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'M. Richter, sous-lieutenant, M. Cippatola, artiste! The sub-lieutenant was slightly disconcerted by the old man's appearance ... Oh, what would he have said had any one whispered to him at that instant that the 'artist' presented to him was also employed in the culinary art!
The tender and beautiful Richter teaches of the nightingale. Tennyson, Longfellow, Carlyle, Beecher, Bovee, the great ancient stoics, the Bible itself, becomes a discourse on that tragic phenomenon of the soul, where peace goes out, where longing takes the place of action, where the will sets itself against the universe.
Ascher held out her hand to him. He bent over it and kissed it with very pretty courtesy. He shook hands with Ascher who introduced him to me. "Captain von Richter Sir James Digby." Von Richter bowed profoundly. I nodded. "Have you been long in London?" said Ascher. "You did not let me know that you were here."
And indeed Richter himself, though he could not get along with Schiller, learned that Goethe's loving capacity, which he thought he saw break out with fire while Goethe read a poem to him, was only the passion of an artistic nature which impregnates its own products. Richter's love was very different.
"Prosit deine Blume!" answered Richter, smiling and holding up his glass of beer. "You will come to a 'commerce', and see. "This is not our blessed Lichtenhainer, that we drink at Jena. One may have a pint of Lichtenhainer for less than a groschen at Jena. Aber," he added as he rose, with a laugh that showed his strong teeth, "we Americans are rich."
With a rough effort that made an angry stir, Stephen flung the people aside and escaped, the astonished Richter following in his wake. Nor could the honest German dissuade him from going back to the office for the rest of the day, or discover what had happened. But all through the afternoon that scene was painted on the pages of Stephen's books. The crude booth in the darkened way.
Stephen sought Richter, who told him that the regiments were to assemble the morning of the morrow, prepared to march. "To Camp Jackson?" asked Stephen. Richter shrugged his shoulders. "We are not consulted, my friend," he said. "Will you come into my quarters and have a bottle of beer with Tiefel?" Stephen went. It was not their fault that his sense at their comradeship was gone.
Again, in the August of 1871, after our first visit to the Olm, the ascent was repeated by two other members of the Tyrolese Alpine Club, Herr Richter and Herr Strüdl.
On the Monday morning, when Stephen went wearily to the office, he was met by Richter at the top of the stairs, who seized his shoulders and looked into his face. The light of the zealot was on Richter's own. "We shall drill every night now, my friend, until further orders. It is the Leader's word. Until we go to the front, Stephen, to put down rebellion."
Scholars have found poverty tolerable compared with the privation of intellectual food. Riches weigh much more heavily upon the mind. "I cannot but choose say to Poverty," said Richter, "Be welcome! so that thou come not too late in life." Poverty, Horace tells us, drove him to poetry, and poetry introduced him to Varus and Virgil and Maecenas. "Obstacles," says Michelet, "are great incentives.
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