Professors' wives also have trouble with their husbands. Sometimes
when Ilse was seated in company with her intimate friends--with Madame
Raschke, Madame Struvelius, or little Madame Guenther--at one of those
confidential coffee parties which they did not altogether despise,
many things would come to light.
The conversation with these intellectual women was certainly very
interesting. It is true the talk sometimes passed lightly over the
heads of the servants, and sometimes housekeeping troubles ventured
out of the pond of pleasant talk like croaking frogs. To Ilse's
surprise, she found that even Flaminia Struvelius could discourse
seriously about preserving little gherkins, and that she sought
closely for the marks of youth in a plucked goose. The merry Madame
Guenther aroused horror and laughter in more experienced married women,
when she asserted that she could not endure the crying of little
children, and that from the very first she would force her child
(which she had not yet got) to proper silence by chastisement. Thus
conversation sometimes left greater subjects to stray into this
domain. And when unimportant subjects were reviewed, it naturally came
about that the men were honored by a quiet discussion. At such times
it was evident that although the subject under consideration was men
in general, each of the wives was thinking of her own husband, and
that each silently carried about a secret bundle of cares, and
justified the conclusion of her hearers that that husband too must be
difficult to manage.
Madame Raschke's troubles could not be concealed; the whole town knew
them. It was notorious that one market day her husband had gone to the
university in his dressing-gown--in a brilliant dressing-gown, blue
and orange, with a Turkish pattern. His students, who loved him dearly
and were well aware of his habits, could not succeed in suppressing a
loud laugh; and Raschke had calmly hung the dressing-gown over his
pulpit, held his lecture in his shirt-sleeves, and returned home in
one of the students' overcoats. Since that time Madame Raschke never
let her husband go out without herself inspecting him. It also
appeared that all these ten years he had not been able to learn his
way about the town, and she dared not change her residence, because
she was quite sure that her professor would never remember it, and
always return to his old home. Struvelius also occasioned much
anxiety. Ilse knew about the last and greatest cause; but it also came
to light that he expected his wife to read Latin proof-sheets, as she
knew something of that language. Besides, he was quite incapable of
refusing commissions to amiable wine merchants. At her marriage Madame
Struvelius had found a whole cellar full of large and small wine
casks, none of which had been drawn off, while he complained bitterly
that no wine was ever brought into his cellar. Even little Madame
Guenther related that her husband could not give up night work; and
that once, when he wandered with a lamp among his books, he came too
near the curtain, which caught fire. He tore it off, and in so doing
burnt his hands, and burst into the bedroom with blackened fingers in
great alarm, and resembling Othello more than a mineralogist....
Raschke was wandering about in the ante-room. Here too was confusion.
Gabriel had not yet returned from his distant errand; the cook had
left the remains of the meal standing on a side-table till his return;
and Raschke had to find his greatcoat by himself. He rummaged among
the clothes, and seized hold of a coat and a hat. As he was not so
absent-minded as usual to-day, a glance at the despised supper
reminded him just in time that he was to eat a fowl; so he seized hold
of the newspaper which Gabriel had laid ready for his master, hastily
took one of the chickens out of the dish, wrapped it in the journal,
and thrust it in his pocket, agreeably surprised at the depth and
capaciousness it revealed. Then he rushed past the astonished cook,
and out of the house. When he opened the door of the _etage_ he
stumbled against something that was crouching on the threshold. He
heard a horrible growling behind him, and stormed down the stairs and
out of doors.
The words of the friend whom he had left now came into his mind.
Werner's whole bearing was very characteristic; and there was
something fine about it. It was strange that in a moment of anger
Werner's face had acquired a sudden resemblance to a bull-dog's. Here
the direct chain of the philosopher's contemplations was crossed by
the remembrance of the conversation on animals' souls.
"It is really a pity that it is still so difficult to determine an
animal's expression of soul. If we could succeed in that, science
would gain. For if we could compare in all their minutiae the
expression and gestures of human beings and higher animals, we might
make most interesting deductions from their common peculiarities and
their particular differences. In this way the natural origin of their
dramatic movements, and perhaps some new laws, would be discovered."
