Joseph in the Snow and the Clockmaker Vol. II by Berthold Auerbach

When Lenz was gone, Pilgrim sat for a long time alone, staring at the lamp and twisting his moustaches. He was vexed with himself, he had said all he wanted, but he had said too much, and consequently failed in his object. He could not recall it, for it was all true; but what good had he done? He paced his room restlessly, and then sat down again and fixed his eyes on the light. What a strange world this is! How seldom a man attains his original object in life! We cannot believe this when we are young, and we think the old grumbling and morose, and at last we become just the same ourselves, and find that we must submit to this patchwork existence: no use complaining, we must not expect to have all we wish.

Pilgrim could not help recalling distant memories of his hidden life. When he left his native home ten years ago, he felt as if he had courage to conquer the whole world, and was inspired with a sensation of tranquil happiness. He had said nothing, he had made no sign, he had received no pledge, and yet he had no doubts nor difficulties in his mind. He loved the fair, slender Amanda, the Doctor's daughter, and she had deigned to regard him, as a princess would have done. She had condescended merely to glance down on him like a goddess; he helped her in holiday time to affix labels to the foreign plants, on which he had himself written the names distinctly, copied out of a book. She treated the poor forsaken boy like a good and benevolent spirit, and even when he grew to manhood, she often asked him to assist her in her garden; she was always equally amiable and kind in manner, and her every glance was treasured by Pilgrim.