the full amount of my brother's 
 sorrow, which was the only thing that 
 had ever shut his heart against my sym- 
 pathy. If this love for the Baroness 
 was no mere sudden fancy, but a deep- 
 rooted and steady passion, there was no 
 calculating the misery of it — for John's 
 nature was impulsive and impatient to 
 the highest degree; and though I loved 
 him so well, and could so easilv forgive 
 his faults, it was impossible for me not
 
 222 JOHN AND I. 
 
 to feel how soon he might be led on 
 to great error as well as to great good. 
 
 I could not wonder that he loved such 
 a woman, nor could I think for a mo- 
 ment that she was one to be half- 
 loved and soon forgotten. Indeed, much 
 as I valued John's happiness, and know- 
 ing, as I did, that it depended on the 
 instability of his love, I felt then as if 
 I must despise the man whose affection 
 for her could be anything but the ten- 
 derness, and constancy, and passion of 
 his whole life. 
 
 Yet the hopeless wearing pain of an 
 unreturned affection— of a lonely, home- 
 less life ! Heaven defend John from that ! 
 Ah, could he but have loved Ottilie 
 instead ! 
 
 She met me at the entrance -gate,
 
 JOHN AND I. 223 
 
 having watched us both, she said, from 
 her bedroom-window; but seeing that I 
 was disturbed, she forbore to remark on 
 my unexpected return, and chatted in a 
 pleasant, cheerful way till we reached 
 the courtyard. John had once said to 
 me that Ottilie always threw a sunbeam 
 over a thunder-cloud, and he was right; 
 under the influence of her kindly voice 
 and bright smile it was wonderful how 
 my gloominess dispersed. Men are selfish 
 in their sorrows. They must have others 
 weep with them and groan with them 
 — they are never silently heroic in the 
 way that women can be. Afterwards, 
 when I knew how Ottilie loved John — 
 how bravely she bore all her own anxiety 
 and unhappiness — how all the time that 
 she was suffering in silence she was only
 
 224 JOHN AND I. 
 
 thoughtful for him — I often compared 
 her conduct with my own, and came 
 off with very little honour.
 
 225 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 We missed the Stuttgart party more than 
 I had thought it possible for us to do, and 
 for some days after their departure, Schloss 
 Wetter was a dreary place. We still 
 took our usual walks — neither the fine 
 weather nor the lovely nooks were want- 
 ing for pic-nics — I grew stronger rather 
 than weaker in my legendary power at twi- 
 light times — the Baroness read her favourite 
 poems to us in the sweetest tones of her 
 vol. i. Q
 
 226 JOHN AND I. 
 
 sweet voice ; but something was still want- 
 ing which we did not speak of, though 
 felt deeply. 
 
 Was the Baroness unhappy for think- 
 ing of John's unhappiness ? Had that 
 passionate outpouring of first love made 
 still clearer to her the loneliness and 
 sadness of her own heart? I know not. 
 I only know that she seemed to cling 
 closer to Carl after his departure, and 
 was, if possible, even more tender, more 
 watchful, more loving of him than she 
 had hitherto been. 
 
 Carl was a strange child. Sometimes 
 I felt that I could have readier under- 
 taken the education of a schoolroom-full 
 of ordinary boys than of this one; and 
 yet at others he was so strangely, inex- 
 pressibly dear to me — there would shine
 
 JOHN AND I. 227 
 
 such ardent, sensitive, pure impulses, 
 even from his very excesses and faults — 
 that, whilst they made the task of cor- 
 rection a very hard and difficult one, drew 
 me to him with a bond of endearment 
 I should have found it painful to break. 
 Indeed, Sophie would have been already 
 wooed, perhaps wed, if I could have 
 come to the determination to leave Wei- 
 ler ; but till some plan suggested itself 
 which might obviate the necessity of 
 giving up Carl, I was unwilling to do 
 so. 
 
 About a week after the Blums' depar- 
 ture, Hermine returned unexpectedly. 
 We were sitting in the pavilion one 
 day — Carl drawing by my side, the 
 Baroness reading to us from one of the 
 Suabish poets — when our sunny quietude 
 
 Q2
 
 228 JOHN AND I. 
 
 was disturbed by a sudden flash of silk 
 and jewellery and merry laughter. 
 
 Though this young lady had a right 
 to her own home, there was something 
 in her manner of surprising us which I 
 could not help regarding as an imperti- 
 nence. She addressed us, and looked at 
 us as much as to say — 
 
 "Are you quite sure I have not come 
 upon you at an unwelcome time? Is 
 there anything going on which you are 
 trying to conceal from me — if so, I am 
 determined to find it out." 
 
 She sat down, however, very amicably 
 amongst us, and said, with an amount 
 of candour which, under the circumstances, 
 was little less than affectation, 
 
 " My dear mama, I have something to 
 tell you. I am going to be married."
 
 JOHN AND I. 229 
 
 The Baroness took her daughter's white- 
 gloved hands between her own trembling 
 ones, and gazed into her face with search- 
 ing tenderness. 
 
 Carl threw down his pencil, looked 
 sharply at Hermine, as if to assure 
 himself of her sincerity — finally ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 "You will never come back to live at 
 Weiler then, and we shall have no more 
 quarrels — I am glad you are going to 
 be married, Hermine, because I hate 
 quarrelling, and Mr. Brown says it is 
 very wicked." 
 
 Hermine coloured with vexation, but, 
 quickly recovering herself, replied, 
 
 " Mr. Brown is very right ; quarrels 
 are very odious, and, except when they 
 can prevent absurd and wrong things,
 
 230 JOHN AND I. 
 
 are utterly inexcusable. Still, on account 
 of my marriage, you would not utterly 
 drive me from Weiler — would you, Carl? 
 After having so well imbibed Mr. Brown's 
 axioms, I am sure you will be proof 
 against all my efforts at disagreement." 
 
 I saw Carl flush under the sting. 
 He merely gazed at her for a moment, 
 however, with large, dilating eyes, and 
 then resumed his drawing. 
 
 "Well," continued Hermine, after a 
 short pause, " are these all the congratu- 
 lations I am to have? Carl shows 
 plainly enough that he is glad to get 
 rid of me, and mama looks as sad as 
 if I came here with the news of some- 
 body's death. At Aunt Carline's there 
 have been grand festivals in honour of 
 the betrothal."
 
 JOHN AND I. 231 
 
 "The betrothal? — has it come to this?" 
 asked the Baroness with pained sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " Not exactly, dear mama — I should 
 rather say in anticipation of the be- 
 trothal, for the cards are not printed 
 yet, and the ceremony awaits your con- 
 sent. But at Aunt Carline's, and the 
 Baron LiebenzelTs, in fact at all her 
 friends, there have been parties made 
 for me ; and it seems very hard that 
 only at my own home I should meet 
 with so cool a reception." 
 
 " Dear," said the Baroness, " if you 
 have chosen worthily — if you love your 
 betrothed, and feel that you can trust 
 your happiness to him, no one can re- 
 joice at this news more than I." 
 
 " Mama, how romantic you are !" cried
 
 232 JOHN AND I. 
 
 Hermine laughing ; "it is you who 
 ought to be in my place now ; I am 
 sure you would make a better hand of 
 falling in love than I ever shall. But, 
 seriously speaking, mama, is there any 
 very great occasion to fall in love at 
 all? Do you not think that people who 
 take things in a cool, sleepy way get 
 through life the happiest of any. If 
 my father had lived he would, doubt- 
 less, have chosen somebody for me, and 
 I should have married him without 
 questioning the love and romance of 
 the matter — as it is, I am able to 
 choose for myself; and rest assured I 
 have not done so without duly consider- 
 ing what is necessary for my happi- 
 ness." 
 
 "I hope you will be very happy,"
 
 JOHN AND I. 233 
 
 said the Baroness, drawing her daughter 
 to her with motherly tenderness — such 
 tenderness as she shewed to Carl. 
 
