PART II

Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive

Transcriber's Notes:

1. Page scan source:

http://www.archive.org/details/lostmanuscripta01freygoog

2. Diphthong oe represented by [oe].

THE LOST MANUSCRIPT.

THE

LOST MANUSCRIPT

A NOVEL

BY

GUSTAV FREYTAG

Authorized Translation from the Sixteenth German Edition

_COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME_

SECOND, UNALTERED EDITION

PART I

* * * * *

"_A noble human life does not end on earth

with death. It continues in the minds and

the deeds of friends, as well as in the thoughts

and the activity of the nation._"

* * * * *

CHICAGO

THE OPEN COURT PUBLISHING COMPANY

LONDON: Kegan Paul, Trench, Truebner & Co.

1898

TRANSLATION COPYRIGHTED

--BY--

THE OPEN COURT PUBLISHING COMPANY,

1887.

PUBLISHERS' PREFACE.

Gustav Freytag has expressed the central idea of his novel _The Lost

Manuscript_ in the motto which he has written for the American edition:

"A noble human life does not end on earth with death. It continues in

the minds and the deeds of friends, as well as in the thoughts and the

activity of the nation."

This idea of the continuity and preservation of soul-life permeates the

whole work. It meets us at every hand. We observe the professor in his

study, ever eager to fathom the thoughts of the great thinkers of the

past and imbuing his students with their lofty spirit. We sympathize

with the heroine of this novel, the strong, pious Saxon maiden, in her

religious and intellectual development; we behold her soul enlarging

under the influence of unusual and trying situations; we watch her

mentally growing amid the new ideas crowding in upon her. We enjoy the

droll characterizations of the half-educated, of Mrs. Rollmaus and the

servants, in whose minds the mysteries of soul-life appear in the shape

of superstitious notions. And we see, again, the consequences of

wrong-doing, of errors, and of mistakes continuing like a heavy curse,

depressing the mind and hindering its freedom. And this last provokes a

wholesome reaction and is finally conquered by unshirking courage in

honest spiritual combat.

Illustrations of psychical laws showing the connections and continuity

of the threads in the warp and woof of human soul-life, are found

indeed in all the works of Gustav Freytag. The great novelist

anticipated the results that have of late been established by the

experiments of modern psychology. He says in his Autobiographical

Reminiscences:

"What a man's own life accomplishes in the formation of his character,

and the extent to which it fully develops his native capacities, we

observe and estimate even in the best cases only with imperfect

knowledge. But still more difficult is it to determine and comprehend

what the living have acquired in the way of advancement and hindrance

from their parents and ancestors; for the threads are not always

visible that bind the existence of the present to the souls of

generations past; and even where they are discernible, their power and

influence are scarcely to be calculated. Only we notice that the force

with which they operate is not equally strong in every life, and that

sometimes it is too powerful and terrible.

"It is well that from us men usually remains concealed, what is

inheritance from the remote past, and what the independent acquisition

of our own existence; since our life would become full of anxiety and

misery, if we, as continuations of the men of the past, had perpetually

to reckon with the blessings and curses which former times leave

hanging over the problems of our own existence. But it is indeed a

joyous labor, at times, by a retrospective glance into the past, to

bring into fullest consciousness the fact that many of our successes

and achievements have only been made possible through the possessions

that have come to us from the lives of our parents, and through that

also which the previous ancestral life of our family has accomplished

and produced for us."

Is not this a revival of the old idea of the transmigration of souls?

To be sure, the soul is not a material thing made of an invisible and

airy substance, fluttering about after death and entering into another

body. There are no material migrations of soul taking place, however

tenuous the substance of the soul might be imagined to be. The memories

of the present, our recollection of our past existence, depend on the

fact that the living matter which is constantly replacing itself in us

by other living matter, like the water in a wave rolling on the surface

of the sea, always assumes the same form. It is the form that is

constantly reproducing. In this sense, man (that is his soul) is the

_product_ of education. The soul of the future man stands in the same

relation to our soul as the future edition of a book, revised and

enlarged, stands to its present edition.[1] One man impresses his modes

of thought, his habits, his methods of action, his ideals upon his

fellow men, and thus implants his very soul into their lives. In this

sense a transmigration of souls is taking place constantly, and he who

opens his eyes will see it. No one has given plainer examples of this

truth in the pleasant shape of novelistic narration, than Gustav

Freytag.

_The Lost Manuscript_ is in more than one respect a representative

work, incorporating the spirit of the times. It is interesting from its

descriptions of University circles, of country life, and of the vanity

fair at the smaller princely courts of Germany. Yet these interesting

descriptions gain in value, because we are taught by the author to

comprehend the secret laws that rule the growth of, and determine the

hidden interconnections between, the souls of men.

The plot of _The Lost Manuscript_. Gustav Freytag briefly characterizes

as follows:

"In the upright soul of a German scholar, through the wish to discover

something of great worth for knowledge, are cast juggling shadows,

which, like as moonlight distorts the forms in the landscape, disturb

the order of his life, and are at last overcome only through painful

experiences."

Concerning the invention of the plot as well as of the characters of

_The Lost Manuscript_, the following account from Gustav Freytag's

Reminiscences will be of interest:

"In this story I depicted circles of life that were familiar to me

since student days: the agricultural life of the country and the

University life of the city. The reader will, I trust, discover in the

characterizations of the work, that I have drawn cheerfully and

unrestrainedly from this life at large. In the figures of the

academical world he would seek in vain for special models, since Mr.

and Mrs. Struvelius, Raschke, and others are types to whom in every

German University single personalities will correspond. In the

character of Professor Werner my friend Haupt has been recognized. But

one can find in it only so much of the manner and method of Haupt, as a

poet dares to take up of the being of a real man without interfering

with the freedom of artistic creation, and without offending him

through lack of delicacy. Haupt himself perceived with pleasure a

certain remote resemblance, and of this connection with the romance he

gave expression in his own way; having on several occasions, when

sending me the prospectus of his Berlin lectures on the Latin

historiographer Ammianus, good-humoredly signed himself 'Magister

Knips,' which latter personage plays a sorrowful part in the story, and

is only prevented from hanging himself by the thought of his

professional researches in the Latin author mentioned.

"Some years before the appearance of my 'Debit and Credit' Haupt had

unexpectedly requested me to write a novel. This accorded at that time

with secret designs of mine, and I promised him. To _The Lost

Manuscript_ he contributed, however, in quite another manner. For as we

were once sitting alone with one another at Leipsic, before he was

called to Berlin, he disclosed to me in the greatest confidence, that

somewhere in a small Westphalian town in the loft of an old house, lay

the remains of a convent library. It was very possible that among them

there was hidden a manuscript of the lost Decades of Livy. The master

of this treasure, however, was, as Haupt had learned, a surly and quite

inaccessible gentleman. Thereupon I put forward the proposition to

travel together to the mysterious house, move the old fellow's heart,

hoodwink him, and, in case of extreme necessity, drink him under the

table, to secure the precious treasure. As Haupt had some confidence in

my powers of seduction when joined with a good glass, he declared

himself agreeable therewith, and we reveled in and developed to the

fullest extent the pleasure we had in prospect of enlarging the tomes

of the Roman historian for a grateful posterity. Nothing came of the

affair; but the remembrance of the intended trip greatly helped me in

developing the action of the novel.

"In Leipsic I had lived a short time on the street nearest the

Rosenthal with a hatmaker, who manufactured straw hats. Near to him, as

it chanced, was another well-known firm, which administered to the same

need of the male sex by felt-hats. This accident suggested the

invention of the families Hummel and Hahn, although here also neither

the characters nor the hostilities of the two families are copied from

real life. Only the incident is made use of, that my landlord took

particular pleasure in decorating his garden by ever new inventions:

the White Muse, the Chinese lanterns, and the summer-house by the road,

I have taken from his little garden. Moreover, two characters of his

household,--the very ones which, by reason of their mythical character,

have given offence, are exact copies of reality; namely, the dogs

Fighthahn and Spitehahn. These my landlord had bought at an auction

somewhere to act as warders of his property; they excited through their

currish behavior the indignation of the whole street, until they were

poisoned by an exasperated neighbor. Fighthahn died. Spitehahn survived

and, after that time, was quite as bristly and misanthropical as he is

portrayed in the novel, so that finally in consequence of the

perpetration of numberless misdeeds his owner was obliged to banish him

forever to rural life."

The novel, as is the case with every work of prominence and influence,

did not escape criticism, even among the friends of the author. In his

Autobiographical Reminiscences, Gustav Freytag refers to the fact. He

says:

"The Lost Manuscript met with disapproval from many intimate critics of

mine. The sombre coloring of the last volume gave offence. It was much

objected that the religious struggles and the spiritual development of

the heroine Ilse were not placed in the foreground, and again that

Felix Werner was not more severely punished for the neglect of his duty

towards his wife. But the insanity of the Sovereign was especially

objectionable, and it was claimed that in our time such a figure was no

longer possible. My friends were wrong in this criticism. The Sovereign

and his son the Hereditary Prince were also taken as types. The former

represents the perverted development of an earlier generation which had

sprung up from the ruin of Napoleonic times; the latter the restriction

and narrowness of life in the petty principalities that then made up

the German nation."

The American public will perhaps feel the strength of the criticism to

which Gustav Freytag in the passage quoted refers, more strongly than

the European friends of the Author. We at least have felt it, and

believe that almost all the citizens of the New World will feel it.

Nevertheless, considering all in all, we confess that Gustav Freytag

was fully justified in preserving these traces of the national

soul-life of Germany. For they form an important link in the

development of German thought, and have cast dark shadows as well as

rays of sunlight over the aspirations of scientific progress; now

disturbing it by the vanity and egotism of these petty sovereigns, now

promoting it by an enthusiastic protection of the ideal treasures of

the nation.

_The Lost Manuscript_ teaches us an object-lesson respecting the unity

of human soul-life. Under the masterly treatment of Gustav Freytag's

ingenious pen, we become aware of the invisible threads that

interconnect our thoughts and the actions prompted by our thoughts. We

observe the after-effects of our ideas and our deeds. Ideas live and

develop not alone in single individuals, but from generation to

generation. They escape death and partake of that life which knows no

death: they are immortal.

Gustav Freytag, it is true, did not write his novel with the intention

of teaching psychology or preaching ethics. But the impartial

description of life does teach ethics, and every poet is a psychologist

in the sense that he portrays human souls. In a letter to the

publisher, Gustav Freytag says:

".... The essential thing with the poet was not the teachings that may

be drawn from the book, but the joyful creating of characters and

events which become possible and intelligible through the persons

depicted. The details he worked into artistic unity under the impulsion

of a poetical idea.

"But I may now also express to you how great my pleasure is at the

agreement that exists between the ethical contents of the story (_The

Lost Manuscript_) and the world-conception (_Weltanchauung_) which you

labor to disseminate...." (Translated from the German.)

The laws that govern the warp and woof of soul-life in its evolution

hold good everywhere, also among us. We also have inherited curses and

blessings from the past; our present is surrounded with dangers, and

our future is full of bright hopes, the fulfilment of which mainly

depends upon our own efforts in realizing our ideals.

CONTENTS:

CHAPTER I.

A Discovery

CHAPTER II.

The Hostile Neighbors

CHAPTER III.

A Fool's Errand

CHAPTER IV.

The Old House

CHAPTER V.

Among Herds and Sheaves

CHAPTER VI.

A Learned Lady from the Country

CHAPTER VII.

New Hostilities

CHAPTER VIII.

Tacitus Again

CHAPTER IX.

Ilse

CHAPTER X.

The Wooing.

CHAPTER XI.

Spitehahn

CHAPTER XII.

The Departure from the Estate

CHAPTER XIII.

The First Greetings of the City

CHAPTER XIV.

A Day of Visits

CHAPTER XV.

Among the Learned

CHAPTER XVI.

The Professors' Ball

CHAPTER XVII.

The Deception of Mr. Hummel

CHAPTER XVIII.

Cloudlets

CHAPTER XIX.

The Illness

CHAPTER XX.

A Court Matter

_CHAPTER I._

A DISCOVERY.

It is late evening in the forest-park of our town. Softly the foliage

murmurs in the warm summer air and the chirping of the crickets in the

distant meadows is heard far in among the trees.

Through the tree-tops a pale light falls down upon the forest-path and

upon the dark undergrowth of bush and shrubbery. The moon sprinkles the

pathway with shimmering spots, and kindles strange lights in the mass

of leaves and branches. Here, the blue streaks of light pour down from

the tree-trunks like streams of burning spirits; there, in the hollow,

the broad fern-branches gleam from out the darkness in colors of

emerald gold, and over the pathway the withered boughs tower like huge

whitened antlers. But between and beneath, impenetrable, Stygian gloom.

Round-faced moon in heaven, thine attempts to light this wood of ours

are feeble, sickly, and capricious. Pray keep thy scanty light upon the

highway leading to the city; throw thy faded beams not so crookedly

before us, for at the left the ground slopes precipitately into morass

and water.

Fie, thou traitor! Plump in the swamp and the wayfarer's shoe behind!

But that might have been expected. Deceit and treachery are thy

favorite pastimes, thou wayward freak of heaven. People wonder now that

men of primitive times made a God of thee. The Grecian girl once called

thee Selene, and wreathed thy cup with purple poppies, by thy magic to

lure back the faithless lover to her door. But that is now all over. We

have science and phosphorus, and thou hast degenerated into a wretched

old Juggler. A Juggler! And people show thee too much consideration, to

treat thee as a thing of life even. What art thou, anyhow? A ball of

burnt out slag, blistered, airless, colorless, waterless. A ball? Why

our scientists know that thou art not even round--caught in a lie

again! We people on the earth have pulled thee out of shape. In truth

thou art pointed, thou hast a wretched and unsymmetrical figure.

Thou'rt a sort of big turnip that dances about us in perennial

slavery--nothing more.

The wood opens. Between the wayfarer and the city extends a broad

stretch of lawn, and in the centre a large pond. Welcome, thou dale of

verdure! Well-kept paths of gravel lead over the forest meadow; here

and there a clump of waving undergrowth is seen, and beneath it a

garden-bench. Here the well-to-do citizen sits of an afternoon, and

resting his hands upon the bamboo-cane that he carries, looks proudly

over upon the towers of his loved city.

Is the meadow, too, transformed to-day? A swelling expanse of water

seems to lie before the wayfarer; it seethes and bubbles and plays

about his feet, in endless masses of mist, as far as the eye can reach.

What army of hobgoblins do lave their garments here! They flutter from

trees, they course through the air, faint in outline, now dissolving,

now intermingling. Higher the dim, dark figures soar. They float above

the wayfarer's head. The gloomy mass of forest disappears. The very

vault of heaven itself is lost in the misty darkness, and every visible

outline sinks in the chaos of paling light and floating shapelessness.

The solid earth still stays beneath the feet of our traveler, and yet

he moves on, separated from all actual earthly forms, amid glimmering

bodiless shadows. Here and there, the floating illusions again gather.

Slowly the phantoms of air sweep through the veil that encompasses our

wayfarer. Now the bent figure of a woman in prayer presses forward,

broken with sorrow; now a troop in long, waving robes appears, as of

Roman Senators, with emperor, halo-encircled, at their head. But halo

and head dissolve, and the huge shadow glides, headless and ghostly,

by.

Mist of a watery meadow, who hath so bewitched thee? Who else but that

aged trickster of heaven, the moon, the mischief-maker moon.

Retreat, illusory shadows! The low-ground is passed. Lighted windows

shine before the wayfarer. Two stately houses loom up at the city's

outskirts. Here dwell two men--taxpayers, active workers. They wrap

themselves, at night, in warm blankets, and not in thy watery

tapestries, Moon, woven of misty drops that trickle from beard and

hair. They have their whims and their virtues, and estimate thy value,

O Moon, exactly in proportion to the gas saved by thy light.

A lamp, placed close to the window, shines from one of the upper rooms

in the house on the left hand. Here lives Professor Felix Werner, a

learned philologist, still a young man, who has already gained a

reputation. He sits at his study table and examines old, faded

manuscripts--an attractive looking man of medium size, with dark, curly

hair falling over a massive bead; there is nothing paltry about him.

Clear, honest eyes shine from under the dark eyebrows; the nose is

slightly arched; the muscles of the mouth are strongly developed, as

might be expected of the popular teacher of young students. Just now a

soft smile spreads over it, and his cheeks redden either from his work

or from inward emotion.

The Professor suddenly left his work and paced restlessly up and down

the room. He then approached a window which looked out on the

neighboring house, placed two large books on the window sill, laid a

small one upon them, and thus produced a figure which resembled a Greek

[Greek: p], and which, from the light shining behind became visible to

the eye in the house opposite. After he had arranged this signal, he

hastened back to the table and again bent over his book.

The servant entered gently to remove the supper, which had been placed

on a side table. Finding the food untouched, he looked with displeasure

at the Professor, and for a long while remained standing behind the

vacant chair. At length, assuming a military attitude, he said,

"Professor, you have forgotten your supper."

"Clear the table, Gabriel," said the Professor.

Gabriel showed no disposition to move. "Professor, you should at least

eat a bit of cold meat. Nothing can come of nothing," he added, kindly.

"It is not right that you should come in and disturb me."

Gabriel took the plate and carried it to his master. "Pray, Professor,

take at least a few mouthfuls."

"Give it to me then," said he, and began to eat.

Gabriel made use of the time during which his master unavoidably paused

in his intellectual occupation, to offer a respectful admonition. "My

late Captain thought much of a good supper."

"But now you have changed into the civil service," answered the

Professor, laughing.

"It is not right," continued Gabriel, pertinaciously, "that I should eat

the roast that I bring for you."

"I hope you are now satisfied," answered the Professor, pushing the

plate back to him.

Gabriel shrugged his shoulders. "You have at least done your best. The

Doctor was not at home."

"So it appears. See to it that the front-door remains open."

Gabriel turned about and went away with the plate.

The scholar was again alone. The golden light of the lamp fell on his

countenance and on the books which lay around him; the white pages

rustled under his hand; and his features worked with strong excitement.

There was a knock at the door; the expected visitor entered.

"Good evening, Fritz," said the Professor to his visitor; "sit in my

chair, and look here."

The guest, a man of slender form, with delicate features, and wearing

spectacles, seated himself at the bidding of his friend, and seized a

little book which lay in the middle of a number of open volumes of

every age and size. With the eye of a connoisseur he examined the first

cover--discolored parchment, upon which were written old church hymns

with the accompanying music. He cast a searching glance on the inside

of the binding, and inspected the strips of parchment by which the

poorly-preserved back of the book was joined to the cover. He then

examined the first page of the contents, on which, in faded characters,

was written, "The Life of the Holy Hildegard." "The handwriting is that

of a writer of the fifteenth century," he exclaimed, and looked

inquiringly at his friend.

"It is not on that account that I show you the old book. Look further.

The Life is followed by prayers, a number of recipes and household

regulations, written in various hands, even before the time of Luther.

I had bought this manuscript for you, thinking you might perhaps find

material for your legends and popular superstitions. But on looking

through it, I met with the following passage on one of the last pages,

and I cannot yet part with the volume. It seems that the book has been

used in a monastery by many generations of monks to note down

memoranda, for on this page there is a catalogue of all the church

treasures of the Monastery of Rossau. It was a poverty-stricken

cloister; the inventory is either small or incomplete. It was made by

an ignorant monk, and, as the writing testifies, about the year 1500.

See, here are entered church-utensils and a few ecclesiastical

vestments; and further on some theological manuscripts of the

monastery, of no importance to us, but amongst them the following

title: '_Das alt ungehuer puoch von ussfahrt des swigers._'"

The Doctor examined the words with curiosity. "That sounds like the

title of a tale of chivalry. And what do the words themselves mean!

'The old, immense book of the exit or departure of the _swiger_.' Does

_swiger_ here mean son-in-law or a tacit man?"

"Let us try to solve the riddle," continued the Professor, with

sparkling eyes, pointing with his finger to the same page. "A later

hand has added in Latin, 'This book is Latin, almost illegible;

it begins with the words _lacrimas et signa_, and ends with the

words--here concludes the history--_actorum_--thirtieth book.' Now

guess."

The Doctor looked at the excited features of his friend. "Do not keep

me in suspense. The first words sound very promising, but they are not

a title; some pages in the beginning may be deficient."

"Just so," answered the Professor, with satisfaction. "We may assume

that one or two pages are missing. In the fifth chapter of the Annals

of Tacitus there are the words _lacrimas et signa_."

The Doctor sprang up, and a flush of joy overspread his face.

"Sit down," continued the Professor, forcing his friend back into the

chair. "The old title of the Annals of Tacitus, when translated,

appears literally 'Tacitus, beginning with the death of the divine

Augustus.' Well, an ignorant monk deciphered perhaps the first Latin

words of the title, '_Taciti ab excessu_,' and endeavored to translate

it into German; he was pleased to know that _tacitus_ meant

_schweigsam_ (silent), but had never heard of the Roman historian, and

rendered it in these words, literally, as 'From the exit of the tacit

man.'"

"Excellent!" exclaimed the Doctor. "And the monk, delighted with the

successful translation, wrote the title on the manuscript? Glorious!

the manuscript was a Tacitus."

"Hear further," proceeded the Professor. "In the third and fourth

century A. D., both the great works of Tacitus, the 'Annals' and

'History,' were united in a collection under the title, 'Thirty Books

of History.' For this we have other ancient testimony. Look here!"

The Professor found well-known passages, and placed them before his

friend. "And, again, at the end of the manuscript record there were

these words: 'Here ends the Thirtieth Book of the History.' There

remains, therefore, no doubt that this manuscript was a Tacitus. And

looking at the thing as a whole, the following appears to have been the

case. There was, at the time of the Reformation, a manuscript of

Tacitus in the Monastery of Rossau, the beginning of which was missing.

It was old and injured by time, and almost illegible to the eyes of the

monks."

"There must have been something peculiar attaching to the book,"

interrupted the Doctor, "for the monk designates it by the expression,

'_Ungeheuer_,' which conveys the meaning of strange, monstrous."

"It is true," agreed the Professor. "We may assume that some monastic

tradition which has attached to the book, or an old prohibition to read

it, or, more probably, the unusual aspect of its cover, or its size,

has given rise to this expression. The manuscript contains both the

historical works of Tacitus, the books of which were numbered

consecutively. And we," he added, in his excitement throwing the book

which he held in his hand on the table, "we no longer possess this

manuscript. Neither of the historical works of the great Roman have

been preserved in its entirety; for the sum of all the gaps would fully

equal one-half of what has come down to us."

The Professor's friend paced the room hurriedly. "This is one of the

discoveries that quicken the blood in one's veins. Gone and lost

forever! It is exasperating to think how nearly such a precious

treasure of antiquity was preserved to us. It has escaped fire,

devastation, and the perils of cruel war; it was still in existence

when the dawn of a new civilization burst upon us, happily concealed

and unheeded, in the German monastery, not many miles from the great

high road along which the humanists wandered, with visions of Roman

glory in their minds, seeking after every relic of the Roman times.

Universities flourished in the immediate vicinity; and how easily could

one of the friars of Rossau have informed the students of their

treasure. It seems incomprehensible that not one of the many scholars

of the country should have obtained information concerning the book,

and pointed out to the monks the value of such a memorial. But, instead

of this, it is possible that some contemporary of Erasmus and

Melanchthon, some poor monk, sold the manuscript to a book-binder, and

strips of it may still adhere to some old book-cover. But, even in this

case, the discovery is important. Evidently this little book has

occasioned you much painful pleasure."

The Professor clasped the hand of his friend, and each looked into the

honest countenance of the other. "Let us assume," concluded the Doctor,

sorrowfully, "that the old hereditary enemy of preserved treasures,

fire, had consumed the manuscript--is it not childish that we should

feel the loss as if it had occurred today?"

"Who tells us that the manuscript is irretrievably lost?" rejoined the

Professor, with suppressed emotion. "Once more consult the book; it can

tell us also of the fate of the manuscript."

The Doctor rushed to the table, and seized the little book of the Holy

Hildegard.

"Here, after the catalogue," said the Professor, showing him the last

page of the book, "there is still more."

The Doctor fixed his eyes on the page. Latin characters without meaning

or break were written in seven successive lines; under them was a

name--F. Tobias Bachhuber.

"Compare these letters with the Latin annotation under the title of the

mysterious manuscript. It is undoubtedly the same hand, firm characters

of the seventeenth century; compare the 's,' 'r,' and 'f.'"

"It is the same hand!" exclaimed the Doctor with satisfaction.

"These unmeaning letters are a cipher, such as was used in the

seventeenth century. In that case it is easily solved; each letter is

exchanged with the one that follows. On this bit of paper I have put

together the Latin words. The translation is, 'On the approach of the

ferocious Swedes, in order to withdraw the treasures of our monastery

from the search of these roaring devils, I have deposited them all in a

dry, hollow place in the Manor of Bielstein.' The day Quasimodogeniti

37--that is on the 19th April, 1637. What do you say now, Fritz? It

appears from this that in the time of the Thirty Years' War the

manuscript had not been burned, for Frater Tobias Bachhuber--blest be

his memory!--had at that time vouchsafed to look upon it with some

consideration, and as in the record he had favored it with an especial

remark, he probably did not leave it behind in his flight. The

mysterious manuscript was thus in the Monastery of Rossau till 1637,

and the friar, in the April of that year, concealed it and other goods

from the Swedes in a hollow and dry spot in Manor Bielstein."

"Now the matter becomes serious!" cried the Doctor.

"Yes, it is serious, my friend; it is not impossible that the

manuscript may still lie concealed somewhere."

"And Manor Bielstein?"

"Lies near the little town of Rossau. The monastery was in needy

circumstances, and under ecclesiastical protection till the Thirty

Years' War. In 1637 the town and monastery were desolated by the

Swedes; the last monks disappeared and the monastery was never again

re-established. That is all I have been able to learn up to this time;

for anything further I request your help."

"The next question will be whether the manor-house outlasted the war,"

answered the Doctor, "and what has become of it now. It will be more

difficult to ascertain where Brother Tobias Bachhuber ended his days,

and most difficult of all to discover through what hands his little

book has reached us."

"I obtained the book from a second-hand dealer here; it was a new

acquisition, and not yet entered in his catalogue. To-morrow I will

obtain all further information that the book-seller may be able to

give. It will, perhaps, be worth while to investigate further," he

continued, more coolly, endeavoring to restrain his intense excitement

by a little rational reflection. "More than two centuries have elapsed

since that cipher was written by the friar; during that period

destructive agencies were not less active than before. Just think of

the war and devastation of the years when the cloister was destroyed.

And so we are no better off than if the manuscript had been lost

several centuries previously."

"And yet the probability that the manuscript is preserved to the

present day increases with every century," interposed the Doctor; "for

the number of men who would value such a discovery has increased so

much since that war, that destruction from rude ignorance has become

almost inconceivable."

"We must not trust too much to the knowledge of the present day," said

the Professor; "but if it were so," he continued, his eyes flashing,

"if the imperial history of the first century, as written by Tacitus,

were restored by a propitious fate, it would be a gift so great that

the thought of the possibility of it might well, like Roman wine,

intoxicate an honest man."

"Invaluable," assented the Doctor, "for our knowledge of the language,

and for a hundred particulars of Roman history."

"And for the early history of Germany!" exclaimed the Professor.

Both traversed the room with rapid steps, shook hands, and looked at

each other joyfully.

"And if a fortunate accident should put us on the track of this

manuscript," began Fritz, "if through you it should be restored to the

light of day, you, my friend, you are best fitted to edit it. The

thought that you would experience such a pleasure, and that a work of

such renown would fall to your lot, makes me happier than I can say."

"If we can find the manuscript," answered the Professor, "we must edit

it together."

"Together?" exclaimed Fritz, with surprise.

"Yes, together," said the Professor, with decision; "it would make your

ability widely known."

Fritz drew back. "How can you think that I would be so presumptuous?"

"Do not contradict me," exclaimed the Professor, "you are perfectly

qualified for it."

"That I am not," answered Fritz, firmly; "and I am too proud to

undertake anything for which I should have to thank your kindness more

than my own powers."

"That is undue modesty," again exclaimed the Professor.

"I shall never do it," answered Fritz. "I could not for one moment

think of adorning myself before the public with borrowed plumage."

"I know better than you," said the Professor, indignantly, "what you

are able to do, and what is to your advantage."

"At all events, I would never agree that you should have the lion's

share of the labor and secretly be deprived of the reward. Not my

modesty, but my self-respect forbids this. And this feeling you ought

to respect," concluded Fritz, with great energy.

"Now," returned the Professor, restraining his excited feelings, "we

are behaving like the man who bought a house and field with the money

procured by the sale of a calf which was not yet born. Be calm, Fritz;

neither I nor you shall edit the manuscript."

"And we shall never know how the Roman Emperor treated the ill fated

Thusnelda and Thumelicus!" said Fritz, sympathizingly to his friend.

"But it is not the absence of such particulars," said the Professor,

"that makes the loss of the manuscript so greatly felt, for the main

facts may be obtained from other sources. The most important point will

always be, that Tacitus was the first, and in many respects is the

only, historian who has portrayed the most striking and gloomy phases

of human nature. His works that are extant are two historical

tragedies, scenes in the Julian and Flavian imperial houses--fearful

pictures of the enormous change which, in the course of a century, took

place in the greatest city of antiquity, in the character of its

emperors and the souls of their subjects--the history of tyrannical

rule, which exterminated a noble race, destroyed a high and rich

civilization, and degraded, with few exceptions, even the rulers

themselves. We have, even up to the present day, scarcely another work

whose author looks so searchingly into the souls of a whole succession

of princes, and which describes so acutely and accurately the ruin

which was wrought in different natures by the fiendish and distempered

minds of rulers."

"It always makes me angry," said the Doctor, "when I hear him

reproached as having for the most part written only imperial and court

history. Who can expect grapes from a cypress, and satisfactory

enjoyment in the grand public life of a man who, during a great portion

of his manhood, daily saw before his eyes the dagger and poison-cup of

a mad despot?"

"Yes," agreed the Professor, "Tacitus belonged to the aristocracy--a

body unfit to rule, and unwilling to obey. In the consciousness of

their privileged position they were the indispensable servants, while

still the enemies and the rivals, of their sovereigns. In them the

virtues and the vices of a mighty epoch grew to monstrous

manifestations. Who but one of their own circle should write the

history of Roman imperialism? The blackest crimes were concealed behind

the stone walls of palaces; rumor, the low murmur of the antechamber,

the lurking look of concealed hatred, were often the only sources the

historian could command."

"All that remains for us to do is discreetly to accept the judgment of

the man who has handed down to us information concerning this strange

condition of things. Moreover, whoever studies the fragments of Tacitus

that have been preserved, impartially and intelligently, will honor and

admire his profound insight into the inmost depths of Roman character.

It is an experienced statesman, of a powerful and truthful mind,

relating the secret history of his time so clearly that we understand

the men and all their doings as if we ourselves had the opportunity of

reading their hearts. He who can do this for later centuries is not

only a great historian but a great man. And for such I always felt a

deep, heartfelt reverence, and I consider it the duty of a true critic

to clear such a character from the attacks of petty minds."

