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OUT OF TWO WORLDS, '., OR…

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f PUBLISHED BY THE CONSKZgJ OF HER GBACIorS MAJESTY, THE QUEEN OF EOUMANIA] OUT OF TWO WORLDS, OR THE PRINCESS AND THE PROFESSOR. By Carmen Sylva pELIZA- CEXn, QUEEN OF ROUMAKIA). Griefswald, November, 18011. /oU thiiik I am angry ? 0h' no' darling. But that' it should end so, it shall end abruptly— immediately. You \V "hall remain struck in your pride, and it shall strengthen you. Your heart shall grow whole with it. r j J^ No, I am not angry, i/Aa'- then. I watch 'ik VvV through the winter f\ nights alone by the r! light of your little I'j lamp and worlr. Do fou remember, Ulika. when you looked at me quite puzzled, after you had bought the lamp, and sighed: Whatever do you do to make a thing like this burn ?" The Iweet little princess did not know that lamps require wicks; she thought they grew in them of their own accord. At night time I am not angry. How could I be before this lamp? But in the day time, when the stingy sun happens to shine And yet it is no anger, You cannot help it; no more can I. It is the lot of human nature, and, therefore, I endure it. We could not understand one another. The Whole chasm from man to man, which is, oh, ever am much wider than between man and the brute, lay between us. I knew it ages ago, bat knowledge is of no use to him who is blinded by love. So I bear all the blame, and will bear it in silence all my life. What is your dreadful outbreak of sorrow oompared with my mute madness. I delight in your sorrowful words; the greater the longing, the sooner will your grief vanish. When years will have rolled by over the dteam of our marriage, they will soften your recollection; soon you will smile sadly at your own folly-and then you will be saved for yourself and your friends. Saved for what life is, and is intended to be for you — the monotonous uniformity of small joys and still smaller griefs. But I am in continual tonniot with it; I have done with every kind of oivil life; 1 shall remain here until spring, because I muat; then I shall go into the lands pn the other aide of the sea, where that is food which is evil here; where our absurd European notions are abolished. And when I tbea have learnt enough I shall step before my people and shall tell them what is rela- tively the easiest way of bearing life. But why guffer P No, I shall teach how I myself have found peace; the firm hope in the general and complete destruction of every- thing created; the new scientifically based oreed l But will they believe me, where the one did not even believe me who felt my w&vin breath when I spoke? Great God, what days ize beginning again She has deserted me. Yes, deserted. I wanted to philosophise it aw^v, but it is here again, the impotent rage of the first week. I have not been able to gain that over the woman whom I loved to distraotion She has saorificed me to public scandal. How I coold read it on the faces, of all, and, therefore, I drove them all away, except my old nurse. And now I have lent her away too! She ventured to say a word against my goddess! Although the old creature has carried me in her arms, yet she should not have ventured to do that. Against my Ulla ? No; if others say you have acted wickedly, yet I know that you did well in going away. Now the old house is quite forlorn, like it used to be-still more forlorn; the charm which animated it is dead. Sometimes I still seek it. Then I oreep quietly into the rooms npstairs. Unaired, unclean is everything; wild the objects lie confused which I did not tear and smash to pieces in the first hour of the dreadful awaken- ing. However did I survive it ? Now I am never angry any more! Past and gone! I had feen it coming. However could I be so terrfied? From the very first day of the wedding I tormented you with it. Why, I actually conjured it up! Do you remember, even already on the ship when we sailed out of the foggy country only to get buried here in the new 'tog ? Day and night I have sought to find in your face the resolve which you have now taken. You executed it very wisely; the bvidges between us are broken off, you will never see me again. 1 suppose the whole marriage was a torture to you? Only con- fess it. When we fell out for the first time in London and you had become my wife, no longer the free Ulla, my bride, then you gulled your red curls wildly in depair ? And When we spent the first day at home, I sup- pose yon atked me with a sinking heart, So this is the longed-for happiness!" And you had that miserable taste in your mouth as though the whole affair were only a nightmare? How the little town oppressed you; how you shrank from the well-intentioned confidences of the neighbours I felt it every time like a stab through my heart, for I read it better in you than you yourself were able. But then I became madder all the time in the devouring terror of seeing you unhappy, always more obstinate; and I dragged you into the tobacco amoke and beor-smell gf a public—I would never have dared to do it to another woman. I pre- tended that it did not disgust me. You fought with a fainting fit, yet your will