There was living at that time in Baden an old bachelor, a former ambassador, with whom we constantly associated. His name was Baron Koller. He was tall and very thin, closely shaven, extremely correct and elegant in his attire. He owned a house near the Kurpark, externally insignificant, but furnished in exquisite taste within. Here he frequently gave us little dinners. The contemplation of the beautiful mementos which he had gathered about him in his rooms was a great pleasure to me. I “turned the leaves” in these rooms as in an interesting book of memoirs. All those fabrics, weapons, trinkets, female portraits, had stories to tell of distant journeys, of high life at courts and in society, and of intimate love affairs. And the master of the house himself: _ancien régime_ in his manners, sparkling with wit in his conversation. There developed between the old gentleman and me a sort of—what shall I call it?—_esprit_-flirtation, a tossing back and forth of conversational shuttlecocks. He took special delight in my mastery of the elegances of the French language, and, because I realized this, I wrote in that language a whole booklet about his home, associating with the various trinkets and pictures imaginary stories and all sorts of observations. I copied it neatly, tied it with a blue ribbon, and sent it to him. He then gave it back to me, as a loan, with his marginal notes. He wanted me to see what keen pleasure the reading of it had given him,—a pleasure which was expressed in underlinings, exclamation marks, and a few brief sentences. One time he honored me by the gift of a cup of old porcelain with the inscription _Respice finem_. To this I made answer in a few rhymed lines, the text of which I find jotted down in the diary which I was keeping at that time: RESPICE FINEM Zu fluges Wort, ein hemmnis dem Beginnen, Das fühne Taten scheut in zauderhastem Sinnen; Das mit berechnend faltem Geist Das heute wegen Morgen von sich weist, Und das manchen, der zu viel ans End’ gedacht, Verzagt und flügelnd um sein Glüd gebracht. Wagen und Beginnen liegt in jedes Menschen hand— Das Ende hat fein Weiser noch erfannt. Es trifft nicht in die vorgedachte Bahn, Wie sie ersonnen hat des Grüblers Wahn; Drum hat sich arg getäuscht, wer an das End’ gedacht, Wenn er zu lichten wähnt der Zukunft dunkle Nacht. Des Daseins höchste Frag’ ist: Werden und Bestehen, Es wirke alles ohne Sorge ums Vergehen. Die Blüte denkt ans Welken nicht, Ums Löschen unbekümmert strahlt das Licht; Im Weltenplan hat Gott ans Ende nicht gedacht, Denn was er schuf, hat ohne Ende er gemacht. THINK ON THE END