 Hermine looked moved — a gentle, I 
 might almost say a beautiful, expression 
 passed over her fair face, and she said, 
 with real feeling, 
 
 "Mamachen, though you have not had 
 your troublesome daughter to vex you, 
 you are paler and thinner than when I 
 was at home; your voice, too, trembles, 
 which is always a sign with you of 
 weakness or anxiety. Ah ! Mamachen, 
 you are not right in shutting yourself 
 up in Weiler — how often must I 
 tell you that before you will believe 
 it ? Nothing but the vineyards and 
 flax-fields and dirty village to be seen 
 day after day! — and such a solitude! —
 
 234 JOHN AND I. 
 
 such a silence ! Mr. Brown, be honest 
 and confess that Weiler is the dreariest, 
 horriblest spot in the world ! " 
 
 "You must not set Mr. Brown 
 against Weiler/' exclaimed Carl, angrily; 
 " he likes it, and why should you try 
 to make him dislike it? If Mr. Brown 
 goes away, I will never learn of an- 
 other tutor — never ! " 
 
 Hermine's eyes were raised to mine 
 with a look in them that, had T been 
 as fiery at thirty-seven as I was at 
 twenty, I should have resented as a 
 deadly insult. It was a look that plainly 
 intimated a rising mistrust in me — a 
 feeling of contempt, as if I were a 
 coward, an interloper, a mis-user of my 
 power, a toad-eater to the Baroness, be- 
 cause from her I received my salary.
 
 JOHN AND I. 235 
 
 But I had outlived the fieriness and 
 haste of my youth; and being of a 
 hopeful, contented temperament, could 
 not take the trouble to be in a pas- 
 sion, unless where a passion could do 
 me, or somebody dear to me, great 
 service. I did not, however, forget that 
 look of Hermine's. Long afterwards, 
 when her eyes were kind, when her 
 voice was soft to me, I remembered it. 
 
 "Let us hope that even if Mr. Brown 
 does find Weiler monotonous, he will 
 put up with it," interposed the Baroness 
 pleasantly; "we cannot spare so good 
 and kind a friend yet — can we, Carl ? " 
 
 " Mama," cried Hermine impatiently, 
 "do go with me to the house, and let 
 me take off my bonnet and rest in 
 your bed-room. I am almost killed
 
 236 JOHN AND I. 
 
 with the dust and heat of the drive ! " 
 "You are not going back yet — you 
 will surely spare me a few days ? " 
 
 "Yes, mama, after my marriage, I 
 will spare you a good many. But just 
 now I must be at Munich, in order to 
 prepare for it; and you know that to 
 you such fusses are intolerable. It will 
 be much better to get it over at Aunt 
 Carline's — she really enjoys it. Nothing 
 can equal her kindness and generosity 
 about the matter ; and, in spite of the 
 little misunderstanding between you two 
 — in which I believe she was all along 
 well meaning — she always inquires for 
 you affectionately, and would very much 
 like to visit Weiler with me, in order 
 to smooth down old grievances." 
 
 She said this with pointed clearness, as
 
 JOHN AND I. 237 
 
 if it were intended especially for me to 
 hear, and so I believe it was. 
 
 " Old grievances will never be 
 smoothed down if your Aunt Carline 
 comes here," said the Baroness firmly. 
 
 " Family quarrels are above all others 
 the most detestable, and I cannot think 
 how it is, mama, that with your peace- 
 able disposition you can endure the 
 thought of living at enmity with my 
 father's sister. " 
 
 " We had better not speak of this 
 subject, Hermine; you are here so 
 seldom, that we can find pleasanter 
 things to talk about. Come with me 
 into the house, and let me have every 
 particular of your engagement; it is 
 natural that your mother should be as 
 curious as a child about it."
 
 238 JOHN AND I. 
 
 They left us, and I saw no more of 
 Hemiine till the evening, when a bright 
 figure, in hyacinth-coloured silk, came 
 spinning down my spiral stairs, and a 
 very subdued voice asked my permission 
 to enter. She appeared to have been 
 weeping, but was perfectly self - pos- 
 sessed. 
 
 " Mr. Brown, I have come to you in 
 great trouble. I do not know that you 
 can help me, or that any one can, 
 but, at any rate, you can hear me, 
 and I cannot endure the thought of 
 leaving my home misjudged by every- 
 body. On your judgment I know I can 
 rely, and I wish to show you how 
 much I esteem it by this confidence. 
 It is evident to you how unfortunately 
 I am situated, with regard to the two
 
 JOHN AND I. 239 
 
 beings dearest to me on earth — my 
 mother, and the friend who has been 
 almost a mother to me. No one can 
 be kinder, tenderer, and more forgiving 
 than mama, to those she loves; but no 
 one can be harder or more inveterate 
 against a person from whom she fancies 
 she has received an injury. Her unfor- 
 givingness amounts to absolute injustice. 
 Aunt Carline deserves gratitude from 
 mama rather than anything else, for, dur- 
 ing the early childhood both of Carl and 
 myself, nothing could equal her devotion 
 to us. To her I owe my education 
 and my introduction to society. If 
 mama never loved her, how can she 
 be expected to love mama ? And that 
 my mother never showed any affection 
 towards her I am as certain of as that
 
 240 JOHN AND I. 
 
 she wants to wean even my love and 
 gratitude from her now. What am I 
 to do ? My duties run in parallel 
 lines, and will never meet. I cannot 
 follow both. Mama exacts from me that 
 I renounce Aunt Carline, the kindest, 
 best friend of my youth; and when I 
 am married, Aunt Carline can no 
 longer continue to receive me at her 
 house, if she be interdicted from mine. 
 This would be intolerable to any one, 
 much more so to a proud woman like 
 my aunt." 
 
 She walked up and down the room 
 in a state of quiet passion, with no 
 tears in her eyes ; only a tremulous 
 colour on her cheeks, bearing witness to 
 her inward agitation. 
 
 " Why our family should be so
 
 JOHN AND I. 24 i 
 
 wretched and divided, I cannot tell you 
 now; but if I could, you would feel 
 how hard it is for me to act rightly, 
 how miserable to be the cause of such 
 discord and bitterness. My heart does 
 not tell me that I am much worse 
 than other people, but I suppose I must 
 be, since even my mother mistrusts me. 
 And Carl's cruel, cruel words ! I have 
 been looking into his exercise-books 
 this evening, and find that you have 
 done the work of years during the 
 last two months — was it so much more 
 difficult, Mr. Brown, to teach him the 
 common duty he owes his sister ? But 
 I have no right to reproach you, even 
 if it were a matter of reproach. You 
 do not know me— you are not inter- 
 ested in me — yet I had hoped that your 
 vol. I. R
 
 242 JOHN AND I. 
 
 promise to me would not have been forgot- 
 ten." 
 
 What right, indeed, had this haughty 
 young girl to lecture me on my short- 
 comings, as evidenced in Carl's caprices ? 
 But her impertinence was so pretty and 
 pathetic, that I was only admiring her 
 when I might with justice have felt 
 indignant. She went on with an as- 
 sumption of experience and judgment 
 which would have been comic, had she 
 not appeared so thoroughly in earnest — 
 
 "But you will quite understand, Mr. 
 Brown, that we do not want Carl to 
 grow up a mere scholar or book-worm. 
 He will most probably enter the army; and 
 it is, therefore, necessary that he should 
 be brought up to manly and active habits, 
 and not be over- Anglicised in his politics
 
 JOHN AND I. 243 
 
 and principles — for you must know that 
 we are half Austrians; it will never 
 do, therefore, for Carl to run away from 
 the family." 
 
 I smiled. 
 
 "At present politics do not enter our 
 courses of study, Fr&ulein ; we have not 
 had a great deal to do with principles 
 yet." 
 