was stronger than your body, but my boyish pbstinacy was stronger than everything. It seems as if I wanted to hear from you the insulting words, It I am a Royal child. I can- not do that," so that I might reproach you for the speech, and be able to nurse a grudge against you. You never said it, but I heard it. I heard it ceaselessly. I felt the oonde- scension of your manner. Your humility tortured me; I took it for irony. Yes, I cannot understand it, but it was so all the same. I aoted coarsely—and should always act 80 again. For 1 cannot bear that you should feel how much you have sacrificed fOr my s.ike. Ulla, Tjlla, • know that I am Vietoli and you an ang-1. but that is thai I reason why I become more hard-hearted all the time. Ah, if you had only done one wrong thing to me, and if it was not I who had done them every one how mild, how good should I be But you are unable to do anything wrong, at any rate not to me. 1 suppose, you know that you are quite free ? Do not be too proud to accept that at least from me, other- wise 1 shall commit suicide. Are your friends rejoicing ? Do you hear daily how right they were in saying that you would come home again in a year's time ? Shall I tell you now what your father said to me in Frankfort? Oh, I shall never tell you anything again, either orally or in writing. And there is no hereafter, no hope 1 Griefswald, December. You no longer write. One, two, three week's I waited; now I am satisfied. So I was a good doctor after all I You have over- come the worst time, and I -1 will only think of you Christmas is approaching In what noisy merriment did we seek to forget, a year aAo, that you had wept burning tears of home-sickness! I knew it well, Ulla, my darling; J had heardyou sobbing and pretended to be asleep. When the hour of dawn came you could not bear it; you at least wanted to hear an organ, since you could not gather the whole castle about your s'veet tones; you begged of me to hear Mass on Christmas morning. I was so willing to do it, but I believe at first I resented it, and brazened myself in unbelief. It was very beautiful,singu- larly beautiful. Yesterday I again went into the Church of St. Niobolas-only by mistake -but I could not bear it, perhaps because a terrible east wind was howling, and the church was so cold ? The other day, when I had not been to bed for a few days, like in the old time before the letters of Ulla at Horst-Ran- chenatein came into the Wallenstein-house, nothing could keep me in the room. When day dawned I went to the station—like the people of Spiessburg, who still convince them- selves daily of the fact that they now have a real railway-in order to see the early mail by which you fled. Two students met me there, and recognised me. They thereupon begged of me to preside in the evening at their supper party. The little captain's wife also came up to me; she was going home and in- quired after Her Serene Highness. I said i had just received a letter from my wife, of good news. Since then I have not been to the station. In the house everything is going to wrack and ruin; my attendant is as clumsy as I am where no wgman's hand putZl things in their places Ttrat pleases me very much every kind of destruction is beneficent to me. But I could no longer get angry never again, my spirit is all gone. How long is that to last ? January. I have burnt all my MSS. I now feel wonderfully well. The time approaches when I could get away, but I think I shall remain here. It is here that I saw you for the last time; here are a thousand objects which passed through your hands. Perhaps you ex- pected that I should send them to you ? But it is too late now, and 1 did not think about it at first. But no, I do not suppose you wanted them, for they did not oome from your castle I expeot it was intentionally that you went away in the dress in which you once quitted Ranchenstein. It was I who taught you to run away. Why need I have been surprised ? I have lived right through the whole winter on two hallucinations; the one was that you were coming back Every evening between five and six o'clock I heard the carriage drive up. I sat downstairs at my writing-table and did not move; stared, with my pen in my hand, at the blank sheet. The front door-the heavy door-against which both of us sometimes used to press at night for a joke when we had come back from the shore, by the road on the other side of the Ryk, past the Saline, over the heath, where other people never go Yes, you then quickly open the front door your- self. It is dark in the big hall, but you find the door in the recess; you have seen a light in my room through the shutters downstairs you fling open the door noiselessly, but I do not move yet. There I am 1" you exolaim, laughing, rejoicing like that time in Ragaz, where the lovely maid knew how many hours I had waited for her, up in the wood, only to lock her in my arms for one single moment. But sometimes, too, you say nothing; but you have embraced me, and your curls fall over my face. If it is past six I get up. "Not to- day—to-morrow, perhaps," I think. In the morning comes the other dream: I have really gone away, I have really gone away by the morning train. I