"Hardly one of his contemporaries," said the Doctor, "has felt the

poverty of his epoch's civilization as deeply as himself."

"Yes," rejoined the Professor, "he was a genuine man, so far as was

possible in his time; and that is, after all, the main point. For what

we must demand, is not the amount of knowledge for which we have to

thank a great man, but his own personality, which, through what he has

produced for us, becomes a portion of ourselves. Thus the spirit of

Aristotle is something different to us than the substance of his

teaching. For us Sophocles signifies much more than seven tragedies.

His manner of thinking and feeling, his perception of the beautiful and

the good, ought to become part of our life. Only in this way does the

study of the past healthily influence our actions and our aspirations.

In this sense the sad and sorrowful soul of Tacitus is far more to me

than his delineation of the Emperor's madness. And you see, Fritz, it

is on this account that your Sanskrit and Hindu languages are not

satisfactory to me--the men are wanting in them."

"It is, at least, difficult for us to recognize them," answered his

friend. "But one who, like you, explains Homer's epics to students,

should not undervalue the charm that lies in sounding the mysterious

depths of human activity, when a youthful nation conceals from our view

the work of the individual man, and when the people itself comes before

us in poetry, traditions, and law, assuming the shape of a living

individuality."

"He who only engages in such researches," answered the Professor,

eagerly, "soon becomes fantastic and visionary. The study of such

ancient times acts like opium, and he who lingers all his life in such

studies will hardly escape vagaries."

Fritz rose. "That is our old quarrel. I know you do not wish to speak

harshly to me, but I feel that you intend this for me."

"And am I wrong?" continued the Professor. "I undoubtedly have a

respect for every intellectual work, but I desire for my friend that

which will be most beneficial to him. Your investigations into Hindu

and German mythology entice you from one problem to another; youthful

energies should not linger in the endless domain of indistinct

contemplations and unreal shadows. Come to a decision for other reasons

also. It does not behoove you to be merely a private student; such a

life is too easy for you; you need the outward pressure of definite

duties. You have many of the qualities requisite for a professor. Do

not remain in your parents' house; you must become a university

lecturer."

A heightened color spread slowly over the face of his friend. "Enough,"

he exclaimed, vexed; "if I have thought too little of my future, you

should not reproach me for it. It has perhaps been too great a pleasure

to me to be your companion and the confidant of your successful labors.

I also, from my intercourse with you, have enjoyed that pleasure which

an intellectual man bestows upon all who participate in his creations.

Good night."

The Professor approached him, and seizing both his hands, exclaimed,

"Stay! Are you angry with me?"

"No," answered Fritz, "but I am going;" and he closed the door gently.

The Professor paced up and down excitedly, reproaching himself for his

vehemence. At length he violently threw the books which had served as a

signal back on the shelf, and again seated himself at his desk.

Gabriel lighted the Doctor down the stairs, opened the door, and shook

his head when he heard his "Good night" curtly answered. He

extinguished the light and listened at his master's door. When he heard

the Professor's steps, he determined to refresh himself by the mild

evening air, and descended into the little garden. There he met Mr.

Hummel, who was walking under the Professor's windows. Mr. Hummel was a

broad-shouldered gentleman, with a large head and a determined face,

portly and well-preserved, of the honest old Saxon type. He smoked a

long pipe, with a huge mouth-piece, which was divided into a number of

capacious compartments.

"A fine evening, Gabriel," began Mr. Hummel, "a good season; what a

harvest we shall have!" He nudged the servant. "Has anything happened

up there? The window is open," he concluded significantly, and

disapprovingly shook his head.

"He has closed the window again," answered Gabriel, evasively. "The

bats and the moths become troublesome, and when he argues with the

Doctor they both grow so loud that people in the street stop and

listen."

"Circumspection is always wise," said Mr. Hummel; "but what was the

matter? The Doctor is the son of the man over yonder, and you know my

opinion of them, Gabriel--I do not trust them. I do not wish to injure

any one, but I have my views concerning them."

"What it was about," answered Gabriel, "I did not hear; but I can tell

you this much, there was much talk about the ancient Romans. Look you,

Mr. Hummel, if the old Romans were among us now, much would be

different. They were dare-devils; they knew how to forage; they knew

how to carry on war; they conquered everywhere."

"You speak like an incendiary," said Mr. Hummel, with displeasure.

"Yes, that is the way they did," answered Gabriel, complacently. "They

were a selfish people, and knew how to look out for their own

interests. But what is most wonderful is the number of books these

Romans wrote for all that, large and small--many also in folio. When I

dust the library there is no end to the Romans of all sizes, and some

are books thicker than the Bible, only they are all difficult to read;

but one who knows the language may learn much."

"The Romans are an extinct people," replied Mr. Hummel. "When they

disappeared, the Germans came. The Romans could never exist with us.

The only thing that can help us is the Hanseatic league. That is the

thing to look to. Powerful at sea, Gabriel," he exclaimed, taking hold

of his coat by a button, "the cities must form alliances, invest money,

build ships, and hoist flags; our trade and credit are established, and

men are not wanting."

"And would you venture on the mighty ocean in that vessel?" asked

Gabriel, pointing to a little rowboat which lay in the rear of the

garden tilted over on two planks. "Shall I go to sea with the

Professor?"

"That is not the question," answered Mr. Hummel; "let the young people

go first--they are useless. Many could do better than stay at home with

their parents. Why should not the doctor up there serve his country in

the capacity of a sailor?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Hummel?" cried Gabriel, startled; "the young

gentleman is nearsighted."

"That's nothing," muttered Mr. Hummel, "for they have telescopes at

sea, and for aught I care he may become a captain. I am not the man to

wish evil to my neighbor."

"He is a man of learning," replied Gabriel, "and this class is also

necessary. I can assure you, Mr. Hummel, I have meditated much upon the

character of the learned. I know my Professor thoroughly, and something

of the Doctor, and I must say there is something in it--there is much

in it. Sometimes I am not so sure of it. When the tailor brings the

Professor home a new coat he does not remark what everybody else sees,

whether the coat fits him or wrinkles. If he takes it into his head to

buy a load of wood which has very likely been stolen, from a peasant,

he pays more in my absence than any one else would. And when he grows

angry and excited about matters that you and I would discuss very

calmly, I must say I have my doubts. But when I see how he acts at

other times--how kind and merciful he is, even to the flies that buzz

about his nose, taking them out of his coffee-cup with a spoon and

setting them on the window-sill--how he wishes well to all the world

and begrudges himself everything--how he sits reading and writing till

late at night--when I see all this, I must say his life affects me

powerfully. And I tell you I will not allow any one to underrate our

men of learning. They are different from us; they do not understand

what we do, nor do we understand what they do."

"Yet we also have our culture," replied Mr. Hummel. "Gabriel, you have

spoken like an honorable man, but I will confide this to you--that a

man may have great knowledge, and yet be a very hard-hearted

individual, who loans his money on usurious interest and deprives his

friends of the honor due them. Therefore I think the main point is to

have order and boundaries, and to leave something to one's descendants.

Regularity here," he pointed to his breast, "and a boundary there,"

pointing to his fence, "that one may be sure as to what belongs to

one's self and what to another, and a secure property for one's

children on which they may settle themselves. That is what I understand

as the life of man."

The householder locked the gate of the fence and the door of the house.

Gabriel also sought his bed, but the lamp in the Professor's study

burned late into the night, and its rays intermingled on the windowsill

with the pale moonshine. At length the Scholar's light was

extinguished, and the room left empty; outside, small clouds coursed

over the disk of the moon, and flickering lights reigned paramount in

the room, over the writing-table, over the works of the old Romans, and

over the little book of the defunct Brother Tobias.

_CHAPTER II_.

THE HOSTILE NEIGHBORS.

We are led to believe that in future times there will be nothing but

love and happiness; and men will go about with palm branches in their

hands to chase away the last of those birds of night, hatred and

malice. In such a chase we would probably find the last nest of these

monsters hanging between the walls of two neighboring houses. For they

have nestled between neighbor and neighbor ever since the rain trickled

from the roof of one house into the court of the other; ever since the

rays of the sun were kept away from one house by the wall of the other;

ever since children thrust their hands through the hedge to steal

berries; ever since the master of the house has been inclined to

consider himself better than his fellow-men. There are in our days few

houses in the country between which so much ill-will and hostile

criticism exist as between the two houses near the great city park.

Many will remember the time when the houses of the town did not extend

to the wooded valley. Then there were only a few small houses along the

lanes; behind lay a waste place where Mrs. Knips, the washwoman, dried

the shirts, and her two naughty boys threw the wooden clothes'-pins at

each other. There Mr. Hummel had bought a dry spot, quite at the end of

the street, and had built his pretty house of two stories, with stone

steps and iron railing, and behind, a simple workshop for his trade;

for he was a hatter, and carried on the business very extensively. When

he went out of his house and surveyed the reliefs on the roof and the

plaster arabesques under the windows, he congratulated himself on being

surrounded by light and air and free nature, and felt that he was the

foremost pillar of civilization in the primeval forest.

Then he experienced what often happens to disturb the peace of pioneers

of the wilderness--his example was imitated. On a dark morning in

March, a wagon, loaded with old planks, came to the drying-ground which

was opposite his house. A fence was soon built, and laborers with

shovels and wheelbarrows began to dig up the ground. This was a hard

blow for Mr. Hummel. But his suffering became greater when, walking

angrily across the street and inquiring the name of the man who was

causing such injury to the light and reputation of his house, he

learned that his future neighbor was to be a manufacturer by the name

of Hahn. That it should of all men in the world be he, was the greatest

vexation fate could inflict upon him. Mr. Hahn was respectable; there

was nothing to be said against his family; but he was Mr. Hummel's

natural opponent, for the business of the new settler was also in hats,

although straw hats. The manufacture of this light trash was never

considered as dignified, manly work; it was not a guild handicraft; it

never had the right to make apprentices journeymen; it was formerly

carried on only by Italian peasants; it had only lately, like other bad

customs, spread through the world as a novelty; it is, in fact, not a

business--the plait-straw is bought and sewed together by young girls

who are engaged by the week. And there is an old enmity between the

felt hat and straw hat. The felt hat is an historical power consecrated

through thousands of years--it only tolerates the cap as an ordinary

contrivance for work-days. Now the straw hat raises its pretensions

against prescribed right, and insolently lays claim to half of the

year. And since then approbation fluctuates between these two

appurtenances of the human race. When the unstable minds of mortals

wavered toward straw, the most beautiful felts, velveteen, silk, and

pasteboard were left unnoticed and eaten by moths. On the other hand,

when the inclinations of men turned to felt, every human being--women,

children, and nurses--wore men's small hats; then the condition of

straw was lamentable--no heart beat for it, and the mouse nestled in

its most beautiful plaits.

This was a strong ground for indignation to Mr. Hummel, but worse was

to come. He saw the daily progress of the hostile house; he watched the

scaffolding, the rising walls, the ornaments of the cornice, and

the rows of windows--it was two windows higher than his house. The

ground floor rose, then a second floor, and at last a third. All the

work-rooms of the straw hat manufacturer were attached to the dwelling.

The house of Mr. Hummel had sunk into insignificance. He then went to

his lawyer and demanded redress for the obstruction of his light and

the view from his residence; the man of law naturally shrugged his

shoulders. The privilege of building houses was one of the fundamental

rights of man; it was the common German custom to live in houses, and

it was obviously hopeless to propose that Hahn should only erect on his

piece of ground a canvas tent. Thus there was absolutely nothing to do

but to submit patiently, and Mr. Hummel might have known that himself.

Years had passed away. At the same hour the light of the sun gilds both

houses; there they stand stately and inhabited, both occupied by men

who daily pass each other. At the same hour the letter-carrier enters

both houses, the pigeons fly from one roof to the other, and the

sparrows hop around on the gutters of both, in the most cordial

relations. About one house there is sometimes a faint smell of sulphur,

and about the other, of singed hair; but the same summer wind wafts

from the wood, through the doors of both dwellings, the scent of the

pine-trees and the perfumes of the lime-flowers. And yet the intense

aversion of the inhabitants has not diminished. The house of Hahn

objects to singed hair, and the family of Hummel cough indignantly in

their garden whenever they suspect sulphur in the oxygen of the air.

It is true that decorous behavior to the neighborhood was not quite

ignored; and though the felt was inclined to be quarrelsome, the straw

was more pliant, and showed itself tractable in many cases. Both men

were acquainted with a family in which they occasionally met, nay, both

had once been godfathers to the same child, and care had been taken

that one should not give a smaller christening gift than the other.

This unavoidable acquaintance necessitated formal greetings whenever

they could not avoid meeting each other. But there it ended. Between

the shopmen who cleaned the straw hats with sulphur, and the workmen,

who presided over the hare-skins, there existed an intense hatred. And

the people who dwelt in the nearest houses in the street knew this, and

did their best to maintain the existing relation. But, in fact, the

character of both would scarcely harmonize. Their dialect was

different, their education had been different, the favorite dishes and

the domestic arrangements that were approved by one displeased the

other. Hummel was of North German lineage; Hahn had come hither from a

small town in the neighborhood.

When Mr. Hummel spoke of his neighbor Hahn, he called him a man of

straw and a fantastical fellow. Mr. Hahn was a thoughtful man, quiet

and industrious in his business, but in his hours of recreation he

devoted himself to some peculiar fancies. These were undoubtedly

intended to make a favorable impression on the people who passed

by the two houses on their way to the meadow and the woods. In his

little garden he had collected most of the contrivances of modern

landscape-gardening. Between the three elder-bushes there rose up a

rock built of tufa, with a small, steep path to the top. The expedition

to the summit could be ventured upon without an Alpenstock by strong

mountain climbers only, and even they would be in danger of falling on

their noses on the jagged tufa. The following year, near the railing,

poles were erected at short intervals, round which climbed creepers,

and between each pole hung a colored glass lamp. When the row of lamps

was lighted up on festive evenings they threw a magic splendor on the

straw hats which were placed under the elder bushes, and which

challenged the judgment of the passers-by. The following year the glass

lamps were superseded by Chinese lanterns. Again, the next year, the

garden bore a classical aspect, for a white statue of a muse,

surrounded by ivy and blooming wall-flowers, shone forth far into the

wood.

In the face of such novelties Mr. Hummel remained firm to his

preference for water. In the rear of his house a small stream flowed

toward the town. Every year his boat was painted the same green, and in

his leisure hours he loved to go alone in his boat and to row from the

houses to the park. He took his rod in his hand and devoted himself to

the pleasure of catching gudgeons, minnows, and other small fish.

Doubtless, the Hummel family were more aristocratic,--that is, more

determined, more out of the common, and more difficult to deal with. Of

all the housewives of the street, Mrs. Hummel displayed the greatest

pretensions by her silk dresses and gold-watch and chain. She was a

little lady with blonde curls, still very pretty; she had a seat at the

theatre, was accomplished and kind-hearted, and very irascible. She

looked as if she did not concern herself about anything, but she knew

everything that happened in the street. Her husband was the only one

who, at times, was beyond her control. Yet, although Mr. Hummel was

tyrannical to all the world, he sometimes showed his wife great

consideration. When she was too much for him in the house, he quietly

went into the garden, and if she followed him there, he ensconced

himself in the factory behind a bulwark of felt.

But also Mrs. Hummel was subject to a higher power, and this power was

exercised by her little daughter, Laura. This was the only surviving

one of several children, and all the tenderness and affection of the

mother were lavished upon her. And she was a splendid little girl; the

whole town knew her ever since she wore her first red shoes; she was

often detained when in the arms of her nurse; and had many presents

given her. She grew up a merry, plump little maiden, with two large

blue eyes and round cheeks, with dark, curly hair, and an arch

countenance. When the little, rosy daughter of Mr. Hummel walked along

the streets, her hands in the pockets of her apron, she was the delight

of the whole neighborhood. Sprightly and decided, she knew how to

behave toward all, and was never backward in offering her little mouth

to be kissed. She would give the woodcutter at the door her buttered

roll, and join him in drinking the thin coffee out of his cup; she

accompanied the letter-carrier all along the street, and her greatest

pleasure was to run with him up the steps, to ring and deliver his

letters; she even once slipped out of the room late in the evening, and

placed herself by the watchman, on a corner-stone, and held his great

horn in impatient expectation of the striking of the hour at which it

was to be sounded. Mrs. Hummel lived in unceasing anxiety lest her

daughter should be stolen; for, more than once she had disappeared for

many hours; she had gone with children, who were strangers, to their

homes, and had played with them--she was the patroness of many of the

little urchins in the street, knew how to make them respect her, gave

them pennies, and received as tokens of esteem dolls and little

chimney-sweeps, constructed of dried plums and little wooden sticks.

She was a kind-hearted child that rather laughed than wept, and her

merry face contributed more toward making the house of Mr. Hummel a

pleasant abode, than the ivy arbor of the mistress of the house, or the

massive bust of Mr. Hummel himself, which looked down imperiously on

Laura's doll-house.

"The child is becoming unbearable," exclaimed Mrs. Hummel, angrily

dragging in the troubled Laura by the hand. "She runs about the streets

all day long. Just now when I came from market she was sitting near the

bridge, on the chair of the fruit-woman, selling onions for her.

Everyone was gathering around her, and I had to fetch my child out of

the crowd."

"The little monkey will do well," answered Mr. Hummel, laughing; "why

will you not let her enjoy her childhood?"

"She must give up this low company. She lacks all sense of refinement;

she hardly knows her alphabet, and she has no taste for reading. It is

time, too, that she should begin her French letters. Little Betty, the

councillor's daughter, is not older, and she knows how to call her

mother _chere mere_, in such a pretty manner."

"The French are a polite people," answered Mr. Hummel. "If you are so

anxious to train your daughter for the market, the Turkish language

would be better than the French. The Turk pays money if you dispose of

your child to him; the others wish to have something into the bargain."

"Do not speak so inconsiderately, Henry!" exclaimed the wife.

"Be off with you and your cursed French letters, else I promise you I

will teach the child all the French phrases I know; they are not many,

but they are strong. _Baisez-moi, Madame Hummel!_" Saying this, he left

the room with an air of defiance.

The result, however, of this consultation was that Laura went to

school. It was very difficult for her to listen and be silent, and for

a longtime her progress was not satisfactory. But at last her little

soul was fired with ambition; she climbed the lower steps of learning

with Miss Johanne, and then she was promoted to the renowned Institute

of Miss Jeannette, where the daughters of families of pretension

received education in higher branches. There she learned the

tributaries of the Amazon, and much Egyptian history; she could touch

the cover of the electrophorus, speak of the weather in French, and

read English so ingeniously that even true-born Britons were obliged to

acknowledge that a new language had been discovered; lastly, she was

accomplished in all the elegancies of German composition. She wrote

small treatises on the difference between walking and sleeping, on the

feelings of the famed Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi, on the terrors

of a shipwreck, and of the desert island on which she had been saved.

Finally, she gained some knowledge of the composition of strophes and

sonnets. It soon became clear that Laura's strong point was German, not

French; her style was the delight of the Institute; nay, she began to

write poems in honor of her teachers and favorite companions, in which

she very happily imitated the difficult rhymes of the great Schiller's

"Song of the Bell." She was now eighteen, a pretty, rosy, young lady,

still plump and merry, still the ruling power of the house, and still

loved by all the people on the street.

The mother, proud of the accomplishments of her daughter, after her

confirmation, prepared an upper room for her, looking out upon the

trees of the park; and Laura fitted up her little home like a fairy

castle, with ivy-vines, a little flower-table, and a beautiful

ink-stand of china on which shepherds and shepherdesses were sitting

side by side. There she passed her pleasantest hours with her pen and

paper, writing her diary in secret.

She also partook of the aversion of her parents for the neighboring

family. Even as a little child she had passed poutingly before the door

of that house; never had her foot crossed its threshold, and when good

Mrs. Hahn once asked her to shake hands, it was long before she could

make up her mind to take her hand out of her apron pocket. Of the

inhabitants of the neighboring house the one most annoying to her was

young Fritz Hahn. She seldom associated with him, but unfortunately she

was always in some embarrassment which enabled Fritz Hahn to act the

part of her protector. Before she went to school, the eldest son of

Mrs. Knips, already quite a big fellow, who painted fine pictures and

birthday cards, and sold them to people in the neighborhood, wished to

compel her to give the money she held in her hand for a devil's head

which he had painted, and which no one in the street would have; he

treated her so roughly and so ill, that contrary to her wont, she

became frightened and gave him her pennies, and weeping, held the

horrible picture in her hand. Fritz Hahn happened to come that way,

inquired what had taken place, and when she complained to him of

Knips's violent conduct, he grew so indignant that she became

frightened about him. He set upon the lad, who was his school-fellow

and in a class above him, and began to thrash him on the spot, while

the younger Knips looked on laughing, with his hands in his pocket.

Fritz pushed the naughty boy against the wall and compelled him to give

up the money and take back his devil. But this meeting did not help to

make her like Fritz any the better. She could not bear him, because

already as an undergraduate he wore spectacles, and always looked so

serious. And when she came from school, and he went with his portfolio

to the lecture, she always endeavored to avoid him.

On another occasion they happened to meet. She was among the first

girls in the Institute; the oldest Knips was already Magister, and the

younger apprentice in her father's business, and Fritz Hahn had just

become a doctor. She had rowed herself between the trees in the park

till the boat struck a snag and her oar fell into the water. As she was

bending down to recover it, she also lost her hat and parasol. Laura,

in her embarrassment, looked to the shore for help. Again it so

happened that Fritz Hahn was passing, lost in thought. He heard the

faint cry which had escaped her, jumped into the muddy water, fished up

the hat and parasol, and drew the boat to the shore. Here he offered

Laura his hand and helped her on to dry ground. Laura undoubtedly owed

him thanks, and he had also treated her with respect and called her

Miss. But then he looked very ridiculous, he bowed so awkwardly, and he

stared at her so fixedly through his glasses. And when she afterwards

learned that he had caught a terrible cold from his jump into the

swamp, she became indignant, both at herself and at him, because she

had screamed when there was no danger, and he had rushed to her aid

with such useless chivalry. She could have helped herself, and now the

Hahns would think she owed them no end of thanks.

On this point she might have been at ease, for Fritz had quietly

changed his clothes and dried them in his room.

But indeed it was quite natural that the two hostile children should

avoid each other, for Fritz was of quite a different nature. He also

was an only child, and had been brought up tenderly by a kind-hearted

father and a too anxious mother. He was, from his earliest childhood,

quiet and self-possessed, unassuming and studious. In his home he had

created for himself a little world of his own where he indulged in

out-of-the-way studies. Whilst around him was the merry hum of life, he

pored over Sanskrit characters, and investigated the relations between

the wild spirits that hovered over the Teutoburger battle, and the gods

of the Veda, who floated over palm-woods and bamboos in the hot valley

of the Ganges. He also was the pride and joy of his family; his mother

never failed to bring him his cup of coffee every morning; then she

seated herself opposite him with her bunch of keys, and looked silently

at him while he ate his breakfast, scolded him gently for working so

late the previous night, and told him that she could not sleep quietly

till she heard him push back his chair and place his boots before the

door to be cleaned. After breakfast, Fritz went to his father to bid

him good morning, and he knew that it gave his father pleasure when he

walked with him for a few minutes in the garden, observing the growth

of his favorite flowers, and when, above all, he approved of his garden

projects. This was the only point on which Mr. Hahn was sometimes at

variance with his son; and, as he could not refute his son's arguments,

nor restrain his own strong aesthetic inclinations, he adopted methods

which are often resorted to by greater politicians--he secretly

prepared his projects, and surprised his son with the execution of

them.

Amidst this tranquil life, intercourse with the Professor was the

greatest pleasure of the day to our young scholar; it elevated

him and made him happy. He had, while yet a student, heard the first

course of lectures given by Felix Werner at the University. A

friendship had gradually arisen, such as is perhaps only possible among

highly-cultivated, sound men of learning. Fritz became the devoted

confidant of the inexhaustible activity of his friend. Every

investigation of the Professor, with its results, was imparted to him,

even to the most minute details, and the pleasure of every new

discovery was shared by the neighbors. Thus the best portion of their

life was passed together. Fritz, indeed, as the younger, was more a

receiver than giver; but it was just this that made the relation so

firm and deep. This intercourse was not without occasional differences,

as is natural with scholars; for both were hasty in judgment; both were

very exacting in the requirements which they made on themselves and

others, and both were easily excited. But such differences were soon

settled, and only served to increase the loving consideration with

which they treated each other.

Through this friendship the bitter relations between the two houses

were somewhat mitigated. Even Mr. Hummel could not help showing some

respect for the Doctor, as his highly-honored tenant paid such striking

marks of distinction to the son of the enemy. For Mr. Hummel's respect

for his tenant was unbounded. He heard that the Professor was quite

celebrated in his specialty, and he was inclined to value earthly fame

when, as in this case, there was profit in it. Besides, the Professor

was a most excellent tenant. He never protested against any rule which

Mr. Hummel, as chief magistrate of the house, prescribed. He had once

asked the advice of Mr. Hummel concerning the investment of some

capital. He possessed neither dog nor cat, gave no parties, and did not

sing with his window open, nor play bravura pieces on the piano. But

the main point was, that he showed to Mrs. Hummel and Laura, whenever

he met them, the most chivalrous politeness, which well became the

learned gentleman. Mrs. Hummel was enchanted with her tenant; and Mr.

Hummel always deemed it expedient not to mention his intention of

raising the rent to his family, because he foresaw a general

remonstrance from the ladies.

Now the hobgoblin who ran to and fro between both houses, throwing

stones in the way, and making sport of men, had tried also to excite

these two noble souls against each other. But his attempt was a

miserable failure; these worthy men were not disposed to dance to his

discordant pipes.

Early the following morning, Gabriel took a letter from his master to

the Doctor. As he passed the hostile threshold, Dorchen, the servant of

the Hahn family, hastily came toward him with a letter from her young

master to the Professor. The messengers exchanged letters, and the two

friends read them at the same moment.

The Professor wrote:--

"My dear friend--Do not be angry with me because I have again been

vehement; the cause of it was as absurd as possible. I must honestly

tell you that what put me out was your having so unconditionally

refused to edit with me a Latin text. For the possibility of finding

the lost manuscript, which we in our pleasant dreams assumed for some

minutes, was the more enticing to me, because it opened the prospect of

an employment in common to us both. And if I wish to draw you within

the narrow circle of my studies, you may take for granted that it is

not only from personal feeling, but far more from the wish of my heart

to avail myself of your ability for the branch of learning to which I

confine myself."

Fritz, on the other hand, wrote:--

"My very dear friend--I feel most painfully that my irritability

yesterday spoilt for us both a charming evening. But do not think that

I mean to dispute your right to reproach me for the prolixity and want

of system in my labors. It was just because what you said touched a

cord, the secret dissonance of which I have myself sometimes felt, that

I for a moment lost my equanimity. You are certainly right in much that

you said, only I beg you to believe that my refusal to undertake a

great work in conjunction with you was neither selfishness nor want of

friendship. I am convinced that I ought not to abandon the work I have

undertaken, even though too extensive for my powers; least of all

exchange it for a new circle of interests, in which my deficient

knowledge would be a burden to you."

After the reception of these letters both were somewhat more at ease.

But certain expressions in them made some further explanation necessary

to both, so they set to work and wrote again to each other, shortly and

pithily, as became thoughtful men. The Professor answered: "I thank you

from my heart, my dear Fritz, for your letter; but I must repeat that

you always estimate your own worth too low, and this is all that I can

reproach you with."

Fritz replied: "How deeply touched I feel by your friendship at this

moment! This only will I say, that among the many things I have to

learn from you, there is nothing I need more than your modesty; and

when you speak of your knowledge so comprehensive and fertile in

results, as being limited, be not angry if I strive after the same

modesty with regard to my work."

After sending the letter, the Professor, still disquieted, went to his

lecture, and was conscious that his mind wandered during his discourse.

Fritz hastened to the library, and diligently collected all the

referenced which he could find respecting the Manor of Bielstein. At

midday, on their return home, each of them read the second letter of

his friend: then the Professor frequently looked at the clock, and

when it struck three he hastily put on his hat and went with great

strides across the street to the hostile house. As he laid hold of the

door-knob of the Doctor's room, he felt a counter pressure from within.

Pushing the door open, he found Fritz standing before him, also with

his hat on, intending to visit him. Without saying a word the two

friends embraced each other.

"I bring you good tidings from the book-seller," began the Professor.

"And I of the old Manor," exclaimed Fritz.

"Listen," said the Professor. "The book-seller bought the monk's book

of a retail-dealer who travels about the country collecting curiosities

and old books. The man was brought into my presence; he had himself

bought the little book in the town of Rossau, at an auction of the

effects of a cloth-maker, together with an old cupboard and some carved

stools. It is at least possible that the remarks in cipher at the end,

which evade unpracticed eyes, may never, after the death of the friar,

have excited observation nor caused investigation. Perhaps there may

still be preserved in some church-record at Rossau an account of the

life and death of the monk Tobias Bachhuber."

"Possibly," assented Fritz, much pleased. "A congregation of his

persuasion still exists. But Manor Bielstein lies at a distance of half

an hour from the town of Rossau, on a woody height--see, here is the

map. It formerly belonged to the ruling sovereign, but in the last

century it passed into private hands; the buildings, however, remain.

It is represented on this map as an old chateau, at present the

residence of a Mr. Bauer. My father also knows about the house; he has

seen it from the high road on his journeys, and describes it as a long

stretch of buildings, with balconies and a high roof."

"The threads interweave themselves into a satisfactory web," said the

Professor, complacently.

"Stop a moment," cried the Doctor, eagerly. "The traditions of this

province have been collected by one of our friends. The man is

trustworthy. Let us see whether he has recorded any reminiscences of

the neighborhood of Rossau." He hastily opened and looked into a book,

and then gazed speechless at his friend.

The Professor seized the volume and read this short notice: "It is said

that in the olden times the monks in the neighborhood of Bielstein

walled up a great treasure in the manor-house."

Again did a vision of the old, mysterious manuscript arise before the

eyes of the friends so distinctly that it might be seized.

"It is certainly not impossible that the manuscript may yet lie

concealed," remarked the Professor, at last, with assumed composure.

"Instances of similar discoveries are not lacking. It is not long since

that a ceiling of a room in the old house of the proprietor of my home

was broken through; it was a double ceiling, and the empty space

contained a number of records and papers concerning the ownership, and

some old jewels. The treasure had been concealed in the time of the

great war, and no one for a century had heeded the lowly ceiling of the

little room."

"Naturally," exclaimed Fritz, rubbing his hands. "And within the facing

of old chimneys empty spaces are sometimes found. A brother of my

mother's found, on rebuilding his house, in such a place a pot

full of coins." He drew out his purse. "Here is one of them, a

beautiful Swedish dollar; my uncle gave it to me at my confirmation as

a luck-penny, and I have carried it in my purse ever since. I have

often struggled against the temptation to spend it."

The Professor closely examined the head of Gustavus Adolphus, as if he

had been a neighbor of the concealed Tacitus, and would convey

information concerning the lost book in its inscription. "It is true,"

he said, reflectively, "if the house is on a height, even the cellars

may be dry."

