of her; and
then I feel how intensely I love her, by the indescribable anguish which
it causes me. Again, unlike herself, she will rally and vex me; and then
at once the figure changes--her sweet, round, heavenly face draws out;
it is not she, it is another; but I lie vexed, dissatisfied and
wretched. Laugh not, dear Mittler, or laugh on as you will. I am not
ashamed of this attachment, of this--if you please to call it
so--foolish, frantic passion. No, I never loved before. It is only now
that I know what to love means. Till now, what I have called life was
nothing but its prelude--amusement, sport to kill the time with. I never
lived till I knew her, till I loved her--entirely and only loved her.
People have often said of me, not to my face, but behind my back, that
in most things I was but a botcher and a bungler. It may be so; for I
had not then found in what I could show myself a master. I should like
to see the man who outdoes me in the talent of love. A miserable life it
is, full of anguish and tears; but it is so natural, so dear to me,
that I could hardly change it for another."

Edward had relieved himself slightly by this violent unloading of his
heart. But in doing so every feature of his strange condition had been
brought out so clearly before his eyes that, overpowered by the pain of
the struggle, he burst into tears, which flowed all the more freely as
his heart had been made weak by telling it all.

Mittler, who was the less disposed to put a check on his inexorable good
sense and strong, vigorous feeling, because by this violent outbreak of
passion on Edward's part he saw himself driven far from the purpose of
his coming, showed sufficiently decided marks of his disapprobation.
Edward should act as a man, he said; he should remember what he owed to
himself as a man. He should not forget that the highest honor was to
command ourselves in misfortune; to bear pain, if it must be so, with
equanimity and self-collectedness. That was what we should do, if we
wished to be valued and looked up to as examples of what was right.

Stirred and penetrated as Edward was with the bitterest feelings, words
like these could but have a hollow, worthless sound.

"It is well," he cried, "for the man who is happy, who has all that he
desires, to talk; but he would be ashamed of it if he could see how
intolerable it was to the sufferer. Nothing short of an infinite
endurance would be enough, and easy and contented as he w