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Chapter 6 The Definite Integral
6.1 Antidifferentiation 1 2 1 1
x 2 x dx x 2 x dx
2
17.
3x 3 x
1 2
1. f x x F ( x) x C 1 1
2 xdx 2 x dx dx
2
3 x
1 2 2 3 1
2. f x 9 x 8 F ( x) x 9 C x x ln x C
2 3 3
1
3. f x e 3 x F ( x) e 3 x C 7 7 3
3 18. 2 x 3 3 x dx 2 x x1 3 dx
1 7 3
f x e 3 x F ( x) e 3 x C
2
4. x dx x1 3dx
3
7 1 1 43
5. f(x) = 3 F(x) = 3x + C x 2 x C
2 2 1
1
6. f x 4 x F ( x) 2 x 2 C 3
7 2 3 4 3
x x C
4 4
4x
3
7. dx x 4 C
2 x 3
x 1 1 19. 3e dx e 2 x C
8. dx xdx x 2 C 2
3 3 6
x
20. e dx e x C
9. 7dx 7 x C
21. edx ex C
k dx k x C
2 2
10.
7 7 2 x 7
x 1 1 2 22. 2e 2 x dx 2 e dx e 2 x C
11. dx xdx x C 4
c c 2c
2 e
1 dx 2 e 2 x dx 2 1dx
2x
23.
1
12. x x dx x dx x 4 C
2 3
1
4 2 e 2 x 2 x C
2
2 x 1 1 e 2 x 2 x C
13. x 2 dx 2 x 2 x dx
1 1 e 0.5 x
2 dx xdx x
x 2
24.
3e 2 x
2
dx
1 2
2 ln x x C 1 0.5 x
3 e x dx 2 xdx
2
4 e dx
1 1 1 1 1 1 0.5 x
14. 7 x dx 7 x dx 7 ln x C 3e x x 2 e C
2 0.5
3e x x 2 e 0.5 x C
2
x xdx x 32
15. dx x 5 2 C
5 d 2t 5
25. ke 2ke 2t 5e 2t k
dt 2
16.
2
x
2 x dx 2 x 1 2 2 x1 2 dx d t /10 1 t /10
26. ke 10 ke 3e t /10 k 30
2 x 1 2 dx 2 x1 2 dx dt
4 d 4 x 1 1
4 x1 2 x 3 2 C 4 x 1
2e 4 x 1 k
3
27.
dx
ke 4ke 2
4 32
4 x x C
3
d k d (3 x 1) 1 5
(3 x 1) f (t ) t 2 5t 7 f (t ) t 3 t 2 7t C
3ke
28. ke 40.
dx e 3 x 1 dx 3 2
4
3ke (3 x 1) 4e (3 x 1) k 41. f ( x) 0.5e 0.2 x f ( x) 2.5e 0.2 x C
3
f (0) 0 2.5e 0.20 C 0 C 2.5
d
29. k (5 x 7) 1 k (5 x 7) 2 (5) Thus, f ( x) 2.5e 0.2 x 2.5.
dx
5k (5 x 7) 2 (5 x 7) 2 42. f ( x) 2 x e x f ( x) x 2 e x C
1
k f (0) 1 0 2 e 0 C 1 C 0
5
Thus, f ( x) x 2 e x .
d 3
30. k ( x 1) 3 / 2 k ( x 1)1/ 2 ( x 1)1/ 2
dx 2 1 2
2 43. f ( x) x f ( x) x C
k 2
3 1 2
f (0) 3 0 C 3 C 3
d k k 1 2
31. k ln 4 x (1) 1
dx 4 x 4 x 4 x Thus, f ( x) x 2 3 .
k 1 2
d k d 44. f ( x) 8 x1/ 3 f ( x) 6 x 4 / 3 C
32. k (8 x) 3
dx (8 x) 3 dx f (1) 4 6 14 / 3 C 4 C 2
3k (8 x) 4 (1) Thus, f ( x) 6 x 4 / 3 2 .
3k (8 x) 4 7(8 x) 4
7 2 3/ 2
k 45. f ( x) x1/ 2 1 f ( x) x xC
3 3
2 3/ 2
f (4) 0 4 4C 0
d 3
33. k (3 x 2) 5 5k (3x 2) 4 (3)
dx 2
8 4 C 0 C
28
15k (3x 2) 4 (3x 2) 4 3 3
1 2 3/ 2 28
k Thus, f ( x) x x .
15 3 3
d 1 3 2 3/ 2
34. k (2 x 1) 4 4k (2 x 1) 3 2 8k (2 x 1) 3 46. f ( x) x 2 x1/ 2 f ( x) x x C
dx 3 3
1 1 3 2 3/ 2
(2 x 1) 3 k f (1) 3 1 1 C 3 C 2
8 3 3
1 3 2 3/ 2
d k 3 Thus, f ( x) x x 2.
35. [k ln 2 x ] k 3 3 3
dx 2 x 2 x
2
d k 47. f ( x) dx 2 ln x C
36. k ln 2 3 x (3) x
dx 2 3x
3k 5 5 f (1) 2 2 ln 1 C 2 C 2
k
2 3x 2 3x 3 Thus, f ( x) 2 ln x 2.
2 5/ 2 1 1
37. f (t ) t 3 / 2 f (t ) t C 48. f ( x) dx x C
5 3 3
4 1
38. f (t ) f (t ) 4 ln 6 t C f (6) 3 (6) C 3 C 1
6t 3
1
39. f (t ) 0 f (t ) C Thus, f ( x) x 1.
3
2
x2 2 x3 1 2 23 1 13 1 4 2 6 2
2 2
2. x dx x 2 1
2
1 3 9 9 9 1 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 3
3 3t 2 4 48 4 44
4 4 4
2 4 2 1 2 1
12 32 2 32 2
3. t 4t dt 4t dt 2t 3 2 2t 2
1 1 1
1
9 9 9
2 9 2 1
12 12
4. dx x 1 2 dx 2 x1 2 62 4
1 x 1 1
3x dx 3x
2 3 2 2 3 3 3
2 1
5. 2 dx 3
x 1 2
1 x 1 1 2
8
x 2 3x4 3 82 3 84 3 12 3 14 3
8 8
13
6. x x dx
3
x x dx
1 1 2 4 2 4 2 4
1
1 81
20
4 4
25 2 x3 2
5 2 x3
2 2
7.
1
x6
dx
1 x 6
6 dx
x 1
5 x 6 2 x 3 dx x 5 x 2
1
1 1 1 1 1 1 7
5 2 5 2
2 2 1 1 32 4 32
4
4 x2 x 4 x 2 x1 2 x2
x x
4
1 2
8. dx x x dx dx 2 x1 2
1 x 1 1 2 1
42 1 2 1
2
12 1
2 4 2 1 8 4 2
2 2 2
3 11
4
2 2
0
3 0 02 3 1 1
2
t2
0 1 1 1 1
9. 3e t dt e3t e e
3t
1 3 3
1 2 2 2 e 2 2 e
1
2
2 1
2 2 2
10.
2 e 2t
dt 2 2
e 2t dt 2 e2t e2t
2 2 2
e4 e4
2 2
2
11. dx 2 ln x 2 ln 2 2 ln1 2 ln 2 0 ln 22 ln 4
1 x 1
1 1
x 1 1 1
12. dx 1 dx ln x x ln 1 1 ln 2 2 1 ln 2 2 1 ln 2
2 x
2 x 2
1
1 ex e0.5 x 1e x e0.5 x e1.5 x
e
1
x 1.5 x
13. dx 2 x dx e dx e x
0 e2 x 0 e2 x e 0 1.5
0
e1.5 0 e0 1 e1.5 1
e 1 e 1
1.5 1.5 e 1.5 1.5
1 2e1.5 5
e 3 3
ln 2
ln 2 e x e x ln 2 e xe x e x e x eln 2 e ln 2 e0 e 0
14.
0 2
dx 0
2
2
dx 2 2
0
2
2 2 2
2 1 1 1 3
2 2 2 2 2 4
4 1 4
15.
0
f x dx
0
f x dx 1
f x dx 3.5 5 8.5
10 10 1
16.