"Undoubtedly," answered the Doctor. "Often, too, the thick walls were

built double, and the intervening space filled with rubbish. In such a

case it would be easy, through a small opening, to make a hollow space

in the inside of the wall."

"But now," began the Professor, rising, "the question arises, what are

we to do? For the knowledge of such a thing, whether it be of great or

little importance, imposes upon the investigator the duty of doing all

that is possible to promote the discovery. And this duty we must

fulfill promptly and completely."

"If you impart this record to the public, you will allow the prospect

of discovering the manuscript to pass out of your own hands."

"In this business, every personal consideration must be dismissed,"

said the Professor, decisively.

"And if you now make known the cloister-record you have found,"

continued the Doctor, "who can answer for it, that the nimble activity

of some antiquary, or some foreigner, may not prevent all further

investigations? In such a case the treasure, even if found, would be

lost, not only to you, but also to our country and to science."

"That, at least, must not be," cried the Professor.

"And besides, even if you apply to the government of the province, it

is very doubtful whether they will render you any assistance," replied

the Doctor, triumphantly.

"I do not think of committing the matter to strangers and officials,"

answered the Professor. "We have a person in the neighborhood whose

good fortune and acuteness in tracing out rarities is wonderful. I have

a mind to tell Magister Knips of the manuscript; he may lay aside his

proof-sheets for a few days, travel for us to Rossau, and there examine

the ground."

The Doctor jumped up. "That will never do. Knips is not the man to

trust with such a secret."

"I have always found him trustworthy," replied the Professor. "He is

wonderfully skillful and well-informed."

"To me it would appear a desecration of this fine discovery, to employ

such a man," answered Fritz, "and I would never consent to it."

"In that case," cried the Professor, "I have made up my mind. The

vacation is at hand; I will go myself to the old house. And as you, my

friend, intended to travel for a few days, you must accompany me; we

shall go together. Here is my hand on it."

"With all my heart," cried the Doctor, clasping his friend's hand. "We

will penetrate into the manor-house, and summon the spirits which hover

over the treasure."

"We will first come to an understanding with the owner of the house.

Then we shall see what is to be done. Meanwhile let us keep the affair

secret."

"That is right," assented Fritz; and the friends descended, well

satisfied, into the garden of Mr. Hahn, and, pausing for a few moments

beneath the White Muse, they consulted with regard to the opening of

the campaign.

The imagination of the Scholar was fast pent up by his methodical train

of thought; but in the depths of his soul there was a rich and abundant

stream from the secret source of all beauty and energy. Now a hole had

been torn in the dam, and the flood poured itself joyfully over the

seed. Ever did the wish for the mysterious manuscript return to him. He

saw before him the opening in the wall, and the first glimmer of light

falling on the grey books in the hollow; he saw the treasure in his

hands as he drew it out, and would not part with it till he had

deciphered the illegible pages. Blessed spirit of Brother Tobias

Bachhuber, if thou shouldst spend any of thy holiday-time in heaven in

coming back to our poor earth, and if then at night thou glidest

through the rooms of the old manor, guarding thy treasure and scaring

inquisitive meddlers, pray, nod kindly to the man who now approaches to

bring thy secret to the light of day, for truly he seeks not honor nor

gain for himself, but he conjures you, in the name of all that is good,

to assist a well-meaning man.

_CHAPTER III_.

A FOOL'S ERRAND.

Whoever on a certain sunny harvest-morning in August had looked down

from the heights in the direction of Rossau, would have observed an

object moving along the road between the meadows that extended to the

gates of the city. On closer observation two travelers might be

perceived, one taller than the other, both wearing light summer

clothes, the freshness of which had been sullied by the stormy rain of

the last few days. They had both leather traveling-bags, which hung by

straps from their shoulders; the taller one wore a broad-brimmed felt

hat, the shorter one a straw hat.

The travelers were evidently strangers, for they stopped at times to

observe and enjoy the view of the valley and hills, which is seldom the

custom with people born in the country. The district had not yet been

discovered by pleasure-seekers; there were no smooth paths in the woods

for the thin boots of towns-folk; even the carriage road was not a

work of art, the water lay in the tracks made by the wheels; the

sheep-bells and the axe of the wood-cutter only were heard by the

dwellers of the neighborhood, who were working in the fields or passing

on their way to their work. And yet the country was not without charm;

the woody hills were marked in bold outlines, a stone-quarry might be

seen between the fields in the plain, or the head of a rock jutted out

from amongst the trees. From the hills on the horizon a small brook

wound its course to the distant river, bordered by strips of meadow,

behind which the arable land ran up to the woody heights. The lovely

landscape looked bright in the morning sunshine.

In the low country in front of the travelers rose to view, surrounded

by hills, the village of Rossau, a little country-town with two massive

church towers and dark-tiled roofs, which projected above the walls of

the place like the backs of a herd of cattle that had crowded together

for protection against a pack of wolves.

The strangers looked from their high position with warm interest on the

chimneys and towers behind the old discolored and patched walls that

lay before them. In that place had once been preserved a treasure,

which, if found again, would interest the whole civilized world and

excite hundreds to intellectual labor. The landscape looked exactly

like other German landscapes, and the village was exactly like other

German villages; and yet there was an attraction about the place that

inspired a joyful hope in the travelers. Was it the globe-like ornament

that crowned the stout old tower? or was it the arch of the gate which

just veiled from the travelers in alluring darkness the entrance to the

town? or the stillness of the empty valley, in which the place lay

without suburbs and outhouses, as the towns are portrayed on old maps?

or the herds of cattle that went out of the gate into the open space,

and bounded merrily on the pasture ground? or was it perhaps the keen

morning air which blew about the temples of the wanderers? Both felt

that something remarkable and promising hovered over the valley in

which, as searchers of the past, they were entering.

"Imagine the landscape as it once appeared to the eye," began the

Professor; "the forest, in olden times, encircled the town more

closely; the hills seemed higher, the valley deeper; the monastery then

lay, with the dwellings of its dependants, as in a deep basin. There,

to the south, where the country sharply rises, the monks had their

vineyards. Gradually the houses of the town drew about the monastery.

Take from those towers beyond us the caps that were placed upon them a

century ago, give them back their old pinnacles, place here and there a

turret on the walls, and you have an ideal, wondrously beautiful

picture of mediaeval days."

"And upon the same road that leads us thither, a learned monk once

strode with his precious manuscripts towards the quiet valley; there to

teach his companions, or to shield himself, perhaps, from powerful

enemies," the Doctor said, with enthusiasm.

The travelers passed by the pasture ground; the herdsmen looked with

indifference at the strangers; but the cows placed themselves by the

edge of the ditch and stared, while the young ones of the herd bellowed

at them inquiringly. They went through the dark arch of the gate and

looked curiously along the streets. It was a poor little town, the main

street alone was paved, and that badly. Not far from the gate the

sloping beam of a well projected high in the air, and from it hung

along pole with a bucket attached. Few people were to be seen, those

who were not working in the houses were occupied in the field; for the

straws which stuck in the stone crevices of the arch of the gate showed

that harvest wagons were carrying the fruits of the fields to the

farm-yards of the citizens. Near many of the houses there were open

wooden doors, through which one could look into the yard and barns, and

over the dung heap on which small fowls were pecking. The last century

had altered the place but little, and the low houses still stood with

their gables to the front. Instead of the coats of arms, there

projected into the street the signs of artisans, carved in tin or wood,

and painted--such as a large wooden boot; a griffin, holding enormous

shears in its hand; or a rampant lion, that extended a bretzel; or, as

the most beautiful masterpiece of all, a regular hexagon of colored

glass panes.

"Much has been retained of mediaeval times here," said the Professor.

The friends came to the market-place, an irregular space, the little

houses of which were adorned with bright paint. There on an

insignificant building prominently stood a red dragon with a curled

tail, carved out of a board, and supported in the air on an iron pole.

Upon it was painted, in ill-formed letters; "The Dragon Inn."

"See," said Fritz, pointing to the dragon, "the fancy of the artist has

carved him with a pike's head and thick teeth. The dragon is the oldest

treasure-preserver of our legends. It is remarkable how firmly the

recollection of this legendary animal everywhere clings to the people.

Probably this sign-board originates from some tradition of the place."

They ascended the white stone steps into the house, utterly unconscious

that they had long been watched by sharp eyes. A citizen, who was

taking his morning draught, exclaimed to the stout host, "Who can these

be? They do not look like commercial travelers; perhaps one of them is

the new parson from Kirchdorf."

"Parsons don't look like that," said the inn-keeper, decidedly, who

knew men better; "they are strangers on foot, no carriage and no

luggage."

The strangers entered, placed themselves at a red-painted table, and

ordered breakfast. "A beautiful country, mine host," began the

Professor; "magnificent trees in your forests."

"Yes," answered the host.

"A wealthy neighborhood, apparently," continued the Professor.

"People complain that they do not earn enough," replied the host.

"How many clergy have you in the place?"

"Two," said the host, more politely. "But the old pastor is dead;

meanwhile, there is a candidate here."

"Is the other pastor at home?"

"I do not know," said the landlord.

"Have you a court of justice here?"

"We have a Justice of the Peace; he is now here--court is in session

to-day."

"Was there not in former times a monastery in the city?" said the

Doctor, taking up the examination.

The citizen and the landlord looked at each other. "That is long

since," replied the master of the inn.

"Does not the Manor of Bielstein lie in the neighborhood?" inquired

Fritz.

Again the citizen and the landlord looked significantly at each other.

"It lies somewhere here in the neighborhood," answered the landlord,

with reserve.

"How long does it take to go to the manor?" asked the Professor,

irritated by the short answers of the man.

"Do you wish to go there?" inquired the landlord. "Do you know the

owner?"

"No," answered the Professor.

"Have you any business with him?"

"That is our affair," answered the Professor, curtly.

"The road leads through the wood, and takes half an hour--you cannot

miss it;" and the landlord abruptly closed the conversation and left

the room. The citizen followed him.

"We have not learnt much," said the Doctor, laughing. "I hope the

pastor and magistrate will be more communicative."

"We will go direct to the place," said the Professor, with decision.

Meanwhile the landlord and the citizen consulted together. "Whatever

the strangers may be," repeated the citizen, "they are not

ecclesiastics, and they did not seem to care for the magistrate. Did

you remark how they inquired about the monastery and the Manor?" The

landlord nodded. "I will tell you my suspicion," continued the citizen,

eagerly; "they have not come here for nothing; they are after

something."

"What can that be?" asked the landlord, pondering.

"They are disguised Jesuits; that's what they look like to me."

"Well, if they intend to seek a quarrel with the people at the Manor,

they will find their match."

"I am on my way now to the Inspector on business; I will give him a

hint."

"Do not meddle with what does not concern you," said the landlord,

warningly. But the citizen only held the boots he carried, tighter

under his arm, and drove round the corner.

Our two friends left, disgusted with the lack of courtesy they

encountered at the Dragon. They inquired the way to the manor of an old

woman at the opposite gate of the city. Behind the town the path rose

from the gravel bed of the brook to the woody height. They entered a

clearing of underbrush, from which, here and there, rose up high oaks.

The rain of the last evening still hung in drops on the leaves--the

deep green of summer glistened in the sun's rays--the song of birds and

the tapping of the woodpecker above broke the stillness.

"This puts one in different frame of mind," exclaimed the Doctor,

cheerfully.

"It requires very little to call forth new melodies in a well-strung

heart, if fate has not played on it with too rough a hand. The bark of

a few trees covered with hoary moss, a handful of blossoms on the turf,

and a few notes from the throats of birds, are sufficient," replied the

philosophic Professor. "Hark! that is no greeting of nature to the

wanderer," added he, listening attentively, as the sound of distant

voices chanting a choral, fell softly on his ear. The sound appeared to

come from above the trees.

"Let us go higher up," exclaimed the Doctor, "to the mysterious place

where old church-hymns murmur through the oaks."

They ascended the hill some hundred steps, and found themselves on an

open terrace, one side of which was surrounded by trees. In the

clearing stood a small wooden church surrounded by a graveyard; some

distance beyond on a massive extent of rock rose a great old building,

the roof of which was broken by many pointed gables.

"How all harmonizes!" exclaimed the Professor, looking curiously over

the little church up to the Manor-house.

A funeral chant was heard more clearly from the church. "Let us go in,"

said the Doctor, pointing to the open door.

"To my mind it is more seemly to remain without," answered the

Professor; "it is repulsive to me to intrude either on the pleasures or

sorrows of strangers. The hymn is finished; now comes the pastor's

little discourse."

Fritz meanwhile had climbed the low stone wall and was examining the

church. "Look at the massive buttresses. It is the remains of an old

building; they have repaired it with pinewood; the tower and roof are

black with age; it would be worth our while to see the inside."

The Professor held in his hand the long shoot of a bramble bush which

hung over the wall, looking with admiration at its white blossoms, and

at the green and brown berries which grew in thick clusters. The sound

of a man's voice fell indistinctly on his ear, and he bent his head

involuntarily to catch the words.

"Let us hear," he said at last, and entered the churchyard with his

friend. They took off their hats and quietly opened the church door. It

was a very small hall; the bricks of the old choir had been

whitewashed; the chancel, a gallery, and a few benches were of brown

firwood. Before the altar lay open a child's coffin, the form within

was covered with flowers. Beside it stood several country people in

simple attire; on the steps of the altar was an aged clergyman with

white hair and a kind face; and at the head of the coffin the wife of a

laborer, mother of the little one, sobbing. Beside her stood a fine,

womanly form in city dress; she had taken off her hat, and with folded

hands was looking down on the child that lay among the flowers. Thus

she stood, motionless; the sun fell obliquely on the waving hair and

regular features of the young face. But more captivating than the tall

figure and beautiful head was the expression of deep devotion that

pervaded the whole countenance. The Professor involuntarily seized hold

of his friend's arm to detain him. The clergyman made his concluding

prayer; the stately maiden bowed her head lower, then bent down once

more to the little one, and wound her arm round the mother, who leaned

weeping on her comforter. Thus she stood, speaking gently to the

mother, while tears rolled down from her eyes. How spirit-like sounded

the murmurs of that rich voice in the ear of her friend! Then the men

lifted the coffin from the ground and followed the clergyman, who led

the way to the churchyard. Behind the coffin went the mother, her head

still on the shoulder of her supporter. The maiden passed by the

strangers, gazing before her with an inspired look, whispering in her

companion's ear words from the Bible: "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath

taken away. Let little children come unto me." Her gentle accents were

heard even by the friends. The mother hung broken-hearted on the arm of

the girl, and, as if borne along by the gentle tones, tottered to the

grave. Reverently did the friends follow the procession. The coffin was

lowered into the grave, the clergyman pronounced the blessing, and each

one present threw three handfuls of earth on the departed one. Then the

country people separated, leaving a free passage for the mother and her

companion. The latter gave her hand to the clergyman, and then

conducted the mother slowly across the churchyard to the road which led

to the Manor.

The friends followed at some distance, without looking at each other.

The Professor passed his hand over his eyes. "Such incidents are always

very touching," he said, sorrowfully.

"As she stood at the altar," exclaimed the Doctor, "she seemed like a

prophetess of the olden time, with an oaken crown on her head. She drew

the poor, woman on by her gentle accents. The words were from our good,

old Bible; and now I understand the significant meaning in ancient

times of the word 'whisper,' to which a magic power was ascribed. She

took possession of the mourner body and soul, and her voice sank deep

into my heart also. What was she, maid or married woman?"

"She is a maiden," answered the Professor, impressively. "She dwells at

the Manor, and we shall meet her there. Let her go on, and we will wait

at the foot of the rock."

They sat some time on a projecting stone. The Professor never seemed

weary of contemplating a tuft of moss; he brushed it with his hand,

laying it now on one side, now on the other. At last he arose quickly.

"Whatever may come of it, let us go on."

They ascended the hill some hundred steps. The landscape before them

suddenly changed. On one side lay the manor-precincts with a walled

gateway and a courtyard, in which stood large farm-buildings; before

them, a wide plain of arable land sloped down from the height into a

rich valley. The lonely woodland landscape had disappeared; around the

wanderers was the active stir of daily life; the wind waved through the

seas of corn; harvest wagons were passing up the roads through the

fields; the whip cracked and the sheaves were swung by strong arms over

the rails of the wagons.

"Hello! what are you looking for here?" demanded a deep bass voice

behind the strangers, in an imperative tone. The friends turned

quickly. Before the farmyard-gate stood a powerful, broad-shouldered

man, with close-cut hair, and an expression of deep energy in his

sunbrown face; behind him stood farm-employees and laborers, stretching

their heads out with curiosity through the gate, and a large dog ran

barking toward the strangers. "Back, Nero," called out his master, and

whistled to the dog, at the same time scanning the strangers with a

cold, searching look.

"Have I the honor of addressing the proprietor of this estate, a Mr.

Bauer?" inquired the Professor.

"I am that person, and who are you?" asked the Proprietor in return.

The Professor gave their names, and that of the place from which they

came. The host approached and examined them both from head to foot.

"There are no Jesuits there, I suppose," he said; "but if you come here

to find some hidden treasure, your journey is useless; you will find

nothing."

The friends looked at each other; they were near the house, but far

from the goal.

"You make us feel," answered the Professor, "that we have approached

your dwelling without an introduction. Although you have already made a

guess as to the object of our journey, yet I beg of you to permit us to

make an explanation before fewer witnesses."

The dignified demeanor of the Professor did not fail to have an effect.

"If you really have business with me, it would be better certainly to

settle it in the house. Follow me, gentlemen." He lifted his cap a

little, pointed with his hand to the gate, and went ahead. "Nero, you

brute, can't you be quiet?"

The Professor and the Doctor followed, while the farm hands and

laborers and the growling dog closed in behind. Thus the strangers were

conducted in a not very cordial manner to the house. In spite of their

unpleasant position, they looked with curiosity at the great farmyard,

the work going on in the barns, and a flock of large geese which,

disturbed by the party, waddled cackling across the road. Then their

eyes fell upon the dwelling itself, the broad stone steps with benches

on both sides, the vaulted door, and the white washed escutcheon on the

keystone. They entered a roomy hall, the Proprietor hung up his cap,

laid hold with strong hand of the latch of the sitting-room door, and

again made a movement of the hand, which was intended to be polite and

to invite the strangers to enter. "Now, that we are alone," he began,

"how can I serve you? You have already been announced to me as two

treasure-seekers. If you are that, I must begin by plainly telling you

that I will not encourage such follies. Apart from that, I am glad to

see you."

"But we are not treasure-seekers," rejoined the Professor; "and as we

have kept the object of our journey a secret everywhere, we do not

understand how you could hear so erroneous a report concerning the

occasion of our coming."

"The shoemaker of my steward brought him the intelligence together with

a pair of mended boots; he saw you at the tavern in the town, and grew

suspicious because of your questions."

"He has exercised more ingenuity than was called for by our harmless

questions," answered the Professor. "And yet he was not altogether

wrong."

"Then there is something in it," interrupted the Proprietor, gloomily;

"in that case I must beg you, gentlemen, not to trouble yourselves or

me further. I have no time for such nonsense."

"First of all, have the goodness to hear us before so curtly

withdrawing your hospitality," replied the Professor, calmly. "We have

come with no other aim than to impart to you something concerning the

importance of which you may yourself decide. And not only we, but

others, might reproach you if you refused our request without taking it

into consideration. The matter concerns you more than us."

"Of course," said the host, "we are acquainted with this style of

speech."

"Not quite," continued the Professor; "there is a difference according

to who uses it, and to what purpose."

"Well, then, in the devil's name, speak, but be clear," exclaimed the

Proprietor, impatiently.

"Not till you have shown yourself ready," continued the Professor, "to

pay the attention the importance of the subject deserves. A short

explanation will be necessary, and you have not even invited us to sit

down."

"Be seated," replied the Proprietor, and offered chairs.

The Professor began: "A short time ago, among other written records of

the monks of Rossau, I accidentally found some observations in a

manuscript which may be of the greatest importance to the branch of

learning to which I devote myself."

"And what is your branch of learning?" interrupted the host, unmoved.

"I am a philologist."

"That means one who studies ancient languages?" asked the Proprietor.

"It is so," continued the Professor. "It is stated by a monk, in the

volume I have mentioned, that about the year 1500 there existed in the

monastery a valuable manuscript, containing a history by the Roman,

Tacitus. The work of the renowned historian is only very imperfectly

preserved to us in some other well-known manuscripts. A second notice

from the same book, in April, 1637, mentions that during the troublous

wartimes the last monks of the monastery had concealed from the Swedes

their church treasures and manuscripts in a hollow, dry place in the

Manor-house of Bielstein. These are the words I have found; I have

nothing further to impart to you. We have no doubt of the genuineness

of both notices. I have brought with me an abstract of the passages

concerning it, and I am ready to submit the original to your

inspection, or that of any competent judge whom you may choose. I will

only add now that both I and my friend know well how unsatisfactory is

the communication we make to you, and how uncertain is the prospect

that after two centuries any of the buried possessions of the monastery

should be forthcoming. And yet we have made use of a vacation to impart

to you this discovery, even at the probable risk of a fruitless search.

But we felt ourselves bound in duty to make this journey, not

especially on your account--although this manuscript, if found; would

be of great value to you--but principally in the interest of science,

for in that point of view such a discovery would be invaluable."

The Proprietor had listened attentively, but he left untouched the

paper that the Professor had laid on the table before him. Then he

began: "I see that you do not mean to deceive me, and that you tell me

the whole truth with the best intentions. I understand your

explanation. Your Latin I cannot read; but that is not necessary, for,

with regard to this matter, I believe you. But," he continued,

laughing, "there is one thing which the learned gentlemen living so far

away do not know, and that is, that this house has the misfortune to be

considered throughout the whole country as a place in which the old

monks have concealed treasures."

"That was not, of course, unknown to us," rejoined the Doctor, "and it

would not diminish the significance of these written records."

"Then you were greatly in error. It is surely clear that such a report,

which has been believed in a country through many generations, has

meanwhile stirred up persons who are superstitious and greedy of gain,

to discover these supposed treasures. How can you imagine that you are

the first to conceive the thought of making a search? This is an old,

strong-built house, but it would be stronger still if it did not show

traces from cellar to roof that in former times holes have been made

and the damage left unrepaired. Only a few years ago I had, at much

cost and trouble, to place new beams into the roof, because roof and

ceiling were sinking, and it appeared, on examination, that

unscrupulous men had sawed off a piece of the rafter, in order to grope

into a corner of the roof. And I tell you frankly, that if I have met

with anything disagreeable from the old house, in which for twenty

years I have experienced both happiness and misfortune, it has been

from this troublesome report. Even now an investigation is being

carried on in the town respecting a treasure-seeker, who has deceived

credulous people in giving out that he could conjure up treasures from

this hill. His accomplices are still being tracked. You may ascribe it

to your questions in the town, that the people there, who are much

excited because of the deception, have taken you to be assistants of

the impostor. My rude greeting was also owing to this. I must therefore

ask your pardon for it."

"Then you will not agree," asked the Professor, dissatisfied, "to make

use of our communication for further researches?"

"No," replied the Proprietor, "I will not make such a fool of myself.

If your book mentions nothing more than what you have told me, this

account is of little use. If the monks have concealed anything here, it

is a hundred to one that they have taken it away again in quieter

times. And even if, contrary to all probability, the concealed objects

should remain in their place--as since then some hundred years have

passed--other hungry people would long ago have disinterred them. These

are, pardon me, nursery stories, only fit for spinning-rooms. I have a

great aversion to all these notions that necessitate pulling down

walls. The husbandman should dig in his fields and not in his house;

his treasures lie beneath God's sun."

The cold demeanor of the man made the Professor's blood boil. He with

difficulty controlled his rising anger, and, approaching the window,

looked out at a bevy of sparrows that were twittering vehemently at one

another. At last, turning round, he began:--

"The owner of a house has the right of refusal. If you persist we shall

certainly leave you with a feeling of regret that you do not know how

to appreciate the possible importance of our communication. I have been

unable to avoid this meeting, although I was aware how uncertain are

the impressions formed in a first interview with strangers. Our

communication would perhaps have received more attention if it had come

to you through the medium of your government, accompanied by a

requisition to commence an active search."

"Do you regret that you have not taken that course?" asked the

Proprietor, laughing.

"To speak frankly, no. I have no confidence in official protocols in

such matters."

"Nor have I," answered the Proprietor, drily. "Ours is a small

province, the seat of Government is at a distance, and we are

surrounded by foreign dominions. I have nothing to do with the court;

years pass without my going there; the government does not bother us,

and in my district I control the police. If my government were to

attribute importance to your wishes, they would probably call for a

report from me, and that would cost me a sheet of paper and an hour's

writing. Perhaps, if you made enough ado, they might also send a

commission to my house. These would announce themselves to me about

dinner-time, and I should take them to the cellars after dinner; they

would for form's sake, knock a little upon the walls, and I meanwhile

would have a few bottles of wine opened. At last a paper would be

quickly written, and the affair would be settled. I am thankful that

you have not adopted this method. Moreover, I would defend my household

rights, even against my sovereign."

"It is vain, it appears to me, to speak to you of the value of the

manuscript," interposed the Professor, severely.

"It would be of no avail," said the Proprietor. "It is questionable

whether such a curiosity, even if found on my property, would be of

essential value to myself. As to the value to your branch of learning,

I only know it from what you say; but neither for myself nor for you

will I stir a finger, because I do not believe that such a treasure is

concealed on my estate, and I do not choose to sacrifice myself for an

improbability. This is my answer, Professor."

The Professor again stepped silently to the window. Fritz, who,

although indignant, had restrained himself, felt that it was time to

put an end to the conversation, and rose to take his departure. "So you

have given us your final decision?"

"I regret that I can give you no other answer," replied the Proprietor,

compassionately, looking at the two strangers. "I really am sorry that

you have come so far out of your way. If you desire to see my farm,

every door shall be opened to you. The walls of my house I open to no

one. I am, moreover, ready to keep your communication a secret, and the

more so, as this would also be to my own interest."

"Your refusal to allow any search to be made on your property renders

any further secrecy unnecessary," answered the Doctor. "All that

remains to my friend now is to publish his discovery in some scientific

periodical. He will then have done his duty, and perhaps others may be

more successful with you than we have been."

The Proprietor started up. "Confound you, sir; what the devil do you

mean? Will you tell your story to your colleagues? Probably these will

think very much as you do."

"Undoubtedly hundreds will view the matter exactly as we do, and will

also condemn your refusal," exclaimed the Doctor.

"Sir, how you judge me is a matter of indifference to me; I am

perfectly willing to have you paint me as black as your love of truth

will allow," exclaimed the Proprietor, indignantly. "But I see that all

will be of no avail. Hang the monks and their treasure! Now I may

every Sunday and every hour of your vacation expect a visit like this

one--strange people with spectacles and umbrellas, who will claim the

right to creep under the wooden trestles of my dairy, and to climb on

the ceiling of the nursery. The devil take this Tacitus!"

The Professor took his hat. "We beg to take leave of you," and went

toward the door.

"Stop, my good gentlemen," cried the host, discomposed; "not so

quickly. I would rather deal with you two than have an incessant

pilgrimage of your colleagues. Wait a moment, and I will make this

proposition to you. You, yourselves, shall go through my house, from

garret to cellar; it is a severe tax upon me and my household, but I

will make the sacrifice. If you find a place that you think suspicious,

we will talk it over. On the other hand, promise me that you will be

silent with respect to the object of your visit here before my people.

My laborers are already sufficiently aroused without this; if you

encourage this unfortunate rumor, I cannot answer for it that the idea

will not occur to my own people to break through the foundation-wall at

a corner of the house. My house is open to you the whole day as long as

you are my guests. But then, when you speak or write concerning the

matter, I demand that you shall add that you have done all in your

power to search through my house, but have found nothing. Will you

enter into this compact with me?"

The Doctor looked doubtfully at the Professor to see whether the pride

of his friend would stoop to such a condition. Contrary to his

expectation, the countenance of the Scholar was radiant with joy, and

he answered:

"You have mistaken us on one point. We do not desire to take away the

concealed manuscript from your possession, but we have only come to

persuade you to make the experiment. It seems very likely to us, that

we, in a strange house, not knowing the rooms, and unused to this kind

of research, shall find nothing. If, however, we do not shun the

ludicrous position in which you would place us, and accept your offer,

we do it only in the hope that, during our stay here, we shall succeed

in awakening in you a greater interest in the possible discovery."

The Proprietor shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders. "The only

interest I take in the matter is that it should be forgotten as soon as

possible. You may do what you consider your duty. My business prevents

me from accompanying you. I shall consign you to the care of my

daughter."

He opened the door of the adjoining room and called, "Ilse!"

"Here, father," answered a rich-toned voice.

The Proprietor went into the next room. "Come here, Ilse, I have a

special commission for you to-day. There are two strange gentlemen from

one of the Universities here. They are looking for a book which is

supposed to have been concealed in our house ages ago. Conduct them

through the house and open all the rooms to them."

"But, father----" interposed the daughter.

"It matters not," continued the Proprietor, "it must be." He approached

closer to her and spoke in a low tone: "They are two scholars and are

crackbrained"--he pointed to his head. "What they imagine is madness,

and I only give in to them in order to have peace in the future. Be

cautious, Ilse; I do not know the people. I must go to the farm, but

will tell the Inspector to remain near the house. They appear to me two

honest fools, but the devil may trust."

"I have no fear, father," answered the daughter; "the house is full of

people; we shall be able to manage."

"Take care that none of the servants are about, whilst the strangers

are sounding the walls and measuring. For the rest, they do not look to

me as if they would find much, even though all the walls were built up

with books. But you must not allow them to break through or injure the

walls."

"I understand, father," said the daughter. "Do they remain to dinner?"

"Yes, your duty will continue till evening. The housekeeper can

superintend the dairy for you."

The friends heard fragments of the conversation through the door; after

the first words of instruction they went quickly to the window, and

talked aloud about the great accumulation of straw on the top of the

barn, which, according to the Doctor, was a stork's nest, while the

Professor maintained that storks did not build their nests so high. But

intermingled with this talk the Professor said in a low tone: "It is

very uncomfortable for us to continue in this humiliating position. But

we can only convince the proprietor by our perseverance."

"Perhaps we may yet discover something," said the Doctor. "I have some

experience in masonry. As a boy I found opportunity while our house was

building, to obtain a fair degree of knowledge in statics and climbing

rafters. It is well that the tyrant leaves us alone. Do you entertain

the daughter, I will meanwhile sound the walls."

Whoever has followed an uncertain scent knows full well how difficult

on a near approach are things that at a distance appeared easy. While

at first the deceitful Goddess of Hope paints all favorable chances in

bright colors, the very work of searching raises all possible doubts.

The alluring picture fades, despondency and weariness cast their

shadows across it; and what in the beginning was a happy venture

becomes at last a mere effort of perseverance.

_CHAPTER IV_.

THE OLD HOUSE.

The Proprietor re-entered with his whip in his hand and behind him the

stately maiden of the churchyard. "This is my daughter Ilse; she will

represent me."

