"I cannot take so black a view," replied Schöner. "I believe in the everlasting youth of the mind, in the immortality of the beautiful, of poetry, even though the poets die. Who could subscribe to a _monumentum aere perennius_? I even doubt if Herwegh will produce anything great; he is only a man of the Awakening, of the lyrical Initiative. There is no versatile productive nature in him; a dull fanaticism lies in him, which has been able to give utterance to the cry of distress of the people and time, but hardly commands a wealthier spiritual life, and no varied forms of art. One single enchanting poetical blossom, like the torch-thistle, and then the busy, creative power is exhausted. His dreamy brow, his dark eye promise much, and if genius did not live in him, how could he have composed such entrancing poetry? But a heavy spell, as it were, rests upon him, and too early fame is poison." "You speak your own condemnation," said Eva, with cold flattery. "Oh, no, my Fräulein! I rejoice that my poems have found some little echo; yet this modest recognition is far removed from the noisy, clamorous path of triumph of those happy ones, upon whose brows fresh laurels have been lowered. Lasting fame can only be won by serious work, and the glorious aim of a maturer life." Eva was astonished at this modest confession, which made a favourable impression upon Blanden. The self-satisfaction of the young poet, who was a spoiled favourite in certain circles of society, certainly drew pleasant nourishment from the frequently extravagant recognition with which he met; but the inmost kernel of his nature was not absorbed by it; the impetus to future greater performances remained alive. Eva and her companions had become separated from the party during this animated conversation. From several symptoms, Schöner perceived that a little romance was being enacted, of which he himself was not the hero. He remained untroubled at this neglect, and, with noble unselfishness and a poet's pleasure in a little love tale, which he might utilise himself for a newspaper, he left the field, under the pretence that he had promised a beautiful bouquet to the Kanzleirath's Minna, and he must gather it in the wood. He also had the satisfaction in so doing of giving them to understand he would not act the superfluous third person's part of chaperon at this _rendezvous_ of two lovers, and guessed their wish to be alone. They had arrived once more at the spot where Blanden had first greeted his campanula; the alders rustled in the evening wind, the stream whispered beneath the trees; above through the quivering boughs of the weeping willows the western sky poured its floods of gold. "You know this young poet well?" asked Blanden. "I have met and talked to him several times, he interests me; he possesses talent, intellect and attractive qualities, yet the want of steadiness in his nature and actions repelled me; everything in him is prompted by the whim of the moment."