1
f x dx 1
f x dx 1
f x dx 4 0 4
3 3 3 3 3
17. 2 f x 3g x dx 2 f x dx 3g x dx 2
1 1 1 1
f x dx 3 1
g x dx 2 3 3 1 9
3 3 3 3 3
18. 2 g x f x dx 2 g x dx
0.5 0.5 0.5
f x dx 2 0.5
g x dx 0.5
f x dx
3 3
4 2 g x dx 0 g x dx 2
0.5 0.5
x 6 x x 2 x dx 3x 6 x 21 dx
2 1 2 3
2 2 2
2 2 3 2
19. 2 3 x x x dx 3 2 x 7 dx
1 2 1 1 1
6 x x 2 x 3 x 6 x 21 dx
2
2 3 2
1
2
2 x 4 x 21 dx x x 21x
2
3 1 24 4 3
1 2 3 1
1 4 4 3 1 4 4 3
2 2 21 2 1 1 211
2 3 2 3
134 131 137
3 6 6
1 1 1 1
20. 0
4 x 2 dx 3 x 1 dx 4 x 2 dx 3x 3 dx
0 0 0
1 1
0
4 x 2 3x 3 dx 7 x 5 dx
0
1
7x 7 12
2 7 02
5x 5 1 5 0
2 0 2 2
7 3
5
2 2
1
14 13 1 13
4
x 4 x3
x
0 1 1
3 2 3 2 3 2
21. x dx x x dx x x dx
1 0 1 4 3 4 3 4 3
1
7 1 2
12 12 3
1 2 1 1 2 2
22. 7 x 4 dx
0 1
7 x 5 dx
0 4 dx 7 x dx
7 x dx
0 1 1
5 dx
1 2 1 2
7 x dx 7 x dx 4 dx 5 dx
0 1 0 1
2 1 2
7 x dx 4 dx 5 dx
0 0 1
2 2 7 2 2 7 0 2
7x
4 1 4 0 5 2 5 1 23
1 2
4 x 0 5x 1
2 2 2
0
2 x 3 dx x 2 3x
3 3
23. f 3 f 1
1 1
32 3 3 12 3 1 2
4
f 4 f 2 73 dx 73 x 2 73 4 73 2 146
4
24.
2
.5t e
1 1 1 1 2 1 2 1 1 1 2 1
f 1 f 1 dt t 2 e2t 1 e 1 e
2t 2
25.
1 4 2 1
4 2 4 2
1 e 2 1 e 2 e2 e2
4 2 4 2 2
3
3 1 2 1 1 1 1 1
f 3 f 0 12t t dt 6t t 6 3 3 6 0 0 54 3 1 55 3
2 2
26.
0 e e 0 e e e e
2
2 1 2 1 2 x2 1 5
f x dx f x dx f x dx
1
27. 1 dx x dx x 0 1 2
0 0 1 0 1 2 2 2
1
3 3 3 3
2 4
0 2
3 3
1 0 1 0 1
29. 1
f t dt
1
f t dt 0
f t dt 1
1 t dt 1 t dt
0
0 1
t2 t2 1 1
t t 1 1 1
2 1 2 0 2 2
t
2 1 2 1 2
f t dt f t dt f t dt t 1 dt
2
30. 1 dt
1 1 1 1 1
1 2
t3 t2 1 1 4 1 4 1 5
t t 1 1 2 1
3 1 2 1 3 3 2 2 3 2 6
31. Let s t represent the position function. We know that s t v t 32t , so the change in position is given
33. a. Let s t represent the position function. We know that s t v t 32t 75, so the change in
position is given by
32t 75 dt 16t 2 75t
3 3
s 3 s 1 16 3 75 3 16 1 75 1 81 59 22.
2 2
1 1
b. During the time interval 1 t 3, the ball rose 22 feet. Therefore, at time t = 3, the ball is 22 feet higher
than its position at time t = 1.
34. Let s t represent the position function. We know that s t v t 45 45e0.2t , so the distance traveled
during the first nine seconds is given by
9 9 9
s 9 s 0 45 45e0.2t dt 45 1 e t 5 dt 45 t 5e t 5 45 9 5e9 5 0 5e0 5
0 0 0
45 9 5e 9 5
5 45 4 5e 217.2 9 5
The skydiver fell about 217.2 feet during the first nine seconds.
35. a. Let C x represent the cost function. The cost increase is given by
3
x3 x 2
3 3
C 3 C 1 C x dx 2
.1x x 12 dx 12 x
1 1 30 2 1
33 32 13 12
12 3 12 1 32.4 11.53 20.87
30 2 30 2
The cost will increase $20.87 if the company goes from a production level of 1 to 3 items per day.
700e
10 10 10
T 10 T 0 T t dt R t dt 0.07 t
1000 dt
0 0 0
10
700 0.07t
10
e 1000t 10, 000e0.07t 1000t
.07 0 0
10, 000e 0.07(10)
1000 10 10, 000e 0.07 0
1000 0
30137.50 10, 000 20137.50
The investment increased by $20,137.50.
38. Let T t represent the value of the property during a given time interval. Then T t R t , and the
decrease in value from 2015 (t = 0) to 2021 (t = 6) is given by
8e dt
6 6 6
T 6 T 0 T t dt R t dt 0.04t
0 0 0
6
8 0.04t
200e 200e 157.326 200 42.674
6
0.04t 0.04 6 0.04 0
e 200e
0.04 0
0
In twenty years you will have paid $112,649 towards the loan.
b. P 20 P 0 P 20 P 0 200, 000 112, 649 87, 351
$87,351 is still remaining on the loan.
30
30 4.1107 0.03t 4.1107 0.0330 4.1107
P 30 P 0
0.03t
c. 4.1107e dt e e 200
0 .03 0
.03 .03
Thus, the principal has been repaid.
t
t 4.1107 0.03t 4.1107 0.03t 4.1107
41. P t P 0 4.1107e
0.03t
dt 200 e 200 e
0 .03 0
.03 .03
337.023 137.023e0.03t thousand dollars
42. Let T t represent the amount of radioactive material in grams during a given time interval. Then
T t R t , and the decrease in the amount of radioactive material in the first ten years is given by
e dt
10 10 10
T 10 T 0 T t dt R t dt .1t
0 0 0
10e
10
10
10e 10e
.1 10
.1t .1 0
10 6.321
0 e
The radioactive material decayed by 6.321 grams during the first ten years.
43. Let T t represent the amount of salt in grams during a given time interval. Then T t r t , and the
amount of salt that was eliminated during the first two minutes is given by
2 2 2 1 2 1
0 0
0 2
T 2 T 0 T t dt r t dt t dt t dt
0 2
2
t2 1 22 1 02 1
t 2 0 3
2 2 0 2 2 2 2
Three grams of salt were eliminated in the first two minutes.
44. Let h t represent the depth of the water in the tank during a given time interval. The decrease in the depth
of the water in the tank during the time interval 2 t 4 is given by
4
4 4 t t2 42 22
h 4 h 2 2
h t dt 2
2
dt
4
3
2 4 4
The water level dropped by three inches.
1 2
6.3 The Definite Integral and Area
Under a Graph
b. A 0
1 x dx x 1 dx
1
1 2
x2 x2
1. a. A lw 3 2 6 x x
2
0
2 1
4
1 22 12 1 1
2 dx 2 x 1 2 4 2 1 6
4
b. A 2 1 1
1 2 2 2 2 2
2. a. A lw 3 1 3
1 1
6. a. A h b1 b2 23 2 5
2 2 2
1 dx x 1 2 1 3
2
b. A
1 2 3
1 1
b. A 0
2 dx 2
6 2 x dx
3. a. A bh 22 2
2 3
2 2 2 x 0 6 x x2
2
0 2 0
x 4 6 3 3 6 2 2
2 2
b. A 2
x dx
2
2
0 2 2
4 1 5
2 1 3
4. a. A
1
2
1
bh 4 4 8
2
7. 1 x
dx 8. x x 3 dx
0
2 2
e x dx
2
2 x2 9. ln x dx 10.
b. A
2
x 2 dx 2 x
2 2
1 1
3 1
22 2
2 2
2
2 2
11. 1
x dx
x
2 2 1 2
6 2 8 12. x 1 dx
0 1
3 x dx
1 1 1 1
b h b h 11 11 1 1
2
2
5. a. A 13. dx ln x ln 2 ln1 ln 2
2 11 2 2 2 2 2 1 x 1
x 3 4
23. dx
33 3 3
2
9 1 5 5 5
1
3 2 2
1 32 33
3 x2
3 5 5 5
1
15. 1
x dx ln x
x 2 1 0 e3 x
0
1 e 1 1 1
3x
3 2 1 2 24. e dx
1 3 3 3 3 3 3e
ln 3 ln 1 1 3
2 2 e 1
9 1 3e
ln 3 4 ln 3
2 2
b
b x4 b4
3
16. 25. x dx 4 4 4
0 4 4
0
b 4 16 b 2
b b
b b x3 x4
2 3
26. x dx x dx
0 0 3 4
0 0
b3 b 4 4
17. b
3 4 3
20
27. x .5
4
The first midpoint is that of [0, .5] which is
.25, so the midpoints are .25, .75, 1.25, 1.75.