The friends bowed. It was the same beautiful countenance; but instead

of exalted emotion, there now rested on her features a business-like

dignity. She greeted the gentlemen calmly, and invited them to

breakfast in the next room. She expressed herself simply, but again the

friends listened with admiration to the deep tones of her melodious

voice.

"Before you begin your search you must sit down at my table; it is our

custom," said the host, in better humor--on him also the presence of

the daughter had a softening influence, "We meet again at noon." So

saying, he departed.

The friends followed into the next room--a large dining-apartment.

There were chairs along the wall; in the middle a long table, at the

upper end of which three covers were laid. The young girl seated

herself between the gentlemen and offered them a cold repast. "When I

saw you in the churchyard, I thought that you would visit my father;

the table has been set for you for some time." The friends ate a

little, and thanked her still more.

"I regret that our coming should make such a demand on your time," said

the Professor, gravely.

"My task is easy," answered the young girl. "I fear that yours will

give you more trouble. There are many sitting-rooms in the house as

well as bedrooms and attics."

"I have already told your father," answered the Professor, laughing,

"that it is not our intention to examine the building like masons. Pray

look upon us as curious people who only wish to see this remarkable

house, in so far as it would otherwise be opened to guests."

"The house may be considered remarkable by strangers," said Ilse; "we

like it because it is warm and roomy; and when my father had been some

years in possession of the estate, and had the means to do so, he had

the house comfortably arranged to please my deceased mother. We require

plenty of room, as I have six younger brothers and sisters, and it is a

large estate. The overseers of the farm eat with us; then there are the

tutor and Mamselle, and in the servants' hall there are also twenty

people."

The Doctor regarded his neighbor with a look of disappointment. What

had become of the Sibyl? She spoke sensibly and very much like a

citizen; with her something might be accomplished.

"A$ we are searching for hollow spaces," he began slyly, "we would

rather trust to your guidance, if you would tell us whether there are

any places in the wall, or on the ground, or anywhere here in the

house, that you know of, which could be discovered by knocking?"

"O, there are plenty of such places!" answered Ilse. "If one knocks upon

the wall at the back of the small cupboard in my room, it is evident

there is an empty space behind; then there is the flagstone under the

stairs, and many flags in the kitchen, and still more in other parts of

the house, regarding which every one has his conjectures."

The Doctor had taken out his memorandum-book and noted the suspicious

places.

The inspection of the house began. It was a fine old building; the

walls of the lower story were so thick that the Doctor with extended

arms could not span the depths of the window-niches. He eagerly

undertook the sounding, and began measuring the walls. The cellars were

partly hewn in the rock. In some places the rough stone still

projected, and one could perceive where the wall rested on the rock.

There were vast vaults, the small windows in the top of which were

protected by strong iron bars,--in ancient times a secure refuge

against the shot and assault of the enemy. All was dry and hollow, for

the house was built, as the Doctor had already before so acutely

suggested in speaking of old buildings, with outer and inner walls, and

filled between with rubbish and broken stones. Naturally, therefore,

the walls in many places sounded as hollow as a gourd. The Doctor

knocked, and diligently took note. The knuckles of his hand became

white and swelled, and the number of good places discouraged him.

From the cellar they went to the ground-floor. In the kitchen, kettles

and pots were steaming, and the women who were working looked with

curiosity at the demeanor of the strangers, for the Doctor kept

stamping with his heel on the stone floor, and with his hands sounded

the blackened side-wall of the hearth. Behind were store-rooms and the

visitors' rooms. In one of these they found a woman in mourning,

occupied in arranging the beds. It was the mother from the churchyard.

She approached the strangers, and thanked them for having helped to pay

the last honors to her child. The friends spoke kindly to her; she

wiped her eyes with her apron and returned to her work.

"I begged her to remain at home to-day," said Ilse, "but she would not.

It would, she thought, be good for her to have something to do, and we

would need her help as you were coming to us."

It pleased our scholars to see that by the female members of the house,

at least, they were considered as guests entitled to remain.

They went over the other side of the ground-floor, and once more

examined the unpretentious room in which they had been first received.

Behind it lay the private room of the proprietor, a small unadorned

chamber, in which were a closet with shooting and riding gear, and a

shelf for title-deeds and books; over the bed hung a sword and pistols,

and on the writing-table there was a small model of a machine, and

samples of corn and seeds in small bags; against the wall stood, in

military array, gigantic water-boots, Russian leather boots, and

top-boots for riding; and in the further corner half-boots of calf

skin. In the next room they heard a man's voice, and the answers of

children in regular succession.

"That is the school-room," said Ilse, smiling. As the door opened, both

solo and chorus stopped. The teacher, a student with an intelligent

face, rose to return the greeting of the newcomers. The children stared

with astonishment at the unexpected interruption. Three boys and three

girls sat at two tables, a vigorous, fair-haired race. "These are

Clara, Luise, Rickchen, Hans, Ernest, and Franz."

Clara, a girl of fourteen, almost grown up, and a youthful picture of

her sister, rose with a courtesy. Hans, a sturdy boy, twelve years old,

made an ineffectual attempt at a bow. The others remained standing

straight, staring fixedly at the strangers, and then, as if having

sufficiently performed a tiresome duty, dropped down into their places.

Only little Franz, a rosy-cheeked, curly-headed urchin, seven years

old, remained sitting grimly over his troublesome task, and made use of

the interruption quickly to find in his book something for his next

answer. Ilse stroked his hair, and asked the tutor, "How is he doing

to-day?"

"He has studied his lesson."

"It is too hard," cried Franz, bitterly.

The Professor begged the tutor not to disturb himself, and the journey

recommenced through the bedroom of the boys, and of the tutor, and

again through the store-rooms, the ironing and wardrobe rooms. The

Doctor had long since put his memorandum-book in his pocket.

They returned to the main hall, where Ilse pointed out the stone slab

on the step. Once more the Doctor knelt down, tried it, and said

despondingly, "Hollow again." Ilse ascended the staircase.

"Up here the girls and I live."

"Here, then, our curiosity comes to an end," replied the Professor,

considerately; "you see even my friend abandons the search."

"But there is a fine view above; this, at least, you must see," said

their guide. She opened a door. "This is my room." The friends stood on

the threshold. "Come in," said Ilse, unembarrassed. "From this window

you see the road by which you came to us."

With hesitation the men approached. This also was an unpretentious

room; there was not even a sofa in it. The walls were painted blue; at

the window was a work-table and some flowers; in a corner was the bed

concealed by white curtains.

The friends walked immediately to the window, and looking out saw the

little churchyard and the tops of the oaks, the small town in the

valley, and the rows of trees behind, which ran in curved lines up the

height where the view terminated. The Professor fixed his eyes on the

old wooden church. How much in a few hours had his tone of mind

altered! Glad expectation was followed by the seeming frustration of

their hopes, and yet this disappointment was succeeded by a pleasing

repose.

"That is our road into the outer world," indicated Ilse; "we often

look in that direction when father has been on a journey and we are

expecting him, or when we hope for some good news by the postman. And

when frequently our brother Franz tells how he will go into the world

when a man, away from his father and family, he thinks that the

roads there will always look like our footpath bordered with its

willow-trees."

"Is Franz the pet?" asked the Professor.

"He is my baby-brother; we lost our good mother while he was still a

mere infant. The poor child never knew his mother; and once when he

dreamt of her, the other children maintained that he had changed her

into me, for she wore my dress and my straw hat. This is the cupboard

in the wall," she said, sorrowfully, pointing to a wooden door. The

friends followed in silence, without looking at the cupboard. She

stopped before the adjoining room, and opened the door: "This was my

mother's room, it is unaltered, just as she left it; our father

generally spends some time here on Sundays."

"We cannot allow you to lead us any further," said the Professor. "I

cannot tell you how painful I feel our position in regard to you to be.

Forgive us this indelicate intrusion upon your privacy."

"If you do not wish to see the house further," answered Ilse, with a

look of gratitude, "I will gladly take you into our garden, and through

the farmyard. Father will not be pleased if I withhold anything from

you."

A back door led from the hall into the garden; the flower-beds were

edged with box, and filled with summer flowers--the old indigenous

plants of gardens. Vines climbed up the house, as far as the windows of

the upper story, and the green grapes everywhere peeped through the

bright foliage. A hedge of quickset separated the flower-beds from the

kitchen-garden, where, besides vegetables, there were hops climbing up

high poles. Further on, a large orchard, with a fine lawn, sloped down

into the valley. There was nothing remarkable to be seen here; the

flower-beds were in straight lines; the fruit trees stood in rows; the

venerable box and hedge were stiffly trimmed, and without gaps. The

friends looked back constantly over beds and flowers to the house, and

admired the brown walls showing through the soft foliage of the vine,

as well as the stonework of the windows and gables.

"In the time of our forefathers it was a sovereigns' residence,"

explained Ilse, "and they used to come here every year to hunt. But now

nothing but the dark wood back there belongs to him. In it is a

shooting-box, where the head-forester resides. Our Sovereign seldom

comes into the district. It is a long time since we have seen our dear

prince, and we live like poor orphans."

"Is he considered a good ruler?" asked the Professor.

"We do not know much about him; but we believe that he is good. Many

years ago, when I was yet a child, he once breakfasted at our house,

because there was no convenient place in Rossau. Then I was surprised

that he wore no red mantle; and he patted me on the head, and gave me

the good advice to grow, which I have honestly followed. It is said

that he will come again this year to hunt. If he stops with us again,

the old house must put on its best attire, and there will be hot cheeks

in the kitchen."

While they were walking peaceably among the fruit trees, a clear-toned

bell sounded from the farmyard. "That is the call to dinner," said

Ilse. "I will take you to your room; the maid will show you to the

dining-room."

The friends found their valises in the visitors' room, and were shortly

after summoned by a gentle knock at the door, and conducted into the

dining-room. There the proprietor was awaiting them, together with

half-a-dozen sun-burnt officials of the farm, the Mamselle, the tutor,

and the children. When they entered, the Proprietor spoke to his

daughter in a window-niche; the daughter probably gave a favorable

report of them, for he came toward them with unclouded countenance, and

said in his abrupt way, "I hope you will put up with our fare." He then

introduced the strangers to those present, calling them by their names,

and adding, "two gentlemen from the University." Every one stood behind

his chair, placed according to his station and age. The Proprietor took

the head of the table, next him Ilse; on the other side the Professor

and Doctor; then on both sides the farm officials, after them, the

Mamselle and the girls, the tutor and the boys. Little Franz approached

his seat at the lower end of the table, folded his hands and

monotonously pronounced a short grace. Then all the chairs were drawn

forward at the same moment, and two maids in peasant costume brought in

the dishes. It was a simple meal; a bottle of wine was placed between

the strangers; the host, his family, and the dependants drank a dark,

golden beer.

Silently and zealously each one fell to; only at the upper end of the

table was there any conversation. The friends expressed to the

Proprietor the pleasure that the house and its surroundings afforded

them; and the host laughed ironically when the Doctor praised the thick

walls of the structure. Then the talk rambled on to the surrounding

country, and the dialect and character of the peasantry.

"It has struck me again to-day," said the Professor, "with what

suspicion the peasants regard us city folks. They regard our language,

manners, and habits as those of another race; and when I see what the

agricultural laborer has in common with the so-called educated classes,

I feel painfully that it is much too little."

"And whose fault is it," retorted the host, "but that of the educated

classes? Do not take it amiss, if I tell you, as a simple man, that

this high cultivation pleases me as little as the ignorance and

stubbornness which surprises you in our country people. You yourselves,

for example, make a long journey, in order to find an old forgotten

manuscript which was written by an educated man in a nation that has

passed away. But I ask what have millions of men, who speak the same

language as you, are of the same race, and live near you, what have

they gained by all the learning that you have acquired for yourselves

and small numbers of wealthy people of leisure? When you speak to my

laborers, they do not understand you. If you wished to speak to them of

your learning, my farm hands would stand before you like savages. Is

that a sound state of affairs? I tell you, so long as this lasts, we

are not a well-conditioned people."

"If your words are meant as a reproach to my vocation," answered the

Professor, "you are unjust; for we are now actively employed in making

the discoveries of the learned accessible to the people. That much more

should be done in this direction, I do not deny. But at all periods

serious scientific investigations, even when only intelligible to a

very small circle, have exercised an invisible influence on the souls

and lives of the people in general. These scientific investigations

develop the language, give certain tendencies to thought, gradually

evolve customs, ethics, and laws, according to the needs of every age.

Not only practical inventions and increasing wealth are facilitated by

them; but also, what surely will not seem less important to you, the

ideas of man about his own life, the manner in which he performs his

duty toward others, the feeling with which he regards truth and

falsehood,--for all this each one of us is indebted to the erudition of

the nation, no matter how little interest he may take in the various

investigations. And let me use an old simile. Science is like a great

fire that must be incessantly maintained in a nation, because flint and

steel are unknown to them. I am one of those whose duty it is

constantly to throw fresh logs into the burning mass. It is the task of

others to carry the holy flame throughout the land, to the villages and

cottages. Every one whose object it is to diffuse that light, has his

rights, and no one should think meanly of another."

"There is some truth in that," said the host thoughtfully.

"If the great fire does not burn," continued the Professor, "the single

flames could not be spread. And, believe me, what most strengthens and

elevates an honorable man of learning in the most difficult

investigations, is the fact, confirmed by long experience, that his

labors will in the end conduce to the benefit of mankind. They do not

always help to invent new machines, nor discover new plants for

cultivation, but they are nevertheless effective for all, when they

teach what is true and untrue, beautiful and ugly, good and bad. In

this sense they make millions freer, and therefore better."

"I see at least by your words," said the host, "that you hold your

vocation in high esteem; and I like that, for it is the characteristic

of an honest man."

This conversation produced a pleasant frame of mind in both men. The

Inspector rose, and in a moment all the chairs of the farm dignitaries

were pushed back, and the children and most of the party left the room.

Only the host, Ilse, and the guests sat together for a few moments

longer in pleasant conversation. Then they went into the next room,

where coffee was prepared. Ilse poured it out, while the Proprietor

from his seat scrutinized the unexpected guests.

The Professor set the empty cup down and began: "Our task here is

ended, and we have to thank you for a hospitable reception. But I do

not like to part without once more reminding you--"

"Why should you go?" interrupted the Proprietor. "You have had a long

journey to-day; you will not find either in the town or in the

neighboring villages any respectable lodging, and, in the pressure of

the harvest, perhaps not even a conveyance. Pray be contented to pass

the night here; we have, besides, to resume our conversation of this

morning," he added, good-humoredly, "and I am anxious to come to a good

understanding before we part. Will you accompany me for a while into

the field, where my presence is required? When I ride to the distant

part of the farm, Ilse will take my place. In the evening we will have

a little sensible talk together."

The friends readily agreed to this proposal. The three men walked

through the field engaged in genial conversation. The Professor was

interested to see the large ears of a new variety of barley, which grew

very densely, and the Proprietor spoke thoughtfully of this new species

of corn. They stopped where the laborers were busy. Then the overseer

handed his report to the Proprietor, after which they crossed the

stubble to the sheaves. The Proprietor glanced quickly over the

gathered shocks, the industrious people, and the patient horses in the

harvest wagons; the friends observed with interest the intercourse

between the master of the property and his subordinates and laborers;

the short orders and pertinent answers; the zeal and cheerful aspect of

the working-people when they announced the number of the sheaves, all

well-behaved, industrious, and acting in unison. They returned with a

feeling of respect for the man who ruled his little domain so firmly.

On their way back they stopped to look at the foals that were gamboling

about in a meadow behind the barns, and when the Doctor praised, above

all, two galloping browns, it appeared that he had admired the best

horses, and the Proprietor smiled upon him benignantly. At the entrance

to the farmyard a groom brought a riding-horse, a powerful black, with

strong limbs and broad chest: the Doctor stroked the horse's neck, and

the Proprietor examined the straps. "I am a heavy rider," he said, "and

need a strong animal." He swung himself heavily into the saddle, and,

taking off his cap, said, "We meet again in the evening." And stately

did horse and rider look, as they trotted along the road through the

field.

"The young lady awaits you," said the groom; "I am to escort you to

her."

"Have we made any progress or not?" asked the Doctor, laughing, and

taking hold of his friend's arm.

"A struggle has begun," answered the friend seriously, "and who can say

what will be the result?"

Ilse was sitting in an arbor of honeysuckle in the garden, surrounded

by the children. It was a pleasant sight to see the young fair-haired

family together. The girls sat by their sister; the boys ran around the

arbor playing, with their afternoon luncheon in their hands. Seven

fresh, well-formed faces, as like each other as blossoms on the same

tree, yet each developing itself at a different period of life, from

Franz, whose round child's head resembled a blooming bud, to the

beautiful, full-blown face and figure that sat in the centre, brightly

lighted up by the glancing rays of the sun. Again were the hearts of

the friends thrilled by the appearance of the girl and the sound of her

voice, as she tenderly scolded little Franz because he had knocked the

bread and butter out of his brother's hands. Again did the children

stare suspiciously at the strangers, but the Doctor ignored the

ceremonial of first acquaintance by taking Franz by the legs and

placing him on his shoulders, seating himself with his rider in the

arbor. The little lad sat for a few moments on his elevation quite

surprised, and the children laughed aloud at his round eyes looking so

frightened at the stranger's head between his little legs. But the

laughter of the others gave him courage, and he began to pummel lustily

with his feet, and to brandish his bread triumphantly round the locks

of the stranger. Thus the acquaintance was made; a few minutes later,

the Doctor went with the children through the garden, allowing himself

to be chased, and trying to catch the shouting crew between the

flower-beds.

"If you like, we will go where you can obtain the best view of our

house," said Ilse, to the Professor.

Surrounded by the children they walked along the road that led to the

church. A winding footpath ran down to the bottom, where a strip of

meadow bordered the bubbling brook. From this deep dell they ascended

some hundred steps. Before them rose from the copse a huge rock; they

passed round it and stood by a stone grotto. The rock formed the portal

and walls of a cave which penetrated about ten paces into the hill. The

ground was level, covered with white sand; bramble-bushes and wild

roses hung down over the entrance; in the midst of them grew a large

bush of willow-rose; it hung with its thick blossoms like a plume of

red feathers over the rocky arch of the grotto. The trace of an old

wall on the side showed that the cave had once been a refuge either for

the oppressed or the lawless; at the entrance lay a stone, the upper

surface of which had been smoothed for a seat; in the obscure light of

the background stood a stone bench.

"There is our house," said Ilse, pointing over the valley to the height

where the gables rose behind the fruit trees of the garden. "It is so

near that a loud call would be heard here."

The friends looked from the twilight of the cave into the bright light

of day, on the stone house and the trees which stood below it.

"All is quiet in the wood," continued Ilse; "even the voice of the

birds has ceased; they have left their nests for the harvest fields,

where they congregate in flocks."

"I hear a gentle murmur, like the gurgling of water," said the

Professor.

"A stream runs over the stones below," explained Ilse. "Now it is

scanty, but in the spring much water collects from the hills. Then the

sound of the rushing water becomes loud, and the brook courses wildly

over the stones; it covers the meadows below, fills the whole valley,

and rises up to the copse-wood. But in warm weather this is a pleasant

resting-place for us all. When my father bought the estate the cave was

overgrown, the entrance choked up with stones and earth, and it was the

abode of owls. He had it opened and cleared."

The Professor examined the cave with curiosity, and struck the red rock

with his cane. Ilse standing apart watched him with troubled look. "Now

he is beginning his search," she thought.

"It is all old stone," she exclaimed.

The Doctor had been clambering outside the cave with the children. He

now freed himself from Hans, who had just confided to him that among

the thick alder bushes there was the empty nest of a mountain titmouse.

"This must be a wonderful place for the legends of the country," he

exclaimed, with delight; "there cannot be a more charming home for the

spirits of the valley."

"People talk absurd stuff about it," rejoined Ilse, with a tone of

disapprobation. "They say that little dwarfs dwell here, and that their

footsteps can be perceived in the sand, yet the sand was first brought

here by my father. Nevertheless, the people are frightened, and when

evening comes the women and children of the laborers do not like to

pass it. But they conceal this from us, as my father cannot bear

superstition."

"The dwarfs are evidently not in favor with you," answered the Doctor.

"As there are none, we ought not to believe in them," replied Ilse,

eagerly. "Men ought to believe what the Bible teaches; not in wild

beings that, as they say in the village, fly through the wood in the

night. Lately an old woman was ill in a neighboring village, no one

would bring her any food, and they disgracefully rejoiced in her

sickness because they thought the poor woman could change herself into

a black cat and injure the cattle. When we first heard of it, the woman

was in danger of dying of starvation. This idle talk is therefore

wicked."

The Doctor had meanwhile noted down the dwarfs in his note-book; but he

looked dissatisfied at Ilse, who, speaking from the dusk in the rear of

the cave, resembled a legendary figure.

"She does not object to sly Jacob, who deceived his blind father by

putting kid skins on his arms; but our fairy-lore is distasteful to

her."

He put his note-book up again and went with Hans after the titmouse.

The Professor had, with amusement, observed the secret vexation of his

friend; but Ilse turned to him, saying:

"I am surprised that your friend takes note of such stories; it is not

right, such things should be forgotten."

"You know that he himself does not believe in them," answered the

Professor, in mitigation. "What he searches for are only the traditions

of the people. For these legends originated in a time when our whole

nation believed in these spirits, as they do now the teachings of the

Bible. He collects these reminiscences in order to ascertain what was

the faith and poetry of our ancestors."

The maiden was silent. Then after a time she said:

"This also, then, is connected with your labors."

"It is," replied the Professor.

"It is good to listen to you," continued Ilse, "for your mode of speech

is different from ours. Formerly when it was said of any one, he speaks

like a book, I thought it was a reproach; but there is no doubt that

this is the correct expression, and it gives one pleasure to listen."

Thus saying, with her large open eyes she looked from the interior of

the grotto at the Scholar, who stood in the entrance leaning against

the stone, brightly lighted up by the rays of the sun.

"There are, however, many books that talk badly," answered the

Professor, smiling; "and nothing tires one so much as lengthy

book-wisdom from living mouths."

"Yes, yes," acquiesced Ilse. "We have an acquaintance, a learned woman,

Mrs. Rollmaus. When she visits us on Sundays, she places herself on the

sofa, and begins a discourse with my father. He cannot escape her, turn

which way he will, she knows how to pin him down by talking about the

English and Circassians, comets and poets. But the children discovered

she had a cyclopedia for conversation, from which she gathers it all;

and when anything happens in the country, or the newspapers make a

noise about anything, she reads in the cyclopedia what bears upon it.

We have procured the same book, and when her visit is impending, we

think over what subject is then uppermost. Then the children look out

and read this beforehand, Saturday evenings; and our father also

listens and himself looks at the book, and the next day the children

are delighted that father vanquishes the lady by means of her own book;

for our book is a newer edition, and has new events in it of which she

knows little."

"So Sunday is the time when we can win honors here," said the

Professor.

"In winter we meet often during the week," continued Ilse. "But there

is not much intercourse in the neighborhood; and if we sometimes chance

to have a visitor who leaves some pleasant thoughts behind, we are

grateful and preserve them faithfully."

"Yet the best thoughts are those which come to men through their own

exertions," said the Professor, kindly. "The little that I have seen on

the estate here tells me how beautifully life can thrive, even when far

removed from the noisy bustle of the world."

"That was a kindly speech," exclaimed Ilse. "But we are not lonely

here; and we do interest ourselves about our countrymen, and about the

great world. When the neighboring proprietors come to visit, not a word

is said about the farm, and amusing subjects are talked of. Then there

is our dear Pastor, who tells us about things in foreign parts, and

reads the newspapers that are taken by my father with us. And when

there are applications in them for contributions to serve a good

object, the children are liberal, and each gives his mite from his

savings, but our father gives abundantly. And Hans, as the eldest,

collects, and has the right to pack up the money, and in the

accompanying letter he sets down the initial of the name of each that

has contributed. Then afterwards there comes a printed receipt, when

each looks for his own initial. Often a wrong one has been printed, and

this vexes the children."

From the distance they heard the cries and laughter of the children,

who were returning with the Doctor from their excursion. The girl rose,

the Professor approached her, and said with much feeling:

"Whenever my thoughts revert to this day, it will be with a feeling of

heartfelt gratitude for the manner in which you have so honestly spoken

of your happy life to a stranger."

Ilse looked at him with innocent confidence.

"You are not a stranger to me; for I saw you at the child's grave."

The joyous troop surrounded them both, and they proceeded further into

the valley.

It was evening when they returned to the house where the proprietor was

already awaiting them. After supper the elders passed another hour

together. The strangers gave an account of their tour, and told the

last news from the world; and then there was conversation on politics,

and Ilse rejoiced that her father and the strangers agreed so well on

the subject. When the cuckoo on the house dock proclaimed that it was

ten, they separated with a friendly good-night.

The housemaid lighted the strangers to their bedroom. Ilse sat on a

chair with her hands folded on her lap, looking silently before her.

After a short time the proprietor came from his room and took the

bedroom candle from the table.

"What! Still up, Ilse? How do the strangers please you?"

"Very much, father," said the maiden, gently.

"They are not such simpletons as they look," said the host, pacing to

and fro. "What he said of the great fire was right," he repeated, "and

that about our little governments was also right. The younger would

have made a good schoolmaster; and as for the tall one, by heaven it is

a shame that he has not worn jack-boots these four years; he would be a

clever inspector. Good-night, Ilse."

"Good-night, father." The daughter rose and followed her father to the

door. "Do the strangers remain here to-morrow, father?"

"Hum," said the host, meditating. "They will remain for dinner at all

events; I will show them over the farm. See that you have something

nice for dinner."

"Father, the Professor has never in his life eaten roast pig," said the

daughter.

"Ilse, what are you thinking of? My pig for the sake of Tacitus!"

exclaimed the Proprietor. "No, I cannot stand that; be content with

your poultry. Stop! Just hand me the volume of the encyclopedia

lettered T, I want to read up about that fellow."

"Here, father; I know where it is."

"See! See!" said the father, "just like Mrs. Rollmaus. Good-night."

The Doctor looked through the window into the dark court. Sleep and

peace lay over the wide space; from a distance sounded the tread of the

watchman who went his rounds through the homestead, and then the

suppressed howl of the farm dog.

"Here we are," he said, at last, "two genuine adventurers in the

enemy's fortress. Whether we shall carry anything away from it, is very

doubtful," he continued, looking significantly at his friend, with a

smile.

"It is doubtful," said the Professor, measuring the room with long

strides.

"What is the matter with you, Felix?" asked Fritz, anxiously, after a

pause; "you are very absentminded, which is not usually your way."

The Professor stood still.

"I have nothing to tell you. I have strong but confused feelings, which

I am trying to control. I fear I have this day received an impression

against which a sensible man should guard himself. Ask me nothing

further, Fritz," he continued, pressing his hand vehemently. "I do not

feel unhappy."

Fritz, deeply troubled, placed himself on his bed, and looked for a

boot-jack.

"How does our host please you?" he asked, in a low tone, and, in order

to appear unconcerned, tapping with his foot on the floor.

"A worthy man," answered the Professor, again stopping, "but his manner

is different from what we are accustomed to."

"He is of old Saxon origin," the Doctor proceeded, "broad shoulders,

giant height, open countenance, solidity in every movement. The

children also are of the same type," he continued; "the daughter is

somewhat of a Thusnelda."

"The similitude does not apply," rejoined the Professor, roughly,

continuing his walk.

Fritz drew off the second boot in a slightly discordant mood.

"How does the eldest boy please you? He has the bright hair of his

sister."

"No comparison," said the Professor, again laconically.

Fritz placed both boots before the bed, and himself upon it, and said

with decision:

"I am ready to respect your humor, even when I cannot quite understand

it; but I beg you to take into consideration that we have forced

ourselves on the hospitality of these people, and that we ought not to

take advantage of it beyond to morrow morning."

"Fritz," cried the Professor, with deep feeling, "you are my dear, true

friend; have patience with me to-day!" So saying, he turned round, and

breaking off the conversation, approached the window.

Fritz was almost beside himself with anxiety. This noble man, so

confident in all he wrote, so full of deliberation, and so firm in

decision, even with regard to the obscurest passages--and now some

emotion was working in him which shook his whole being. How could this

man be so disturbed? He could look back with majestic clearness on a

past of many thousand years, and now he was standing at a window

looking at a cow-stable, and something like a sigh sounded through the

room. And what was to come of it? These thoughts occupied incessantly

the Doctor's mind.

Long did the Professor pace up and down the room; Fritz feigned to

sleep, but kept peeping from under the bedclothes at his excited

friend. At last the Professor extinguished the light and threw himself

on his bed. Soon his deep breathing showed that beneficent nature had

softened the pulses of that beating heart. But the Doctor's anxiety

held its ground more pertinaciously. From time to time he raised his

head from his pillow, searched for his spectacles on the nearest chair,

without which he could not see the Professor, and spied through them at

the other bed, again took off his spectacles, and lay down on the

pillow with a gentle sigh. This act of friendship he repeated many

times, till at last he fell into a deep sleep, shortly before the

sparrows sang their morning song in the vine-arbor beneath.

_CHAPTER V_.

AMONG HERDS AND SHEAVES.

The friends on awakening heard the clock in the courtyard striking, the

wagons rolling before the window, and the bells of the herds tinkling.

For a moment they looked bewildered at the walls of the strange room,

and through the window out on the sunny garden. While the Doctor wrote

his memoranda and packed up his bundle, the Professor walked out. The

daily work had long begun; the men with their teams were gone to the

field; the Inspector hastened busily about the open barns; encircled by

the dogs, the bleating sheep thronged before the stable.

The landscape shone in the light of a cloudless sky. The mist hovered

over the earth, subduing the clear light of the morning sun, blending

it with a delicate grey. The houses and trees still cast long shadows,

the coolness of the dewy night still lingered in shady places, and the

soft, light breeze fanned the cheeks of the Scholar, now with the

warmth of the early daylight, now with the refreshing breath of night.

He walked about the buildings and the farmyard in order to acquaint

himself with the place, of which henceforth he was to have mingled

recollections in his soul. The persons who dwelt here had with some

hesitation disclosed their life to him, and much in their simple

pastoral existence appeared to him pleasing and attractive. The

influences that here produced activity and energy could everywhere be

seen. The tasks for each one and the duties for each day grew in the

soil of the farm and the surrounding country. Their views of life and

of the world were all in accordance with their surroundings. He felt

keenly how worthily and happily men could live whose life was so firmly

interwoven with nature and the primitive necessities of man. But for

himself his life was regulated by other influences, was actuated by the

thousand impressions of ancient and modern times, and not unfrequently

by the forms and circumstances of the distant past. For a man's doings

in life are more to him than the passing labor of the day, and all that

he has done continues to work within him as a living principle. The

naturalist, whose desire for rare plants impels him to the towering

mountain-top, whence return is impossible; the soldier, whose

recollection of the excitement of old battles impels him into new

combats--these are both led by the power of thoughts which their past

lives have made a part of their being. Man, it is true, is not the

slave of what he has done, if he has not stooped to a lower level; his

will is free, he chooses as he likes, and casts off what he does not

care to preserve; but the forms and ideas that have entered into his

soul work on and guide him unceasingly; he has often to guard himself

against their mastery, but in a thousand cases he joyfully follows

their gentle guidance. All that was and all that is continues far

beyond his mere earthly existence in every new being into which it

penetrates. It may influence millions, for ages--ennobling, elevating,

or degrading individuals and nations. Thus the spirits of the past, the

forces of nature, even our own actions and thoughts become an

inalienable, component part of the soul, influencing our lives. The

learned man smiled as he thus thought how the strange, old

reminiscences of thousands of years had brought him among these country

people, and how differently the different activity and occupation of

the man who ruled here, had shaped his mind and judgment.