 She smiled too, and without taking 
 offence proceeded : 
 
 " I think I have nothing more to 
 say — I will, therefore, bid you good-bye, 
 Mr. Brown. It is improbable" (here her 
 voice changed a little) — "it is impro- 
 bable that I shall come any more to 
 Schloss Weiler for years. What the 
 future may bring I cannot tell, but 
 it must bring a great change before my 
 
 r2
 
 244 JOHN AND I. 
 
 mothers heart will open to me again. 
 It is hard, it is cruel, that now, when 
 I am about to enter a new home, the 
 old one should be shut upon me, and 
 that, in making fresh ties, earlier ones 
 should be broken. Oh, mama ! mama ! 
 will you never believe how much I love 
 you ! But I must go. Mr. Brown, 
 you have listened to me very patiently 
 twice, and if I can ever serve you, 
 remember that I owe you an obligation 
 I will gladly repay. I am Carl's sister, 
 too, and though he does not love me, 
 you will accept my esteem and gratitude 
 for your extraordinary care and attention 
 to him. I assure you that my disposi- 
 tion is not an ungrateful one, and if 
 you can believe me when I say so, if 
 you can think better of me than cir-
 
 JOHN AND I. 245 
 
 cumstances might at first lead you to 
 do, I shall indeed value your regard. 
 I am very unhappy. If ever mama 
 speaks of me, tell her these were my 
 last words to you. Heaven knows they 
 are true ones. With the fairest pros- 
 pects before me — with youth, and love, 
 and health, and friends in my posses- 
 sion, I am very unhappy !" 
 
 My heart softened to her then. She 
 was so much gentler and more earnest 
 in her sorrow than in her vivacity — so 
 much fairer as she drooped with meek- 
 ness than she had ever looked when she 
 stood erect and proud, that I felt an 
 inward tenderness towards her — a yearn- 
 ing to comfort and help her. It seemed 
 a sad and unnatural thing for this 
 young, warm-hearted, lovely girl to be
 
 246 JOHN AND I. 
 
 unhappy amidst such promise of happi- 
 ness. 
 
 "Oh, Fraulein Hermine, is it really 
 so? Are you going away in tears and 
 bitterness ? Can I — can no one alter 
 this?" 
 
 "No one can alter it now — but you 
 are sorry for me; you sympathise with 
 me; it is some comfort to know this — 
 I am glad I have confided in you, Mr. 
 Brown." 
 
 She held out her hand to me — a 
 soft white hand, with no tenderness in 
 its velvety touch, though it seemed to 
 burn my own as I pressed it, Then 
 she turned to' go, but I stopped her. 
 
 " One moment — you have spoken con- 
 fidentially to me — you say that you 
 rely on my judgment; then listen, for
 
 JOHN AND I. 247 
 
 it is my duty to speak to you what is 
 in my heart. You are young, Fraulein 
 — oh, you do not know, you cannot 
 calculate, the amount of misery that this 
 separation will bring to you in the 
 future ! If it is a grief to you now, 
 when you are about to form a happy 
 marriage, and have every pleasure and 
 blessing of life around you, what will it be 
 in a time when you have other trials to 
 bear? Who can make up to a woman 
 the want of a mother's love? — and such 
 a mother, too ! Loving, good, and tender 
 as she is, it must be an unrighteous 
 thing which divides you — an angel of 
 God would not dare to come between 
 affections so holy." 
 
 Half by a gesture, half by a look, she 
 implored me to desist. For a moment
 
 248 JOHN AND I. 
 
 her face was turned to me with its tearful 
 blue eyes, and passionate, impulsive lips, 
 speaking more in that silence of pride, 
 and remorse, and deprecating appeal than 
 any words could have done. 
 
 Then she left me. Oh ! Sophie, Sophie, 
 well was it that thy simple loveliness and 
 sweet nature were havened so securely 
 in my heart ! 
 
 Hermine went early in the morning. It 
 was my custom to rise at six, and get an 
 hour's quiet study (for I was busily en- 
 gaged in a critical work on the living 
 German writers) before Carl took his fenc- 
 ing lesson in the pavilion. The signal for 
 breakfast would be the appearance of 
 Gustele, the dairy -maid, coming from the
 
 JOHN AND I. 249 
 
 farm, with fresh butter and rolls, at eight 
 o'clock ; but to-day Carl did not come for 
 his lesson, and, as I ate my first breakfast 
 of fruit in the orchard alone, I saw the 
 carriage drive away. 
 
 By -and -bye Carl came running to me, 
 his large dark eyes alit, his loose locks 
 shaken over his forehead, as they always 
 were when he was angry or excited. 
 
 u Oh ! Mr. Brown," he exclaimed in Ger- 
 man, for he was too hurried to frame an 
 English sentence — " Hermine is never com- 
 ing back again, and mama is crying so ! 
 Why should she cry ? — why should she 
 love Hermine any longer, since she says 
 such unkind things, and does not mind 
 leaving us? I won't cry; I never, never 
 love anyone who is unjust to me, and I 
 will not forgive her for making mama
 
 250 JOHN AND I. 
 
 unhappy. Mr. Brown, I wish Aunt Carline 
 were dead ! " 
 
 '"Carl, Carl!" 
 
 " I know it is wicked, but I cannot help 
 saying so, for mama will never be happy 
 whilst she is alive. I heard her say so 
 once, a long while ago, when I was quite 
 a little child ; but I have never forgotten 
 how she looked when she said it ; and 
 whenever I think of it, I hate Aunt Carline, 
 and wish she were dead. She loves me, 
 and she loves Hermine — what can make 
 her dislike mama ? " 
 
 This advantageous, ambitious marriage 
 furnished a clue to Hermine's strange con- 
 duct. I could thus account for the mingled 
 perversity, wavering, and regret that she 
 had testified during her interview with me ; 
 and when I thought of the subtle web of
 
 JOHN AND I. 251 
 
 influences cast around her by her mother's 
 hater, it was easier for me to forgive 
 her. 
 
 Yet she made us very miserable. The 
 Baroness was sad, with a sadness that no 
 sympathy or kindness could reach. She 
 never reproached Hermine by word or 
 look, but to those who knew her there was 
 a small swollen vein apparent over the right 
 temple, which testified to the amount of 
 her suffering. In the acutest pain, mental 
 or bodily, that small vein was its only 
 indicator. Her nervous organization re- 
 minded you of a very delicate musical 
 instrument, of which the strings snap easily, 
 but cannot play out of tune. One could 
 not but feel that sorrow was good which 
 revealed the beautiful patience of a nature 
 like hers.
 
 252 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " John !" 
 
 "Hendy!" 
 
 I had been taking a cup of coffee and 
 anisbrods with my good friend the Herr 
 Pfarrer, and was just turning my steps 
 homeward, when the Eilwagen drove into 
 the village, and my brother alighted within 
 a few yards of me. Though he looked 
 spiritless and ill, only the sight of him 
 seemed to lift a weight from my heart.
 
 JOHN AND Ii 253 
 
 Since his departure he had only written 
 one hurried note to me, with no reference 
 to his unhappiness; and, in spite of being 
 a small philosopher on most occasions, I could 
 not satisfactorily console myself in this 
 instance, but fancied all manner of miser- 
 able possibilities. 
 
 " We can't talk here, Hendy," were my 
 brother's first words. "Let us go into 
 the Wirthshaus, where we can be by our- 
 selves." 
 
 In the court, or entrance, the post-boys 
 were lolling about, drinking fresh cider 
 with the greatest enjoyment, amid the 
 noise of the geese and the odour of the 
 cows stalled around. But the landlord 
 informed us that there was an empty 
 room upstairs, large, untenanted, and 
 recht nett ; so, following him, we were
 
 254 JOHN AND I. 
 
 ushered into a bare, beery, sour-krautish 
 apartment, overlooking the yard on one 
 side, and on the other a patch of or- 
 chard. Neither of these prospects was 
 quiet. In the yard two women were 
 gossiping, in the sleepy Suabian way, 
 over the barbarous operation of goose- 
 stuffing. Bah ! who could eat Stras- 
 burg pies after that ? They held the poor 
 animals between their knees, and smoothed 
 the corn down their throats as you would 
 squeeze your clothes into a carpet-bag. 
 When not another grain could, by any 
 amount of cramming, be pushed into the 
 crop, another victim was taken. The or- 
 chard view was pleasanter. Two or three 
 sturdy lasses, with flaxen hair and ma- 
 hogany cheeks, were flirting with a couple 
 of youths over the process of cider or
 
 JOHN AND I. 255 
 
 most making. The work required little 
 thought, and allowed ample opportunities 
 for an occasional romp. They had only 
 to keep a wooden vat replenished with 
 apples, and mash them to pulp by means 
 of a stone wheel, which two people could 
 easily turn on the pivot. The juice of 
 the apple thus obtained — unfermented, un- 
 prepared, unadulterated — forms the whole- 
 some and cool beverage so loved by Wir- 
 tembergers. 
 