come up into the castle. I do not ask the warder, none of the servants in the hall. I go past them all without a word, right up into your room, into which the linden twigs once stretched their blossoms. There you stand at the window, Come," I say, come," take you by your hand, and you follow. But I have destroyed the right to call you. And even if I were to do it, what would be the good ? The torture would begin anew, for I love you a thousandfold more wildly than ever. I have learnt nothing; we cannot understand one another. I love you madly, but I would rather kill you than live through the first year of our married life over again, with the consciousness of having made you unhappy. But kill you in the first hot em- brace. February. I am not goill2 away, noi, do J work any more; I have reached the conviction that I am unable to perform anything. My life is the image of my existence and my powers. It wanted to storm the heavens, and could not even crawl upon the earth. Everything was a hollow sham. All longing is destroyed by reality, and every- one is tied to it, even he who has imagined himself a demi-god. If I had not wished to enjoy, instead of denying myself, how many people could I not have served But what would have been the use even of the greatest achievement ? Nothing, and that is a great oonsolation, for 1 pay the tribute of humanity. Do you know what I often thought as I gazed at night from my bed at the stars That you and I have only existed figuratively, not really-that we were in reality only two heavenly bodies, who, according to the eternal laws of Nature, only collide to be dashed to pieces. When the heavenly bodies cross one another's path up above, in case they are not completely destroyed by the collision, they fly apart in opposite directions with such velocity that their orbits never meet again. Bit sometimes the one heavenly body destroys the other Ulla, and he continues to travel in his orbit calmly, while the weaker one sinks back into nothingness. I am proud of being this weaker body. But pride, too, is extinguished like everything else; like pain, despair, and madness. Only you were obliged to remain in the general destruction, since you originated out of the never-previously existing, thou Diana, who art become a Loreley to me. Greifswald, Feb. 16, 1865. A letter! A letter from you! From Ranchenatein I In the same firm hand- writing! With the same postmark! And you have onoe more written my name How did you feul, Loreley? How did you feel ? Ihd your lips twitch spasmodically, or did you press your lips upon on« another, and did your tine transparent nostrils tremble with rage a I took the letter and went upstairs into your boudoir, seated myself at the little black table, upon which still lay three Bologna glasses, which you were so fond of breaking in your hand in order to play with the glass dust! Have you broken many of them ? So you still concern yourself about my dust ? The year is not yet extinguished! Yes, your fairy tale is touching, like all fairy tales. They are eternal, for only that which has never existed is eternal! Child! no happiness of reality comes up to the imagination. My life begins to take a wonderful new form. I live with you I have forgotten that you were ever really here my house is peopled by you! Every book, every objeot, stands in closest relationship to you. Sometimes I ask you to hand me something. Then the long train of your dress rustles. You always wore very long dresses, but mostly silent ones. Do you remember how the people at the officers' ball admired you ? It is a year ago to-day. You were in pure white-.m pure white And I got furious when I saw you stepping into the big hall so Royally, for the fellows in uni- forms were squinting at yon, particularly the Pasewalk Cuirassiers, who had come over Oh, but in the dark velvet gown in the station when we ran to the Bodder, and not, like the other people, on to the overflowed meadows, so that no one should see you. Ulla Ulla! But do you ever think of the northern summer in Stubbenkammer ? But now I have you more than I ever had you, and you are set free Once again, you will write to me, when you would like to give your hand to another. And do you think I am afraid of that ? No, no, my beloved I believe on that day, on which you will righly long for your freedom, in order to give it away again, on that day I shall be the happiest of all mortals! Then I shall know that that is atoned for wherein I have sinned. Then I shall lay myself into my coflin, close my eyes, in which your sweet pioture dwells, and shall dream of you for ever. I am already doing that now—dreaming all the time; no longer thinking! I often also no longer see things clearly, and read the same book three times in succession. Only that to which I have long been accus- tomed can I still do mechanically. It is wonderful, dar!ing, how everything has died out, and only a soft, hazy dream remains. You are mine for ever, because I have lost you! (To be concluded next week.)

WHAT THE CHICAGO EXHIBITION…

TRAGIC END OF A BAVARIAN NOBLEMAN.

SINGULAR WEDDING! CELEBRATION.

HER&UUA OF A MEDiCAL ! STUDENT.!

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