3 0
28. x .5
18. 6
The first midpoint is .25, so the midpoints are
.25, .75, 1.25, 1.75, 2.25, 2.75.
4 1
29. x .6
5
The first midpoint is that of [1, 1.6] which is
1.3, so the midpoints are 1.3, 1.9, 2.5, 3.1, 3.7.
3 3
53
19. 2
4 x dx 2 x 2
2
2 9 2 4 10 30. x
5
.4
3 x dx
1
21. 2
x 2e x 2 The midpoints are 1.25, 1.75, 2.25, 2.75.
0 Area
.5 f (1.25) f (1.75) f (2.25) f (2.75)
1
x2
x3 4e x 2
2 0 .5 (1.25) 2 (1.75) 2 (2.25) 2 (2.75) 2
3 5 8.625
4e1 2 4 4e1 2
2 2
33. ∆x = .4; the left endpoints are 1, 1.4, 1.8, 2.2, 2.6.
Area .4 13 (1.4) 3 (1.8) 3 (2.2) 3 (2.6) 3 15.12
34. ∆x = .2; the right endpoints are .2, .4, .6, .8, 1.
Area .2 (.2) 3 (.4) 3 (.6) 3 (.8) 3 13 .36
35. ∆x = .2; the right endpoints are 2.2, 2.4, 2.6, 2.8, 3.
Area .2 e 2.2 e 2.4 e 2.6 e 2.8 e 3 .077278
36. ∆x = .4; the left endpoints are 2, 2.4, 2.8, 3.2, 3.6.
Area .4 ln 2 ln 2.4 ln 2.8 ln 3.2 ln 3.6 2.0169
37. midpoints: 1, 3, 5, 7; ∆x = 2
f (1) f (3) f (5) f (7) x 4 8 6 2 2 40
38. left endpoints: 3, 4, 5, 6; ∆x = 1
f (3) f (4) f (5) f (6) x 8 7 6 41 25
39. right endpoints: 5, 6, 7, 8, 9; ∆x = 1
f (5) f (6) f (7) f (8) f (9) x 6 4 2 1 21 15
40. midpoints: 2, 4, 6; ∆x = 2
f (2) f (4) f (6) x 7 7 4 2 36
41. ∆x = .75; the left endpoints are 1, 1.75, 2.5, 3.25.
Area .75 (4 1) (4 1.75) (4 2.5) (4 3.25) 5.625
The midpoints are 1.375, 2.125, 2.875, 3.625
Area .75 (4 1.375) (4 2.125) (4 2.875) (4 3.625) 4.5
1 1
The base of the triangle is 1 and the height is 2, so A bh 1 2 1.
2 2
43. ∆x = .4; the midpoints are –.8, –.4, 0, .4, .8.
1/ 2 1/ 2 1/ 2 1/ 2 1/ 2
Area 0.4 1 (.8) 2 1 (.4) 2 1 (0) 2 1 (.4) 2 1 (.8) 2 1.61321
The error is 1.61321 − 1.57080 = .04241.
44. ∆x = .2; the midpoints are .1, .3, .5, .7, .9.
Area = .2 1 (.1) 2 1 (.3) 2 1 (.5) 2 1 (.7) 2 1 (.9) 2 .79300
The error is .79300 – .78540 = .0076.
n n 1 2n 1
47. 12 2 2 32 n 2
6
11 1 2 1 1 6
n 1: 12 1
6 6
2 2
2 2 1 2 2 1 30
n 2:1 2 5
6 6
3
3 1 2 3 1 84
n 3 : 12 22 32 14
6 6
n 4 : 12 22 32 42
4 4 1 2 4 1 30 180
6 6
The formula can be proven for all values of n using mathematical induction.
48. S n f x1 f x2 f xn x
a. Since we are working with right endpoints, we have
1 1 1 1 1 2 1 2 1 3
x1 0 x 0 , x2 x1 , x3 x2 , ,
n n n n n n n n n n
1 n 1 1 n
x n x n 1 .
n n n n
2 2 2 2
1 2 3 n
f x1 , f x 2 , f x3 , f x n
n n n n
Substituting into the formula for S n gives
1 2 2 2 3 2 n 1 1
2 2
2 2 32 n2 1 1
S n 2 2 2 2 3 12 2 2 32 n 2
n n n n n n n n n n n
b. Substituting the formula from exercise 47 gives
1 n n 1 2n 1 n n 1 2n 1
n
1
S n 3 12 2 2 32 n 2 3
n
6
6n 3
n n 1 2n 1 2n 3 n 2 n 2n 3 n2 n
c. lim 3
lim 3
lim 3
lim 3
lim
n 6n n 6n n 6n n 6n n 6n 3
1 1 1 1 1
lim lim lim 00
n 3 n 6n n 6n 2 3 3
49.
3
2. A [ f ( x) g ( x)] dx
2
3.
4.
7
5. 0 f ( x) dx is clearly positive since there is more area above the x-axis.
7
6. 0 g ( x) dx is clearly negative since there is more area below the x-axis.
7.
1 1 2
x3 x3 x3
A
1
2
1 x dx 1 1 x dx 1 1 x
2 1 2 2 2
dx x x x
3 3 3
2 1 1
1 8 1 1 8 1
1 2 1 1 2 1
3 3 3 3 3 3
4 4 4
4
3 3 3
8. 10.
A
0
x x 1 dx x x 1 dx
2 1 2
x3
1
1 0
A
1
x 6 x 5 dx 3 x 2 5 x
2
0
1
x 3 x dx 1 3
0
x
x dx 0 3 0
0 1 1 25
x4 x2 x4 x2 3 5 0
3
2 4 2 3
4 1
0
11.
1 1 1 1 1 1 1
0 0
4 2 4 2 4 4 2
9.
e x 3 dx e x 3x 0
ln 3 ln 3
A
0
e ln 3 3ln 3 1
2
x3 3 3ln 3 1 3ln 3 2
A
2
0
x 2 x 3 dx x 2 3 x
2
3 0
8 22
4 6 0
3 3
She took the cup in one hand, Marietta in the other, and went, about
nine o’clock, to where Monsieur Hautmartin was wont to sit in
judgment. She there made a great outcry, and showed the broken
cup and the Paradise lost. Marietta wept bitterly.
The justice, when he saw the broken cup and his beautiful bride in
tears, flew into so violent a rage toward Colin that his nose was as
violet-colored as Marietta’s well-known hat-band. He immediately
despatched his bailiffs to bring the criminal before him.
Colin came, overwhelmed with grief. Mother Manon now repeated
her complaint with great eloquence before justice, bailiffs, and
scribes.—But Colin listened not. He stepped to Marietta and
whispered to her: “Forgive me, dear Marietta, as I forgive thee. I
broke thy cup unintentionally; but thou, thou hast broken my heart!”
“What whispering is that?” cried Justice Hautmartin, with magisterial
authority. “Harken to this accusation, and defend yourself.”
“I have naught to defend. I broke the cup against my will,” said
Colin.
“That I verily believe,” said Marietta, sobbing. “I am as guilty as he;
for I offended him—then he threw the ribbon and flowers to me. He
could not help it.”
“Well!” cried Mother Manon. “Do you intend to defend him? Mr.
Justice, pronounce his sentence. He has broken the cup, and he
does not deny it.”