Amid these thoughts the lowing of the cattle sounded softly from the

stalls. Looking up, he saw a number of maids carrying full milk-pails

to the dairy. Behind them went Ilse, in a simple morning dress;

her fair hair shone in the sun like spun gold, and her step was brisk

and vigorous like the early morn. The Professor felt shy about

approaching her; his eyes followed her thoughtfully; she also was one

of the forms that henceforth was to live within him, the ideal of his

dreams--perhaps of his wishes. For how long? and how powerfully? He did

not realize that his Roman emperors were to aid in answering this

question within the next hour.

The proprietor came across the farm-yard and, greeting the Professor,

invited him to take a short walk into the fields. As the two walked

together--both able men, and yet so different in face and figure, in

mind and manners--many would have noted the contrast with deep

interest, and Ilse not last among them. But no one that did not have

the eyes of a treasure-seeker or exorcist could perceive how different

were the invisible retinues of tiny spirits that flitted round the

temples and shoulders of each,--comparable to swarms of countless birds

or bees. The spirits that attended the farmer were in homely working

garb, blue blouses and fluttering bandanas, among them a few forms in

the misty robes of Faith, Hope, and Charity. On the other hand, round

the Professor swarmed an invisible throng of foreign phantoms with

togas, and antique helmets, in purple robes and Greek chlamys, athletes

also--some with bundles of rods and winged hats. The little retinue of

the Proprietor flew incessantly over the fields and back again; the

swarm round the Professor remained steadily by him. At last the

proprietor stopped at one particular field; he looked at it with great

delight, and mentioned that he had here succeeded by deep ploughing in

growing green lupines, then newly introduced into cultivation. The

Professor seemed surprised; among his spirit-retinue there arose a

confused stir; one of the small antique spirits flew to the nearest

clod of earth and fastened thereto a delicate web which it had spun

from the head of the Professor. Whereupon the Professor told his

companion how deep ploughing for green lupines had been the custom of

the Romans, and how rejoiced he was that now after more than a thousand

years this old discovery had been brought to light again in our

farming. They then spoke of the change in agriculture, and the

Professor mentioned how striking it was that three hundred years after

the beginning of our era, the corn exchanges at the harbors of the

Black Sea and Asia Minor were so similar to those of Hamburg and London

in modern days, while at present other agricultural produce was

principally cultivated in the East. Finally, he told him of a grain

tariff that was imposed by a Roman emperor, and that unfortunately the

price of wheat and barley, the two products on which then depended

other prices and duties, were effaced from the stone tablet that had

been preserved. And he explained why this loss was so much to be

lamented. Then the heart of the host began to expand, and he assured

the Professor that the fact need not be lamented, for the lost value

might be fixed from the price of the remaining products bearing straw

and husk, because the prices of all agricultural produce taken as a

whole bore a firm and ancient ratio among each other. He gave this

relation of their productive value in figures, and the Professor

discovered with joyful astonishment that they agreed with the tariff of

his old Emperor Diocletian.

While the men were carrying on this desultory conversation, a

mischievous wide-awake spirit, probably the Emperor Diocletian himself,

flew from the Professor, made his way through the peasant spirits of

the proprietor, placed himself in his purple robe on the head of the

master, stamped with his little feet on his skull; and impressed the

farmer with the belief that the Professor was a sensible and worthy

man, who might give him further information on the value and price of

agricultural produce. It also pleased the Proprietor much that he could

give the learned gentleman instruction in his own department.

When, at the end of an hour, the two strollers returned to the house,

the Proprietor stopped at the door and said with some solemnity to the

Professor, "When I brought you here yesterday, I little knew whom I had

with me. It grieves me that I greeted so inhospitably a man like you.

Your acquaintance has become a pleasure to me; it is rare to meet with

a person with whom one can speak about everything as one can with you.

As you are traveling for recreation, pray be pleased to pass some time

with us simple folk--the longer the better. It is indeed not a season

when a country host can make the house agreeable to his guests, so you

must be content. If you wish to work, and require books, you may have

them brought here; and pray observe whether the Romans had winter

barley which was lighter than ours. Do me the honor of accepting my

invitation." So saying, he cordially extended his hand to his guest.

The Professor's countenance beamed with delight; he eagerly clasped the

hand of his friendly host. "If you are willing to keep me and my friend

a few days longer, I accept your invitation with all my heart. I must

tell you that the insight into a new circle of human interests is most

valuable to me, but still more so the kindness with which you have

treated us."

"Settled!" exclaimed the Proprietor, cheerfully; "now we will call your

friend."

The Doctor opened his door. When the Proprietor warmly repeated the

invitation to him, he looked for a moment earnestly at his friend, and

when the latter gave him a friendly nod, he also accepted for the few

days which were still free before the promised visit to his relatives.

Thus it happened that the Emperor Diocletian, fifteen hundred years

after he had unvoluntarily left the world, exercised his tyrannical

power over the Professor and Proprietor. Whether there were other

ancient powers actively working in secret, is not ascertained.

Ilse listened silently to her father's information that the gentlemen

would be his guests some time longer, but her look fell so bright and

warm on the strangers that they rejoiced in being welcomed by her also.

From this hour they were introduced into the household as old

acquaintances, and both, though they had never lived in the country,

felt it indispensable, and as if they had returned to a home in which

years before they had once bustled about. It was a busy life there, and

yet, even when work was most pressing and earnest, there was a cheerful

repose about it. Without much ado they all worked in unison. The

daylight was the supreme patron, who, at its rise, called to work, and

when extinguished, gave rest to weary limbs; the laborers looked up to

the sky to measure their hours of work, and the sun and the clouds

influenced their frame of mind, sometimes inducing comfort and

sometimes anxiety. Slowly and gently, as nature draws the blossoms out

of the earth and matures the fruits, did the feelings of these men grow

into blossoms and fruits. In peaceful relations the workers passed

their lives. Small impressions, such as a few kind words or a friendly

look, sufficed to entwine a firm bond round these various natures--a

bond woven with invisible threads; but which attained a strength

sufficient to last through a whole life.

The friends also felt the influence of the peace, daily activity, and

small events of the country. Only when they looked toward the old house

and thought of the hope which had led them hither, did something of

the disquiet come over them which children feel when expecting a

Christmas-box; and the quiet work of their fancy threw a brilliant

light over all that belonged to the house, even down to the barking

Nero, who, as early as the second day, expressed by the vehement

wagging of his tail, his wish to be taken into their fellowship at

table.

The Doctor did not fail to remark how strongly his friend was attracted

by this quiet life, and with what tact he adapted himself to the

inhabitants of the house. The Proprietor, before he rode to the distant

part of the farm, brought him some agricultural books, and spoke to him

of the different varieties of grain, and the Professor answered him

modestly, as became a young gentleman in top-boots, and immersed

himself forthwith in these new interests. Also between Ilse and the

Professor there was an evident understanding, the cause of which

occasioned the Doctor some disquiet. When the Professor spoke to her,

it was with deep respect, both in voice and look, and Ilse always

turned by preference to him, and was quietly but incessantly

endeavoring to give him pleasure. When at table he picked up her

handkerchief, he handed it to her with a respectful bow as to a

princess. When she handed him his cup he looked as happy as if he had

discovered the secret meaning of some difficult passage in an author.

Then in the evening, when he sat with the father in the garden and Ilse

came behind them from the house, his countenance brightened up, though

he had not yet seen her. When she distributed to the children their

supper, and was obliged to scold little Franz for being naughty, the

Professor suddenly looked as dismal as if he himself were a boy whom

the displeasure of his sister was to improve. These observations set

the Doctor a-thinking.

Furthermore, when, shortly after study-time Hans proposed to the Doctor

to play a friendly game of blind-man's-buff, Fritz assumed, as a matter

of course, that the Professor would in the meantime converse with the

father in the arbor, and he never dreamed of asking anything so

extravagant of his learned friend as to join in the game. How

astonished then was he when Ilse, having folded the handkerchief,

approached the Professor, requested him to be blinded first, and

he, the Professor, looked quite happy at the idea, offered his head

gently--like a lamb to the sacrifice--to be covered, and allowed

himself to be led by Ilse into the midst of the circle of little

rompers. Noisily did the swarm circle round the Professor; the impudent

children pulled him by the flaps of his coat, even Ilse contrived to

lay hold of a button and draw him gently by it. This put him in a state

of excitement; he felt about with his hands, and minded no attacks of

the assaulting children, only seeking to seize the fair offender; and

when he did not succeed, he kept poking about with his sticks and

groping like the blind singer Demodokus to catch a Phaeacian. Now, at

last, he hit exactly upon Ilse, but she passed the end of the stick to

her sister, and Clara whistled on it, but he exclaimed, "Fraeulein

Ilse!" She was delighted that he had guessed wrong, and he looked much

puzzled.

Other games followed, in all of which the Professor showed such

dexterity that the children were quite enchanted, though Franz called

out indignantly that he did not strike Ilse hard enough when he had the

knotted handkerchief. Ilse, however, took the handkerchief, and, much

to the Scholar's astonishment and delight, struck him heartily over the

shoulders.

The Doctor joined in the sports, and looked with pleasure at the

movements of the wild maidens in the games; and when Ilse stood by a

tree and laid hold of a branch with her hand in order to support

herself, her glowing face wreathed by the leaves of the nut-tree, she

looked so lovely and happy that the Doctor was also enchanted.

In such a bacchanalian mood it was not to be wondered at that the

Professor at last called upon Hans to run a race twice around the

square. Amidst the shouts of the children Hans lost the race, because

he had as he sturdily maintained the inner side of the square, but the

others scouted at any such excuse. As the runners dashed up to the

arbor. Ilse handed to the Professor his great coat, which she had

meanwhile fetched from the coat-rack in the hall. "It is late, you must

not take cold while with us." It was not at all late, but he put on the

coat at once, buttoned it up from top to bottom, and, with a look of

satisfaction, shook his opponent Hans by the shoulder. Afterwards they

all sat down again in the arbor, in order to cool themselves. Here, at

the vociferous demands of the little ones, a thaler was passed round

while a song was sung, and the more observant part of the family loudly

declared that the thaler had twice fallen to the ground between Ilse

and the Professor, because they had not passed it firmly enough into

each other's hands. By this game the love of song was awakened among

the young people, and great and small sang together as loud as they

could, such songs as had become familiar to them--"On the Cool Banks of

the Saal," "Song of the Cloak," and the catch of "The Bells of

Capernaum," After that Ilse and Clara, at the request of the Doctor,

sang a folk-song, very simple and unadorned, and perhaps on that

account the melancholy style touched the heart, so that after the song

all were quiet, and the strangers appeared much moved till the

Proprietor called upon the guests to contribute their share. The

Professor, recovering from his emotion, began immediately to sing, in a

rich-toned bass, "In a deep, damp cellar I sat," so that the boys in

their enthusiasm drank up the remains of their glasses of milk and

clinked them on the table. Again the company broke out into a chorus;

they began the dear old song, "What is the German Fatherland," so far

as they knew the verses, and in conclusion they attempted "Luetzow's

Wild Charge." The Doctor, as an experienced chorus-singer, carried the

melody beautifully through the most difficult passages, and the refrain

sounded wonderfully in the calm evening air; the tones passed along the

vine arbor and wall, and over the top of the fruit trees up to the

thicket of the nearest hill, and came back from thence as an echo.

After this masterpiece the children's party broke up, and they were

unwillingly taken by Ilse to the house, but the men continued in

conversation a little longer; they had laughed and sung together, and

became confidential. The Proprietor spoke of his early days, how he had

tried his luck here and there, and at last had established himself

firmly in this place. The struggle of daily life had been weary and

toilsome; he gladly called it to mind at this hour, and spoke of it

with the good sense of an energetic man.

Thus passed the second day on the estate--beneath sun and stars,

amongst the sheaves and the herds.

The following morning the Professor was awaked by the loud noise of the

feathered farmyard denizens; the cock flew upon a stone beneath the

window of the visitor's room, and sounded his morning clarion

imperiously; the hens and young chickens stood in a circle round him,

and endeavored to practice the same art; in between the sparrows

chirruped loud, then the doves flew up and cooed their song, at last

there came an army of ducks who began quacking a second chorus. The

Professor found it necessary to rise, and the Doctor called out

querulously from his bed: "That comes from yesterday's singing; now we

hear the effect it had on all the associated farmyard musicians." But

in this he was in error, the little flock of the farmyard sang only

from official zeal to announce that a stormy day might be expected.

When the Professor went into the open air, the morning light still

glowed like fire in the heavens, and the first rays of light shimmered

over the fields in broken and trembling waves. The ground was dry, no

dewdrops hung on leaf or turf. The air also was sultry, and the heads

of the flowers drooped languidly on their stalks. Had a second sun

appeared in the night? But the clear piping of the yellow thrush

sounded from the top of an old cherry tree incessantly. The old

gardener, Jacob, looked at the tree, shaking his head: "I thought that

the rogue had gone away, he has made too much havoc among the cherries,

and now he is giving us information before he leaves; something is

brewing to-day."

Ilse, as she came from the dairy, said: "The cows are unquiet, they low

and push against one another."

The sun rose red out of heavy vapor--the laborers in the field felt a

weariness in their limbs, and continually stopped in their work to dry

their faces. The shepherd was to-day discontented with his flock; the

wethers were bent upon gamboling instead of eating, they bucked one

another, and the young ones frisked and danced about as if they were

set on wires. Disorder and willfulness could not be restrained. The dog

circled round the excited animals incessantly; but his tail hung

between his legs, and when he tugged at a sheep, the animal long felt

the ungentle bite.

The sun rose higher in the cloudless heavens--the day became hotter--a

light vapor rose from the earth which made the distance indistinct; the

sparrows flew restlessly about the tops of the trees, the swallows

skimmed along the ground and circled round the men. The friends went to

their room; here also they felt the exhausting sultriness; the Doctor,

who was sketching a plan of the house, laid down his pencil. The

Professor was reading about agriculture and the rearing of cattle, but

he often looked up from his book to the sky, opened the window and

closed it again. The dinner was quieter than usual, the host looked

serious, and his staff hardly allowed themselves time to empty their

plates.

"We shall have trouble to-day," said the master of the house to his

daughter, on rising. "I will ride to the outskirts; if I am not back

before the storm, look after the house and farm."

Again men and horses went to the field, but to-day they went

unwillingly. The heat became unbearable, the afternoon sun fell

scorchingly on their heads; rock and walls glowed with heat; a white

cloud curtained the heavens, which visibly thickened and massed itself

together. The ploughboys eagerly took the horses to the stables, the

laborers hastened to unload the sheaves, and drove the wagons at a

quicker pace in order to shelter one more load under a roof before the

storm arose.

The friends stood before the farm-gate and looked at the heavy clouds

which were gathering upon the horizon. The yellow light of the sun

struggled for a short time against the dark shadows; finally the last

glare of light disappeared, and the earth lay darkened and mournful.

Ilse approached them: "The time is come; about four o'clock the storm

will rise. It seldom comes over the level land from the east, but when

it does it is always severe with us, for people say it is because it

cannot break over the hilltops which you see from the garden; then it

hangs long over our fields, and they say the thunder here is more

violent than elsewhere."

The first burst of the wind howled over the house. "I must go through

the farmyard to see that all is right," exclaimed Ilse, as she wrapped

a handkerchief quickly round her head and hurried on, accompanied

by the men, through the storm to the farm-building in which the

fire-engine stood; she looked to see whether the door was open and

whether there was water in the barrels; then she hastened forward to

the stables while the straw whirled round her; she warned the servants

once more with a cheerful call, rapidly spoke a few words to the

officials and returned to the house. She looked into the kitchen and

opened the door of the children's room to see whether all of her

brothers and sisters were with the tutor. Lastly, she let in the dog,

who was barking piteously at the gate of the farmyard, and then

returned to the friends, who, from the window of the sitting-room, were

watching the fury of the elements. "The house is secured, as far as it

is possible for human beings; but we place our trust in a stronger

Protector," said Ilse.

The storm slowly approached, one dark mass rolling on after another,

and under them, like a monstrous curtain, a pale veil of mist rose

higher and higher; the thunder rolled at shorter intervals, and grew

more wildly ominous; the storm howled round the house; thick clouds of

dust chased angrily about the walls; leaves and blades of straw flew

about in wild dance.

"The lion is roaring," said Ilse, folding her hands. She bent her head

for some moments, then looked silently out of the window. "Father is at

the outlying farm under shelter," she began again, anticipating a

question of the Professor.

It was, indeed, a violent storm that raged about the old house. Those

who listened for the first time in this place, on the open height,

alongside the ridge of hills, from which the rolling, tumultuous crash

of the thunder resounded, felt that they had never experienced such

power in nature before. While the thunder roared, the room suddenly

became dark as night, and ever and anon the dismal twilight was pierced

by the flash of fiery serpents that swept over the farm.

There was noise in the children's room; the crying of the little ones

could be heard. Ilse went to the door and opened it. "Come to me," she

called out. The children ran in terrified, and pressed round their

sister; the youngest clung to her dress. Ilse took the little child and

placed it under the charge of the Professor, who was standing by her

side. "Be quiet, and say your prayer softly," she said; "this is no

time for weeping and complaining."

Suddenly came a light so blinding that it caused them to close their

eyes--and a sharp concussion, ending in a discordant crash. When the

Professor opened his eyes, by the light of another flash he saw Ilse

standing by his side, her head turned toward him with a radiant look.

He exclaimed, anxiously: "That has struck."

"Not in the farmyard," replied the maiden, unmoved.

Again a clap, and again a flash, and a clap, wilder, shorter, sharper.

"It is just above us," said Ilse, calmly, pressing the head of her

little brother to her as if to protect him.

The Professor could not turn his eyes from the group in the middle of

the room. The noble figure of the woman before him, erect, motionless,

surrounded by the frightened brothers and sisters, the countenance

raised, and a proud smile playing about the mouth. And she, in a moment

of uncontrollable feeling, had confided to his care one of the lives

that were so dear to her; he stood in the hour of danger near her as

one of hers. He firmly held the child, which clasped him in terror.

They were short moments, these; but between flash and thunder-clap the

spark that glowed in him had blazed out into a bright flame. She who

stood near him in the lightning, suffused with the blinding light, she

it was who had become necessary to his life.

Still longer did the thunder roar; the heavy rain beat against the

window; it clattered and dashed round the house; the windows trembled

under the raging outburst of the storm.

"It is over," said Ilse, gently. The children separated and ran to the

window. "Up-stairs, Hans!" cried the sister, and hastened with her

brother out of the room to see whether the water had made its way in

anywhere. The Professor looked thoughtfully toward the door through

which she had disappeared; but the Doctor, who meanwhile had been

seated quietly on a chair, with his hands on his knees, shaking his

head, began: "These freaks of nature are against us. Since lightning

conductors have come into discredit, one has not the poor comfort of

thinking that the old manuscript has even their protection against the

attacks of the weather. This is a bad habitation for our poor old

manuscript, and it is verily a Christian duty to rescue the book as

quickly as possible from such a dangerous thunder-trap. Shall we be

able in the future, with any tranquillity of mind, to look upon a cloud

in the heavens? It will remind us of the disasters that may befall this

place."

"The house has held out hitherto," answered the Professor, laughing.

"Let us leave the manuscript meanwhile to the good Power in whom the

people here so firmly trust. The sun's rays are already breaking

through the mist."

Half an hour later it was all over; the dark clouds still hovered above

the hills, and from the distance resounded the harmless thunder. Life

began to stir again in the empty farmyard. First, the ducks came forth

with joyous haste from their hiding-place, cleaned their feathers,

examined the puddles of water, and quacked along the ruts made by the

wheels; then came the cock with his hens, cautiously treading, and

picking the soaked seeds; the doves flew on to the projections of the

window, wished each other good fortune with friendly nods and spread

their feathers in the fresh sunlight. Nero bounded boldly out of the

house, trotted through the farmyard, and barked in the air by way of

challenge to frighten away the hostile clouds. The maids and laborers

again stepped actively about the place, breathing the refreshing balsam

of the moist air. The Inspector came and reported that the lightning

had struck twice on the neighboring hill. The Proprietor, thoroughly

wet through, rode rapidly in, anxious to see whether his house and

farm-buildings were undamaged. He sprang gaily from his horse, and

exclaimed: "The rain penetrated everything out there. But, God be

praised, it has passed over. We have not had such a storm here for

years." The people listened also for awhile as the head ploughman

related that he had seen a pillar of water, which hung like a great

sack from heaven to earth, and that it had hailed violently on the

other side of the border. Then they entered the stable with great

equanimity, and enjoyed the hour of rest that the bad weather had

brought them. While the Proprietor was talking to his staff, the Doctor

prepared to descend, with the boys and the tutor, into the valley,

there to see the overflowing brook.

But the Professor and Ilse remained in the orchard, and the former was

astonished at the number of snails that now came out everywhere,

trailing slowly over the path; and he took one after the other and

placed them carefully out of the way, but the senseless creatures

always returned again to the firm gravel, expecting that the

foot-passengers were to get out of their way. They both examined the

fruit trees to see how they had borne the storm. They were much broken,

and their branches bent down. Much unripe fruit lay scattered on the

grass. The Professor cautiously shook the branches, bending under the

weight of the rain, in order to free them from their burden; he fetched

some poles to support an old apple tree which was in danger of breaking

under the weight, and both laughed heartily when, in the course of his

work, the water from the leaves ran in small streams down his hair and

coat.

Ilse clasped her hands together, lamenting over the fall of so much

fruit; but there was still much on the trees, and they might yet hope

for a rich harvest. The Professor sympathized with her and advised her

to dry the fallen fruit, and Ilse laughed again at this because most of

it was unripe. The Professor confided to her that he as a boy had

helped his dear mother when she used to arrange the fruit on the

drying-board; for his parents had owned a large garden in the town in

which his father was an official. Ilse listened with eager interest

when he related further how he had lost his father as a boy, and how

lovingly and wisely his mother had cared for him, how confidential his

relations with her had been, and that her loss had been the greatest

sorrow of his life. Then they walked up and down along the gravel walk,

and in both of them an echo of the sorrow of past days intermingled

with the cheerful mood of the present; just as in nature the movement

of a violent storm leaves after it a gentle trembling, and the pure

light of day sparkles on bower and blade like countless glittering

precious stones.

Ilse opened a gate which led from the lower part of the orchard into

the open country, and standing still, said, hesitatingly: "I propose a

walk into the village to see how our Pastor has stood the storm; would

you like to make the acquaintance of our dear friend?"

"I shall be delighted to do so," answered the Professor.

They walked along a damp footpath that wound its way through the length

of the valley by the side of the churchyard. Near it lay a little

village of closely-packed houses, in which dwelt most of the laborers

of the estate. The first building below the church was the Pastor's

house, with a wooden roof and small windows, differing little from

the dwellings of the country people. Ilse opened the door, and an old

maid-servant hastened toward her with a familiar greeting.

"Ah, Miss," she exclaimed, "we had bad weather to-day. I thought the

day of judgment had surely come. Master stood constantly at the chamber

window looking up to the manor and raising his hands in prayer for you.

He is at present in the garden."

The guests passed out through the rear door into a small space between

the gables and barns of the neighboring farmyards. A few low fruit

trees stood along the edges of the flower-beds. The old gentleman, in a

dark dressing-gown, stood by an espalier, working industriously.

"My dear child," he cried, looking up, and a smile of pleasure lighted

up the kind face under his white hair, "I knew that you would come

to-day."

He bowed to the stranger, and, after a few words of greeting, turned

again to Ilse.

"Only think what a misfortune--the storm has broken our peach tree, the

espalier is torn up and the branches are shattered; the damage is

irreparable."

He bent over the disabled tree, which he had just bound up with a

bandage of tree-gum and matting.

"It is the only peach tree here," he said, lamentingly, to the

Professor; "they have none on the whole estate, nor any in the town.

But I must not worry you with my little troubles," he continued, more

cheerfully; "I pray you come with me into the house."

Ilse entered the side door of an extension, near the house proper. "How

is Flavia?" she inquired of the maid, who stood at the threshold,

anticipating the visit.

"Doing very well," answered Susannah, "and the little one also."

"It is the dun cow and her young calf," explained the Pastor to the

Professor, as Ilse returned into the narrow courtyard with the maid. "I

do not like people to call animals by Christian names, so I have

recourse to our Latin vocabulary."

Ilse returned. "It is time that the calf should be taken away; it is a

wasteful feeder."

"That is what I said too," interposed Susannah, "but his Reverence the

Pastor will not consent."

"You are right, my dear child," answered the Pastor; "following the

demands of worldly wisdom it would be best to deliver the little calf

to the butcher. But the calf sees the thing in quite another light; and

it is a merry little creature."

"But when one asks it why, one receives no answer," said Ilse, "and

therefore, it must be pleased with what we choose. Your Reverence must

allow me to settle this with Susannah, behind your back; meanwhile you

shall have milk from our house."

The Pastor conducted them into his room; it was very small,

whitewashed, and scantily furnished. There was an old writing-table, a

black painted book-shelf with a small number of old books, a sofa and

some chairs covered with colored chintz. "This has been my Tusculum for

forty years," said the Pastor, with satisfaction, to the Professor, who

looked with surprise at the scanty furniture. "It would have been

larger if the addition had been made; there were fine plans arranged,

and my worthy neighbor took much pains about it, but since my wife was

carried out there"--he looked toward the churchyard on the height--"I

will not hear of it any more."

The Professor looked out of the window. Forty years in this narrow

building, in the little valley between the churchyard, the huts, and

the wood! He felt oppressed in spirit. "The community appears to be

poor; there is but little space for cultivation between the hills. But

how is it pray, in winter?"

"Well, even then I am still able to get about," answered the clergyman;

"I visit my old friends then, and am only troubled sometimes by the

snow. Once we were quite snowed up, and had to be dug out." He laughed

pleasantly at the recollection. "It is never lonely when one has lived

many years in a place. One has known the grandfathers, trained the

fathers, taught the children, and here and there a grandchild even, and

one sees how men rise from the earth and sink down into it again like

the leaves that fall from a tree. One observes that all is vanity and a

short preparation for eternity. Dear child," he said to Ilse, who now

entered, "pray be seated with us; I have not seen your dear face for

three days, and I would not go up because I heard you had visitors. I

have something here for you," taking a paper out of his desk; "it is

poetry."

"You see the song of the Muses does not fail us," he continued,

speaking to the Professor. "It is, to be sure, humble, and bucolic in

style. But believe me, as one who knows his village, there are few new

things under the sun; there is everything here in a small way that

there is on a large scale in the rest of the world; the blacksmith is a

zealous politician, and the justice would gladly be a Dionysius of

Syracuse. We have also the rich man of Scripture, and truly many a

Lazarus--to which number the poet whose verses I here hold belongs; and

our plasterer is a musician in winter--he does not play badly on the

zither. But they are all too ambitious and not in harmony. Sometimes it

is difficult to preserve good fellowship among them."

"Our poet wishes to have his green wall again, as I interpret it," said

Ilse, looking up from the paper.

"For seven years he has been lying in his room half palsied with severe

and incurable ills," explained the Pastor to his guest; "and he looks

through a little hole of a window into the world at the clay-wall

opposite and the men who can be seen passing; the wall belongs to a

neighbor, and my dear child trained a wild vine over it. But this year

our neighbor--our rich man--has built upon it and torn away the

foliage. This vexes the invalid, and it is difficult to help him, for

now is not the time to plant a fresh one."

"But something must be thought of," interposed Ilse. "I will speak to

him about it; excuse me, I will not be long."

She left the room. "If you wish," said the Pastor, addressing the guest

mysteriously, "I will show you this wall; for I have thought much about

the matter, but cannot devise anything." The Professor silently

acquiesced. They walked along the village lane, and at the corner the

Pastor took the arm of his companion. "Here lies the invalid," he

began, in a low tone. "His weakness makes him rather deaf, but still we

must tread gently, that he may not observe it, for that disturbs him."

The Professor saw a small sash-window open and Ilse standing before it,

her back turned to them. While the Pastor was showing him the plastered

wall and the height that was necessary for the trailing plant, he

listened to the conversation at the window. Ilse spoke loudly and was

answered from the bed by a shrill voice. He discovered with

astonishment that they were not speaking of the vines.

"And the gentleman is of a good disposition?" asked the voice.

"He is a learned and good man," answered Ilse.

"And how long does he remain with you?"

"I know not," was Ilse's hesitating reply.

"He should remain altogether with you, for you like him," said the

invalid.

"Ah, that we dare not hope, dear Benz. But this conversation will not

help to find you a good prospect," continued Ilse. "I will speak to

your neighbor; but nothing will grow between to-day and to-morrow. I

have thought that the gardener might nail a shelf under the window, and

we shall place some plants from my room upon it."

"That will obstruct the view," answered the voice, discontentedly. "I

could no longer see the swallows as they fly past, and little of the

heads of the people who go by."

"That is true," replied Ilse; "but we will put the board so low that

only the flowers shall peep through the window."

"What kind of flowers are they?" asked Benz.

"A myrtle," said Ilse.

"That does not blossom," answered Benz, surlily.

"But there are two roses blowing and a plant of heliotrope."

"I do not know what that is," interposed the invalid.

"It smells very sweet," said Ilse.

"Then let it come," assented Benz. "But I must also have some sweet

basil."

"We will see whether it can be had," answered Ilse; "and the gardener

shall also train some ivy round the window."

"That will be too dark for me," retorted the dissatisfied Benz.

"Never mind," said Ilse, decidedly; "we will try, and if it does not

suit you, it can be altered."

To this the invalid agreed.

"But the gardener must not make me wait," he exclaimed; "I should like

to have it to-morrow."

"Very well," said Ilse; "early in the morning."

"And you will show my verses to no one, not even to the strange

gentleman; they are only for you."

"Nobody shall see them," said Ilse. "Call your daughter Anna, dear

Benz."

As she prepared to depart, the Pastor gently drew his guest back.

"When the invalid has had such a conversation," he explained, "he is

contented for the whole of the next day, and to-morrow he will again

compose some verses. Sometimes--between you and me--he writes a good

deal of nonsense, but it is well meant, and for him it is the best

pastime. The people in the village avoid passing under his window as

much as possible. This is the hardest work in my office; for the people

are obstinate in the superstition that illness and suffering originate

from evil spirits, that they are inflicted from hatred, or as

punishment for past wrong; and though I preach to them incessantly that

all is only a trial for the other world, this teaching is too high for

them, only the infirm believe it; but those who are hale and hearty

stubbornly struggle against the truth and salvation."

