minds. She utters few words, it is true,
but these few words appear as genuine hieroglyphics of the inner world,
full of love and deep knowledge of the spiritual life in contemplation
of the eternal _yonder_. But you have no sense for all this, and my
words are wasted on you." "God preserve you, brother," said Sigismund
very mildly, almost sorrowfully; "but it seems to me, that you are in
an evil way. You may depend upon me, if all--no, no, I will not say
any thing further." All of a sudden it seemed to Nathaniel as if the
cold prosaic Sigismund meant very well towards him, and, therefore, he
shook the proffered hand very heartily.

Nathaniel had totally forgotten, that there was in the world a Clara,
whom he had once loved;--his mother--Lothaire--all had vanished from
his memory; he lived only for Olympia, with whom he sat for hours every
day, uttering strange fantastical stuff about his love, about the
sympathy that glowed to life, about the affinity of souls, to all of
which Olympia listened with great devotion. From the very bottom of
his desk, he drew out all that he had ever written. Poems, fantasies,
visions, romances, tales--this stock was daily increased with all sorts
of extravagant sonnets, stanzas, and canzone, and he read all to
Olympia for hours in succession without fatigue. Never had he known
such an admirable listener. She neither embroidered nor knitted, she
never looked out of window, she fed no favourite bird, she played
neither with lap-dog nor pet cat, she did not twist a slip of paper nor
any thing else in her hand, she was not obliged to suppress a yawn by a
gentle forced cough. In short, she sat for hours, looking straight
into her lover's eyes, without stirring, and her glance became more and
more lively and animated. Only when Nathaniel rose at last, and kissed
her hand and also her lips, she said "Ah, ah!" adding "good night,
dearest!" "Oh deep, noble mind!" cried Nathaniel in his own room, "by
thee, by thee, dear one, am I fully comprehended." He trembled with
inward transport, when he considered the wonderful accordance that was
revealed more and more every day in his own mind, and that of Olympia,
for it seemed to him as if Olympia had spoken concerning him and his
poetical talent out of the depths of his own mind;--as if the voice had
actually sounded from within himself. That must indeed have been the
case, for Olympia never uttered any words whatever beyond those which
hav