“Since you can not deny it, Mr. Colin,” said the Justice, “you must
pay three hundred livres for the cup, for it is worth that; and then
for—”
“No,” interrupted Colin, “it is not worth that. I bought it at Vence for
Marietta for a hundred livres.”
“You bought it, sir brazen face?” shrieked the Justice, and his whole
face became like Marietta’s hat-band. He could not and would not
say more, for he dreaded a disagreeable investigation of the matter.
But Colin was vexed at the imputation, and said: “I sent this cup on
the evening of the fair, by your own servant, to Marietta. There
stands Jaques in the door. Speak, Jaques, did I not give thee the box
to carry to Mother Manon?”
Monsieur Hautmartin wished to interrupt this conversation by
speaking loudly. But the simple Jaques said: “Only recollect, Justice,
you took away Colin’s box from me, and carried what was in it to
Mother Manon. The box lies there under the papers.”
Then the bailiffs were ordered to remove the simpleton; and Colin
was also directed to retire, until he should be sent for again.
“Very well, Mr. Justice,” interposed Colin, “but this business shall be
your last in Napoule. I know this, that you would ingratiate yourself
with Mother Manon and Marietta by means of my property. When
you want me, you will have to ride to Grasse to the Governor’s.”
With that, Colin departed.
Monsieur Hautmartin was quite puzzled with this affair, and in his
confusion knew not what he was about. Manon shook her head. The
affair was dark and mysterious to her. “Who will now pay me for the
broken cup?” she asked.
“To me,” said Marietta, with glowing, brightened countenance, “to
me it is already paid for.”
Colin rode that same day to the Governor at Grasse, and came back
early the next morning. But Justice Hautmartin only laughed at him,
and removed all of Mother Manon’s suspicions by swearing he would
let his nose be cut off if Colin did not pay three hundred livres for
the broken cup. He also went with Mother Manon to talk with Father
Jerome about the marriage, and impressed upon him the necessity
of earnestly setting before Marietta her duty as an obedient
daughter in not opposing the will of her mother. This the pious old
man promised, although he understood not the half of what they
shouted in his ear.
When Monday morning came Mother Manon said to her daughter:
“Dress yourself handsomely, and carry this myrtle wreath to Father
Jerome; he wants it for a bride.” Marietta dressed herself in her
Sunday clothes, took the myrtle wreath unsuspiciously, and carried it
to Father Jerome.
On the way Colin met her, and greeted her joyfully, though timidly;
and when she told him where she was taking the wreath, Colin said:
“I am going the same way, for I am carrying the money for the
church’s tenths to the priest.” And as they went on he took her hand
silently, and both trembled as if they designed some crime against
each other.
“Hast thou forgiven me?” whispered Colin, anxiously. “Ah! Marietta,
what have I done to thee, that thou art so cruel toward me?”
She could only say: “Be quiet, Colin, you shall have the ribbon again;
and I will preserve the cup since it came from you! Did it really come
from you?”
“Ah! Marietta, canst thou doubt it? All I have I would gladly give
thee. Wilt thou, hereafter, be as kind to me as thou art to others?”
She replied not. But as she entered the parsonage she looked aside
at him, and when she saw his fine eyes filled with tears, she
whispered softly: “Dear Colin!” Then he bent down and kissed her
hand. With this the door of a chamber opened and Father Jerome,
with venerable aspect, stood before them. The young couple held
fast to each other. I know not whether this was the effect of the
hand-kissing, or the awe they felt for the sage.
Marietta handed him the myrtle wreath. He laid it upon her head
and said: “Little children, love one another;” and then urged the
good maiden, in the most touching and pathetic manner, to love
Colin. For the old gentleman, from his hardness of hearing, had
either mistaken the name of the bridegroom, or forgotten it, and
thought Colin must be the bridegroom.
Then Marietta’s heart softened under the exhortation, and with tears
and sobs she exclaimed: “Ah! I have loved him for a long time, but
he hates me.”
“I hate thee, Marietta?” cried Colin. “My soul has lived only in thee
since thou camest to Napoule. Oh! Marietta, how could I hope and
believe that thou didst love me? Does not all Napoule worship thee?”
“Why, then, dost thou avoid me, Colin, and prefer all my companions
before me?”
“Oh! Marietta, I feared and trembled with love and anxiety when I
beheld thee; I had not the courage to approach thee; and when I
was away from thee I was most miserable.”
As they talked thus with each other the good father thought they
were quarreling; and he threw his arms around them, brought them
together, and said imploringly: “Little children, love one another.”
Then Marietta sank on Colin’s breast, and Colin threw his arms
around her, and both faces beamed with rapture. They forgot the
priest, the whole world. Each was sunk into the other. Both had so
completely lost their recollection that, unwittingly, they followed the
delightful Father Jerome into the church and before the altar.
“Marietta!” sighed he.
“Colin!” sighed she.
In the church there were many devout worshipers; but they
witnessed Colin’s and Marietta’s marriage with amazement. Many ran
out before the close of the ceremony, to spread the news throughout
Napoule: “Colin and Marietta are married.”
When the solemnization was over, Father Jerome rejoiced that he
had succeeded so well, and that such little opposition had been
made by the parties. He led them into the parsonage.
I
In Germany there are several castles of the name of Neideck, but,
doubtless, the most beautiful is that of the principality of Westerau,
whose proud ruins looked down from the steep slate rock over the
broad plain of the Felber Valley, and far beyond to the heights of the
Dill Mountains.
On the slope of the mountains nestles the little village of Westerau:
the site of the new castle. At the time of the Seven Years’ War a part
of this was habitable, but even then most of it was roofless and a
ruin. At the back the castle was open, but the front was protected by
a moat and a drawbridge.
Fixed upon the rock like the nest of some gigantic bird, Neideck was
considered a strong, though not impregnable, fortress. It was
garrisoned by three men: a sergeant and two common soldiers; all
three were disabled. The sole defense of the fortress, one old
cannon, thundered above the valley on the prince’s birthday and
whenever a princess gave birth to a child. It is hard to tell why there
was a garrison at all; probably for no other reason than because it
had not been withdrawn; the three men had been left by a previous
garrison as the ruins had been left by a previous castle. The
veterans served at Neideck because they could not serve elsewhere.
Was not that reason enough? The three men had a roof to cover
them, good air, and few expenses.
Besides the garrison, one other, the schoolmaster, lived in the castle.
He was Philip Balzer, called “Burg” Balzer (Fortress Balzer) to
distinguish him from all other Balzers of that locality. Burg Balzer’s
quarters were in the keeper’s lodge, near the gate, and in his
quarters he kept school. The parish consisted of twelve thatched
cottages, standing at the foot of the hill of Neideck. It was too poor
to provide a regular schoolhouse, so the prince graciously permitted
the schoolmaster to use the lodge for that purpose, which answered
very well. In all there were about ten scholars, and these were
huddled together like sheep in a thunderstorm.
Philip’s father had been herdsman as well as schoolmaster: the office
had descended from father to son; but now there were so few cattle
that a child could watch them, and Philip detailed his laziest pupil for
that duty. From a pedagogic standpoint the practise was of
questionable value, for, as in summer, children prefer the open air,
why, every child made efforts to be the laziest.
The schoolmaster and the garrison would have been happy but for
the fact that their chief necessities, food and drink, were insufficient.
Their quarters were dry, the air was bracing, and their clothes
appeared to be imperishable.
This calm was broken by bad news. With November of 1757 the tide
of war came in upon them. From the watch-towers they heard the
distant roar of cannon, while the fugitive peasants could see the
Prussian soldiers foraging not far away. What could Neideck do? The
men of the garrison held a council; the sergeant suggested blowing
up the castle; one of the soldiers counseled honorable surrender;
the other advised immediate flight. The schoolmaster, who had been
invited to the council, urged resistance to the death; resistance to
the point of annihilation.
During the evening of November 13 a chasseur galloped up the
mountainside with orders to “Retire to the other side of the
Schwarzach, and there join the imperial army! Take all arms and
commissary stores; destroy everything that can not be transported!”
The orders pleased the garrison; there was little to take away and
nothing to destroy. But the cannon! What could they do with that? It
had no wheels; they could not draw it after them; and, as there
were no oxen in the village, they could not haul it.
