majesty most submissively for the moral!" said Henrik; "but
if my body will not serve my soul, but will subject it, I have a very
great desire to contend with it, and to quarrel with it!"

"The butterfly becomes matured in the chrysalis," said Gabriele, smiling
sweetly, whilst she strewed rose-leaves upon some chrysalises which were
to sleep through the winter on her flower-stand.

"Ah, yes," replied Henrik; "but how heavily does not the shell press
down upon the wings of the butterfly! The earthly chrysalis weighs upon
me! What would not the soul accomplish? how could it not live and enjoy,
were it not for this? In certain bright moments, what do we not feel and
think? what brilliancy in conception! what godlike warmth of feeling in
the heart!--one could press the whole world to one's bosom at such a
time, seeing, with a glance, through all, and penetrating all as with
fire. Oh, there is then an abundance, a clearness! Yes, if our Lord
himself came to me at such a moment, I should reach forth my hand to him
and say, 'Good day, brother!'"

"Dear Henrik!" said Louise, somewhat startled, "now I think you do not
rightly know what you say."

"Yes," continued he, without regarding the interruption, "so can one
feel, but only for a moment; in the next, the chrysalis closes heavily
again its earthly dust-mantle around our being, and we are stupified and
sleep, and sink deep below that which we so lately were. Then one sees
in books nothing but printed words, and in one's soul one finds neither
feeling nor thought, and towards man, for whom so shortly before the
very heart seemed to burn, one feels oneself stiff and disinclined. Ah,
it were enough to make one fall into despair!"

"It would be far better," said Louise, "that such people went to sleep,
and then they would get rid of headache and heaviness."

"But," said Henrik, smiling, "that is a sorrowful remedy according to my
notions. It is horrible to require so much sleep! How can any one who is
a seven-sleeper become great? 'Les hommes puissans veillent et veulent,'
says Balzac with reason; and because my miserable heavy nature requires
so much sleep, so certainly shall I never turn out great in any way.
Besides, this entrancement, this glorification produces such wakeful
moments in the soul, that one feels poor and stripped when they are
extinguished. Ah! I can very well comprehend how so many make use of
external excitement to recal or to prolong them, and that they