While the philosopher was pondering thus, he felt a continued pulling
at his coat-tails. As his wife was in the habit of giving him a gentle
pull when he was walking next her absorbed in thought and they met
some acquaintance, he took no further notice of it, but took off his
hat, and bowing politely towards the railing of the bridge, said
"Good-evening."
"These common and original elements in the mimic expression of human
beings and higher animals might, if rightly understood, even open out
new vistas into the great mystery of life." Another pull. Raschke
mechanically took off his hat. Another pull. "Thank you, dear Aurelia,
I did bow." As he spoke, the thought crossed his mind that his wife
would not pull at his coat so low down. It was not she, but his little
daughter Bertha who was pulling; for she often walked gravely next
him, and like her mother, pulled at the bell for bows. "That will do,
my dear," said he, as Bertha continued to snatch and pull at his
coat-tails. "Come here, you little rogue!" and he absently put his
hand behind him to seize the little tease. He seized hold of something
round and shaggy; he felt sharp teeth on his fingers, and turned with
a start. There he saw in the lamplight a reddish monster with a big
head, shaggy hair, and a little tassel that fell back into its hind
legs in lieu of a tail. His wife and daughter were horribly
transformed; and he gazed in surprise on this indistinct creature
which seated itself before him, and glared at him in silence.
"A strange adventure!" exclaimed Raschke. "What are you, unknown
creature? Presumably a dog. Away with you!" The animal retreated a few
steps. Raschke continued his meditations: "If we trace back the
expression and gestures of the affections to their original forms in
this manner, one of the most active laws would certainly prove to be
the endeavor to attract or repel the extraneous. It would be
instructive to distinguish, by means of these involuntary movements of
men and animals, what is essential and what conventional. Away, dog!
Do me a favor and go home. What does he want with me? Evidently he
belongs to Werner's domain. The poor creature will assuredly lose
itself in the town under the dominion of an _idee fixe_."
Meantime Speihahn's attacks were becoming more violent; and now he was
marching in a quite unnatural and purely conventional manner on his
hind legs, while his fore paws were leaning against the professor's
back, and his teeth were actually biting into the coat.
A belated shoemaker's boy stood still and beat his leathern apron. "Is
not the master ashamed to let his poor apprentice push him along like
that?" In truth, the dog behind the man looked like a dwarf pushing a
giant along the ice.
Raschke's interest in the dog's thoughts increased. He stood still
near a lantern, examined and felt his coat. This coat had developed a
velvet collar and very long sleeves, advantages that the philosopher
had never yet remarked in his greatcoat. Now the matter became clear
to him: absorbed in thought, he had chosen a wrong coat, and the
worthy dog insisted on saving his master's garment, and making the
thief aware that there was something wrong. Raschke was so pleased
with this sagacity that he turned round, addressed some kind words to
Speihahn, and made an attempt to stroke his shaggy hair. The dog again
snapped at his hand. "You are quite right to be angry with me,"
replied Raschke; "I will prove to you that I acknowledge my fault." He
took off the coat and hung it over his arm. "Yes, it is much heavier
than my own." He walked on cheerfully in his thin coat, and observed
with satisfaction that the dog abandoned the attacks on his back. But
instead, Speihahn sprang upon his side, and again bit at the coat and
the hand, and growled unpleasantly.
The professor got angry with the dog, and when he came to a bench on
the promenade he laid down the coat, intending to face the dog
seriously and drive him home. In this manner he got rid of the dog,
but also of the coat. For Speihahn sprang upon the bench with a mighty
bound, placed himself astride the coat, and met the professor, who
tried to drive him away, with hideous growling and snarling.
"It is Werner's coat," said the professor, "and it is Werner's dog: it
would be wrong to beat the poor creature because it is becoming
violent in its fidelity, and it would be wrong to leave the dog and
the coat." So he remained standing before the dog and speaking kindly
to him: but Speihahn no longer took any notice of the professor; he
turned against the coat itself, which he scratched, rummaged, and bit.