“Let us spike it!” said the sergeant; “that is done in wartime.” But
how? He did not know. To blow it up might be dangerous. Finally
they followed the advice of the schoolmaster. The well was two
hundred feet deep, and within the memory of man it had never held
water. They dropped the cannon into the well.
When they were setting out, the sergeant asked the schoolmaster
where they should find the Schwarzach. The schoolmaster gave the
desired information; critical pedagogy is supposed to follow the
principle that it is better to give any answer than to confess
ignorance.
The schoolmaster refused to abandon the fortress: he watched the
soldiers sorrowfully as they marched down the hill and disappeared
like phantoms in the silence and the darkness. “They will not return,”
he mused; “I am now the sole keeper of the fort!” He drew the
bridge, barred the gates, and went into his lodge.
For a long time he had been laying in provisions: apples, nuts,
prunes, bread, bacon, and smoked beef. These, with an old dressing
gown and “Gottsched’s Critical Art of Poetry,” he carried to the
western slope of the hill. He waited an instant, listening, turning his
head in all directions, to make sure that he was alone, for the night
was dark and he could see nothing; then he climbed over a broken
wall, parted the thick branches of a thorn-bush, and crawled through
an opening into an underground passage choked with rubbish.
This passage was known only to Burg Balzer. He had found it in his
youth. In a place where the passage widened he had made a bed of
leaves, and, lying there on rainy days, many an hour, for many
years, he had dreamed his dreams. He loved to dream of the days of
knighthood; and the dim light of his hiding-place gave atmosphere
to his illusions. At times he had worked hard to clear away the
rubbish and penetrate deeper under ground. Philip thought he might
find wine here. Strange things had been found before this in secret
passages! In the abandoned cellar of a castle in Alsatia ancient wine
had been found; the casks had rotted and dropped apart, but the
old wine had formed a skin. As he went alone, Philip decided to hide
in his grotto and wait for the first shock of war to pass; he should be
safer down there than with the fugitive peasants in the woods. It
was romance as well as common sense that led him to hide there.
Philip Balzer was a German schoolmaster. “I am Burg Balzer,” he said
to himself; “this is my castle! I must be faithful; I must stand or fall
with this stronghold. I am the real warder, and to guard Neideck is
my heritage. Let the Prussians blow it up and me with it! Better, far
better, to wing my flight thus than to forsake my trust!”
To tell the exact truth, Burg Balzer was not at all afraid that he
should be blown up; from an old legend he had learned that destiny
had marked him for important work; he was to restore prosperity to
Neideck. Neideck, the ancestral home of the princes of Westerau,
had been occupied by the family until the Thirty Years’ War broke
out. But on the approach of the imperial army the princes had
escaped, leaving a strong garrison, and the peasants of the whole
country had taken refuge there. From that time onward Neideck had
been known as a stronghold. “And, in truth,” said the schoolmaster,
“it has always been a fortress; it has never been a robbers’ nest.”
There was one stain on the record, however. In the dark year, 1634,
when the castle was packed with fugitives, and provisions ran low,
the commandant of the fortress ordered his men to drive out the
women and the children, in order to “shut out useless mouths.” The
victims fell upon their knees and begged for mercy; they cried out
that they had no other refuge. The commandant was deaf to their
prayers. When the gates closed behind them, the women cursed
Neideck. Three of the curses were remembered.
First—Let Neideck be a ruin, and let every stone of that ruin bear
witness against Neideck’s lord!
Second—One hundred years shall pass before a lord of Neideck wins
a woman’s love!
Third—To the shame of man, when all men are powerless, let
Neideck be saved by a woman!
The first two curses were already fulfilled. Soon after the lord of
Neideck had abandoned the women and children to their fate, the
castle was stormed, the east wing was destroyed, and the once
powerful fortress fell into ruins. After that the reigning family lived in
the new castle in Westerau; not one of them returned to Neideck.
For a time governors and warders kept the castle; not one of them
was blessed by a woman’s love. Some of them lived and died
unmarried; two had lost their wives; while the only man among
them all who had a wife was so tormented by her that he cut his
throat. The third curse was yet to come; namely, after all the men
had failed to save Neideck, the place was to be redeemed by a
woman.
Now, the schoolmaster, though not a woman, believed that he was
destined in some way to fulfill the curse and be the means of saving
the castle, and in such a way as to bring about perfect harmony.
Philip’s dreams were so ardent and so bold that he dared not speak
of them or even think about them. It was hope that made him cling
to the castle; that dispelled all fear. He lived on dreams as much as
on his prunes and bacon.
Lying on his bed of leaves the second day after the garrison’s
departure, he detected the smell of burning stubble. “It is the
village!” he thought calmly, and continued his dream. He heard
cannon, now near, now far away, and he heard other sounds, too:
the clash of arms, the pounding of horses’ hoofs, then silence fell—.
He had been underground two days and two nights; he was tired of
prunes and bacon, and of lying down and of sitting still. Early in the
morning he crept out. Just as he reached the thorn-bush he heard
the rustling of leaves, and, peering out, he saw a goat tossing his
head and nibbling the last leaves of the late autumn. The village lay
in the distance, calm and peaceful in the morning light; nor far, nor
near, was there a sign of war.
Tempted by the mellow sunlight, the schoolmaster left his hiding-
place, and saw that the peasants were returning with their chattels
to the deserted homes. He skirted the hill and entered the village
from the opposite side of the castle. In the village he learned that
the soldiers had not entered Neideck. The peasants blushed for their
fears; they had suffered cold and hunger in the woods; so had their
cattle. The camp-followers, finding the place deserted, had fired the
fields. Now the damages must be repaired! The peasants praised the
schoolmaster for his prudence; they said he had done well to remain
in the castle. Philip was modest; he disclaimed their praises; he
lauded the castle—“a stronghold even in its ruin!” There is not a
man on earth who has not faith in something! Burg Balzer had faith
in his castle.
II
On February 15, 1763, twelve couriers galloped out of the courtyard
of Hubertsburgh, and, blowing their trumpets, rode hard in every
direction toward all the respective courts, announcing that the peace
treaty had been signed. A squadron of mounted messengers
followed them, proclaiming peace throughout the Roman Empire of
the German nation. The Seven Years’ War was over, and the fortress
of Neideck could now rest for generations to come. No more would
the thunder of distant cannon echo through the tower; nor need the
schoolmaster fear for his castle. He was thankful for peace; glad that
they called it the peace of Hubertsburgh, for that place, he thought,
must be a little like my own Neideck. And now Burg Balzer reigned
supreme in Neideck; the garrison did not return; the veterans’
quarters went to ruin; the roof fell in. Philip rejoiced; to his mind
ruins were unclaimed property. “And,” thought he, “unclaimed
property belongs to him who takes it!” It seemed to him that the
giant ruin was now his own. It may be that he could not have borne
the trials of his dry profession had it not been for the mystic charm
of his castle. It was his castle that made life sweet to him. When the
day was fine he kept school in the courtyard. The elder-bush was in
blossom; the blue sky floated above the crumbling walls; the
jackdaws circled above the towers; the sparrows twittered. He was
happy; the dreams of his childhood nested in his heart, and the
droning a, b, c of the mischievous boys sounded to him like a spring
song.
Now and then he permitted the children to sing a hymn, and when
the old walls sent back the echoes the hymn was as full of meaning
as a fugue, and the days of old with their men of blood and iron rose
before him, while the discord in the shrill voices of the children
ascended to the skies like songs of praise. Of all hymns Philip loved
best Luther’s “A mighty fortress is our God!” When the hymn was
ended, when the last thin cry of the children had died away upon
the air, Balzer would explain to them that the stronghold, or fortress,
was man’s best type of the power and eternal protection of God; and
that God’s fidelity to man could not be represented better than by
the image of a stronghold. Once when an impertinent pupil
reminded him that their own stronghold, the fortress of Neideck, was
going to ruin, and that new ravages were visible every spring, Philip
answered:
“If our stronghold shows weakness here and there, it does so that
we may see by the contrasting strength of its main walls and its
foundations that it was built for all eternity. That is why a stronghold
is a true image of the eternal being of God. It was in strongholds
that Luther worked; he wrote his hymn in the fortress of Coburg and
translated the Bible in the fortress of Wartburg.”