 John looked at the geese-stuffers — I at 
 the most makers. 
 
 "How I shall rejoice to get out of this 
 cheap, dirty, miserable country !" he said 
 with disgust. " What a mistake it was 
 on our part to come here !" 
 
 " I am not disappointed in it. If sour- 
 krautish smells are superabundant, and
 
 2,56 JOHN AND I. 
 
 soap not so much thought of as it de- 
 serves to be, it has its advantages — it is 
 a sociable, plentiful country ; a country 
 where a poor gentleman can live economi- 
 cally, and yet be thought as good as his 
 neighbours." 
 
 " I thought so," he said, gloomily. 
 "You like Germany , you will marry 
 Sophie, and settle here — what else could 
 I expect ? If I were not the selfish brute 
 I am, I should rejoice at it." 
 
 I looked at him inquiringly. 
 
 " I have thrown up my situation, Hendy. 
 You will think me a fool — and so I am; 
 but, with such love in my heart for her, 
 had I been as wise as you, I should 
 have acted precisely in the same way. 
 Oh! Hendy, I could not return, day after 
 day, to my drudging labour and feel
 
 JOHN AND I. 257 
 
 that I was really so near her, and yet as 
 far divided as if I were dead. Once 
 in another country, where by the re- 
 motest possibility we could never meet, 
 I might work more cheerfully. I think 
 I shall choose St. Petersburg, as there an 
 Englishman has wider scope for his 
 talents — and happy or not happy, Hendy, 
 we must eat and drink/' 
 
 " What do they say to it in the Weimar 
 Strasse ?" 
 
 "Except Ottilie and Sophie, they are 
 a mean-spirited, vulgar-minded set ; and 
 I will never again set foot in their doors. 
 Only fancy, Hendy, the Colonel took me 
 to task as if I were a boy, and lectured 
 me on the necessity of young men apply- 
 ing themselves steadily to business, on 
 the pernicious effects of idleness, and so 
 
 vol. i. s
 
 258 JOHN AND I. 
 
 forth. My aunt (you know what a fuss 
 she makes about her nerves) was nervous 
 and worried — worried the poor girls, and 
 Rbsle, and me, till she finally came 
 to the resolution that it would be 
 far better for an unsettled young man 
 like myself to take hotel quarters at 
 once." 
 
 "And Ottilie?" 
 
 "Can you believe it, Hendy? — they 
 were so cruel, so shameful, as to keep 
 the poor girl in her bedroom till I was 
 gone. Not a word, not a look, from her 
 did I get ; if I had only seen her for one 
 moment I could have come away with a 
 lighter heart. Oh ! Hendy, it is not the 
 least of my troubles now, to think that I 
 have given pain to that good, true-hearted, 
 noble girl."
 
 JOHN AND I. 259 
 
 "Does Ottilielove you?" 
 His face flushed at my question. 
 " Heaven forbid ! — no, Hendy, I do not 
 think it has gone so far. Before I saw 
 her at the Ruin, the hope that I might 
 one day win Ottilie's love was very dear 
 to me ; but afterwards, when I felt that I 
 could not give her the best affection of 
 my heart, I behaved to her in the same 
 friendly cousin -like way as I did to So- 
 phie. Had it ended there I should have 
 nothing to reproach myself with on her 
 account. But after my return from 
 Weiler I was so utterly, so hopelessly mi- 
 serable, that it seemed to me, life would 
 be unendurable at such a price. I 
 thought if a bright, warm-hearted, sunny- 
 tempered girl like Ottilie could love me, 
 I should be set once more, as it were, 
 
 s2
 
 260 JOHN AND I. 
 
 straight in the path of life, with the 
 chance of being not more useless or un- 
 happy than other people. But it was a 
 selfish thing, Hendy, to seek Ottilie's love 
 merely for my own happiness, and I did 
 not deserve to obtain it. 'You do not 
 love me, John,' she said, with tears in her 
 eyes; 'if I tried I could not make you 
 happy. Let us, however, always be friends, 
 and you must look upon me as a sister, who 
 takes the greatest interest in your well-being.' 
 She was very kind and gentle — what a 
 wife she would make, Hendy ! — but I 
 cannot forgive myself for having hurt 
 her feelings and wounded her pride. 
 And now, Hendy, you have the whole 
 miserable story from beginning to 
 end/' 
 
 He smiled, a bitter, self- condemning
 
 JOHN AND I. 261 
 
 smile, and looked into my face for a 
 reply. 
 
 "Well, John, and so St. Petersburg is 
 the optata arena of your imagination 
 now," I said as cheerfully as I could, 
 though the very name seemed to freeze 
 my heart; "couldn't you descend a little 
 lower in your latitudes? " 
 
 " I don't think any other place presents 
 a better opening, and the life there would 
 suit me far better than this torpid Ger- 
 many. As to the cold, don't you remem- 
 ber how I broke the ice for my baths all 
 last winter ? " 
 
 " I would not mind for myself," I con- 
 tinued; "but for Sophie's sake — " 
 
 He jumped up and fronted me. 
 
 " No, no, old boy. Sophie will make 
 the one wife in all the world for you ;
 
 262 JOHN AND I. 
 
 and you will take pupils, and write 
 learned works, and be as happy as ever 
 man was. Stay here. Why should you 
 sacrifice such prospects because you have 
 a brother who happens to be a bad shil- 
 ling ? I will not accept the sacrifice from 
 you, Hendy." 
 
 For some minutes I sat in deep thought. 
 It was hard that my love and duty must 
 be divided between the two beings on 
 earth that I loved best. But it was so. 
 Only in leaving Sophie could I discharge 
 that sacred duty of love, guidance, and 
 protection to my brother which I had 
 promised at the death-bed of both pa- 
 rents. 
 
 "Be a good boy, Hendy," my poor 
 mother had said to me, " and never 
 forget that you are to take care of John."
 
 JOHN AND I. 263 
 
 " Hendy," said my father, twenty years 
 later, " John is many years younger 
 than yourself, and handsome, proud, and 
 fond of ease; on him the consequences 
 of my fault will fall most heavily. Be 
 a true friend to him. When he is in 
 difficulties or in trouble, never let him 
 feel that he is alone in the world." 
 
 And Sophie, my fresh little flower, my 
 newest, dearest joy, must I leave her so 
 soon ? 
 
 The contest lasted some minutes, but 
 when it was over I clasped my brother's 
 hand and said : — 
 
 " John, we will not part. What I said 
 to you when you left Weiler, a few days 
 ago, I say again now. Nothing can divide 
 our lives. If Sophie loves me, she will 
 love me, however much we may be sepa-
 
 264 JOHN AND I. 
 
 rated by time or distance — and only such 
 love is worthy of mine." 
 
 For a few seconds he held my hand 
 in his, then he rose suddenly and walked 
 to the window. We were both silent. 
 When, a quarter of an hour after, we 
 spoke again, neither of us recurred to 
 the subject, but made our plans, with 
 the tacit arrangement that we should leave 
 Wirtemberg together. I wrote at once to 
 the Baroness, asking her forgiveness for 
 so abrupt a departure, excusing it by the 
 shortest possible outline of what had oc- 
 curred, and by my wish to save Carl the 
 painfulness of leave-taking. Knowing as I 
 did, the boy's impetuous nature, I felt 
 that it would be better for him not to see 
 me again, and I relied upon her kindness 
 for the best construction of my actions.
 
 JOHN AND I. 265 
 
 Her delicate woman's tact would divine 
 at once how much I should spare her own 
 feelings by leaving without an interview. 
 For myself, it would have been hard at 
 any time to lose such a friend. I felt it 
 doubly under the circumstances. After 
 the letter was written and sent, we sat 
 down to a miserable meal, having decided to 
 walk to Marbach that night, in order to be 
 in readiness for the next morning's post to 
 start to Stuttgart. I should thus get half 
 a day with the dear little family in the 
 Weimar Strasse. 
 