Raschke saw that the coat could not long endure such rage. "He is
frantic or mad," said he suspiciously. "I shall have to use force
against you after all, poor creature;" and he considered whether he
should also jump upon the seat and push the mad creature by a violent
kick into the water, or whether it would be better to open the
inevitable attack from below. He resolved on the latter course, and
looked round to see whether he could anywhere discover a stone or
stick to throw at the raging beast. As he looked, he observed the
trees and the dark sky above him, and the place seemed quite
unfamiliar. "Has magic been at work here?" he exclaimed, with
amusement. He turned politely to a solitary wanderer who was passing
that way: "Would you kindly tell me in what part of the town we are?
And could you perhaps lend me your stick for a moment?"
"Indeed," angrily replied the person addressed, "those are very
suspicious questions. I want my stick myself at night. Who are you,
sir?" The stranger approached the professor menacingly.
"I am peaceable," replied Raschke, "and by no means inclined to
violent attacks. A quarrel has arisen between me and the animal on
this seat for the possession of a coat, and I should be much obliged
to you if you would drive the dog away from the coat. But I beg you
not to hurt the animal any more than is absolutely necessary."
"Is that your coat there?" asked the man.
"Unfortunately I cannot give you an affirmative answer," replied
Raschke conscientiously.
"There must be something wrong here," exclaimed the stranger, again
eyeing the professor suspiciously.
"There is, indeed," replied Raschke. "The dog is out of his mind; the
coat is exchanged, and I do not know where we are."
"Close to the valley gate, Professor Raschke," answered the voice of
Gabriel, who hastily joined the group. "Excuse me, but what brings you
here?"
"Capital!" exclaimed Raschke joyously. "Pray take charge of this coat
and this dog."
Gabriel gazed in amazement at Speihahn, who was now lying on the coat
and bending his head before his friend. Gabriel threw down the dog and
seized the coat. "Why, that is our greatcoat!" exclaimed he.
"Yes, Gabriel," said the professor, "that was my mistake, and the dog
has shown marvelous fidelity to the coat."
"Fidelity!" exclaimed Gabriel indignantly, as he drew a parcel out of
the coat pocket. "It was greedy selfishness, sir; there must be some
food in this pocket."
"Yes, true," exclaimed Raschke; "it is all the chicken's fault. Give
me the parcel, Gabriel; I must eat the fowl myself; and we might bid
each other good-night now with mutual satisfaction, if you would just
show me my way a little among these trees."
"But you must not go home in the night air without an overcoat,"
said Gabriel considerately. "We are not far from our house; the best
way would really be for you to come back with me, sir."
Raschke considered and laughed.
"You are right, Gabriel; my departure was awkward; and to-day an
animal's soul has restored a man's soul to order."
"If you mean this dog," said Gabriel, "it would be the first time he
ever did anything good. I see he must have followed you from our door;
for I put little bones there for him of an evening."
"Just now he seemed not to be quite in his right mind," said the
professor.
"He is cunning enough when he pleases," continued Gabriel
mysteriously; "but if I were to speak of my experiences with this
dog--"
"Do speak, Gabriel," eagerly exclaimed the philosopher. "There is
nothing so valuable concerning animals as a truthful statement from
those who have carefully observed them."
"I may say that I have done so," confirmed Gabriel, with satisfaction;
"and if you want to know exactly what he is, I can assure you that he
is possessed of the devil, he is a thief, he is embittered, and he
hates all mankind."
"Ah, indeed!" replied the professor, somewhat disconcerted. "I see it
is much more difficult to look into a dog's heart than into a
professor's."
Speihahn crept along silent and suppressed, and listened to the
praises that fell to his lot; while Professor Raschke, conducted by
Gabriel, returned to the house by the park. Gabriel opened the
sitting-room door, and announced:--
"Professor Raschke."
Ilse extended both her hands to him.
"Welcome, welcome, dear Professor Raschke!" and led him to her
husband's study.
"Here I am again," said Raschke cheerfully, "after wandering as in a
fairy tale. What has brought me back were two animals, who showed me
the right way,--a roast fowl and an embittered dog."
Felix sprang up; the men greeted one another warmly, shaking hands,
and after all misadventures, spent a happy evening.
When Raschke had gone home late, Gabriel said sadly to his mistress,
"This was the new coat; the fowl and the dog have put it in a horrible
plight."