When the day was fine he took his flute, and played it as he went
down the east side of the mountain, followed by the children. Often
the teacher and his pupils wandered into the woods opposite the
castle. There Philip played his flute and the children sang and the
echoes answered, and there the schoolmaster told the stories of all
the strongholds in the country; not one of them was as remarkable
as that of Neideck!
On rainy days he kept school in the small dark lodge; the lessons
were then short, and when the children had gone home, Balzer
would go down into the dungeon or up into the watch-towers. The
towers rose high above the mass of stone and overlooked the
country. A rotten bridge stretched from the top of one tower to the
top of the other. To reach the first Philip had to go to an upper story
of the adjoining building; and to reach the second, where the
tormented husband had cut his throat, he was forced to cross this
bridge. Balancing his thin body on the decaying timbers, far above
the broken roof of the castle, buffeted by the tempest and in peril of
his life, Burg Balzer would shout strange and meaningless words,
which he supposed were in the language of the ancient Teutons:
“Heia, Weia, Weigala, Waia!” In his mind he was a warder of the far-
off bygone days; the enemy was on its way to Neideck, winding up
through the ravines of the Dill Mountains, and his cry was raised to
warn the men within his castle. It was as difficult to get back to
reality as it was to climb the bridge!
Long before the war the schoolmaster had found some old straw and
fragments of a jug. Had the straw been the bed of the last prisoner
of the dungeon? and what of the jug? Balzer was tender-hearted,
but it would have pleased him to find proof that the man of his
imagination had starved to death on the straw, drinking his last,
unwholesome draft from the jug.
From brooding over his relics he went aloft, climbing from one
roofless room to another. In the “Hall of the Knights” he rested from
his efforts. Up there the arches had given way, and bits of stone and
clouds of lime-dust were sifted by the decaying joists. In the “Hall of
the Knights” he could fancy that he was exchanging opinions and
drinking wine with all the nobles of the ancient principality. From his
conference with the nobles he returned to his poor quarters, wet to
the skin, alternately shivering and burning with fever, and ate his
crust and sipped cold water and was content—far happier, perhaps,
than the knights had been over their bumpers.
Now and then, but not often, the pastor or some students and
teachers would visit the castle, and then Balzer was their guide. He
knew the story of every wall and of every crevice. If visitors gave
him a few kreutzers he was grateful. He would drop them in his little
savings bank, knowing that he should need money in accomplishing
the work appointed by destiny. One day when Mosenbruch, the
learned compiler of dictionaries, visited the castle, he disputed
Balzer’s historical data; after some discussion the savant said that no
woman could save the castle because there was no castle left to
save. Philip was too angry to answer. When Mosenbruch was ready
to depart he offered his gift. Philip rejected it. “I will not accept it,”
he thought; “the money of the castle fund must come to me from
unstained hands, the hands of people who respect the castle.”
III
Now the peasants loved the schoolmaster because he made the
children love the school. Philip was grateful for their appreciation,
but he denied that he deserved it. “I rule the village and the children
by the power of the stronghold; personally I deserve nothing!” he
said firmly.
Sunday, when the day was fine, the youths and maidens flocked to
the castle, followed by their elders, and, sitting before the castle,
talked and sang. Philip told them stories of the stronghold, and
taught them songs: “Lindenschmied,” “Schüttensam,” “Falkenstein,”
the “Castle in Austria,” and “Anne of Brittany.” The people of the
neighboring villages, too, knowing what was passing on the heights,
followed those of Neideck, and then they would all sing together, the
strangers declaring that to sit in the courtyard of Neideck was far
pleasanter than to sit around the public wells in their own villages.
Among the visitors was Lizzie, the daughter of Röderbauer of
Steinfurt. Röderbauer was a rich peasant; Lizzie was his only child.
She was strong and healthy, twenty years old, and renowned for her
beautiful blond hair—hair so long that she could sit upon it!
While Philip told his stories, Lizzie gazed upon him with wide-open
eyes and half-open mouth, thinking what a wonderful man Burg
Balzer must be to know so much more than all the people round
about. And yet he was the “poor devil” of the parish! It pleased
Lizzie to think how wise he was, but it grieved her to think how poor
he was; she longed to do something to help him. Philip was not slow
to note that Lizzie was constant in her visits. Every Sunday he saw
her blond hair and her pretty face, and it was not long before he
began to think of her night and day. In his mind he addressed
himself to her when he told his romantic stories to the people; he
gave her solos to sing; he sang duets with her. At first they were
friends, then their friendship got to be known as a “love affair,” and
finally, without any one knowing it, one day they exchanged
promises. It was a secret; but it was a betrothal nevertheless.
Though such things happen in other places as well as in old castles,
Philip was sure that his happiness had come through the influences
of his castle. When he appeared before Röderbauer of Steinfurt to
ask for his daughter, Röderbauer replied: “While I live my daughter
shall not get one kreutzer from me! When I am dead she may do as
she pleases!”
As Röderbauer was not far beyond the age of forty, and as he had
never been sick, not even for a day, it was plain enough that if Lizzie
waited for his death she would not at that time be a very lively
bride. However, Burg Balzer, knowing the character of rich peasants,
knew that Röderbauer was not to be moved. Strong in his love, he
was equally strong in his devotion to his castle; Philip turned from
Lizzie to his writings. “I will finish my history of Neideck,” he thought
bravely, and so as time went on he saved his money and wrote his
history.
Of publishers’ methods or of authors’ chances he knew nothing.
Röderbauer respected money and cared nothing for fame—and yet—
and yet!—Balzer knew it would be by this book he would gain his
wife. Lizzie loved him; since the curse fell he had been the first
warder of Neideck to win the love of woman; so Lizzie was the
woman predestined to save the castle! How it should come to pass
he knew not; he felt that he was but an instrument; it was to be.
Meanwhile he could love in secret and write history in secret, and
that was enough!
His appeal to Röderbauer had separated him from his betrothed, and
as he now saw her seldom he had more time to devote to his
writing. So resignation and patience and the strength to endure his
disappointment all came from the castle.
He had written and copied fifty folio sheets when one day the
inspector of schools visited Neideck. Philip had no cause to fear the
visit. In fine weather he had been sending the laziest pupil to the
pasture, but when the weather was bad they all flocked to the
school, where they drank in his teachings, and consequently knew
more than the children of other places. The inspector was an
antiquary. After the examination the two men—the master and his
chief—crawled like beetles through the ruins. The inspector listened
as in a dream, while Philip, poorest of all his teachers, told the story
of the stronghold. The inspector’s interest filled the mystic with
ecstasy, and in his excitement he, Balzer, the most timid of men,
found courage to show his manuscript. With hands trembling, with
face flushed, he gave it to the inspector.
Twenty different conjectures concerning the meaning of the name
“Neideck.” All very plausible.
And the conclusion was that the name did not signify after all: eck (a
corner) where neid (envy) dwelt, but a corner to be envied by all
who could not live in it—Neideck. The inspector admired Philip’s
handwriting: the conjectural structure was somewhat uncertain; but
on that foundation Balzer had raised an edifice bolder than the
architecture of the double towers. The literary form of the
manuscript was most original, for, although Balzer had never studied
literature, his writing came as the spirit inspired it. Philip’s castle had
taught him how to write.
At that time Rousseau’s “Emile” was the book of the hour. The
inspector was an ardent follower of Jean Jacques, and he found that
the active principle of the history of Neideck was the principle of the
work of Rousseau. Though Balzer had never heard of Rousseau, yet
all the former’s methods, so it seemed to the inspector, showed the
instinctive practise of the philanthropic system of education. The
analogy was so complete that Rousseau’s book, that formed the
chief intellectual diet of the advocates of “sentimental, enlightened
pedagogy,” might readily pass as a very natural and complete
supplement to the work of Balzer. The inspector’s opinion brought
tears to Philip’s eyes. “Good night,” he called back graciously; and
Philip watched him as he disappeared farther and farther down the
slope of the mountain.
“Good night! What a day it has been! I have been happy!” thought
Philip—and for that, too, he thanked his castle.
