them as phenomena proceeding unconditionally
from itself, and believes in them accordingly? It may be that the
hopeful anticipation which I feel within me will be realised--for my
friend's consolation. For the Turk's mysterious prophecy is fulfilled,
and perhaps, through that very fulfilment, the mortal blow which
menaced my friend is averted."'"

"Well," said Ottmar, as Theodore came to a sudden stop, "is that all?
Where is the explanation? What became of Ferdinand, the beautiful
singer, Professor X----, and the Russian officer?"

"You know," said Theodore, "that I told you at the beginning that I was
only going to read you a fragment, and I consider that the story of the
Talking Turk _is_ only of a fragmentary character, essentially. I mean,
that the imagination of the reader, or listener, should merely receive
one or two more or less powerful impulses, and then go on swinging,
pendulum-like, of its own accord, as it chooses. But if you, Ottmar,
are really anxious to have your mind set at rest over Ferdinand's
future condition, remember the dialogue on opera which I read to you
some time since. This is the same Ferdinand who appears therein, sound
of mind and body; in the 'Talking Turk' he is at an earlier stage of
his career. So that probably his somnambulistic love-affair ended
satisfactorily enough."

"To which," said Ottmar, "has to be added that our Theodore used, at
one time, to take a wonderful delight in exciting people's imaginations
by means of the most extraordinary--nay, wild and insane--stories, and
then suddenly break them off. Not only this, but everything he did, at
that time, assumed a fragmentary form. He read second volumes only, not
troubling himself about the firsts or thirds; saw only the second and
third acts of plays; and so on."

"And," said Theodore, "that inclination I still have; to this hour
nothing is so distasteful to me as when, in a story or a novel, the
stage on which the imaginary world has been in action comes to be swept
so clean by the historic besom that there is not the smallest grain or
particle of dust left on it; when one goes home so completely sated and
satisfied that one has not the faintest desire left to have another
peep behind the curtain. On the other hand, many a fragment of a clever
story sinks deep into my soul, and the continuance of the play of my
imagination, as it goes along on its own swing, gives me an enduring
pleasure. Who has not felt this over Goeth