small manuscripts. I took up one of the proofs and, as it was still very dark at the table, I went to the window in order to make out a very much erased portion.
I accidentally looked down on the street corner and started. It seemed to me that the slim, very fashionably dressed man with pointed and well-twisted fair beard, who was passing by, looked like Axel Stephensen. But no, this man was taller and older than the Danish painter, and as he took off his hat to an acquaintance I even saw that he was bald.
My feeling of alarm vanished.
At the same instant Hertz started with his feeble, husky voice to read aloud from a manuscript sheet—
"Once more from that fond heart I'm driven
Which I so dearly love, so madly;"
Minna and I exchanged a meaning look; she grew pale, and her pallor showed out still more clearly in the stormy light, which seemed to penetrate through an ashen rain, so dirty and yellow was it.
"It is a beautiful poem," said Hertz; "do you know it?"
"Yes, we know it."
"Oh, they are reading Heine together, the young hearts," Mrs. Hertz exclaimed. "A beautiful time!"
Soon after we took our leave.
We went towards "Grosser Garten."
The rain had stopped. After we had walked a little, Minna exclaimed—
"How strange that he should have the manuscript of just that poem!"
"Yes, a strange coincidence!"
"There is not such a thing as chance."[1]
- ↑ "Es giebt Keinen Zufall!"—Wallenstein, Schiller.