The learned man turned his eyes up to the little window from which the

invalid looked upon the plastered wall, and then again on the clerical

gentleman who for forty years had preached the Holy Gospel in the

valley. His heart was heavy and his eyes passed from the twilight of

the deep vale to the hill-top, which still shone in the glad light of

the evening sun. Then she returned to him, she who had descended to

watch over the helpless and the poor; and when he ascended the height

with her, it appeared to him as if they both emerged from gloomy

earthly trouble into a lighter air; but the youthful figure and the

beautiful, calm countenance near him, shining in the lingering evening

light so wondrously, seemed to resemble one of those messengers whom

Jehovah sent to the tent of his faithful servant. He rejoiced when she

laughed at the joyous bounding of the dog, who came barking toward

them.

Thus passed another day, lighted up by the sun, and overshadowed by the

clouds, amidst small events of daily life and quiet existence. When

recorded by the pen it seems insignificant, but when a man lives it, it

sends his blood coursing energetically through his veins.

_CHAPTER VI_.

A LEARNED LADY FROM THE COUNTRY.

It was Sunday, and the estate wore its festive garment. The barns in

the farmyard were closed, the farm servants and maids walked about in

their best attire, not like busy laborers, but with the comfortable

leisure which is the poetry of a toilsome life to the German peasant.

The bells from the church tower called to service; Ilse, with her

hymn-book in her hand, went with her sister slowly down the hill, the

maids and men followed in small groups. The Proprietor passed the day

in his study, in order to make up the accounts of the past week; but

first he knocked at the door of his friends' room, and paid them a

short morning visit.

"We shall have guests to-day, the Crown Inspector Rollmaus and his

wife; he is an excellent farmer; but his wife is irredeemably bent upon

culture,--a paragon of learning. You must take care, she will press you

hard."

As the clock struck twelve, a carriage drawn by two well-fed brown

horses stopped at the door; the children hastened to the window.

"The Crown Inspector's wife is coming!" exclaimed the youngest,

excitedly.

A stout man in a dark green coat got out of the carriage, followed by a

little lady in black silk, with a sunshade and a large bandbox. The

Proprietor and Ilse met them at the door of the house, the host

laughingly called out a welcome, and conducted the gentleman to the

sitting-room. The guest had black hair and a round face, which by

exposure to the sun and air had acquired a permanent tint of reddish

brown.

He had piercing eyes, red nose and red lips. Learning the names of the

two strangers he made a slight obeisance, but looked displeased at

their appearing in pretentious black coats; and as he had a vague but

strong aversion to useless authors, needy scholars, and non-producers

of all sorts who visited the country to write books, or because they

had no permanent residence of their own, he assumed toward both these

gentlemen a sulky and suspicious demeanor. After a while the lady made

her appearance. She had in the mean time, with Ilse's help put on her

best cap, which had been taken out of the bandbox; a work of art, upon

which were set two dark red roses. She entered the room, rustling,

curtsying, and laughing, polished from head to foot. She passed rapidly

from one to another, kissed the girls, declared to the boys that they

had grown much during the last week, and at last stopped, full of

expectation, before the two strangers. The host presented them, and did

not fail to add: "Two gentlemen from the University."

The little lady pricked up her ears, and her gray eyes sparkled.

"From the University!" she exclaimed; "what a surprise. These gentlemen

are rare guests in our country. There is indeed little inducement to

learned gentlemen to come among us, for materialism reigns supreme

here, and the circulating library at Rossau is certainly not in good

hands; actually they never get anything new. May I be allowed to ask

what are the studies of the gentlemen, whether science generally or

some particular specialty?"

"My friend's studies are more of a general character. I have a

specialty, and in addition to it, I teach the classics," replied the

Professor; "this gentleman is also engaged in Indian research."

"Pray be seated on the sofa?" interposed Ilse. Mrs. Rollmaus followed

her reluctantly.

"Indian!" she exclaimed, seating herself and arranging her dress. "That

is a strange language. They wear tufts of feathers and their dress is

scanty, and their trousers, if I may be pardoned the reference, hang

down as is the case with so many pigeons, which also have long feathers

to their legs. One sees pictures of them sometimes; in my Karl's

picture-book of last Christmas there are a great many pictures of these

wild men. They have barbarous customs, dear Ilse."

"But why has not Karl come with you?" inquired Ilse, in an effort to

rescue the gentlemen from the discourse.

"It was because we shall have to return in the dark. Our carriage has

only two seats, and there would have been no room to pack in a third

with Rollmaus, so Karl would have had to sit by the coachman, and the

poor child would be so sleepy at night that I should have been afraid

of his falling off. And then there are his lessons for to-morrow--for

only think, I have persuaded Rollmaus to take a tutor for our children,

as your dear father has done."

When the lady intimated the prospect of a return home after dark, the

Doctor looked compassionately at his friend; but the Professor was

listening so attentively to the conversation that he did not observe

this expression of commiseration. Ilse continued to ask questions and

Mrs. Rollmaus always answered, although sometimes she cast a longing

look at the Doctor, whose connection with the Indians in Karl's picture

book appeared to her very instructive. Meanwhile, the two country

gentlemen had become engaged in conversation with regard to the merits

of a horse in the neighborhood, which had been recommended for general

purposes, so that the Doctor at last turned to the children and began

to chat with Clara and Louise.

After half an hour of quiet preparation, the maidservant appeared at

the door of the dining room. The Proprietor gallantly offered his arm

to Mrs. Rollmaus and escorted her to the table. The Professor conducted

Ilse, and the Doctor attempted to take her sister Clara, but she

blushed and resisted till he gave his other arm to Louise and Rickchen,

whereupon Franz laid hold of his coat-tails and on the way whispered to

him: "We have turkey today." But Mr. Rollmaus, who regarded attendance

upon ladies a wearisome custom brought up the rear alone, greeting, as

he passed, the farm officials, who were standing in the dining-room,

with the query:

"Is all the corn in yet?"

To which the Inspector replied with emphasis that it was.

Again all took their places according to rank and dignity. Mrs.

Rollmaus had the place of honor, and between her and Ilse sat the

Professor.

It was not a quiet meal for the latter. Ilse was more silent than

usual, but his new neighbor plied him with learned questions. She

obliged him to tell her the regulations of the University, and in what

manner the students were instructed. And the Professor informed her

fully, and did so good-humoredly. But he did not long succeed in

protecting either himself or others against the feeling of annoyance

which the conversation of Mrs. Rollmaus always occasioned.

"So you are a philosopher?" she said. "That is indeed interesting. I

also have attempted philosophy; but the style is so incomprehensible.

Pray, what is the purpose of philosophy?"

"It endeavors," was the patient answer of the Professor to this

perplexing question, "to instruct men in the life of their mind and

spirit, and thus to strengthen and improve them."

"The life of the spirit!" exclaimed Mrs. Rollmaus, excitedly; "but do

you too believe that spirits can appear to men after death?"

"Why, do you know any instance where that has happened?" asked the

Professor. "It would be interesting to all to hear the exact details.

Has anything of the kind occurred hereabouts?"

"So far as ghosts and spirits are concerned, No," replied Mrs.

Rollmaus, looking doubtfully at the Proprietor; "but of second sight,

and what is called sympathy a great deal. Only think, we once had a

servant; she was not obliged to live out, but her parents wished to

send her away from home for a time; for there was in the village a poor

lad who was a great fiddler and who strolled round her house morning

and evening, and when the girl could come, they sat together behind a

bush--he playing on the fiddle and she listening. And she could not

part from him. She was a nice girl, and adapted herself to everything

in our house, only she was always melancholy. The fiddler was impressed

as a hussar, for which he was fitted because he was very courageous.

After a year the cook came to me and said: 'Mrs. Rollmaus, I cannot

stand it any longer, Hetty walks in her sleep. She gets out of bed and

sings the song about a soldier whom a captain caused to be shot,

because he was ordered to do so, and then she groans so that it would

move a stone, and in the morning she knows nothing about her singing,

but always continues to weep.' And this was the truth. I called her,

and asked her seriously; 'What is the matter with you? I cannot bear

this mysterious conduct, you are a riddle to me.' Whereupon she

lamented much, and begged me not to think ill of her, as she was an

honorable girl; but she had seen an apparition. And then she told me

the whole story. Her Gottlob had appeared at the door of her room in

the night, quite haggard and sorrowful, and had said: 'Hetty, it is all

over with me; to-morrow it is my turn.' I tried to persuade the girl

out of it, but her fears infected me. I wrote to an officer whose

acquaintance my husband had made at the hunt, and asked whether it was

nonsense, or whether it was due to the so-called second-sight. And

he wrote back to me very much astonished. It was a true case of

second-sight, for on the same day the fiddler had fallen from his horse

and broken his leg, and then lay in the hospital at the point of death.

Now, I pray you, was not that a real natural phenomenon?"

"And what became of the poor people?" asked the Professor.

"O, as for them," answered Mrs. Rollmaus, "it all came right; for a

comrade of the invalid, who had a sick mother, was from our village. I

wrote to him requesting him to send me a letter every third day to

report how the invalid was getting on, and added that I would repay him

by sending his mother bacon and flour. He wrote regularly; and the

affair lasted many weeks. At last the fiddler was cured and came back;

and both were white as a sheet when they met, and embraced each other

before my eyes without hesitation; whereupon I spoke to the parents of

the girl, which was of little avail. Then I spoke to my husband, to

whom our village inn belongs, and who was then looking out for a good

tenant. And that brought the history to a close, or, as the saying

goes, to the _commencement du pain_. For Mr. Rollmaus is not a lover of

fiddles and thinks them instruments of frivolity. But the people behave

in an orderly way. I was the sponsor of their first child and Rollmaus

of the second. But there have been no more apparitions."

"That was indeed good and kind of you," exclaimed the Professor,

warmly.

"We are all human," said Mrs. Rollmaus, apologetically.

"And I hope, all good," replied the Professor. "Believe me, madame,

though there are many and various views in philosophy and in every

branch of learning, and much contention respecting many points, and

though one is easily led and tempted to consider another ignorant; yet

with respect to honesty, uprightness, and benevolence, there has seldom

been any difference of opinion, and all delight in and esteem those in

whom they find these qualities. And it is these qualities, Mrs.

Rollmaus, I now find and honor in you."

This he said to the learned lady with much warmth and earnestness. On

his other side he heard the gentle rustling of a dress, and when he

turned to Ilse he met a look so full of humble gratitude that he could

hardly preserve his composure.

Mrs. Rollmaus, however, sat smiling and contented with the

philosophical system of her neighbor. Again the Professor turned to

her, and spoke of the difficulty of doing good to the helpless in the

right way. Mrs. Rollmaus acknowledged that uneducated people had a way

of their own, "But one can easily get on with them, if they only know

that one means well by them."

The Professor afterward occasioned a slight misunderstanding, when in

answer he respectfully observed: "You are right, for in this field

patient love is requisite to produce fruitful results."

"Yes," acquiesced Mrs. Rollmaus, puzzled, "to be sure, these results

which you mention are not wanting among us, and they marry for the most

part just at the right time; but the patient love which you so truly

speak of as requisite is not always forthcoming among our country

people, for in marriage they frequently consider money more than love."

If, however, the notes in the concert at the upper table were not quite

in accord, yet the turkey and custard-pudding--a masterpiece of Ilse's

kitchen--vanished without any adverse concussion of learned wisdom. All

rose well pleased with one another, only the children, whose innocent

mischief is most enduring, found with displeasure that Mrs. Rollmaus

would not on this occasion enter into any contest in which the

encyclopedia could rule as umpire. While the men drank their coffee in

the next room, Mrs. Rollmaus again sat on the sofa, and Ilse had a

difficult task to satisfy her curiosity in answering all the questions

with which she was overwhelmed concerning the two strangers. Meanwhile

the children besieged the sofa, lying in wait for an opportunity to

undertake a small campaign against the unsuspecting Mrs. Rollmaus.

"So they are making researches, and in our neighborhood. It cannot be

about the Indians. I did not know that any had ever come to these

parts. It must be a mistake; and they must mean gypsies, who do make

their appearance here. Only think, dear Ilse, a man and two women, each

with a child, have come within the last fortnight. The women tell

fortunes. What they have prophesied to the house-maids is truly

remarkable; and in the morning two hens disappeared. Can it be that

their researches are concerning these gypsies? But that I cannot

believe, as they are mere tinkers and good-for-nothing people. No, they

are not making investigations concerning them."

"But who are the gypsies?" asked Clara.

"Dear child, they are vagabonds who formerly were a nation, and now

spread themselves everywhere. They had a king, and manuscripts, and

hounds, although they were great rogues. Originally they were

Egyptians, but possibly also Indians."

"How could they be Indians?" exclaimed Hans, disrespectfully; "the

Indians live in America. We have got an encyclopedia too, and we will

find it out immediately."

"Yes, yes," cried the children, and ran with their brother to the

book-shelf. Each of them brought a volume with new binding, and placed

it among the coffee cups before Mrs. Rollmaus, who looked by no means

pleased at seeing the secret source of her intelligence laid bare

before all eyes.

"And ours is newer than yours," cried little Franz, waving his hand. In

vain did Ilse endeavor by signs of disapprobation to suppress this

outbreak of family pride. Hans held the volume firmly in his hands

seeking the word _Gypsy_, and the overthrow of Mrs. Rollmaus, to all

human calculations, could no longer be averted. But suddenly Hans

jumped up, and holding the book aloft exclaimed: "The Professor is put

down here!"

"Our Professor in the encyclopedia?" cried the children.

Family feuds and gypsies were all forgotten. Ilse took the book from

her brother's hand, Mrs. Rollmaus stood up in order to read the

remarkable passage over Ilse's shoulder, all the children's heads

gathered round the book, so that they looked like a cluster of buds on

a fruit tree, and all peeped curiously at the lines which were so

glorious for their guest and themselves.

In the article there were the usual short remarks that are generally

made of living scholars, which contained the place and day of the

Professor's birth, and the titles--mostly in Latin--of his works. All

these titles were, in spite of the unintelligible language, read aloud,

with the dates and size of the volumes. Ilse looked into the book for a

long time, and then handed it to the astonished Mrs. Rollmaus, then the

children passed it from one to the other. The event made a greater

impression here, on both young and old, than it ever could in literary

circles. Happiest of all was Mrs. Rollmaus: she had sat next to a man

who not only could refer to books, but was referred to himself. Her

admiration of him was unbounded; she found, for the first time in her

life, that she could hold agreeable intercourse with a man of this

stamp.

"What a distinguished scholar!" she exclaimed. "What were the titles of

his works, dear Ilse?"

Ilse did not know; her eyes and thoughts were fixed on the short notice

of his life.

This discovery had the good result of causing Mrs. Rollmaus to lay down

her weapons entirely this day, and be content not to display any

knowledge, for she saw that on this occasion a competition with the

family was impossible, and she condescended to an unpretending

conversation about household events. But the children arranged

themselves at a respectful distance from the Professor, and examined

him curiously once more from top to toe; and Hans imparted the news in

a low voice to the Doctor, and was much surprised that the latter

thought nothing of it.

After coffee, the Proprietor proposed to his guests to ascend the

nearest hill, in order to examine the damage which had been done by the

lightning. Ilse loaded a maid with provisions for supper and some

flasks of wine, and the party started. They went down from the rock

into the valley, over the strip of meadow and the brook, then up the

hill, through underbrush, amid the shadow of the lofty pines. The rain

had washed away the steep path, and irregular water-channels furrowed

the gravel; nevertheless, the women stepped valiantly over the wet

places. But if it had been possible to fail to perceive from the dress

and bearing of the Professor that he walked in the confidence of

manhood, one might have imagined that he was a delicately clad lady,

and Mrs. Rollmaus a gentleman in disguise, for she hovered round him

reverently, and would not leave his side. She directed his attention to

the stones, and, with the end of her umbrella pointed out the dry

places to him, and stopped at times, expressing her fear that he would

find this jaunt too fatiguing. The Professor submitted, though much

surprised, to the homage of the little lady, sometimes looking

inquiringly at Ilse, over whose face flitted a roguish smile. On the

height the path became easier, and some trees of lighter foliage varied

the dark green of the pines. The summit itself was clear; the heather,

on which the fading blossoms of the year still hung, spread itself

thickly among the stones. On all sides lay the view of the landscape,

with its heights and valleys, the deep glen, and brook with its green

border, the fields and the valley of Rossau. In the direction of the

setting sun there rose, one behind another, long waves of undulating

ground, tinted with the purple hue of twilight, passing off into the

delicate gray of the mountains on the horizon. It was a delightful

prospect, under a clear sky in the midst of pure mountain air, and the

party sought out the softest and greenest spots of the heather, whereon

to rest.

After a short stay, they proceeded, led by Hans, to the spot where the

tree had been struck by lightning. A belt of high fir trees was the

place of the devastation. A strong, vigorous pine had been struck and

prostrated; in desolate confusion the branches and gigantic splinters

of the white wood lay around the broken trunk, which, blackened and

cloven, without its top, still rose out of its ruins as high as a

house. Through the mass of branches on the ground, it could be seen

that the earth also had been torn up even under the roots of the

neighboring trees. The older members of the party looked earnestly on

the spot where one moment had turned vigorous life into frightful

deformity; but the children pressed on into the thicket shouting,

seized upon the scaly cones of the past year, and cut branches from the

tree-top, each endeavoring to carry off the largest clusters of the

scaly fruit.

"It is only one of a hundred," said the Proprietor, gloomily; "but it

is painful to contemplate such devastation, contrary to the usual order

of the world, and to think of the destruction that impended over our

heads."

"Does this recollection cause you only discomfort?" asked the

Professor; "is it not also exalting?"

"The horns of the ram are hanging on the branches," said Ilse, in a low

tone, to her father; "he was the sacrifice by which we were saved."

"I think," added the Professor, "that even a person thus struck by

lightning might, if time were left him for a last thought, say to

himself that this was quite in harmony with the order of our world. We

soon forget, amid the comforts of daily life, what we should always

vividly bear in mind, that we only live, like all other creatures,

subject to certain conditions. Countless forces and strange powers

unceasingly work according to fixed laws of their own, maintaining,

supporting, or injuring our life. The cold which checks the course of

our blood, the breaking waves in which the human body sinks, the

injurious vapors from the earth which poison our breath, are no

accidental phenomena; the laws by which they act upon us are as

primitive and holy as our need of food and drink, of sleep and light;

and when a man reflects upon his position among the powers of earth,

his life will be found to mean nothing else than an active struggle

against them and an endeavor to understand them. Whoever may provide

the bread that nourishes us, and whoever may hew the wood that warms

us--every useful activity has no other purpose than, by subduing and

wisely utilizing these forces, to strengthen and to protect us. In this

work we also observe that there is a secret union between every

movement of nature and our own minds, and that all living things,

however adverse in individual existence, together form one vast and

continuous unity. The presentiment and thought of this unity have, at

all times, been the most sublime feeling of which man is capable. From

this proceeds another impulse, an overwhelming desire and an

irresistible longing to divine the deeper relations of these forces.

And it is this that gives us faith. The method of procedure may vary in

different individuals, but the goal is the same. Some, possessed of

deep feeling, see only eternal wisdom in everything that to them seems

incomprehensible; and in child-like faith they apply to it the most

reverent and affectionate name. Others earnestly endeavor to observe

the various laws and forces of nature and reverently to comprehend

their relations to each other. These latter are the men of science. The

men of faith and the men of science essentially do the same thing.

Their attitude is very modest; for both recognize that all individual

life, both subjective and objective, is very insignificant as compared

with the great All. And the man who, when thus overtaken by death,

could confidently believe he is going to his Father in Heaven, and the

man who in a similar moment could bring himself to intently observe the

manner in which the nervous elements that constitute his life cease

their activity--both are assured of, and both would experience, an end

of bliss and true contentment."

Thus spoke the Professor as they stood before the shattered pine-tree.

The Crown-Inspector looked at the speaker in astonishment, suspecting

him to be one of that new class of apostles who at that time made their

appearance in various parts, and traveled around the country preaching

to the people. Mrs. Rollmaus stood reverently with folded hands,

occasionally nodding her assent. Presently she nudged the Proprietor,

whispering:

"That belongs to the philosophy of which we were speaking."

The Proprietor did not answer, but listened with bowed head. Ilse never

turned her eyes from the speaker; his observations sounded strange, and

excited a secret uneasiness in her, she knew not why. But she could say

nothing against them, for the spring of genial life that issued from

this noble soul entranced her. The choice of words, the new thoughts,

the noble expression of his countenance, captivated her irresistibly.

The party returned to their resting place on the height; the sun sank

behind the hills, and the soft evening glow gilded first the tips of

the heather, and then rose above their heads to the tops of the trees;

purple shadows covered the ground, the trunks of the trees, and the

distant prospect. But small light clouds of gold and purple floated in

the heaven above, till there also the glowing colors faded into rosy

twilight; the mist rose from the depths below, and the colors of the

earth and the heavens died away into a uniform gray.

Long did the party gaze on the changing lights of the evening. At last

the Proprietor called for the contents of the basket; the children were

busy unpacking and passing the cold meats to the assembled circle. The

Proprietor poured out the wine and pledged his guests, and rejoiced in

the fine evening. At a sign from his father, Hans ran into the thicket

and fetched some pine torches.

"There is no danger to-day," said the Proprietor to Mr. Rollmaus whilst

lighting the torches.

The children pressed forward to be torch-bearers, but only Hans was

trusted with this honorable office; the gentlemen carried the others.

Slowly did the procession wind down the hill-path; the torches threw a

glaring light on copse and stones, and on the faces of the men, which

in the curves of the road were lighted up with a glow like the rising

moon, and again disappeared in the darkness. Mrs. Rollmaus had

endeavored several times to draw the other illustrious stranger into

conversation; she now at last succeeded, when in a bad part of the

road. She began:

"What your friend said was very good, for it was very instructive. He

is right; one ought to struggle against the powers and seek the

connecting link. But I assure you it is difficult for a woman. For

Rollmaus, who is the first power of nature for me, has a hatred of

principles; he is always for doing everything according to his own

ideas, and, as an independent man, he has a right to do so; but he is

not very much in favor of science, and even as regards a piano for the

children I have trouble with him. But I seek after principles and

powers, and what is called the connecting link; and I read what I can,

for one likes to know what is going on in the world, and to raise

oneself above ordinary people. But often one does not understand a

thing even when read twice; and when it is at last understood it may

have become obsolete and no longer worth anything, and so I have often

been tempted to give up all research whatsoever."

"You should not do that," exclaimed the Doctor; "there is always a

secret satisfaction in knowing a thing."

"If I lived in town," continued the lady, "I would devote myself

entirely to learning; but in the country one is too much isolated, and

there is the housekeeping, and one's husband, who is sometimes hard to

please. You have no idea what a good farmer he is. Rollmaus, hold your

torch aside, all the smoke blows in the Doctor's face."

Rollmaus turned his torch away and grumbled. His wife drew close to

him, seized his arm and whispered to him: "Before we go away you must

invite the gentlemen to visit us; it is the right thing to do."

"He is a mendicant priest," answered the husband, peevishly.

"For God's sake, Rollmaus, don't do anything foolish; above all, do not

blaspheme," she continued, pressing his arm; "he is mentioned in the

encyclopedia."

"In yours?" asked the husband.

"In the one here," replied the wife, "which amounts to the same thing."

"There are many things in books that are of less value than others that

are not there," said the husband, unmoved.

"I am not to be put off in that way. You will not confute me by that,"

replied the wife. "I tell you that he is a man of renown, and propriety

demands that we should take the fact into consideration, and you know

that so far as propriety is concerned--"

"Only be quiet," said Rollmaus, soothingly. "I say nothing to the

contrary, if needs be; I have eaten many a sour apple on your account."

"On my account!" cried the wife, offended. "Have I been

unreasonable--am I a tyrant--am I an Eve who has stood with her husband

under the tree, with loose hair, and not even a chemise? Will you

compare yourself and me with such a state of things?"

"No," said Rollmaus. "Only be content; you know how we get on

together."

"Don't you see that I am right?" replied the wife, soothed. "Believe

me, I know also how others get on together, and I tell you I have a

presentiment that something is brewing."

"What is brewing?" asked Mr. Rollmaus.

"Something between Ilse and the Professor."

"The devil there is!" exclaimed Mr. Rollmaus, with more vivacity than

he had shown the whole day.

"Be quiet, Rollmaus, you will be heard; do not lose command of

yourself."

Ilse had remained behind; she was leading her youngest brother, who was

tired. The Professor gallantly remained by her. He pointed out to her

how well the procession looked; the torches, like large glow worms, in

front; behind, the sharply outlined figures, and the flickering of the

gleaming light upon the trunks and green branches of the trees. Ilse

listened to him long in silence. At last she said: "The most charming

thing of the day was the kind way you spoke to our dear neighbor Mrs.

Rollmaus. When she was seated by you, I felt troubled in mind, for I

thought it would annoy you to listen to the importunate questions of

our friend, and it all at once struck me that toward us also you

exercise constant consideration; and that thought tormented me. But

when I saw that you so kindly and frankly recognized the good that is

in our friend and her fullness of soul, I felt that it cost you no

great effort of self-command to hold intercourse with us simple folk."

"My dear Miss," exclaimed the Professor, anxiously, "I hope you are

convinced that I only said to the worthy lady what came sincerely from

my heart?"

"I know it," said Ilse, with warmth, "and the honest soul felt it also

herself--she has been quieter and more cheerful than usual the whole

day--and therefore I thank you. Yes, from my heart," she added, softly.

Praise from the lips of one beloved is not among the least of the

pleasures that a man enjoys. The Professor looked beaming with

happiness at his neighbor, who now in the darkness led her brother

along at a quicker pace. He did not venture to break the silence; the

pure hearts of both had been revealed, and, without speaking a word

both felt the stream of warm sentiment that passed from one to the

other.

"For him who passes from the midst of books into the paths of men,"

began the Professor, at last, "the pedantic habit of continued reading

there acquired, often makes it easier to derive from a strange mode of

life that which is of the highest benefit to his own. For, after all,

there is in every life an element that commands reverence, however much

it may often be veiled by wondrous accompaniments."

"We are commanded to love our neighbors," said Ilse, "and we endeavor

to do so; but when one finds that this love is given so cheerfully and

nobly, it is touching; and when one sees such feeling displayed, it

becomes an example and elevates the heart. Come, Franz," she said,

turning to her brother, "we are not far from home." But Franz stumbled,

and, half asleep, declared that his legs ached.

"Up with you, little man," said the Professor, "let me carry you."

Ilse, distressed, tried to prevent it. "I cannot allow that; it is only

sleep that makes him so lazy."

"Only till we reach the valley," said the Professor, raising the child

on his shoulder. Franz clasped his arms round the Professor's neck, and

clinging close to him, was soon fast asleep. When they came to a steep

turn of the road, the Professor offered the arm which was free to his

companion; but she refused, only supporting herself a little with his

proffered hand. But her hand glided down and remained in that of her

companion. Thus hand in hand they walked down the last part of the hill

into the valley, neither of them speaking a word. When they arrived at

the bottom, Ilse gently withdrew her hand, and he released it without a

word or pressure; but these few minutes comprised for both a world of

happy feelings.

"Come down, Franz," said Ilse, taking her sleeping brother from the arm

of her friend. She bent down to the little one to encourage him, and

they went on to join the party, who were waiting for them at the brook.

The carriage of the Crown-Inspector drew up. The parting greetings of

his wife were very verbose, and her representations had mitigated his

obstinacy, so that, cap in hand, he made up his mind to take, with

tolerable decorum, a bite of the aforementioned sour apple. He

approached the literary gentlemen, and asked them to grant him also the

pleasure of a visit; and even the utterance of these friendly words had

a softening influence on his honest soul. He now held out his hand to

them, and receiving a hearty shake he began to think that the strangers

were not in reality so bad as might be supposed. The Proprietor

accompanied his guests to the carriage, Hans passed the bandbox in, and

the two country-gentlemen, as they bade each other good night, watched

the starting of the horses with the eyes of connoisseurs.

_CHAPTER VII_.

NEW HOSTILITIES.

Whilst a bright womanly form rose on the horizon between the Professor

and the Doctor, fate decreed that a new feud should break out betwixt

the two neighboring houses in the city. It happened thus.

Mr. Hahn had availed himself of the absence of his son to beautify

his grounds. His garden ran in a point to the park, and he had

bethought him much how this corner might be turned to good account;

for the little mound which he had thrown up there, and planted with

roses, seemed unsatisfactory. He determined, therefore, to erect a

weather-proof summerhouse for such visitors as were not inclined in

bad weather to retire to the residence. Everything had been wisely

considered before the departure of his son. The following day he caused

a slender wooden structure to be erected, with small windows toward the

street, and above, instead of a roof, a platform with airy benches, the

laths of which projected boldly over the wooden walls and garden

palings out into the street. Everything seemed favorable. But when Mr.

Hahn, with hearty satisfaction, led his wife up the small side steps on

to the platform, and the plump lady, not anticipating anything wrong,

sat down on the airy bench, and from thence looked with admiration on

the world beneath her, it was soon discovered that the passers-by in

the street had to go directly under her, and the sky above was darkened

to whoever passed along the fence by the plumage of the great bird

that, perched on her high nest, sat with her back turned to the street.

Before a quarter of an hour had passed, accordingly, such sharp remarks

were heard that the inoffensive Mrs. Hahn was on the point of weeping,

and declared to her lord, with unwonted energy, that she would never

again allow herself to be treated as a hen, or ascend the platform any

more. The family frame of mind was not improved either by the part that

Mr. Hummel had taken, for he had stood by the fence of his neighbor's

garden during this exhibition of Mrs. Hahn, and had laughed at the vile

speeches of the passers-by.

Mr. Hahn, however, after a short struggle between pride and discretion,

listened to the voice of his better self, removed the benches and the

platform, and erected over the summer-house a beautiful Chinese roof;

and on the projections of this roof he hung small bells, which sounded

softly when the wind rose. This idea would have been a decided

improvement; but, alas! the wickedness of man gave no rest to this work

of art for the urchins in the street diverted themselves by continually

keeping the bells in movement by means of long switches. On the first

night, therefore, the neighborhood was awakened from its slumbers by a

concert of many bells. That night Mr. Hahn dreamed that winter was

come, and that a merry party of sleighs were passing round his house;

he listened, and indignantly discovered that his own bells had been set

in motion. He hastened into the garden in his nightdress, and called

out, angrily:

"Who is there?"

In an instant the ringing ceased, deep silence and peaceful quiet

reigned around. He went up to the garden-house, and looked at his

bells, which might be seen swinging under the darkened sky; but

roundabout no one was to be discovered. He went back to his bed, but

scarcely had he laid himself down when the noise began again, quick and

loud, as if pealing for a Christmas party. Again he rushed out of the

house, and again the noise ceased; but when he raised himself above the

railing and looked around, he saw in the garden opposite the broad

figure of Mr. Hummel standing by the hedge, and heard a threatening

voice call out:

"What crazy conduct is this?"

"It is inexplicable, Mr. Hummel," exclaimed Mr. Hahn, across the

street, in a conciliatory tone.

"Nothing is inexplicable," cried out Mr. Hummel, "but the mischievous

insanity of hanging bells in the open air over a public street."