 Heinrich brought the Baroness's answer — 
 a kind, hurried, agitated note, thanking me 
 for my care of Carl, wishing me every 
 success and happiness, and hoping she 
 should hear of my well-being through the 
 Blums. She never mentioned John. The
 
 266 JOHN AND I. 
 
 amount of my salary was forwarded in a 
 separate paper ; and Heinrich informed me 
 that he had orders to attend to my lug- 
 gage as I might direct. I told him to 
 forward them by the Eilwagen to Ludwigs- 
 burg, sent back a little gold pencil-case, 
 which Carl had always admired, to be 
 given to him next day with my love, 
 shook hands with Heinrich, and then we 
 set off. 
 
 It was such a summer evening as could 
 only be described by the two words — 
 Beauty and Repose. No descriptions so 
 well suggest to you the melting jewel- 
 lery of the sunset, the crimson flush over 
 the pine -woods, the still brightness of 
 the valleys. We were now in August, 
 when 
 
 " Lingering Autumn stayed 
 Upon the threshold of the golden earth !"
 
 JOHN AND I. 267 
 
 — and we felt how solemn the perfection 
 of Nature could be. 
 
 I was a good walker, but found it very 
 difficult to keep up with John. There was 
 something startling in the rapidity of his 
 pace ; it was as if his life depended on his 
 speed, or as if he were fleeing from an enemy. 
 When we reached a point where the grey 
 old Schloss and wooded hill could no more 
 be seen, he sat by the wayside to rest, 
 heavy perspiration standing on his pale 
 face, and damping his thick locks. 
 
 He pressed his hand on his temples, as 
 if with sudden pain. 
 
 " Good God ! John, you are not ill ? " 
 
 " Oh ! no, Hendy," he said, starting up 
 at once, and walking as rapidly as before 
 — " never fear. Was I ever ill in my 
 life ? But you, with all your learning and
 
 268 JOHN AND I. 
 
 thought, will understand better than I can 
 tell you, what such a passion can be to one 
 like myself, who have hitherto thought it 
 the easiest thing in the world to win a 
 woman's love — who have lived, as it were, 
 in myself, and felt every trifle a hardship 
 which interfered with my notions of ease 
 and comfort. Everything now seems to 
 me mean and coarse in life; and which 
 ever way I turn, I see only contemptible 
 drudgery before me!" 
 
 I could have urged upon him the simple 
 religious faith in an unerring Divine Guid- 
 ance, which had so helped to make me 
 energetic and contented since my child- 
 hood ; I could have preached a hundred 
 and one sermons upon my favourite text 
 of patient acceptance of events as they 
 come — but for the present I forbore. There
 
 JOHN AND I. 269 
 
 are different kinds and degrees of sor- 
 rows. Some may be cured by a stinging 
 caustic, others by the salve of sympathy 
 alone, and I took John's to be of the latter 
 kind. 
 
 "Do you love her so?" I asked softly. 
 
 His heart leaped into his face, his 
 eyes moistened, his voice shook. 
 
 " Hendy," he cried, passionately, " old 
 friend, I have only you in the world 
 to care for me now. Why did I not 
 open my heart to you before, instead of 
 sending you away, like a brute, as I 
 was? But forgive me, old boy — only 
 the devil in my nature spoke then ; 
 and whatever happens in the future, I 
 will always stick to you through thick 
 and thin, and will never forget how 
 good "
 
 270 JOHN AND I. 
 
 He broke off with a gasping sound 
 in the throat, as if he were choking. 
 Then he turned his despairing face to 
 me and said, 
 
 " T must see her again ! I cannot 
 begin such a life without seeing her 
 face first. Bear with me, Hendy, for 
 I am very wretched — afterwards I will 
 not speak of her, or vex you with my 
 troubles any more — but, oh, Hendy, I 
 love her — I love her so — and it is for 
 the last time ! " 
 
 What could I say — what could I do — 
 with those burning eyes upon me? In 
 vain I tried to urge upon him the 
 misery of a second parting — the neces- 
 sity, for her sake, of his own self-sacri- 
 fice — the unspeakable anguish he would 
 thus recall upon himself. To all my
 
 JOHN AND I. 271 
 
 entreaties and remonstrances he re- 
 peated, 
 
 "For the last time, Hendy! — think of 
 that." 
 
 Slowly and sorrowfully we retraced 
 our steps to the Schloss.
 
 272 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The Baroness was sitting in an alcove 
 of the white drawing-room, which was 
 her favourite apartment, on account of 
 its lightness and airiness. She rose 
 suddenly at our entrance as one who 
 wakes from a dream. Her eyes glanced 
 anxiously from John to myself — twice 
 her lips moved, with an effort to speak 
 — then she sat down again, with her 
 trembling hands folded on her knees.
 
 JOHN AND I. 273 
 
 At last she said to me, 
 
 "For Carl's sake you have come back 
 — you will not leave us again — you 
 are the only friend I have — will you 
 be so cruel " 
 
 Her voice broke down, tears streamed 
 down her cheeks, and she covered her 
 face with her hands. 
 
 "Oh! why did you not return alone?" 
 she cried, with all the proud passion 
 of her nature aroused; "it was wrong, 
 cowardly, to surprise me thus ! You 
 who called yourself my friend, Mr. 
 Brown, have I deserved this of you? — 
 have I not sorrows enough without 
 your adding to them ? It was un- 
 generous of you to leave me — but that 
 I could have forgiven." 
 
 "The fault is mine. I know it was 
 
 VOL. T. t
 
 274 JOHN AND I. 
 
 unmanly, weak, mad of me ! — I know 
 that you will despise me for it," said 
 John, calmly and coldly; "but I could 
 not enter upon the life which must be 
 quite shut out from you, without see- 
 ing you again." 
 
 "Why have you made me so miser- 
 able, and you say you love me? Could 
 you not leave me the only friend in 
 the world upon whom I rely? If you 
 knew how solitary and troubled my 
 life is, you would not have acted thus 
 — Carl will never be happy if he goes, 
 and I have only Carl to care for me 
 now " 
 
 " God knows, I would not willingly 
 cause you unhappiness," John interposed. 
 "Hendy, stay here — you are my only 
 friend too, but it is miserably selfish
 
 JOHN AND I. 275 
 
 of me to take you away from your 
 tranquil life ; and if by coming back I 
 shall have been the means of making 
 Carl happier, I shall better forgive my- 
 self. You must stay, Hendy." 
 
 He approached the Baroness, and said 
 in a low voice, 
 
 " I am going away alone. Will you 
 forgive me in spite of all the pain I 
 have caused you? It is the last time 
 I shall ever have the occasion to ask 
 anything of you." 
 
 "No, no, no!" exclaimed the Baroness 
 agitatedly; "I have no right to expect 
 this sacrifice. Mr. Brown, leave me ! — 
 John, go! Be very happy. If I have 
 anything to forgive, I forgive it." 
 
 With wild energy John cried, 
 
 " You love me! — I know you love 
 
 T 2
 
 276 JOHN AND I. 
 
 me! — why do you send me away? My 
 love could make you happy." 
 
 For a moment he stood close beside 
 her; his breath was on her cheek; he 
 touched her hand, but it was for a 
 moment only. She moved a step 
 farther back, and, turning very pale, 
 said in a calm, sorrowful voice, 
 
 "You say your love could make me 
 happy. Perhaps it could, if I were free 
 to accept it, and had a heart that was 
 young and fresh to respond to yours; 
 but even if I had such a heart, 
 there are obstacles which stand like 
 open graves between you and me. 
 Will it be any consolation to tell you 
 again, that not only from your love, but 
 from any other, I am almost shut out 
 as if I were already dead. No one
 
 JOHN AND I. 277 
 
 else can have what you ask of me ; 
 and however much I might love you, 
 however much I might be loved by 
 you, we must be parted !" 
 
 She covered her face with her hands 
 and shuddered. 
 
 " I cannot forget," she continued, 
 "that Carl's love was once taken from 
 me. I am very lonely — often very un- 
 happy, but I dare not think that the 
 love and sympathy and protection of a 
 husband might make my life as I have 
 only imagined life could be." 
 
 Again John drew a step nearer; this 
 time she did not move away, but let 
 him hold her hands in his, and look 
 into the depths of her eyes. 
 