IV
Four weeks after the inspector’s visit a letter came for Balzer. He was
offered the school at Ottenheim. Ottenheim lay in the rich district of
teeming pastures—“the butter district.” So the school was twice as
important as that of Neideck. That same evening, too, a neighbor
stopped at the castle to offer Balzer his congratulations on another
“streak of luck,” the death of Röderbauer. Röderbauer had climbed a
tree to pick cherries to make his celebrated cordial; he had fallen
from the tree and been picked up dead. Delicacy impelled Balzer to
deny that he saw luck in Röderbauer’s death, but in his heart he
knew that the event would make his own life easier, and he could
not find any excuse for attributing this last blessing to his castle.
He gave his pupils a three days’ vacation and set off for Ottenheim,
wondering if it would be possible to live so far from Neideck. He was
not sure of this. As he passed the new castle, the home of the heirs
and owners of Neideck, a smile of pity flitted over his lips. What a
fall; from Neideck to Westerau! History had made Neideck glorious;
Westerau had no history! A prince may build a castle, but even
Omnipotence can not give ancestry to an unfledged baron!—Philip
was shocked; pride in his castle had caused him to blaspheme; he
had cast a doubt upon Omnipotence!
Driving back these confusing thoughts, he went on across the crest
of the Dill Mountains, that looked down upon the broad green plains,
the well-kept, regularly measured meadows, the corn-fields swaying
in the wind, and the highway lined with fruit trees. Set on the
verdant, gold-flecked carpet rested the villages with red-tiled roofs.
The church spires were glittering in the sunlight. But it was tame!
There were no woods, no rocks, no stronghold. Not a ruin! The long
stretch of level land oppressed him, but he went on. Arrived at
Ottenheim, he saw the schoolroom; large, light, limewashed. The
windows looked out on a playground; from the ground sprang four
slim young lindens; they looked like brooms standing on their sticks.
His heart quailed. Homesick dread filled his soul. How could he live
and teach in such a place? He turned and fled.
At Steinfurt he stopped to salute the girl with the long, fair hair. In
her black dress, her long lashes wet with tears, Lizzie was even
prettier than when she had visited Neideck. In his dust-stained
traveling coat (he had no other) Philip followed Röderbauer’s coffin
to the grave—and the peasants envied him.
After the funeral he talked of the future with his betrothed. His
appointment to Ottenheim pleased the girl, but she knew that she
had money enough now to build in Neideck. Philip declared that he
would never live in the butter district, where there were no woods,
no rocks, no strongholds. His future, a great future, lay in Neideck.
He knew it.
“Such talk is foolish,” answered Lizzie, and they quarreled; the girl
told him that she would never live in the lodge. She called the castle
“old and ugly.” She refused to marry him. Philip protested that he
would die a bachelor rather than go to Ottenheim. He reminded
Lizzie of her visits to Neideck and of the beauty of the castle. Lizzie
answered: “I did not go there to see the castle; I went there to see
you.” That was too much! Philip set off for Neideck cut to the heart.
But he was not rash; he gave her time to think it over. After two
weeks he returned to Steinfurt—and again they quarreled. “Whoever
takes me must take my castle!” said Philip; and Lizzie answered: “If
you do not love me more than you love the castle, I do not want
you!” Philip’s heart was heavy; Lizzie thought less of the matter.
Pride was mingled with Philip’s sorrow. “The castle has done so
much for me,” thought he; “it has made me what I am. Even if I
have to renounce my love to keep my trust, I must be faithful.” So
he declined the offer of Ottenheim and continued to appear before
the world as the poorest of the schoolmasters, the head of the
smallest school in Germany.
V
From the eastern wing of the Renaissance Castle in Westerau the
view over the Felber Valley was beautiful; far off one could see the
rocky height where the towers of Castle Neideck rose against the
horizon. In that wing resided Princess Isabella, the ruling prince’s
younger daughter, with her lady-in-waiting, Fräulein von Martigny.
The young Princess, only eighteen years old, often gazed longingly
toward those ancestral towers, wishing she were there, to look far
out over the open country, and then to travel through it, on and on
and on. Here, in her father’s castle, with its aristocratic ennui, she
felt as if she were in prison. I wonder which is the greater torture: a
prison window that looks out upon high walls, or one with a
beautiful view into the distance? One reminds us every hour that we
are imprisoned; the other that we can not get away. And the
Princess would have liked so much to fly away, but at her father’s
court the rules of etiquette were observed as strictly as in a Spanish
convent, particularly with regard to ladies. Isabella’s sister had
entered a convent to escape the monotony of the castle, and in the
convent she had been more at ease than in the castle.
There was some analogy between the conditions of the warder of
the old castle and the Princess of the new castle. As with all his
heart Balzer desired marriage with Lizzie, but would not buy his
happiness with the sacrifice of his castle, so with all her heart the
Princess of the new castle desired liberty—to be free from her
father’s house—but she would not buy her liberty by marriage with
her cousin, Frederick, Count Vierstein.
Everything slept at Westerau. When Isabella sat in her luxurious
room it seemed to her that all four walls were yawning, and when
she walked in the castle garden all the trees seemed to sleep, and
the gods and goddesses of stone between the trimmed hedges of
hornbeam were surely snoring. She arose in the morning at nine
o’clock, because it was necessary for her to rest from the preceding
day’s ennui, and when they put on her stockings while she was
dressing, it often took half an hour to proceed from the right to the
left foot.
During the day she was never alone, not one minute; for Fräulein
von Martigny, who was not only lady-in-waiting, but took the place
of a mother, never left her side. A true feminine Minos in matters of
etiquette, the old lady was also nervous and irritable. When the
Princess had been washing and bathing during her morning toilet,
Fräulein always kept a few steps away, asserting that she would just
as easily catch cold by going near a newly washed being as by
walking over a newly washed floor.
After the dressing hour came the reading hour. Fräulein read aloud,
in French, only classical authors from the time of Louis the Great,
and the very cadence of the verses seemed to produce sleep. Then
followed the painting lesson. Court-painter Timothy Niedermeyer
taught the Princess to paint in water-colors, and every one in the
family received a bouquet in water-colors as a birthday gift. This
Niedermeyer had a fine talent, but had become a mannerist. This
also was the result of ennui, for by princely decree he had every
year to deliver, in return for his salary, twenty-four oil paintings,
mostly family portraits. There were portraits of the Princess at all
ages, in every possible position and costume; the most recent
pictures showed her as an angel with wings, among clouds; as an
eighteen-year-old girl, blowing soap-bubbles into the air, and as a
shepherdess with crook, leading a sheep by a red ribbon; these
three pictures had been sent to Vierstein, as gifts for the intended
bridegroom. The Princess was, in truth, beautiful, but her life of
utter seclusion had given to her face the soft, languid beauty of a
hot-house flower, and as the artist, with a wish to flatter, had over-
refined the delicate features, the result was that the child-angel-
shepherdess head looked utterly expressionless. Ennui is the hunger
of the aristocrat; hunger is the ennui of the common people; the
painted face of the Princess showed that she had never felt hungry,
but very often bored. Isabella was to marry the Count of Vierstein,
but did not wish to do so; and the Count of Vierstein would have
nothing to do with Isabella, who was to be his bride. They were
cousins, had met as children, and Isabella had shed many a tear
over the wild boy, whose rough manner frightened and troubled her.
Later they lost sight of each other; the Count traveled extensively
and entered foreign service. The two fathers had by letter, and on
their own responsibility, betrothed their children without consulting
those who were most concerned, although the two castles were only
a day’s journey apart.
They considered such action more suitable to their rank than to
permit an engagement from love, as among ordinary people. The
fine portraits of the court-painter were intended to arouse in the
reluctant Count some interest for his unwilling bride, but they had
the opposite effect. Nor did the half-length portrait of the Count,
that arrived at the same time in Westerau, have any better success.
This portrait represented the young man as a hussar. Vierstein could
not boast of a court-painter—his court being interested only in
hunting and the army—so the picture had been painted by a
traveling artist, whose vigorous brush had given the poor Count’s
face a ferocious expression. The Princess was frightened to tears, as
she had been when a child. And Fräulein von Martigny made use of
this fear to give background to the cousin’s bad reputation. She
hinted at a certain Potsdam barrack atmosphere that Vierstein
carried into sitting-room and bedrooms; that no one over there
cared for anything but soldiers, horses, dogs. For in her heart the
Fräulein shared Isabella’s aversion to this marriage, and would have
preferred to see her beloved foster child become an old maid. Then
might the Fräulein be to the end of her life Mistress of the Robes at
this dear court, whose ennui she was not sensible of, although she
did her utmost to promote it.
