conceits!
There she stood, the very picture of childish grace, with rosy cheeks,
and with blooming roses in her hand. "A rose plucked before the storm
could scatter its petals." These last words of Emilia Galotti passed
through his mind. "No, I am not that strong."

He rang, but when the servant came, had forgotten what he wanted. The
effort to collect his scattered thoughts seemed like plunging into
chaos. At last he ordered the carriage, which was all he had wanted the
servant for.

"The traveling carriage," he called out after the servant.

When he reached the library, he paused, and gazed at the door for a
while. There were so many great and mighty minds in there--why did none
of them come to his aid? There is no help but that we find within
ourselves.

While descending the steps, he would now and then hold fast to the
baluster as if to support himself. He drew himself up, as if filled
with anger because of the weakness that mastered him. In the courtyard,
he gave orders that the carriage should drive on and meet him down in
the valley. His speech was noticeably indistinct. Half way down the
mountain, he suddenly seated himself on a heap of stones and looked
about him.

What was passing before his eyes? What thoughts filled his mind? He
looked for the tree which he had planted on the very spot where word
was brought him of Irma's birth. This is the first soil trodden by her
feet; these are the first trees she ever saw. The sky, the forests,
the mountains, the blooming flowers, the merry birds, the grazing
cows--all, all seemed like phantoms.--None of these will ever find you
pure again. Never again dare you approach a living creature, or tree or
flower; for they repudiate you, they are pure and you are--the world's
a paradise. You have been driven thence, and roam about, a restless
fugitive. You may deaden your conscience, may smile and jest and
dissemble, but the sun does not dissemble, neither does the earth, nor
your own conscience. You've destroyed the world and yourself, and still
live,--dead in a dead world. How is it possible? It cannot be. I am
mad. I shall neither punish nor chastise you; but you must know who and
what you are, and the knowledge of that will be your punishment and
your cure. I shall palliate nothing; you must know, see, and
acknowledge it all, yourself--

A road laborer went up to the count and asked whether he was ill. He
had noticed him sitting on the stones, and supposed that som