 "Will you remember how I loved 
 you? — will you think kindly of me 
 when I am gone ? "
 
 278 JOHN AND I. 
 
 A sudden beautiful flush tinted her 
 cheeks — an unspeakable emotion shone 
 in her eyes, and trembled around her 
 lips. 
 
 Then I heard a voice, sweet and 
 joyful as a linnet's first song after 
 rain. 
 
 " Call me Marie," it said ; " since my 
 childhood no one who loved me has 
 called me so." 
 
 I heard no more — I had no right 
 to hear more, and hastened into the 
 orchard, where I found Carl. He sprang 
 to meet me with a volley of re- 
 proaches. 
 
 " I could not wear your pencil-case, 
 Mr. Brown, though I admire it so 
 much. I have been so angry, that I 
 came to the resolution to dislike you
 
 JOHN AND I. 279 
 
 very much. If I had been bigger I 
 would have challenged you to fight! " 
 We had a fencing lesson instead.
 
 280 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 I love the autumn, that, " andante 
 melancolique et gracieux qui prepare 
 admirablement le solemul adagio de 
 l'hiver." As I sit in my room, and 
 let the drowsiness of the soft sky and 
 fruity air steal over my senses, I feel 
 that George Sand must be a poet to 
 call it so, and willingly yield myself
 
 JOHN AND I. 281 
 
 to the drunkenness of such sweet 
 music. 
 
 I never thought that Stuttgart would 
 have seemed to me so bustling and 
 lively a place as it does to-day; but 
 after the quiet Schloss, this Weimar 
 Strasse is like London. The street, in- 
 deed the whole town, swarms with 
 people gaily dressed, and chatting in 
 parties. Droskies, omnibuses, and rustic 
 wooden carts, resembling corn ricks, roll 
 past every minute, the clanging of the 
 driver's whip and harness bells making 
 a jingle as if an army of babies were 
 rattling in concert. Farther off, one 
 hears a military band playing in front 
 of the palace, but the soldiers are not 
 on duty, and hardly a Jungfer is with- 
 out her blue-coated, boyish lover.
 
 282 JOHN AND I. 
 
 The town overflows with people ; 
 and what a heterogeneous mass ! Bava- 
 rian peasantry, with their three-cornered 
 hats, looking like shabby admirals ; old 
 women of solemn appearance from the 
 Black Forest, in black dresses, and 
 velvet caps standing off their heads 
 like crowns ; students from various 
 universities, with little gilt caps stuck 
 on one side of their conceited young 
 craniums, and green leather bags slung 
 from their shoulders; Tyrolese pedlars, 
 who might be noblemen, such fine, 
 handsome, well-made fellows as they are, 
 and dressed in such spick-and-span 
 velvet jerkins, silver-broidered vests, and 
 spotless stockings; Swiss girls, who have 
 come from the borders, looking very 
 pretty and fanciful in their laced
 
 JOHN AND I. 283 
 
 bodices, starched chemisettes, and gilt 
 chains. Then there are specimens of 
 every class in Suabia; old officers of 
 Napoleon's time, stiff and trim, befit- 
 ting their dignity ; country pastors, with 
 their cherry-cheeked daughters, remind- 
 ing you of the Miss Flamboroughs of 
 immortal memory — and so on, till the 
 multipliciter becomes wearisome to de- 
 scribe. 
 
 It would strike a newly - arrived 
 stranger curiously, that all these crowds 
 of people move in one direction — 
 Cannstatt, the pretty miniature spa I 
 have before mentioned ; but he would 
 soon learn that no less an event than 
 the King of Wiirtemberg's birthday is 
 being celebrated there, with a VoWs Fest, 
 or People's Festival, which is certainly
 
 284 JOHN AND I. 
 
 (to German eyes) as grand a sight as 
 the world can show. 
 
 I am re-established in my old room 
 in the Weimar Strasse — the little, bare 
 unadorned room, which I love for the 
 sake of the garden it overlooks, and 
 the pear-tree under which Sophie and 
 Ottilie sit at work through the long 
 afternoon. How could John call the 
 Colonel and his wife mean-spirited and 
 vulgar-minded ? I can only forgive it 
 under the circumstances. Nothing could 
 equal their kind welcome to both of us 
 when we called on them the day of 
 our return from Weiler; and I saw 
 that the good souls were quite anxious 
 to atone for any injustice they had 
 testified to John, who was so happy 
 that I do not think the coolest reception
 
 JOHN AND I. 285 
 
 would have made any impression on him. 
 
 The Baroness and Carl are located 
 in the family of the banker (by whom 
 I was engaged in the first instance as 
 tutor), residing in a distant part of the 
 town; and thither I wend my way 
 every morning at seven o'clock, to give 
 my pupil his holiday lessons. For 
 though the Herbst Ferien, or Michaelmas 
 holiday, is not yet come, everyone keeps 
 Ferien during the Yolk's Fest. It was 
 partly because Carl had never witnessed 
 the latter national institution (if I may 
 so call it), and partly because the 
 Baroness had her yearly money-affairs 
 to settle with Herr Roser, that we came 
 to Stuttgart for a week. 
 
 The engagement was not kept secret 
 from the Blums.
 
 286 JOHN AND I. 
 
 " I love you," said the Baroness to 
 John; "I think it no crime, no falling 
 off in duty to my children, to marry a 
 man whom I honour, and to whom I 
 can look for support and protection 
 and love, when they may both have 
 left me. I know that in the eyes of 
 some this step will lower me, as a 
 traitor to the interest of my family — as 
 a heartless mother, and as a frivolous 
 woman ; but I love you — I feel that I 
 can give you the tender love of a wife, 
 without breaking other ties; and feeling 
 thus, I am ready to bear any censure, 
 any hatred, any contempt even, for 
 your sake." 
 
 " Hendy, she is an angel ! " John said 
 to me. " Do, old boy, get married to the 
 Sophiechen ; for just now I feel so much
 
 JOHN AND I. 287 
 
 happier than you can be, that it seems 
 quite an injustice." 
 
 And Ottilie. I could well under- 
 stand why she fluttered from room to 
 room, never settling quietly to her 
 usual occupations — shunning an inter- 
 view with me — shunning John's presence 
 most of all. She was irritable, too, 
 to Sophie — bore less patiently with 
 her father's methodical fidgeting, and 
 her mother's active nervousness — scolded 
 Rosle sometimes a little more than 
 the occasion required, and entered 
 with apparent effort into the nume- 
 rous plans for the forthcoming holi- 
 day. 
 
 "Then it is all settled!" said Sophie 
 blithely ; " this evening we go to the 
 opera, to-morrow we drive in the park
 
 288 JOHN AND I. 
 
 to see the Court on their way to 
 Cannstatt, and spend the afternoon in 
 Hermann's garden; and on Saturday we 
 go to Cannstatt again, to see the Races 
 and the Fair." 
 
 We were sitting out in the garden — 
 the Colonel, my aunt, Ottilie, Sophie, 
 and I, after our early dinner, and the 
 conversation had naturally turned upon 
 the Volk's Fest. 
 
 " There will be a great crowd in 
 the theatre, girls, so mind and be 
 ready quite by five, as we must be at 
 the doors by half-past. Sophie will 
 look quite magnificent in her blue and 
 amber dress — Ottilie, you have said no- 
 thing about yours ? " 
 
 And the Colonel turned to Ottilie 
 inquiringly.
 
 JOHN AND I. 289 
 
 "She thinks her grey silk will do," 
 answered his wife. 
 
 "The same she wore at the opera 
 on the last birthday! Stuff and non- 
 sense, what are you both thinking of? 
 Ottilie, why did you not speak to me 
 about it ? — damn it ! I have a good 
 mind not to let you go at all!" 
 
 He was really angry, and scolded 
 away for several minutes, his wife and 
 daughters listening meekly. When he 
 had done, Ottilie said, in a subdued 
 voice, 
 
 " Dear Vaterchen, if you do not think 
 I shall look well enough, I will stay 
 at home — I really would not mind it." 
 