To be sure the painting and the painting lessons were as tiresome as
everything else in the castle, yet a certain dramatic interest was
attached to them—an interest that was woefully lacking in the rest
of the day’s proceedings, which went like clockwork—and all the
clocks in the castle were correct. Every day the Prince rode out at
the same hour, on the same road, and returned at the same minute.
Breakfast was served at eleven o’clock; at twelve o’clock they held
an audience, the Princess as well. Her lady-in-waiting was careful to
impress upon her beforehand how to open the conversation. There
were only three phrases from which to select; Isabella sometimes
wished to add a fourth or fifth, but had not the courage to do so.
They dined at three o’clock. Conversation at table, though the
merest gossip, was very solemn. Isabella discovered, in listening to
it, that the people in the town could not be quite such bores as were
those in the castle, for, at least, they furnished material for
conversation. She sometimes wished to become acquainted with the
wife of one of the officials or even of a common tradesman, but
Fräulein assured her that that would be improper as well as
unpleasant. “These common people have such a peculiar odor,” she
said, taking a double dose of snuff. She always maintained that it
was one of the finest traits in the Landgrave of Hesse, that he could
not bear the odor of common people.
After dinner the whole party went out for a walk; they proceeded in
pairs, the marshal with his staff going before, two chasseurs with
their carbines closing the procession. Isabella would have preferred
an excursion to Neideck; they had even promised it to her, but they
never found time for it. Simply because there was nothing to do, the
hours were fully occupied. This never-fulfilled promise increased the
Princess’s longing to see the charmed Castle of Neideck; it became
to her the symbol of freedom, ever alluring, forever unattainable.
After the walk the Prince, following the example of Louis XIV, fed
and caressed his numerous dogs. If her father was in an unusually
good humor, Isabella received permission to pat the dogs, a thing
she hated to do. Afterward Fräulein von Martigny never failed to
remind her that as Cousin Frederick owned even a larger number of
dogs, as Countess Vierstein she would never be able to get away
from dog-atmosphere.
The best comfort of the unfortunate, provided they can sleep, is
night. The Princess had a magnificent canopy-bed, with the softest
of pillows and the finest silken covers. When a child lies comfortably
in its little bed, it is often said to be lying there “like a princess.” The
saying did not originate with Princess Isabella, for she felt no
comfort even in bed. She wished to sleep in the dark, but it was
considered proper for her to have a Dutch night-lamp burning in her
own bedroom, and a German lamp in the one adjoining, where her
maid slept. And from the 15th of October to the 15th of April open
fires were kept burning throughout the night in both rooms; such
were the palace regulations. So the poor Princess often lay awake,
counting the strokes of the big castle clock and of all the other
numerous clocks in the rooms, following one another “like
clockwork.” Her whole young life seemed to her like one long
sleepless night.
It was in the month of May. The nights were now growing shorter,
fortunately; but Isabella was still awake at one o’clock, staring about
her with wide-open eyes. She noticed a small red book on the
window-sill, an unusual sight in these rooms, where nothing was
ever left lying about. What kind of a book could it be? All the books
in the castle were bound in blue. She slipped out of bed to look at it.
The red cover was in bad taste and overdecorated; the leaves were
gilt-edged, but the paper was bad, like blotting paper, and the print
was poor and blurred. The title was: “Notable description and history
of the princely Castle of Neideck, brought to light by Philip Balzer,
schoolmaster and student of the history of his fatherland.”
The Princess went to bed again, and, by the light of her very good
Dutch night-lamp, began to read this little book. Scarcely had she
finished the few pages which treated of the origin and twenty-five
meanings of the name “Neideck,” when she began to feel drowsy,
and when she reached page ten she fell asleep, and slept soundly
until late in the morning.
After this she decided to read a little of the book every evening; she
also inquired as to whom it belonged and how it came to be in her
room.
VI
In due time Burg Balzer finished his “history,” and even got it
printed, a harder task than the writing. There was only one printing
office in the principality, and this belonged to the court bookbinder
Zöllner in Westerau. Zöllner, owner also of a toy store and circulating
library, printed every year the “Court, State, and House Almanac of
Westerau,” and this was the extent of his printing venture; he could
never be induced to risk any other literary undertaking. Philip had
foreseen that, and offered to cover all necessary expenses with the
contents of his savings-box. The castle fund, which had been
collecting for twelve years, amounted now to exactly two florins and
eighteen kreutzers.[1] But Herr Zöllner was not satisfied. Philip,
though surprised that books could cost so much, did not lose
courage. He, knowing that peasants pay their rent partly in money
and produce the rest in manual labor and labor of their teams,
proposed to the bookbinder to pay him by the same method, to
write out bills and dunning letters, line school copybooks, and
perform other tasks, until all expenses had been paid. The
bookbinder agreed, and Balzer, with a heavy sigh, became his
publisher’s drudge, as also more famous authors have been. Piles of
the bookbinder’s work were carried to Neideck every Saturday, but
the pile of Philip’s own book in Westerau remained untouched. Philip
bore his burden heroically; he was slaving for his castle, that was
enough for Philip. He had not neglected, however, to present some
elegantly bound copies to the ruling princes of his own and adjoining
lands. At first he expected a few gold snuff-boxes in return, then, at
least, some kind acknowledgment by letter; but nothing came.
The Prince of Westerau had given the book to his valet, because it
had come uncalled for and not in proper form; all gifts from his
subjects, as long as they were of no special value, went the same
way.
The valet found the book so uninteresting that he passed it on to
Isabella’s maid. The girl, feeling life at court even more tedious than
this book, first read a little in it, then forgot it, leaving it in the
Princess’s room, where, during a sleepless night, as we have seen, it
fell at last into the right hands.
The Princess was glad to hear something more definite about the
enchanted castle, and was surprised to read of all the strange events
that had taken place there—a small history of the world in itself—
and of the numerous historical monuments still in existence there.
The French books with which Fräulein von Martigny tormented her
every day took her to Rome, Athens, Mexico, and other places, for
which she cared nothing; it pleased her at last to be able to read
about what was nearest her home, about the mystery upon which
she looked out from her own windows. The beginning of the book
had a soothing effect, even helped her to sleep; later on it became
more interesting, and toward the end quite exciting. Sometimes the
author was very comical, just when he wished to be very impressive;
but he always meant well, and was very enthusiastic. The Princess
became interested in an author who could make her laugh without
quite laughing at him. In the preface the writer offers himself as
guide to every visitor in Neideck, by day or night, in rain or
sunshine; and when Isabella closed the book she was more than
willing to have such a guide through the ruins—in moonshine if
possible. At times the book spoke like a prophet; for example, on
page 112, where it said quite mysteriously: “A man may build a
house or a castle, but this house or castle will build up and mold the
man who lives in it. Apparently time has come to a standstill in the
old stronghold; but only apparently, for time is not only ever moving,
but also moves others; it moves the castle toward growth and age.
The castle is really a living being, mysteriously connected with the
fate of the ruling family, of the country, and perhaps also with the
fate of a humble subject, who does not yet reveal his identity. These
ruins have their spirit; not a ghost, but the spirit of the castle, put
into it by every one who, led by some vague impulse, approaches in
all sincerity so mighty a monument, receiving back from it in higher
potency what all have put there. In this way the curses of the poor
evicted women have become reality; two of these curses are already
fulfilled, and the third will surely come to pass when the predestined
lady of the castle appears, to bring for the first time after a hundred
years love and blessing, to save the castle and put men to shame.
Who is this noble lady, and when will she appear?” With this
question the book closed. As mentioned before, the Princess was
much excited by these words. Until now, to feel bored and to marry
her hateful cousin seemed to be her only vocation in life. The first
she was not responsible for, the second she intended to be fully
responsible for. But now she began to wonder if she were not called
upon to save the castle? It was not quite clear to her what there was
about it to be saved, but that did not matter. She had found her
vocation in life: she was going to save something. To begin with, she
must first see the castle.
A new spirit of insubordination awoke in her. Was it not her natural
right to see the home of her ancestors? and why should she be
defrauded of that right? For the first time she studied her own