"I resent your attack," called out Mr. Hahn deeply wounded. "I have a

right to hang up what I like on my own property."

Then there began a conflict of views across the street, weird

and frightful. There Hummel's bass, here Hahn's sharp voice,

which gradually rose into a counter-tenor; both figures in long

night-dresses, divided by the street and railings, but like two heroes

of antiquity belaboring one another with strong language. If one failed

to perceive the wild effect given to Mr. Hahn by the red color of his

night-dress, he yet might be seen towering upon the height near his

Chinese temple, raising his arm imposingly across the horizon; but Mr.

Hummel stood in the darkness, overshadowed by the wild vine.

"I will have you before the police court, for disturbing the public

peace," cried Mr. Hummel at last, but felt the small hand of his wife

at his back, who seized him by his night-dress, turned him round, and

gently entreated him not to make a scene.

"And I will inquire before the court who gave you a right to heap abuse

upon me from across the street," called out Mr. Hahn, likewise in the

act of retiring, for amidst the noise of the fight he had now and then

heard the soft words, "Come back, Hahn," and seen his wife behind him

wringing her hands. But he was not in a disposition to abandon the

field of battle.

"A light and ladder here," he exclaimed, "I will unearth this shameful

trick."

The ladder and lanterns speedily made their appearance, brought by the

frightened maid-servant. Mr. Hahn mounted up to his bells, and sought

long in vain; at last he discovered that some one had contrived to

unite the separate bells by a plait of horse-hair and thus had rung

them from the outside by a string.

This wild night was followed by a gloomy morn.

"Go to the fellow across the street, Gabriel," said Mr. Hummel, "and

ask if, for the sake of peace, he is willing to take down his bells at

once. I require my sleep, and I will not suffer that a rabble of

thieves shall be allured to my house, make inroads upon the fence,

steal my plums, and break into my factory. This man, by his ringing,

calls together all the rogues of the neighborhood."

Gabriel replied: "I will go over there for the sake of peace; but only

if I may say with civility what I think fit."

"With civility?" repeated Hummel, winking slyly at his confidant. "You

do not understand your own interest. So fine an opportunity of making

yourself important will not occur soon again, and it would be a pity to

let it escape you. But I foresee, Gabriel, that, civil or not, we shall

be unable to deal with the man. He's malicious and obstinate and

bitter. He is a bulldog, Gabriel. There, you have his character."

Gabriel proceeded to the house of poor Mr. Hahn, who sat, still

suffering, before his untasted breakfast, and looked suspiciously at

the inmate of the hostile house.

"I come only to inquire," began Gabriel, adroitly, "whether, perhaps,

you may have received intelligence through your son of my master?"

"None," answered Mr. Hahn, sorrowfully; "there are times when

everything goes wrong, dear Gabriel."

"Yes, what a roguish trick that was, last night," said Gabriel,

pityingly.

Mr. Hahn sprang up.

"He called me insane and said I was a coxcomb. Am I to put up with

that? I, a man of business, and in my own garden! As for the plaything,

you may be right enough; one must not put too much confidence in men.

But now my honor is touched, and I tell you the bells shall remain, and

I shall place a watchman there every night."

In vain did Gabriel speak rationally to him. Mr. Hahn was inexorable,

and called out after him as he was leaving:

"Tell him we shall meet again in court."

Accordingly he went to his attorney, and insisted upon bringing a suit

for the abusive language of the previous night.

"Good," said Mr. Hummel, when Gabriel returned from his fruitless

mission. "These people compel me to adopt measures of security for

myself. I will take care that no strange horse-hair shall be attached

to my house. When the rogues sound the bells over there, the dogs shall

bark here. Measure for measure, Gabriel."

He went gloomily to his factory, and paced about wildly. His

bookkeeper, who appeared to be a much-oppressed man, because he never

could obtain his rights from Mr. Hummel, thought it was his duty and a

fitting time to speak.

"The ideas of this man Hahn are absurd; all the world finds fault with

them."

But the speech did him no good.

"What do this man's ideas signify to you?" cried Hummel. "Are you the

householder, and are you or I head of this business? If I choose to be

angry it is my affair and not yours. His new clerk, Knips, wears his

hair in frizzy curls, and perfumes himself with Eau de Cologne; you may

make fun of him about that; that is your right. As to what concerns the

rest of the world, your blame of this man's devices is worth about as

much as the twittering of the sparrow on the house-top; and if he

should every day hang a peal of bells on his shoulders and go in that

attire into the counting-house, he would still remain a respectable

citizen so far as this street rabble is concerned. Only, as regards

myself, it is another thing. I am his neighbor day and night, and if he

gets into trouble I also have to suffer. For the rest, I object to all

calumnies on my fellow-men. What must be said is my business alone,

without associates; remember that."

A few evenings later, Gabriel was standing before the house-door,

looking up to the heavens and watching whether a small black cloud,

which was slowly floating past, would cover the face of the moon. Just

as this took place, and the street and both houses lay in darkness a

carriage drove up to the house, and the voice of the master called out:

"Is all well?"

"All well," answered Gabriel, and unbuttoned the apron.

Mr. Hummel descended heavily, and behind him was heard an angry growl.

"What have you got in there?" asked Gabriel, with much curiosity,

putting his hands into the carriage, but he quickly withdrew them. "The

beast bites!" he ejaculated.

"I hope it does," replied Mr. Hummel. "I meant it to bite. I have

brought a pair of watch-dogs as a guard against the bell ringers."

He pulled out by a rope two indistinct figures, which rushed about

yelping hoarsely, and, circling round Gabriel's legs, viciously drew

the cord round him like a noose.

Gabriel extricated himself. The clouds had passed away, and in the

bright moon light both dogs were plainly visible.

"They are strange beasts, Mr. Hummel. A curious race. Evidently

mongrels," he continued, in a deprecatory tone; "hardly medium size,

thick in the chest, and with shaggy hair; the bristles hang over their

muzzles like mustachios. The mother must have been a poodle, the father

a spitz; I think I also detect some relationship with the pug, and the

great-grandfather must have been a terrier. A remarkable product, Mr.

Hummel, and somewhat rare. How did you come by the animals?"

"By accident. I could not obtain a dog in the village to-day; but as I

was returning through the wood the horses suddenly shied and would not

move on. While the coachman was handling them, I all at once perceived

near the carriage a large dark man, standing as if he had sprung out of

the ground. He was holding the two dogs by a rope, and laughed

jeeringly at the abuse of the coachman. 'What is the matter?' I called

out to him; 'where are you taking the dogs to?' 'To whosoever wishes to

have them,' said the black fellow. 'Lift them into the carriage,' said

I. 'I shall do nothing of the sort,' growled the stranger; 'you must

fetch them yourself.' I descended and asked him what he wanted for

them. He replied 'Nothing.' The matter looked suspicious, but I thought

it would be no harm to try them. I lifted the beasts into the carriage;

and found them as quiet as lambs. 'What are their names?' I cried out

from the carriage. 'Braeuhahn and Goslar,' said the man, laughing

fiendishly."

"But they are no dogs' names, Mr. Hummel," interposed Gabriel, shaking

his head.

"That was what I told the man, but he replied, 'they never suffered

babtism.' 'But the rope is yours,' I said; and only think, Gabriel,

this black fellow answered me: 'Keep it; and hang yourself with it.' I

wanted to throw the dogs out of the carriage again, but the man had

vanished into the wood like a will-o'-the-wisp."

"That is a dreadful story," said Gabriel, much troubled; "these dogs

have been raised in no Christian household. And do you really intend to

keep the ill-omened creatures?"

"I shall make the attempt," said Mr. Hummel. "After all, a dog is a

dog."

"Be on your guard, Mr. Hummel, there is something mysterious in these

beasts."

"Nonsense!"

"They are monsters," continued Gabriel, counting on his fingers;

"first, they have not the names of earthly dogs; secondly, they were

offered without money; thirdly, no man knows what food they eat."

"As to their appetite, you will not have to wait long to discover what

that is," replied the master of the house.

Gabriel drew a bit of bread out of his pocket, and the dogs snapped at

it. "In that regard they are of the right species," he said, a little

tranquillized; "but what are they to be called in the house?"

"Braeuhahn I shall call Fighthahn," replied Mr. Hummel; "and in my

family no dogs shall be called Goslar. I cannot bear the beastly

drink." He cast a hostile look at the neighboring house. "Other people

have such stuff fetched every day across the street, but that is no

reason why I should suffer such a word in my household. The black shall

from this day forth be called Fight_hahn_ and the red Spite_hahn_--that

is settled.

"But, Mr. Hummel, these names are clearly offensive," exclaimed

Gabriel; "that will make the matter worse."

"That is my affair," said Mr. Hummel, decidedly. "At night they shall

remain in the yard; they must guard the house."

"So long as they do but preserve their bodies," said Gabriel,

warningly; "but this kind come and vanish as they please--not as we

wish."

"Yet they are not of the devil," rejoined Mr. Hummel, laughing.

"Who speaks of the devil?" replied Gabriel, quickly. "There is no

devil--that the Professor will never allow; but of dogs we have various

kinds."

So saying, Gabriel took the animals into the hall. Mr. Hummel called

out into the room: "Good evening, Philippine. Here, I have brought you

a present."

Mrs. Hummel came to the door with a light, and looked astonished at the

present, which whined at her feet. This humility disposed the lady to

regard them with benevolence.

"But they are frightful," she said, dubiously, as the red and the black

sat down on each side of her, wagging their tails land looking up at

her from under their shaggy eyebrows. "And why did you bring two?"

"They are not intended for exhibition," returned Mr. Hummel in a

pacifying tone; "they are country ware--one is a substitute for the

other."

After this presentation they were carried off to a shed. Gabriel once

more tried their capacity of eating and drinking; they showed

themselves thoroughly satisfactory in this respect, though as regards

personal beauty they were not distinguished dogs; and Gabriel went to

his room free from anxiety.

When the clock struck ten, and the gate which separated the court-yard

from the street was closed, Mr. Hummel went down himself to the dogs'

shed to initiate these new watchers into their calling. He was much

astonished, on opening the door, to find that they did not require any

encouraging words from him--both rushed out between his legs into the

yard. As if driven by an invisible whip, they dashed at a headlong pace

round the house and factory--always together, and never silent.

Hitherto they had been depressed and quiet; now, either as the result

of the good food they had devoured or because their night watch had

come, they became so noisy that even Mr. Hummel drew back in

astonishment. Their hoarse short bark deafened the horn of the night

watchman and the call of their master, who wished to recommend

moderation. They chased wildly and incessantly around the court, and a

continuous yelping accompanied their stormy career. The windows of the

house were thrown open.

"This will be a horrible night, Mr. Hummel," said Gabriel.

"Henry," cried out his wife from her bedroom "this is insupportable."

"It is their first outburst of joy," nothing more, said Mr. Hummel,

consolingly, and withdrawing into the house.

But this view of the matter turned out to be erroneous. Throughout the

whole night the barking of the dogs sounded from the court-yard. In the

houses of the neighborhood, shutters were thrown open, and loud words

of reproach addressed to Mr. Hummel. The following morning he arose in

a state of great uncertainty. Even his own sound sleep had been

disturbed by the reproaches of his wife, who now sat at breakfast angry

and depressed with headache. When he entered the court-yard, and

gathered from his men the complaints they had heard from the neighbors,

even he hesitated for a moment whether he should keep the dogs.

Ill luck would have it that just at this moment Mr. Hahn's porter

entered the court-yard, and with defiant mien announced that Mr. Hahn

insisted upon Mr. Hummel putting a stop to this outrageous barking, or

he should be obliged to seek redress before a justice of the peace.

This attitude of his opponent at once decided the inward struggle of

Mr. Hummel.

"If I can bear the barking of my dogs, other people can do so too. The

bells play on your side of the way and the dogs sing on mine, and if

any one wishes to hear my views before a magistrate he shall hear

enough to satisfy him."

He returned to the house and with dignity approached his suffering

wife.

"Are two dogs to come between you and me, Henry?" asked the wife, with

faltering voice.

"Never," replied Mr. Hummel; "the domestic peace must be preserved. I am

sorry that you have a headache, and to please you I would remove the

beasts. But I have collided again with that coxcomb across the way. For

the second time he threatens me with a suit and the magistrate. My

honor is at stake, and I can no longer give in. Be a good wife,

Philippine, and try to bear it a few nights longer. Put cotton in your

ears, till the dogs have gotten accustomed to their work."

"Henry," replied the wife, wearily, "I have never doubted your heart;

but your character is rough, and the voices of the dogs are too

horrible. Can you, in order to enforce your will, see your wife suffer,

and become seriously ill, from sleeplessness? Will you, in order to

maintain your position, sacrifice peace with the neighborhood?"

"I do not want you to be ill, but I will not send away the dogs,"

replied Mr. Hummel, seizing his felt hat, and going to the factory with

heavy step.

If Mr. Hummel indulged in the hope that he had ended the domestic

struggle as conqueror, he was greatly in error. There was still another

power in his home, who opened the campaign in a different manner. When

Mr. Hummel approached his desk in his little counting-house, he saw

near the inkstand a nosegay of flowers. Attached to the pink ribbon

hung a note which was sealed with a forget-me-not, and addressed--"To

my dear Father."

"That is my bright-eyed girl," he murmured, and opening the note read

the following lines:

"My dear pa, good morrow!

The dogs cause great sorrow,

They are not delightful;

Their bark is just frightful;

Their ardor and sanguinity

Disturb the vicinity.

For the sake of our neighborhood,

Be noble, generous and good."

Hummel laughed so heartily that the work in the factory stopped, and

every one was amazed at his good humor. Then he marked the note with

the date of its reception, put it in his pocket-book, and after

examining the letters that had arrived, he betook himself into the

garden. He saw his little daughter sprinkling the beds with her

watering-pot, and his heart swelled with a father's pride. With what

grace she turned and bent, and how her dark locks hung round the

blooming face, and how actively she raised and swung the watering-pot;

and, on perceiving him, when she put it down and held her finger

threateningly at him, he was quite enchanted.

"Verses again," he called out to her, "I have received Number Nine."

"And you will be my good papa," cried Laura, hastening toward him and

stroking his chin; "do send them away."

"But, my child," said the father, composedly. "I have already spoken to

your mother about it, and I have already explained to her why I cannot

dispose of them. Now, I cannot do to please you, what I have refused

your mother; that would be contrary to all family regulations. Respect

your mother, little girl."

"You are a hard-hearted father," replied the daughter, pouting; "and

more than that, you are unjust in this affair."

"Oh, oh!" cried the father, "is that the way you approach me?"

"What harm does the ringing of bells over there do to us? The little

summer-house is pretty, and when we sit in the garden in the evening,

and there is a breeze, and the bells tinkle gently, it sounds just

lovely--it is like Mozart's _Magic Flute_."

"Our street is not an opera-house," the father retorted sharply, "but a

public thoroughfare; and when my pet dogs bark you can equally well

pursue your theatrical ideas, and imagine that you are in the Wolf's

Den, in the _Freischuetz_."

"No, my father," answered the daughter, eagerly, "you are unjust

towards these people; for you wish to spite them, and that vexes me to

my heart's core. It is not worthy of my father."

"Yet you must bear it," he replied, doggedly, "for this is a quarrel

between men. Police regulations settle such affairs, and your verses

are altogether out of place. As regards the names, it is possible that

other words like Adolar, Ingomar, and Marquis Posa, might sound better

to you women-folk. But this is no reason for me; my names are

practical. In the matter of flowers and books, I will do much to please

you but in the matter of dogs I cannot take poetry into consideration."

So saying, he turned his back upon his daughter, to avoid protracting

the dispute.

Laura, however, hastened to her mother's room, and the ladies took

counsel together.

"The noise was bad enough," complained Laura, "but the names are

terrible. I cannot say those words for my life, and you ought not to

allow our servant to do so, either."

"Dear child," answered the experienced mother, "one has to pass through

much in this world which is unpleasant, but what grieves me most is the

wanton attacks upon the dignity of women in their own houses. I shall

say no more on the subject. I agree with you, that both the names by

which the dogs are called are an insult to our neighbor. But if your

father were to discover that behind his back we called them Ph[oe]bus

and Azor, it would make matters worse."

"No one at least must utter those other names who cares for my

friendship," said Laura, decidedly, and entered into the court-yard.

Gabriel was employing his leisure in making observations on the new

comers. He was frequently attracted to the dogs' kennel in order to

establish the certainty of the earthly nature of the strangers.

"What is your opinion?" asked Laura, approaching him.

"I have my opinion," answered the servant, peering into the interior of

the shed, "namely, that there is something mysterious about them. Did

you remark the song of those ravens the other night? No real dog barks

like that; they whine and moan and occasionally groan and speak like

little children. They eat like other dogs, but their mode of life is

unusual. See, how they cower down, as if they had been struck on the

mouth, because the sun shines on them. And then, dear young lady, the

names!"

Laura looked with curiosity at the beasts.

"We will alter the names secretly, Gabriel; this one shall be called

Ruddy."

"That would certainly be better; it would at least not be an insult to

Mr. Hahn, but only to the tenant of the basement."

"What do you mean by that?"

"The porter who lives over there is called Ruddy."

"Then," decided Laura, "the red monster shall from henceforth be named

The Other; our people shall call him Andres.[2] Tell this to the

workmen in the factory."

"Andres!" replied Gabriel. "The name will just suit him. The neighbors

would dignify him with the name of Andreas if it were not too much

honor to him."

Thus were kind hearts occupied in thwarting the bad signification of

the name. But in vain, for, as Laura had correctly noted in her diary,

when the ball of mischief has been thrown amongst men, it mercilessly

hits the good as well as the bad. The dog was supplied with the most

inoffensive name that ever was given; but through a wonderful

complication of circumstances, which bid defiance to all human

sagacity, it happened that Mr. Hahn himself bore the name of Andreas.

Thus the double name of the animal became a double affront to the

neighboring house, and bad and good intentions mingled together in a

thick, black soup of hatred.

Early in the morning Mr. Hummel appeared at the door, and defiantly,

like Ajax, called the two dogs by their hostile names. The porter,

Ruddy, heard the call in the cellar, hastened to his master's room, and

informed him of this horrible affront. Mrs. Hahn endeavored not to

believe it, and maintained that they should, at least, wait for some

confirmation. This confirmation did not fail to come; for at noonday

Gabriel opened the door of the place where the dogs were confined, and

made the creatures come out for a quarter of an hour's sunning in the

garden. Laura, who was sitting among her flowers, and was just looking

out for her secret ideal--a famous singer, who, with his glossy black

hair and military gait was just passing by--determined, like a

courageous maiden, not to peer after her favorite through the foliage

of the vine arbor, and turned toward the dogs. In order to accustom the

red one to his new name, she enticed him with a bit of cake, and called

him several times by the unfortunate name, "Andres." At the same

moment, Dorchen rushed to Mrs. Hahn, saying: "It is true; now even Miss

Laura calls the dog by the Christian name of our master."

Mrs. Hahn stepped to the window much shocked, and herself heard the

name of her dear husband. She retreated quickly, for this insult from

her neighbors brought tears into her eyes, and she sought for her

pocket-handkerchief to wipe them away unperceived by her maid. Mrs.

Hahn was a good woman, calm and agreeable, with a tendency to plumpness

and an inclination quietly to do anything for the sake of peace. But

this heartlessness of the daughter roused her anger. She instantly

fetched her cloak from the closet, and went with the utmost

determination across the street to the garden of the hostile neighbors.

Laura looked up astonished from the hideous dogs to the unexpected

visitor, who came toward her with dignified steps.

"I come to complain, young lady!" began Mrs. Hahn, without further

greeting. "The insults that have been heaped upon my husband from this

house are insupportable. For your father's conduct you are not

responsible; but I think it shocking that a young girl like you should

also join in these outrages!"

"What do you mean, Mrs. Hahn?" asked Laura, excitedly.

"I mean the affront of giving a man's name to dogs. You call your dogs

by all my husband's names."

"That I have never done," replied Laura.

"Do not deny it," cried out Mrs. Hahn.

"I never speak an untruth," said the girl proudly.

"My husband's name is Andreas Hahn, and what you call this beast is

heard by the whole neighborhood."

Laura's pride was roused. "This is a misunderstanding, and the dog is

not so called. What you say is unjust."

"How is it unjust?" returned Mrs. Hahn. "In the morning the father, and

in the afternoon the daughter call him so."

A heavy weight fell on Laura's heart; she felt herself dragged down

into an abyss of injustice and injury. Her father's conduct paralyzed

her energies, and tears burst from her eyes.

"I see that you at least feel the wrong you are committing," continued

Mrs. Hahn, more calmly. "Do not do it again. Believe me, it is easy to

pain others, but it is a sorry business, and my poor husband and I have

not deserved it from you. We have seen you grow up before our eyes; and

even though we have had no intercourse with your parents, we have

always been pleased with you, and no-one in our house has ever wished

you ill. You do not know what a good man Mr. Hahn is, but still you

ought not to have behaved so. Since we have dwelt here we have

experienced many vexations from this house; but that you should share

your father's views pains me most."

Laura endeavored in vain to dry her tears. "I repeat to you that you do

me injustice; more I cannot say in self-justification, nor will I. You

have grieved me more than you know, and I am satisfied that I have a

clear conscience."

With these words she hastened into the house, and Mrs. Hahn returned

home, uncertain as to the result of her visit.

Laura paced up and down her little room wringing her hands. Innocent

and yet guilty in spite of her good will, wounded to the quick, dragged

into a family feud, the unhappy results of which could not be foreseen,

she reviewed the events of the past day in her excited mind. At last

she seated herself at her little writing-table, took out her journal,

and confided her sorrows to this silent friend bound in violet leather.

She sought comfort from the souls of others who had borne up nobly

under similar griefs, and at last found the confirmation of her

experience in the expressive well-known passage of Goethe's Faust:

"Reason doth folly, good doth evil grow;

The child must reap the mischief that the fathers sow."

Had she not wished to do what was reasonable and kind, and had not

folly and evil arisen from it? And had not misfortune befallen her

without her fault merely because she was a child of the house? With

this sentence she closed a passionate effusion. But in order not to

appear to her conscience devoid of affection, the poor child wrote

immediately underneath these words: "My dear, good father." Then she

closed the book, feeling more comforted.

But the severest humiliation to her was the feeling that she should be

judged unjustly by the people over the way; and she folded her arms and

thought how she could justify herself. She, indeed, could do nothing;

but there was a worthy man who was the confidant of every one in the

house, who had cured her canary bird when ill, and removed a stain from

the nose of her little bust of Schiller. She resolved, therefore, to

tell only the faithful Gabriel what Mrs. Hahn had said, and not a word

to her mother unless obliged to do so.

It happened that toward evening Gabriel and Dorchen entered into

conversation in the street. Dorchen began to make bitter complaints of

the spitefulness of the Hummels, but Gabriel earnestly advised her not

to allow herself to be dragged into these disputes. Said he, "there

must be some who take a neutral stand. Be an angel, Dorchen, and bring

peace and good will into the house; for the daughter is innocent."

Whereupon the history of giving the name was spoken of, and Laura

honorably acquitted.

Then, when Gabriel, a little later, incidentally remarked to Laura:

"This matter is settled; and Mr. Hahn has said that it had at once

appeared to him improbable that you should be so ill-disposed toward

him,"--a heavy weight fell from her heart, and again her soft song

sounded through the house. And yet she did not feel satisfied, for the

annoyance to the neighboring house caused by her father's anger still

continued. Alas! she could not restrain that violent spirit, but she

must endeavor secretly to atone for his injustice. She pondered over

this while undressing late at night; but when in bed, after

entertaining and rejecting many projects, the right idea suddenly

struck her; she jumped up at once, lighted her candle, and ran in her

night-dress to the writing-table. There she emptied her purse, and

counted over the new dollars that her father had given her at Christmas

and on her birthday. These dollars she determined to spend in a secret

method of reparation. Highly pleased, she took the precious purse to

bed with her, laid it under her pillow, and slept peacefully upon it,

although the spectral dogs raged round the house in their wild career,

horribly and incessantly.

The following morning Laura wrote in large, stiff characters, on an

empty envelope, Mr. Hahn's name and address, and affixed a seal on

which was the impression of a violet with the inscription, "I conceal

myself," and put it in her pocket. On her way to town to make some

purchases she stopped at a hot-house, the proprietor of which was

unknown to her. There she bought a bushy plant of dwarf orange, full of

flowers and golden fruit--a splendid specimen of the greenhouse; with a

beating heart, she drove in a closed cab, till she found a porter, to

whom she gave an extraordinary gratuity, and bade him leave the plant

and envelope at Mr. Hahn's house without word or greeting of any kind.

The man performed the commission faithfully. Dorchen discovered the

plant in the hall, and it caused an agreeable excitement in the Hahn

family--fruitless imaginations, repeated inspection, and vain

conjectures. When at noon Laura peeped through the arbor into the

garden, she had the pleasure of seeing the orange plant occupying a

prominent place in front of the white Muse. Beautifully did the white

and gold of the shrub glitter across the street. Laura stood long

behind the branches, unconsciously folding her hands. Her soul was

unburdened of the injustice, and she turned from the hostile house with

a feeling of proud satisfaction.

Meanwhile there was a complaint issued and a suit was pending between

the two houses, which was seriously increased on that very day by the

adoption of the dogs' names "Fighthahn" and "Spitehahn."

Thus the peace in house and neighborhood was still disturbed. At first

the pealing of bells had excited public opinion against Mr. Hahn, but

this was entirely altered by the introduction of the dogs: the whole

street went over to the man of _straw_; the man of _felt_ had all the

world against him. But Mr. Hummel cared little for this. In the evening

he sat in the garden on the upturned boat, looking proudly at the

neighboring house, while Fighthahn and the other dog sat at his feet

blinking at the moon, who in her usual way looked down maliciously on

Mr. Hummel, Mr. Hahn, and all the rest of the world.

It happened on the following night that amidst the barking of the dogs

and the light of the moon all the bells were torn down from the temple

of Mr. Hahn and stolen.

_CHAPTER VIII_.

TACITUS AGAIN.

There is a common saying that all lost things lie under the claws of

the Evil One. Whoever searches for a thing must cry: "Devil, take thy

paws away." Then it suddenly appears before the eyes of men. It was so

easy to find. They have gone round it a hundred times. They have looked

above and below, and have sought it in the most improbable places, and

never thought of that which was nearest them. Undoubtedly it was so

with the manuscript; it lay under the clutches of the Evil One or of

some hobgoblin, quite close to our friends. If they were to stretch out

their hands they might lay hold of it. The acquisition was only

hindered by one consideration, by the single question, Where? Whether

this delay would involve more or less suffering for both the scholars

was still doubtful. Nevertheless, they might overcome even this

uncertainty; the main point was, that the manuscript really existed and

lay somewhere. In short, matters went on the whole as well as possible.

The only thing missing was the manuscript.

"I see," said the Doctor one day to his friend, "that you are

strenuously exerting yourself to educate and fashion the ideas of the

older people of the household. I put my hopes in the souls of the

younger generation. Hans, the eldest, is very far from sharing the

views of the father and sister; he shows an interest in the old

treasure, and if we ourselves should not succeed in making the

discovery, at some future period he will not spare the old walls."

In conjunction with Hans, the Doctor secretly resumed his

investigations. In quiet hours, when the Proprietor was unsuspectingly

riding about his farm, and the Professor working in his room or sitting

in the honeysuckle arbor, the Doctor went prying about the house. In

the smock-frock of a laborer, which Hans had brought to his room, he

searched the dusty corners of the house high and low. More than once he

frightened the female servants of the household by suddenly emerging

from behind some old bin in the cellar, or by appearing astride on one

of the rafters of the roof. In the dairy a hole had been dug for the

forming of an ice-pit; one day when the laborers had gone away at noon,

Mademoiselle, the housekeeper, passed close to the uncovered pit,

suspecting nothing. Suddenly, she beheld a head without a body, with

fiery eyes and bristly hair, which slowly groped along the ground and

which turned its face to her with a derisive, fiendish laugh. She

uttered a shrill cry and rushed into the kitchen, where she sank

fainting on a stool and was only revived by the copious sprinkling of

water and encouraging words. At dinner she was so much troubled that

every one was struck by her uneasiness. But at last it appeared that

the fiendish head was to be found on the shoulders of her neighbor, the

Doctor, who had secretly descended into the hole to examine the

masonry.

It was on this occasion that the Doctor discovered, with some degree of

malicious pleasure, that the hospitable roof which protected him and

the manuscript from the blast and storm stood over an acknowledged

haunted house. There were strange creakings in the old building.

Spirits were frequently seen, and the accounts only differed as to

whether there was a man in a gray cowl, a child in a white shirt, or a

cat as large as an ass. Every one knew that there was in all parts a

knocking, rattling, thundering, and invisible throwing of stones.

Sometimes all the authority of the Proprietor and his daughter was

necessary to prevent the outbreak of a panic among the servants. Even

our friends, in the quiet of the hight, heard unaccountable sounds,

groans, thundering noises, and startling knocks on the wall. These

annoyances of the house the Doctor explained to the satisfaction of the

Proprietor by his theory of the old walls. He made it clear that many

generations of weasels, rats, and mice had bored through the solid

walls and tunnelled out a system of covered passages and strongholds.

Consequently, every social amusement and every domestic disturbance

which took place among the inmates of the wall was plainly perceptible.

But the Doctor listened with secret vexation to the muffled noises of

the denizens of the wall. For if they rushed and bustled thus

indiscriminately around the manuscript, they threatened to render

difficult the future investigations of science. Whenever he heard a

violent gnawing he could not help thinking they were again eating away

a line of the manuscript, which would make a multitude of conjectures

necessary; and it was not by gnawing alone that this colony of mice

would disfigure the manuscript that lay underneath them.

But the Doctor was compensated by other discoveries for the great

patience which was thus demanded of him. He did not confine his

activity to the house and adjoining buildings. He searched the

neighborhood for old popular traditions which here and there lingered

in the spinning-room and worked in the shaky heads of old beldames.

Through the wife of one of the farm-laborers, he secretly made the

acquaintance of an old crone well versed in legendary lore in the

neighboring village. After the old woman had recovered from her first

alarm at the title of the Doctor and the fear that he had come to take

her to task for incompetent medical practice, she sang to him, with

trembling voice, the love songs of her youth, and related to him more

than her hearer could note down. Every evening the Doctor brought home

sheets of paper full of writing and soon found in his collection all

the well-known characters of our popular legends--wild hunters,

wrinkled hags, three white maidens, many monks, some shadowy water

pixies, sprites who appeared in stories as artisan lads, but undeniably

sprang from a merman; and finally many tiny dwarfs. Sometimes Hans

accompanied him on these excursions to the country people, in order to

prevent these visits from becoming known to the father and daughter.

Now, it was not impossible that here and there a cave or an old well

was supplied with spirits without any foundation; for, when the wise

women of the village observed how much the Doctor rejoiced in such

communications, the old inventive power of the people awoke from a long

slumber. But, on the whole, both parties treated each other with truth

and firmness, and, besides, the Doctor was not a man who could easily

be deceived.

