the dandies surrounding you, you bitterly asked yourself: ‘Whither have those men vanished that do not worship beauty and wealth, those men that love truth, only truth?’ Does Andrew not rival Joseph II., who seems to you the greatest among men? Does he not, in his proud refusal, his virtue, his sublime enthusiasm, by far excel him? Yes; he is greater than Joseph. The Emperor knows that honor rewards his every deed, but who honors the deeds of a servant? Oh, he is right in rejecting you; does not the revengeful blood of your forefather still ferment within you? And is not Andrew’s mind, though burdened by misfortune, full of light? Oh, you are not worthy of your porter’s son. Countess Felsenburk—just admit it.” . . .
And again the harper writhed with pain, and called Andrew in accents full of hopeless yearning and despair. . . . O Love, amid what distresses you are born; how heedless of differences of rank you are; in what strange moments you overtake human hearts! . . .
The old bloody crime of the Felsenburks
