had always longed to see. I felt that she
regarded me as a man, and she afterwards confessed how great her hopes
were at that time, especially as Professor Tzschirner had encouraged her
to cherish them.

CHAPTER XIX.

A ROMANCE WHICH REALLY HAPPENED.

After returning to Kottbus from the Christmas vacation I plunged headlong
into work, and as I exerted all my powers I made rapid progress.

Thus January passed away, and I was so industrious that I often studied
until long after midnight. I had not even gone to the theatre, though I
had heard that the Von Hoxar Company was unusually good. The leading
lady, especially, was described as a miracle of beauty and remarkably
talented. This excited my curiosity, and when a school-mate who had made
the stage manager's acquaintance told us that he would be glad to have us
appear at the next performance of The Robbers, I of course promised to be
present.

We went through our parts admirably, and no one in the crowded house
suspected the identity of the chorus of robbers who sang with so much
freshness and vivacity.

I was deeply interested in what was passing on the stage, and, concealed
at the wings, I witnessed the greater part of the play.

Rarely has so charming an Amalie adorned the boards as the
eighteen-year-old actress, who, an actor's child, had already been
several years on the stage.

The consequence of this visit to the theatre was that, instead of
studying historical dates, as I had intended, I took out Panthea and
Abradatus, and on that night and every succeeding one, as soon as I had
finished my work for the manager, I added new five-foot iambics to the
tragedy, whose material I drew from Xenophon.

Whenever the company played I went to the theatre, where I saw the
charming Clara in comedy parts, and found that all the praises I had
heard of her fell short of the truth. Yet I did not seek her
acquaintance. The examination was close at hand, and it scarcely entered
my mind to approach the actress. But the Fates had undertaken to act as
mediators and make me the hero of a romance which ended so speedily, and
in a manner which, though disagreeable, was so far from tragical, that if
I desired to weave the story of my own life into a novel I should be
ashamed to use the extensive apparatus employed by Destiny.

Rather more than a week had passed since the last performance of The
Robbers, when one day, late in the afternoon, the streets were filled
with