 I think she would very much have 
 preferred to stay, but dared not say so. 
 The Colonel was still out of temper, 
 
 vol. i. u
 
 290 JOHN AND I. 
 
 though he replied in a more modified 
 tone, 
 
 "No, no, child, you shall not lose 
 such a treat because you have been 
 foolish. You have a white spencer?" 
 
 " Yes, papachen." 
 
 " And a pink sash and shoulder- 
 knots?" 
 
 "They are faded, I fear, papa." 
 
 " Let me look at them." 
 
 She ran in and brought out, the 
 ribbons, which were unmistakeably 
 whitened by the sun ; he looked at 
 them carefully, then folded them in 
 paper, and placed them in his pocket. 
 
 " I will go and get some new ones 
 for you directly," he said; "with them 
 and your white bodice, no one will 
 see if your skirt be new or not."
 
 JOHN AND I. 291 
 
 She thanked him; and, taking up his 
 hat he walked to the house. As he 
 was entering, I saw Christine Hermann 
 beckon to him with a letter in her 
 hand, and the two paced up and down 
 the Count's neglected garden, for up- 
 wards of a quarter of an hour, in 
 earnest conversation. One of Christine's 
 children ran out of the house and 
 caught hold of her dress, but she re- 
 pulsed it rudely, turning her handsome, 
 troubled face towards us as she did 
 so. 
 
 "Poor woman!" said Ottilie, pityingly; 
 "she seems to be in great perplexity 
 and distress; why does she trust 
 that mean, deceitful Count? I don't 
 believe he will ever come back to her 
 now — how can women be such fools ? " 
 
 u2
 
 292 JOHN AND I. 
 
 " If she had doubted him, she should 
 have done so years ago," interposed my 
 aunt; "whatever he may be, she can- 
 not free herself from him now — she 
 has only had what reward every woman 
 must expect, if she chooses to act as 
 she has done. Count Cress is not 
 worse than other men. But come, 
 Sophiele, I think you and I must help 
 Rosle to iron our petticoats." 
 
 "That is always how mama and papa 
 talk!" cried Ottilie. "They are always 
 lenient towards men — their unfaithfulness, 
 their vanity, their selfishness, they have 
 an excuse for ; but women, who are 
 the victims, get no pity, no justice 
 even. It makes me angry to hear 
 people passing judgment on such a 
 woman as Christine Hermann. She is
 
 JOHN AND I. 293 
 
 blamed for trusting his promises — he is 
 never blamed for deceiving her. Women 
 are fools to love at all. Surely it is a 
 virtue, and not a crime, to be faithful 
 where they love " 
 
 The angry flush died away from her 
 cheeks — she burst into tears, and was 
 silent. 
 
 " Dear Ottilie," I said, gently, " I 
 understand — I know all. Trust me, as 
 an old friend, you will never find me 
 unworthy your confidence, Ottilie." 
 
 "If I could be proud enough to keep 
 it all down — to forget everything — to 
 feel to him as if nothing had hap- 
 pened. Oh ! Henderson, I cannot do 
 that, and it makes me miserable, 
 ashamed of myself, ashamed of being a 
 woman almost, to feel so weak ! "
 
 294 JOHN AND I. 
 
 A tear, which she had too much 
 pride to wipe away, stole down her 
 cheek — she turned her head away, and 
 continued — 
 
 "I do not know whether I have to 
 blame myself most or him. I should 
 not like to be unjust to your brother, 
 Henderson, for you are so good and 
 kind to us, and we all respect you so 
 much ; but I cannot help thinking it 
 was wrong of him to show such tender- 
 ness towards me — to make me care for 
 him at first, before" — her voice shook 
 a little, " before he saw her. If you 
 knew how changeless and quiet our 
 daily life had hitherto been, and how 
 different it seemed when I returned 
 from Tubingen and found him here, 
 you would not wonder that I fell in
 
 JOHN AND I. 295 
 
 love with him. But let us talk of some- 
 thing else. The more I think of my 
 own folly, the more impatient and 
 angry I become. Oh ! Henderson, I 
 fear I have seemed very unamiable to- 
 day; but I cannot help it, it is so 
 wearisome to have to enter into plans 
 for amusement and pleasure when your 
 head is aching as mine is. Oh ! how 
 it aches, and I feel so cross and vexed 
 with everything and everybody! If papa 
 would only let me stay at home to- 
 
 night!" 
 
 " Ask him. Let me ask him for you." 
 " No, Henderson, he would only be 
 angry — he is very kind and good, but 
 always expects implicit obedience from 
 all of us, and it is right that he should 
 have it."
 
 296 JOHN AND I. 
 
 The reader must not suppose from 
 this that the Colonel was a domestic 
 tyrant, far from it ; but in Wiirtem- 
 berg the race of strong women have 
 not yet appeared, and husbands and 
 fathers have that supremacy in their 
 households which our English ladies 
 would rebel at with a phalanx of fiery 
 pens. I forbear to offer any opinion on 
 such a subject as the Rights of Women. 
 I can only say, that whilst, perhaps, the 
 Brownings and Mulochs bear the palm 
 against the Natusius' and Wildermuths, it 
 would be far easier to find unskilful 
 housekeepers in England than in Ger- 
 many — in the latter place the domestic 
 duties being invariably set before every- 
 thing else. 
 
 Ottilie and I had a long conversation
 
 JOHN AND I. 297 
 
 about many things, which was at last in- 
 terrupted by my aunt calling out from 
 an upper window that we must get ready. 
 As we entered the house we were met by 
 old Ricky, who replied to Ottilie's saluta- 
 tion by the following strain, chanted in 
 the broadest Suabish, and with an odd 
 smirk on her mouth : 
 
 11 Jetzt geh i nach Stuttgart, 
 In d' Hofapothek 
 Und kaiif mir e Mittel 
 Dass d' Liebe vergeht." 
 
 "Must she taunt me with it?" cried 
 Ottilie impatiently; "am I always to be 
 reminded of my folly ? " 
 
 Indoors no little excitement was pre- 
 vailing, principally caused by the Colonel, 
 who, looking very red and flurried, whis- 
 pered that he had something extraordinary
 
 298 JOHN AND I. 
 
 to tell us. Having first ascertained that 
 the landing was free from listeners, and 
 cooled himself by unbuttoning his surtout, 
 which gave way with a tremendous bang 
 of relief, he began : 
 
 "What did I say, Ottilie — what did I 
 say, wife, when Count Cress went away to 
 be present at his father's death-bed ? — did 
 I not say, ' Ein anderes Stadchen — ein 
 anderes Madchen'? — and so I believe it is 
 with him. I no more think now that he 
 will fulfil his promises to the poor Chris- 
 tine, than I think that the cuckoo in 
 my clock is a live one. Last week she 
 had a letter from him, to say that he 
 hoped to return soon to his splendid 
 Christine, who must promise not to 
 scold him too much ; and to-day he 
 writes word that he shall never come to
 
 JOHN AND I. 299 
 
 Stuttgart, and must see her this very 
 night at Heilbronn." 
 
 " She will not go?" cried Ottilie, indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 "Why not?" said the Colonel; "I ad- 
 vised her to do so by all means." 
 
 " I wonder she is not too proud," con- 
 tinued the girl still flushed and eager ; 
 " after his neglect and unfaithfulness, how 
 can she humble herself so far ? " 
 
 " Pride is all very well, Ottilie ; but she 
 is a clever woman, and does not wish to 
 lose him. She is fond of him, too, poor 
 thing ! and it would be a shame indeed, if 
 a lazy blockhead like that should slip from 
 the fingers of one who knows so well how 
 to manage him. Certainly she is a great 
 deal too good and handsome for the fool ; 
 but so long as he is to her taste, that is
 
 300 JOHN AND I. 
 
 a very little matter. He has promised to 
 marry her, and if I can anyhow help her 
 to her prize, I will." 
 
 " And she is gone ? " asked my aunt. 
 
 " Yes. Her sister will sleep in her part 
 of the house till she returns ; but she 
 begged me to keep an eye upon the ser- 
 vants and the front-door at night. Now, 
 Ottilie, look at your sash. After listening 
 to the poor Christine, I had to hasten to 
 the Konig Strasse, and that is why I am 
 so warm and out of breath now." 
 
