rmann," in which I had just been playing, the "March" from
"Lenore," and scraps of choruses and airs from the "Thurm zu Babel," all
ringing in my head in a confused jumble, I sprung up the stairs (up
which I used to plod so wearily and so spiritlessly), and went into the
sitting-room. Darkness! After I had stood still and gazed about for a
time, my eyes grew accustomed to the obscurity. I perceived that a dim
gray light still stole in at the open window, and that some one reposing
in an easy-chair was faintly shadowed out against it.

"Is that you, Friedhelm?" asked Eugen's voice.

"_Lieber Himmel!_ Are you there? What are you doing in the dark?"

"Light the lamp, my Friedel! Dreams belong to darkness, and facts to
light. Sometimes I wish light and facts had never been invented."

I found the lamp and lighted it, carried it up to him, and stood before
him, contemplating him curiously. He lay back in our one easy-chair, his
hands clasped behind his head, his legs outstretched. He had been idle
for the first time, I think, since I had known him. He had been sitting
in the dark, not even pretending to do anything.

"There are things new under the sun," said I, in mingled amusement and
amaze. "Absent from your post, to the alarm and surprise of all who know
you, here I find you mooning in the darkness, and when I illuminate you,
you smile up at me in a somewhat imbecile manner, and say nothing. What
may it portend?"

He roused himself, sat up, and looked at me with an ambiguous half
smile.

"Most punctual of men! most worthy, honest, fidgety old friend," said
he, with still the same suppressed smile, "how I honor you! How I wish
I could emulate you! How I wish I were like you! and yet, Friedel, old
boy, you have missed something this afternoon."

"So! I should like to know what you have been doing. Give an account of
yourself."

"I have erred and gone astray, and have found it pleasant. I have done
that which I ought not to have done, and am sorry, for the sake of
morality and propriety, to have to say that it was delightful; far more
delightful than to go on doing just what one ought to do. Say, good
Mentor, does it matter? For this occasion only. Never again, as I am a
living man."

"I wish you would speak plainly," said I, first putting the lamp and
then myself upon the table. I swung my legs about and looked at him.

"And not go on telling you stories like that of Munchausen, in Arabesks,
eh? I will be expl