“The foes of your native land?” she repeated, smiling.  “And who are these hated foes?”

“The Prussians and the Emperor Napoleon.  It was the Prussians who first dismembered my hapless country.  Oh, I was but a little boy when the Empress Catharine and King Frederick stole the fairest portions of hapless Poland.  I did not understand my mother’s tears, my father’s execrations, but as my father commanded me, I laid my hand upon the Bible and vowed eternal, inextinguishable hatred of the Prussians.  And the boy’s vow has been kept by the man.  I have struggled ceaselessly against these ambitious land-greedy, avaricious Prussians; fought with my tongue, my sword, and my pen.  And when at last, at Jena, they were vanquished and forced to bow to the very dust, I exulted, for their defeat was Poland’s vengeance.  God was requiting the wrong they had done to Poland.  Since then I have no longer hated the Prussians, but I despise them.”

“And whom do you hate now?” she asked, gazing lovingly at him with her large, dreamy eyes.

“Him, the traitor, the actor, and liar, the Emperor Napoleon!” he cried, starting up and pacing excitedly to and fro.  “Ah, Leonore, why did you lay your hand upon the great, ever-aching wound in my heart?  Why did you ask about my hate when I wished to speak to you only of my love?  Why do you wish to see that my heart is bleeding when you ought only to know that it exults in love?  Yet perhaps it is better so; better that you should behold it wholly without disguise; that you should know it not only loves, but hates.  Leonore, all my love is yours, all my hate Napoleon’s.  I came to Vienna by the behest of my hate, and for the first time, I found here what I had never known—­love.  Hitherto my heart had belonged to my native land, now it is yours, Leonore.  The poor adventurer, who, under manifold forms, in manifold disguises, under many names, had wandered through the world, always in the service of his native land and vengeance, has now found a home at your feet, and it sometimes happens that he forgets grief for his country in the joy of his love.  And yet, Leonore, yet there are bitter, sorrowful hours, in which I execrate my love itself; in which I feel that I will rend it from my heart; that I must escape from it into the hate which hitherto has guided and fixed my whole existence.”

“If you feel and think thus, you do not love me,” she said mournfully.

“Yes, I love you, Leonore; love you with rapture, with anguish, with despair, with joy.  Yet I ask myself what will be the goal and end of this love?  I ask myself when this sun, which has shone upon me through one beautiful, splendid day, will set?”

“It will never set, unless by your desire,” she cried, putting her arms around his neck and bending to imprint a kiss upon his brow.

“It will set, for I am not created to live in sunshine and enjoy happiness.  My life belongs to my native land!  I have sworn to consecrate it to my country, and I must keep my oath.  I dare not give myself up to love until I have done enough for hate; I dare not enjoy happiness ere I have fulfilled vengeance.”