 We took a hasty meal of apple-wine 
 and bread, then proceeded to our dressing. 
 With the Colonel, this was no joking 
 matter; only on one occasion throughout 
 the year — viz., the kings birthday, did he 
 don his uniform ; and as he increased 
 visibly from one annual festival to the
 
 JOHN AND I. 301 
 
 other — but the uniform stood still — it is 
 not to be wondered at that the ceremony 
 became a yearly terror. When he was 
 once in, as Rosle expressed it, he was 
 comfortable enough — but the difficulty was 
 to get him in ; consequently, when the sur- 
 tout remained the last piece de resistance, 
 and the hardest one, I was called to 
 render my assistance ; and, with the help 
 of the venerable Rickey, who grinned with 
 immense enjoyment over the occupation — 
 a puff, a gasp, a bang! — en opus confectus — 
 and my uncle appeared in all the glory 
 of scarlet-cloth and gold sash — both a 
 little faded, perhaps, but none the less 
 glorious for that. If he had been King 
 Wilhelm himself, my aunt and the girls 
 could not have been more proud of him. 
 Then the carriage was announced, and,
 
 302 JOHN AND I. 
 
 after a great deal of squeezing and packing, 
 they managed to get in, and drove off, 
 amid the wonder and admiration of all 
 the little Saxes and Grelingers assembled 
 at the front door. Having no stars on my 
 coat, and not being numbered with the 
 Adel or noble of the land, I contented 
 myself with walking to the theatre, and 
 taking a Sperr-sitz, instead of ascending to 
 the gallery, which was designed only for 
 the above-mentioned class. 
 
 The pretty little theatre was crowded 
 to an excess which would have made me 
 at once relinquish any intention to remain, 
 had I not discovered that it would be 
 impossible to retreat. My seat had been 
 taken several days before, but, after 
 having sought the number fruitlessly for 
 some minutes, I discovered that it was
 
 JOHN AND I. 303 
 
 filled by a burly citizen, whom I could 
 not well turn out, as lie assured me most 
 politely that I must be mistaken, his seat 
 and ticket having been compared by one 
 of the officials. But the officials were too 
 far off to help me, so, seeing a vacant 
 seat, I plunged in desperately, Sophie 
 smiling wickedly at me all the while. 
 
 I found myself in very good company, 
 the sperr-sitz being occupied by the respec- 
 table class of tradesmen, professors, etc. 
 It was new to me, but pleasant, too, to 
 see young modest girls slip in unattended, 
 and find their seats, without any affectation 
 of coquetry, as it proved that, in some 
 desirable instances, German ladies can even 
 take the precedency of our strong-minded 
 women. The dress-circle was now fast 
 filling — indeed, hardly a box was empty,
 
 304 JOHN AND I. 
 
 lave those belonging to the Royal Family. 
 All the men wore uniforms, and their 
 glittering stars and sashes were gorgeous 
 enough in effect; whilst the ladies were 
 gaily dressed, and had a jolly, ruddy look, 
 as if plumpness and rosiness formed their 
 jus gentilitatis. 
 
 " Who is that handsome girl with the 
 Princess Friedrich ? " whispered my right- 
 hand neighbour to the old gentleman next 
 to him ; " she is quite a stranger to 
 me. 
 
 I do not know that I should have looked 
 up so quickly and intently, had it not been 
 for the reply. 
 
 "It is Baron Weiler's daughter — the 
 young lady who is to be married next 
 week to Prince " 
 
 I lost the name.
 
 JOHN AND I. 305 
 
 If I had hitherto grudged any admira- 
 tion I might feel inclined to give Hermine, 
 she was so pretty and enchanting to-night, 
 that involuntarily I gazed at her again and 
 again — her expression was so soft, so 
 grateful, so bewitching, that I forgot how 
 often I had seen her in anger and caprice, 
 and frankly owned to myself that she was 
 beautiful. The Princess Friedrich was a 
 good-humoured, matronly -looking woman, 
 without any pomposity or pretensions to 
 dignity whatever ; but between her and 
 Hermine sat a lady, whom no one could 
 have passed unnoticed. I am not sure 
 that the impression would, in all cases, be 
 an agreeable one — I can hardly determine 
 whether it was so with myself — but there 
 was fascination about her — a strong fas- 
 cination, too, which every one must feel, 
 
 vol. i. x
 
 306 JOHN AND I. 
 
 and, in a measure, yield to, willing or 
 not. 
 
 She was about forty -five, with small 
 features, dark hair, and large lustrous 
 eyes — eyes which had an unsatisfied, eager 
 look, as though they were searching for 
 something. The mouth was firm and 
 smiling, her wit and understanding being 
 represented in thin lips, and a pertinacious 
 temper in a dimpled chin. She had evi- 
 dently been pretty once ; and her throat, 
 which was fair and beautifully arched, 
 was encircled by a small gold chain, from 
 which hung a locket. 
 
 The entrance of the King, or rather the 
 three deafening cheers which followed, 
 distracted my attention for a few moments ; 
 when I looked again into the Princess 
 Friedrich's box, two gentlemen were seated
 
 JOHN AND I. 307 
 
 there — one, a middle-aged man, whom I 
 took to be her husband ; and the other, 
 a younger man, who my neighbour in- 
 formed me was Hermine's suitor. He sat 
 between Hermine and the dark -haired 
 lady, but his principal attentions seemed 
 to be paid to the latter ; they were only 
 those deferential marks of respect which 
 a man naturally shows towards a woman 
 some years older than himself, especially 
 when she stands in the position of cha- 
 peron to his betrothed ; yet when the 
 betrothed was so fair and winning, it 
 seemed rather strange that love should be 
 entirely overcome by politeness. 
 
 Hermine looked perfectly happy. Her 
 eyes shone with bright triumph, her 
 cheeks glowed, her brow was smooth — it 
 was evident that, however much she had 
 
 x2
 
 308 JOHN AND I. 
 
 felt at leaving Scliloss Weiler, her heart 
 was light enough now. When her lover 
 picked up her glove, and held it towards 
 her with a lazy inclination of the head, 
 she smiled on him as if he had done her 
 a knightly service ; when the Princess 
 spoke to her, she answered with a girlish, 
 half-pleased, half-shy expression — and, in- 
 deed, throughout the evening I was con- 
 stantly learning how gentle and placid 
 Hermine could be when she was well 
 pleased. Those melting looks, those sunny 
 partings of her red lips, had never made 
 her so enchanting at Weiler. 
 
 The piece was "Titus" — that gorgeous 
 opera of Mozart's, which brings before you, 
 as if in a vision, the martial pomp and 
 severe grandeur of the fulgens cajpitolium 
 of ancient Rome. I have no finished
 
 JOHN AND I. 309 
 
 taste in music — I hardly know, indeed, 
 whether I have any ear — but I enjoy it 
 with a kind of blind instinct, which, per- 
 haps, is pleasanter than the nicest epicurism, 
 since I am never shocked by a false note, 
 or put on the rack by a hurdy-gurdy. 
 Even the Tyrolese stick-music is not amiss 
 to me, and if there is a little grotesque 
 dancing so much the better. But why do« 
 I expose my childishness to the reader — a 
 short, stout, good-tempered, spectacled book- 
 worm as I have represented myself to be, 
 will hardly, I fear, find favour with the 
 ladies — much less if I appear wanting in 
 mental attainments. But, dear ladies, have 
 patience with me. Perhaps, even yet, I 
 may appear in the light of a small hero ; 
 and if my outer man is serio-comic, is it 
 any fault of mine? In this melodrama
 
 310 JOHN AND I. 
 
 of life we must each take the part assigned 
 us — to some the Caesar, to some the clown ; 
 but very often there is as much of the 
 majesty of tragedy in the latter as in the 
 former, spite of the cap and bells. Who 
 can see their hearts ? For my own part, I 
 have never despised myself or any one 
 else for whatever trivial or mean circum- 
 stances that might surround either. Whose 
 place is it easiest to fill with dignity — the 
 king's or the peasant's ? 
 
 I have been led to make this reflection 
 by the anticipation of what is now to 
 follow in the narration of my brother's 
 history as connected with my own. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 R. BORN, PRINTER, GLOUCESTER STREET, REGENT'S PARK.
 
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