d not
distinguish a word of it. He crumpled up the paper and put it in his
breast-pocket, where it lay like a burning coal against his heart. His
head swam and he sat down by the wayside. What could he do? They would
smile if he went to court to fetch her. They would be very gracious and
would say: "Let there be no scenes, no noise. Let everything be
arranged quietly; let there be no scandal; decorum must be maintained."
And one must smile, though his heart is bursting. We live in a
civilized world, and this they call culture and good manners. Oh! you
are well off. With you, all is pastime. You can afford to be ever
polite, ever cool and reserved. Oh, why did I come home to waste my
powers in this miserable nook! It's all my own fault. I meant to rescue
myself from the hurly-burly of the world. I've lost my children,
instead. A satanic sophist lurks in us all. I persuaded myself that it
was better, and more in accordance with nature, to let my children grow
up, free from all control; and yet it was only a vain excuse for my own
weakness. Because the duty of incessantly watching over them was
distasteful to me, I suffered them to go to ruin, while persuading
myself that their nature could thus best develop itself. And here I
stand, and must fetch my child--

The sudden neighing of the horse, hitched to a tree near by, so
startled Eberhard that he almost fell back. A laborer who was bringing
two horses in from the field, stopped and asked: "What ails you,
master?"

The laborer unhitched the horse. Eberhard rose hastily and, without
saying a word, walked up the hill in the direction of the manor-house.
He felt as if the air was filled with intangible, electric clouds that
drew him back; but he forced his way through them. He reached the house
and held fast by the doorposts. He was giddy, but still he did not give
up. He went through the stables and barns, saw the men storing away the
fodder, and remained looking at them for a long while. Then he went
through the whole house and looked at every object with an inquiring
gaze. In the great room with the bay-window, he lingered long before a
picture of Irma, painted when she was but seven years old, a beautiful,
large-eyed child. The attitude was natural, a mixture of childlike
awkwardness and grace. The painter had wanted to put a nosegay in the
child's hand, but she had said: "I won't have dead flowers; give me a
pot with living flowers in it." Ah, she had had such pretty