“But not by you, my dear Herr Kreisel! Answer me one question: would you take advantage of any crisis in business to force from your employer an increase of salary?”
“Never!” exclaimed the old man, “never!”
“You see for yourself! Though you may be perfectly right in theory, between it and practice there lies, in the minds of educated people like yourself, a long and rough road, into which you will never enter, or on which, after the first few steps, you will stand still in horror.”
“Ah! yes, my nerves!” murmured the old man; “my nerves are not strong enough for it. I am worn out; I believe he is right after all; an hour’s sleep would do me good.” He was persuaded by Reinhold and Cilli to go into the house; Reinhold went a little way with him; when he returned to the arbour, Cilli was sitting with her hands before her, and such an expression of deep sorrow and trouble on her pure, gentle face, that it went to Reinhold’s heart.
“Dear little Cilli,” said Reinhold, sitting down by her and taking her hands in his “do not be so anxious. I give you my word that my uncle does not dream of parting with your father; matters remain between them exactly as before.”
“Not exactly,” answered Cilli, shaking her head; “since Thursday my father has been quite changed. He has scarcely eaten or slept; and this morning, quite early, he came to my bedside and said that he had no longer any doubts, that he also was a Socialist, and he must tell Herr Schmidt. That was quite right, as we ought always to tell the truth, even in this case, when your uncle will not allow any Socialists on his works. And although, as you tell me, and I believed before, your uncle will make an exception in favour of my father, because he is old and feeble, my father is proud, and will not endure to be merely tolerated, all the more that he is undoubtedly in the right.”
“How, my dear Cilli?” asked Reinhold, astonished. “Your father is in the right?”
“Certainly he is,” answered Cilli warmly; “is it not wrong that even one man should suffer when others can prevent it? Did not Christ tell us to feed the hungry, to give drink to the thirsty, to clothe the naked, to comfort the oppressed and heavy-laden? And if Christ had not commanded it, does not every good man’s heart command it?”
“In that case, my dear Cilli, all good men must be Socialists, and even I myself may lay claim to the title; but between the love of our neighbours, as you describe it, and Socialism as these people desire it, there is a wide difference.”
“I see none,” said Cilli.
Reinhold looked at the sightless eyes upraised with an expression of gentle enthusiasm.
“I can well believe that you do not see it, poor child,” he said to himself.
“And on that point I am quite easy,” continued the blind girl; “men must live up to their convictions, and bear the consequences patiently. And my father and I can do so the more easily, that at the worst we shall not have to bear them long.”
“What do you mean, dear Cilli?”
“I know that my father will not live long; the doctor has always feared that he would sink under one of his nervous attacks; and once, when he was very bad, he told me so, that I might be prepared. I am prepared. And if my father could only believe that I should not outlive him long, he would be more easy in his mind. He thinks so much of you; perhaps he would believe you if you assured him of it.”
“But how can I, dear Cilli?”
“Because it is only the truth. I am ill; dying of a nervous illness. My blindness, which came on when I was three years old, is only the result of this disease, which I doubtless inherited from my father. When I was eight years old, and had a very bad illness, my parents called in two doctors, and one said to the other as they went out—they said it in a whisper, and probably did not intend me to hear, but they did not know how sharp my hearing is—it would be a miracle if the child lived to be sixteen. I shall be sixteen next spring, and—I do not believe in miracles.”
“Doctors often make mistakes; I hope they have made one in your case.”
“I do not hope it—I do not wish it.”
“But you love life.”
“Only because I know that I must die soon, as you all say that I think the world so beautiful only because I am blind. And when my dear father is gone, whom shall I have to live for?”
“For your friends—myself, for example; for Justus, whom you love, and who loves you.”
“Who loves me?”
The blind girl’s sweet mouth quivered. She drew two or three deep breaths, but the tears would not be kept back; they streamed from the poor blind eyes, and trickled through the slender white fingers with which she tried to hide them.
“Cilli! Cilli! what is the matter?” exclaimed Reinhold, seized with a painful foreboding.
“Nothing, nothing,” murmured the blind girl. “You see yourself that I am ill—very ill. Hark! whose is that strange step in the courtyard?”
Reinhold looked up and recognised Philip, who came rapidly along the walk in search of him without looking into the arbour. He could not bear the idea of being found here by Philip at this moment, he must therefore make up his mind to leave Cilli, who herself implored him to go.
“Leave me! leave me! before you I am not ashamed of my tears. You alone may see me weep.”
It was high time. Philip had already turned back and came towards him.
“Where the devil have you been? I have been looking for you in your room, and all over the place.”
“Your interview