Once when he was returning to the Manor from one of these visits he met

the laborer's wife on a lonely foot-path. She looked cautiously about

and at last declared that she had something to impart to him if he

would not betray her to the Proprietor. The Doctor promised inviolable

secrecy. Upon this the woman stated, that in the cellar of the

manor-house, on the eastern side, in the right hand corner, there was a

stone, marked with three crosses; behind that lay the treasure. She had

heard this from her grandfather, who had it from his father, who had

been a servant at the Manor; and at that time the then Crown Inspector

had wished to raise the treasure, but when they went in the cellar for

that purpose, there had been such a fearful crash and such a noise that

they ran away in terror. But that the treasure was there was certain,

for she had herself touched the stone, and the signs were distinctly

engraved on it. The cellar was now used for wine, and the stone was

hidden by a wooden trestle.

The Doctor received this communication with composure, but determined

to set about investigating by himself. He did not say a word either to

the Professor or to his friend Hans, but watched for an opportunity.

His informant sometimes herself carried the wine which was always

placed before the guests, to the cellar and back. The next morning he

followed her boldly; the woman did not say a word as he entered the

cellar behind her, but pointed fearfully to a corner in the wall. The

Doctor seized the lamp, shoved half a dozen flasks from their places

and groped about for the stone; it was a large hewn stone with three

crosses. He looked significantly at the woman--she afterwards related

in the strictest confidence that the glasses before his eyes shone at

this moment so fearfully in the light of the lamp, that she had become

quite terrified--then he went silently up again, determined to take

advantage of this discovery on the first opportunity in dealing with

the Proprietor.

But a still greater surprise awaited the Doctor; his quiet labor was

supported by the good deceased Brother Tobias himself. The friends

descended one day to Rossau, accompanied by the Proprietor, who had

business in the town. He conducted his guests to the Burgomaster, whom

he requested to lay before the gentlemen, as trustworthy men, whatever

old writings were in the possession of the authorities. The

Burgomaster, who was a respectable tanner, put on his coat and took the

learned men to the old monastery. There was not much to be seen; only

the outer walls of the old building remained; the minor officials of

the crown dwelt in the new parts. Concerning the archives of the

council the Burgomaster suggested as probable that there would not be

much found in them; in this matter he recommended the gentlemen to the

town-clerk, and went himself to the club in order, after his onerous

duties, to enjoy a quiet little game of cards.

The town-clerk bowed respectfully to his literary colleagues, laid hold

of a rusty bunch of keys, and opened the small vault of the city hall,

where the ancient records, covered with thick dust, awaited the time in

which their quiet life was to be ended under the stamping machine of a

paper mill. The town-clerk had some knowledge of the papers; he

understood fully the importance of the communication which was expected

from him, but assured them with perfect truth that, owing to two fires

in the town and the disorders of former times, every old history had

been lost. There were also no records to be found in any private house;

only in the printed chronicles of a neighboring town some notices were

preserved concerning the fate of Rossau in the Thirty Years' War. After

the war, the place had been left a heap of ruins and almost

uninhabited. Since that time the town had lived along without a

history, and the town-clerk assured them that nothing was known here of

the olden time, and no one cared about it. Perhaps something about the

town might be learnt at the Capital.

Our friends continued to walk unweariedly from one intelligent man to

another, making inquiries, as in the fairy tale, after the bird with

the golden feather. Two little gnomes had known nothing, but now there

remained a third--so they went to the Roman Catholic priest. A little

old gentleman received them with profound bows. The Professor explained

to him, that he was seeking information concerning the ultimate fate of

the monastery--above all, what had happened in his closing years to the

last monk, the venerable Tobias Bachhuber.

"In those days no register of deaths was required," replied the

ecclesiastic. "Therefore, my dear sirs, I cannot promise to give you

any information. Yet, if it is only a question of yourselves, and you

do not wish to extract anything from the old writings disadvantageous

to the Church, I am willing to show you the oldest of the existing

books." He went into a room and brought out a long thin book, the edges

of which had been injured by the mould of the damp room. "Here are some

notices of my predecessors who rest with the Lord; perhaps they may be

useful to the gentlemen. More I cannot do, because there is nothing

else of the kind existing."

On the introductory page there was a register of the ecclesiastical

dignitaries of the place in Latin. One of the first notices was: "In

the year of our Lord 1637, and in the month of May, our venerated

brother Tobias Bachhuber, the last monk of this monastery, died of the

plague. The Lord be merciful to him."

The Professor showed the passage silently to his friend the Doctor, who

wrote down the Latin words; they then returned the book with thanks and

took their leave.

"The manuscript after all lies in the house," said the Professor, as

they went along the street. The Doctor thought of the three crosses and

laughed quietly to himself; he had in no way assented to the tactics

which his friend thought fit to adopt for the discovery of the

manuscript. When the Professor maintained that their only hope rested

on the sympathy which they might by degrees awaken in their host, the

Doctor entertained the suspicion that his friend was brought to this

slow way of carrying on the war not by pure zeal for the manuscript.

The Proprietor, however, maintained an obstinate silence regarding the

manuscript. If the Doctor threw out any hint upon the subject, the host

made a wry grimace and immediately changed the conversation. It was

necessary to put an end to this. The Doctor now determined to insist

upon a decision before his departure. When, therefore, they were

sitting together in the garden in the evening, and the Proprietor was

looking cheerfully and calmly on his fruit trees, the Doctor began the

attack:

"I cannot leave this place, my hospitable friend, without reminding you

of our contract."

"Of what contract?" inquired their host, like one who did not remember

it.

"Regarding the manuscript," continued the Doctor, with emphasis, "which

lies concealed in this place."

"Indeed! why you yourself said that every place sounds hollow. So we

would have to tear down the house from roof to cellar. I should think

we might wait till next spring. When you come to us again; for we

should be obliged, under these circumstances, to live in the barns,

which now are full."

"The house may, for the present, remain standing," said the Doctor;

"but if you still think that the monks took away their monastic

property, there is one circumstance which goes against your view. We

have discovered at Rossau that the worthy friar, who had concealed the

things here in April, died of the pestilence as early as May, according

to the church register; here is a 'copy of the entry.'"

The Proprietor looked at the Doctor's memorandum book, closed it and

said: "Then his brother monks have taken away the property."

"That is scarcely possible," replied the Doctor, "for he was the last

of his order in the monastery."

"Then some of the city people have taken it."

"But the inhabitants of the town abandoned it then, and the place lay

for years desolate, in ruins and uninhabited."

"Humph!" began the Proprietor, in good humor; "the learned gentlemen

are strict creditors and know how to insists upon their rights. Tell me

straightforwardly what you want of me. You must, first of all, point

out to me some place that appears suspicious, not only to you, but also

to the judgment of others; and that you cannot do with any certainty."

"I know of such a place," answered the Doctor, boldly, "and I wish to

suggest to you that the treasure lies there."

The Professor and the Proprietor looked on him with astonishment.

"Follow me into the cellar," cried the Doctor.

A candle was lighted; the Doctor led the way to the place where the

wine lay.

"What gives you such victorious confidence?" inquired the Professor, on

the way, in a low voice.

"I suspect that you have your secrets," replied the Doctor; "permit me

to have mine."

He quickly removed the bottles from the corner, threw the light on the

stone, and knocked on the wall with a large key.

"The place is hollow and the stone has a peculiar mark."

"It is true," said the Proprietor; "there is an empty space behind it;

it is certainly not small. But the stone is one of the foundation

stones of the house, and has not the appearance of ever having been

removed from its place."

"After so long a time, it would be difficult to determine that,"

rejoined the Doctor.

The Proprietor examined the wall himself.

"A large slab lies over it. It would, perhaps, be possible to raise the

marked stone from its place." He considered for a moment, and then

continued: "I see I must let you have your own way. I will thus make

compensation for the first hour of our acquaintance, which has always

lain heavy on my conscience. As we three are here in the cellar like

conspirators, we will enter into an agreement. I will at once do what I

consider to be very useless. In return, whenever you speak or write

upon the subject, you must not refuse to bear testimony that I have

given in to every reasonable wish."

"We shall see what can be done," replied the Doctor.

"Very well. In the stone quarry at the extremity of my property

I have some extra hands at work; they shall remove the stone and then

restore it to its place. Thus, I hope, the affair will be forever

settled. Ilse, early in the morning let the shelving be removed from

the wine-cellar."

The following day the stone-masons came, and the three gentlemen and

Ilse descended into the cellar, and looked on curiously while the men

exerted their power with pickaxe and crowbar on the square stone. It

was placed upon the rock, and great exertions were necessary to loosen

it. But the people themselves declared that there was a great cavity

behind, and worked with a zeal that was increased by the repute of the

haunted house. At last the stone was moved and a dark opening became

visible. The spectators approached--both the scholars in anxious

suspense; their host and his daughter also full of expectation. One of

the stone-masons hastily seized the light and held it before the

opening. A slight vapor came out; the man drew back alarmed.

"There is something white in there," he cried, full of fear and hope.

Ilse looked at the Professor, who with difficulty controlled the

excitement that worked in his face. He grasped the light, but she kept

it from him, and cried out, anxiously: "Not you." She hastened to the

opening and thrust her hand into the hollow space. She laid hold of

something tangible. A rattling was heard; she quickly withdrew her

hand; but, terrified threw what she had laid hold of on the ground. It

was a bone.

All gazed in horror at the object on the ground.

"This is a serious answer to your question," exclaimed the Proprietor.

"We pay a dear price for our sport."

He took the light and himself searched the opening; a heap of bones lay

there. The others stood around in uncomfortable silence. At last the

Proprietor threw a skull out into the cellar, and cried out cheerfully,

as a man who is relieved from painful feeling:

"They are the bones of a dog!"

"It was a small dog," assented the stone-mason, striking the bone with

his pick. The rotten bone broke in pieces.

"A dog!" cried the Doctor, delighted, forgetting for a moment his

blighted hope. "That is instructive. The foundation wall of this house

must be very old."

"I am rejoiced that you are contented with this discovery," replied the

Proprietor, ironically.

But the Doctor would not be disconcerted, and related how, in the early

middle ages, there had been a superstitious custom of enclosing

something living in the foundation-wall of solid buildings. The custom

descended from the ancient heathen times. The cases were rare where

such things were found in old buildings, and the skeleton now found was

an indisputable confirmation of the custom.

"If it confirms your views," said the Proprietor, "it confirms mine

also. Hasten, men, to replace the stone."

Then the stone-mason lighted up and felt again in the opening and

declared that there was nothing more there. The workmen restored the

stone to its place, the wine was replaced and the matter settled. The

Doctor bore the jeering remarks, of which the Proprietor was not

sparing, with great tranquillity, and said to him:

"What we have discovered is certainly not much; but we know now with

certainty that the manuscript is not to be found in this part of your

house, but in some other. I take with me a careful record of all the

hollow places in your house, and we do not give up out claims in regard

to this discovery; but we consider you from now on as a man who has

borrowed the manuscript for his own private use for an indefinite time,

and I assure you that our wishes and desires will incessantly hover

about this building."

"Pray allow the persons who dwell there to participate in your good

wishes," replied the Proprietor, smiling, "and do not forget that in

your researches after the manuscript you have in reality found the dog.

For the rest, I hope that this discovery will free my house from the

ill-repute of containing treasures, and for the sake of this gain I

will be quite content with the useless work."

"That is the greatest error of your life," replied the Doctor, with

grave consideration; "just the reverse will take place. All people who

have an inclination for hidden treasure will take the discovery in this

light, that you are deficient in faith and have not employed the

necessary solemnities, therefore the treasure is removed from your eyes

and the dog placed there as a punishment. I know better than you what

your neighbors will record for posterity. Tarry in peace for your

awakening, Tacitus! Your most steadfast friend departs, and he whom I

leave behind begins to make undue concessions to this household."

He looked earnestly at the Professor and called Hans to accompany him

on a visit to the village, in order to take a grateful leave of his old

crones, and to obtain one of the beautiful songs of the people, of

which he had discovered traces, to take home with him.

He was gone a long time; for after the song there came to light

unexpectedly a wonderful story of a certain Sir Dietrich and his horse,

which breathed fire.

When, toward evening, the Professor was looking out for him, he met

Ilse who, with her straw hat in her hand, was prepared for a walk.

"If you like," she said, "we will go to meet your friend."

They walked along a meadow between stubble-fields, in which here and

there grass was to be seen peeping up amongst the stubble.

"The autumn approaches," remarked the Professor; "that is the first

sign."

"Winter-time is tedious to some people," answered Ilse, "but it puts

us, like Till Eulenspiegel, in good spirits, for we enjoy its repose,

and think of the approaching spring; and when the stormy winds rage

round us, and the snow drifts to a man's height in the valleys, we sit

at home in warmth and comfort."

"With us in the city the winter passes away almost unheeded. The short

days and the white roofs alone remind us of it, for our work goes on

independently of changing seasons. Yet the fall of the leaf has from my

childhood been depressing to me, and in the spring I always desire to

throw aside my books and ramble through the country like a traveling

journeyman."

They were standing by a bundle of sheaves. Ilse arranged some of them

as a seat, and looked over the fields to the distant hills.

"How different it is with us here," she began after a pause. "We are

like the birds which year after year joyously flap their wings and live

in contentment. But you think and care about other times and other men

that existed long before us. You are as familiar with the past as we

are with the rising of the sun and the forms of the stars. If the end

of summer is sorrowful to you, it is equally as sorrowful to me to hear

and read of past times. Books of history make me very sad. There is so

much unhappiness on earth, and it is always the good that come to a

sorrowful end. I then become presumptuous, and ask why God has thus

ordered it? It is really very foolish to feel thus. But for that reason

I do not like to read history."

"I well understand that frame of mind," answered the Professor. "For

wherever men seek to enforce their will in opposition to their time and

nation, invariably they meet the fate that befalls the weak. Even that

which the strongest accomplish has no permanent lastingness. And as men

and their works disappear, so do peoples. But we should not irrevocably

attach our hearts to the fate of a single man or a single nation, we

should rather strive to understand why they have grown great, and why

they have perished, and what was the abiding gain that through their

life the human race has eternally won. The account of their fortunes

will then become but a veil, behind which we discover the operation of

other forces and powers of life. We learn that in the men that succumb

in this great struggle and in the nations that decline, a still higher

hidden life dominates, which lives on creating and destroying in rigid

accordance with eternal laws. To discover the laws of this higher life

and to feel, to experience the blessing that this creating and

destruction has brought into our existence, that is the duty and the

ambition of the historian. From this point of view dissolution and

death are transformation into new life. And they who have learned thus

to look upon and observe the past--for them its study increases their

security and ennobles their heart."

Ilse shook her head and cast down her eyes.

"And the Roman whose lost book brought you to us, and of which you have

been talking to-day--is he interesting to you because he looked upon

the world in the cheerful light that you do?"

"No," answered the Professor, "it is just the reverse that impresses

one in his work. His serious mind was never borne aloft by joyful

confidence. The fate of his nation, the future of men, lay like a dark

impenetrable riddle heavily upon his soul. In the past he saw a better

time, freer government, stronger men, purer morals. In his own people

and his own state he saw decadence and dissolution, which even good

rulers no longer could retard. It is affecting to see how that

high-minded, thoughtful man struggled in doubt. For he doubted whether

the horrible fate of millions was the punishment of the Deity or the

consequence that no God cared for the lot of mortals. Forebodingly and

ironically he contemplates the history of individuals. To him the

course of wisdom seems to be to bear the inevitable silently and

patiently. When, even for a moment, a brief smile curls his lips, one

perceives that he is looking into a hopeless desert; one can imagine

fear visible in his eyes, and the rigid expression which remains on one

who has been shaken to the innermost core by deadly horrors."

"That is sad," exclaimed Ilse.

"Yes, it is fearful. And it is difficult to understand how any one

could endure life, burdened by such despair. The joyful satisfaction of

belonging to a nation of growing vigor was not then the lot of either

heathen or Christian. It is the highest and most indestructible

happiness of man to have confidence in that which exists, and to look

with hope to the future. And such is our life now. Much that is weak,

corrupt, and perishable surrounds us. But with it all there is growing

up an endless abundance of youthful vigor. The root and the trunk

of our popular life are sound. Everywhere do we find sincerity in

family-life, respect for morals and law, sturdy and solid labor,

everywhere energetic activity. In many thousands we find the

consciousness that they are increasing the national strength, and in

millions that are still far behind them the feeling that they also are

laboring to contribute to our civilization. This is our pleasure and

glory in modern times, and helps to make us valiant and proud. We well

know, indeed, that the joyful feeling of this possession may also be

saddened; for temporary disturbances come to every nation in the course

of its development. But its progress and prosperity of thriving cannot

be thwarted, nor its career hindered, so long as these securities of

power and soundness exist. It is this that gives happiness to him whose

vocation it is to investigate the past, for he looks down from the

salubrious air of the heights into the darkness beneath him."

Ilse gazed on him with wonder and admiration, but he bent over the

sheaves which were between them and continued with enthusiasm:

"Each one of us derives the judgment and habit of mind with which he

regards the great relations of the world, from the sphere of his own

personal experience. Look about you. Here at the laughing summer

landscape, yonder at the busy workingmen, and then at that which lies

nearest your heart--at your own home and the circle in which you have

grown to womanhood. How gentle the light, how warm the hearts, how wise

and good and true the minds that surround you! And think what an

inestimable gain it is for _me_, to see this, and to enjoy it--enjoy it

by your side. And when, poring over my books, I hereafter shall vividly

feel how valiant and noble, how sturdy and true is the life of my

countrymen about me, I shall evermore in my inmost heart pay, for that,

a tribute of thankfulness to you."

He stretched out his hand across the sheaves; Ilse seized it, and

clasped it between hers. A warm tear fell upon it. She looked at him

with her moistened eyes, while a world of happiness lay in her

countenance. Gradually a bright glow suffused her cheeks, she rose, and

a look full of devoted tenderness fell upon him; then she walked

hastily away from him adown the meadow.

The Professor remained leaning against the sheaves. The meadow-larks on

the tips of the ears of grain over his head warbled joyfully. He

pressed his cheek against the stack which half concealed him; thus, in

happy forgetfulness, he watched the girl descending toward the distant

laborers.

When he raised his eyes his friend was standing by him; he beheld a

countenance which quivered with inward sympathy, and heard the gentle

question:

"What will come of it?"

"Husband and wife," said the Professor decidedly; he pressed his

friend's hands, and strode across the fields to the songs of the larks

which greeted him from every sheaf.

Fritz was alone. The word had been spoken. A new and awful fate

overshadowed the life of his friend. So this was to be the end of it?

Thusnelda, instead of Tacitus! Fritz felt alas! that the social custom

of marriage might be a very venerable institution. It was inevitable

that most men pass through the uprooting struggle which is the

consequence of a change in the mutual relations of life. He could not

think of his friend amid his books, with his colleagues, and this

woman. He felt painfully that his relation to the Professor must be

changed by it. But he did not think long of himself, but anxiously

worried about his rash friend; and not less about her who had so

dangerously impressed the soul of the other. The faithful rash friend

looked angrily upon the surrounding stubble and straw, and he clenched

his fists against the deceased Bachhuber; against the valley of

Rossau; nay, even against the immediate cause of this mischievous

confusion--against the manuscript of Tacitus.

_CHAPTER IX_.

ILSE.

Since the death of her mother Ilse had lived an unvaried home life.

Though then scarcely grown up, she had taken charge of the household.

Spring and autumn came and went. One year rolled over her head like

another. Her father and sisters, the estate, the laborers, and the poor

of the valley--these formed her life. More than once a suitor, a

sturdy, worthy proprietor of the neighborhood, had asked her hand in

marriage. But she felt contented with her home, and she knew that her

father wished her to remain with him. In the evening, when the active

man rested on the sofa, and the children were sent to bed she sat

silently by him with her embroidery, or talked over the small

occurrences of the day--the illness of a laborer, the damage done by a

hail storm or the name of the new milch cow. It was a lonely country.

Much of it was woodland. Most of the estates were small. There were no

rich neighbors. And the father, who had worked his way by his energy

until he became an opulent man, had no inclination for society life,

nor had his daughter. On Sunday the Pastor came to dinner, and then the

father's farm-inspectors remained and related the little gossip of the

neighborhood over their coffee; the children, who, during the week,

were under the charge of a tutor, amused themselves in the garden and

fields. When Ilse had a leisure hour she seated herself in her own

little sitting-room with a book out of her father's small library--a

novel by Walter Scott, a tale by Hauff, or a volume of Schiller.

But now a profusion of thoughts, images, and feeling had been awakened

in her mind by this stranger. Much that she had hitherto looked upon

with indifference in the outer world now became interesting to her.

Like fire-works which unexpectedly shoot up, illuminating particular

spots in the landscape with their colored light, his conversation threw

a fascinating light, now here and now there, on a life that was strange

to her. When he spoke, when his words, copious and choice, flowed from

his innermost heart--she bent her head as in a dream, then fixed her

eyes on his face. She felt a respect commingled with fear for a human

mind that soared so loftily and firmly above the earth. He spoke of the

past as intimately as of the present; he knew how to explain the secret

thoughts of men who had lived a thousand years ago. Ah! she felt the

glory and greatness of human learning to be the merit and greatness of

the man who sat opposite to her. The intellectual labor of the

centuries appeared to her as a supernatural being which proclaimed from

a human mouth things unheard of in her home.

But it was not learning alone. When she looked up at him, she saw

beaming eyes, a kindly expression about the eloquent lips, and she felt

herself irresistibly attracted by the warmth of the man's nature. Then

she sat opposite to him as a quiet listener. But when she entered her

room, she knelt down and covered her face with her hands. In this

solitude she saw him before her and offered him homage.

Thus she awoke to a new life. It was a state of pure enthusiasm, of

unselfish rapture, such as a man knows not and only a woman can

experience,--which comes only to a pure, innocent heart when the

greatest crisis of earthly existence visits a sensitive soul in the

bloom of life.

She saw also that her father was partially under the same magical

influence. At dinner, which used to be so silent, conversation now

flowed as from a living spring; in the evening, when formerly he used

to sit wearily over the newspaper, many things were now discussed, and

there were frequent disputes which lasted late into the night. Her

father, when he took his bedroom candle from the table, was always in

cheerful humor; and more than once he repeated to himself, pacing up

and down, sentences that had been uttered by his guest. "He is, in his

way, a fine man," he said; "in all things stable and sound; one always

knows how to take him."

Occasionally she was alarmed at the Professor's opinions. The two

friends, indeed, avoided what might wound the deep faith of their

gentle hearer, but in the conversation of the Professor there sometimes

seemed to lie hidden a different conception of venerated doctrines and

of human duties; and yet, what he maintained was so noble and good that

she could not guard herself against it by her own reasoning.

He was often vehement in his expressions; when he condemned a thing he

did it in forcible language, and sometimes became so vehement that the

Doctor and even her father withdrew from the contest. She thought then

that he was different from almost all men--prouder, nobler, and more

decided. When he expected much of others, as is natural to one who has

lived in closer intercourse with the ideal world than with real life,

it alarmed her to think in what light she must appear to him. But, on

the other hand, this same man was ready to acknowledge everything that

was good, and he rejoiced like a child when he learned that any one had

shown himself brave and energetic.

He was a serious man, and yet he had become a favorite with the

children, even more than the Doctor. They confided their little secrets

to him, he visited them in their nursery, and gave them advice

according to his youthful recollections, as to how they should make a

large paper kite; he himself painted the eyes and the mustache, and cut

the tassels for the tail. It was a joyful day when the kite rose from

the stubble-field for the first time. Then, when evening came, he sat

down, surrounded by the children, like the partridge amongst her young.

Franz climbed up the arm-chair and played with his hair; one of the

bigger ones sat on each knee. Then riddles were propounded and stories

told. And when Ilse heard how he repeated and taught small rhymes to

the children, her heart swelled with joy that such a mind should hold

such intimate intercourse with simple children. And she watched his

countenance and saw a child-like expression light up the features of

the man, laughing and happy; and she imagined him as a little boy,

sitting on his mother's lap. Happy mother!

Then came the hour among the sheaves, the learned discourse which began

with Tacitus and ended with a silent acknowledgment of love. The

blessed cheerfulness of his countenance, the trembling sound of his

voice, had torn away the veil that concealed her own agitated feelings.

She now knew that she loved him deeply and eternally, and she had a

conviction that he felt just as she did. He, who was so greatly her

superior, had condescended to her; she had felt his warm breath and the

quick pressure of his hand. As she passed through the field, a glow

suffused her cheeks; the earth and heaven, fields and sun-lit wood,

floated before her like luminous clouds. With winged feet she hastened

down into the woody plain, where the foliage enveloped her. Now she

felt herself alone. She unconsciously grasped a slender birch tree,

which shook beneath her convulsive grasp, until its leaves fell in a

shower around her. She raised her hands to the golden light of the

heavens and threw herself down on the mossy ground. Her bosom heaved

and panted violently and she trembled with inward excitement. Love had

descended from heaven upon the young woman, taking possession of her

body and soul with its irresistible power.

Thus she lay a long time. Butterflies played about her hair. A little

lizard crept over her hand. The white tips of the wild flowers and the

branches of the hazel bent over her, as if these little children of

nature wished to veil the deep emotions of the sister who had come to

them in the happiest moment of her life.

At last she rose upon her knees, clasped her hands together, and

thanked and prayed to God for him.

She became more collected and went into the open valley, no longer the

quiet girl she was formerly. Her own life and what surrounded her shone

in new colors, and she viewed the world with new feelings. She

understood the language of the pair of swallows that circled round her,

and with twittering tones passed by her swift as arrows. It was the

rapturous joy of life which impelled the little bodies so swiftly

through the air, and the birds greeted her with a sisterly song of

jubilee. She answered the greeting of the laborers who were going home

from the fields, and she looked at one of the women who had been

binding the sheaves, and knew exactly what was the state of her

feelings. This woman also had, as a maiden, loved a strange lad; it had

been a long and unhappy attachment, attended by much sorrow; but now

she was comforted going with him to her home, and when she spoke to her

mistress she looked proudly on her companion, and Ilse felt how happy

was the poor weary woman. When Ilse entered the farm-yard, and heard

the voices of the maids who had waited for her in vain, and the

impatient lowing of the cattle, which sounded like a reproach on the

loitering mistress, she shook her head gently, as if the admonition was

no longer for her, but for another.

When she again passed from the farm buildings into the golden evening

light, with fleet steps and elevated head, she perceived with

astonishment her father standing by his horse ready to mount, and with

him, in quiet conversation, the Doctor, and he whom at this moment she

felt a difficulty in encountering. She approached hesitatingly.

"Where have you been lingering. Ilse?" cried the Proprietor. "I must be

off," and looking at the agitated countenance of his daughter, he

added: "It is nothing of importance. A letter from the invalid forester

calls me to his house. One of the Court people has arrived, and I can

guess what is wanted of me. I hope to be back at night."

He nodded to the Doctor. "We shall see each other again before your

departure."

So saying, he trotted away, and Ilse was thankful in her heart for the

incident which made it easier for her to speak with composure to the

friends. She walked with them on the road along which her father had

ridden, and endeavored to conceal her disquiet by talking on

indifferent subjects. She spoke of the hunting castle in the wood, and

of the solitude in which the gray-headed forester dwelt among the

beech-trees of the forest. But the conversation did not flow; each of

those noble hearts was powerfully touched. The Professor and Ilse

avoided looking at each other, and the friend could not succeed, by

jocose talk, in drawing the lovers down to the small things of life.

Ilse suddenly pointed with her hand to a narrow pass on one side, from

which many dark heads were emerging.

"Look! There are the Indians of Mrs. Rollmaus."

A crowd of wild figures came on with quick step, one behind the other.

In front a powerful man in a brown smock-frock and shabby hat, with a

stout stick in his hand; behind him some young men, then women with

little children on their backs; all around and about the troop ran

half-naked boys and girls. Most of the strangers were bare-headed, and

without shoes. Their long black hair hung about their brown faces, and

their wild eyes, even from afar, shone covetously on the walking party.

"When the autumn comes, these people sometimes wander through our

country. They are jugglers, going to the fair. But for some years they

have not ventured into the neighborhood of our estate."

The troop approached; there was a wild rush out of the gang, and in a

moment the friends were surrounded by ten or twelve dusky figures, who

pressed on them with passionate gestures, loud cries, and outstretched

hands--men, women, and children, in tumultuous confusion. The friends

looked with astonishment on their piercing eyes and vehement movements,

and on the children, who stamped with their feet, and clawed the

strangers with their hands like madmen.

"Back, you wild creatures," cried Ilse, pushing herself through the

throng, and placing herself before the friends. "Back with you. Who is

the chief of this band?" she repeated with anger, raising her arm

commandingly.

The noise was silenced and a brown gypsy woman, not smaller than Ilse,

with shining hair arranged in braids and a colored handkerchief about

her head, came out from the band, and stretched her hands toward Ilse.

"My children beg," she said; "they hunger and thirst."

It was a large face with sharp features, in which traces of former

beauty were visible. With head bent forward, she stood before the young

lady, and her sparkling eyes passed peeringly from one countenance to

the other.

"We have money only for the men who work for us," answered Ilse,

coldly. "For strangers who are thirsty, there is our spring; and to

those who are hungry we give bread. You will get nothing more at our

house."

Again dozens of arms were raised and again the wild crowd pressed

nearer. The gypsy woman drove them back by a call in a foreign tongue.

"We wish to work, Mademoiselle," she said, in fluent German, with a

foreign accent; "the men mend old utensils, and we drive away rats and

mice from the walls; and if you have a sick horse, we will cure it

speedily."

Ilse shook her head negatively. "We do not need your help; where is

your pass?"

"We have none," said the woman; "we came from foreign parts," and she

pointed to where the sun rises.

"And where will you rest to-night?" asked Ilse.

"We do not know; the sun is going down and my people are weary and

barefooted," replied the gypsy woman.

"You must not rest near the farm nor near the village houses. The bread

you will receive at the gate of the farm-yard; you may send some one

there to fetch it. If you light a fire in any of our fields, take care

not to go too near the sheaves; we shall look after you. Let none of

you stroll about the estate or into the village to tell fortunes to

people, for we do not permit it."

"We do not tell fortunes," answered the woman, touching a small black

cross which she wore around her neck. "None here below know the future,

nor do we."

Ilse bent her head reverently.

"Well said," said she. "According to the meaning which seems conveyed

in your words, you do not remind me in vain of the communion which

exists between us. Come to the gate yourself, mother, and await me

there; if you need anything for your little ones, I will endeavor to

help you."

"We have a sick child, my pretty young lady, and the boys are in want

of clothes," begged the gypsy woman. "I will come, and my people shall

do as you wish."

She gave a sign, and the wild troop tramped obediently along the

side-road that led to the village. The friends looked with curiosity

after the band.

"That such a scene should be possible in this country I could never

have believed," cried the Doctor.

"They were formerly quite a nuisance to us," replied Ilse, with

indifference; "they are seldom about, now. My father keeps strict order,

and that they know right well. But we must go back to the farm-yard,

for there can be no harm in caution with this thievish race."

They hastened back to the farm-yard. The Doctor lamented heartily that

his intended journey prevented him from obtaining information from the

strangers respecting the secrets of their language.

Ilse called the Inspector, and the intelligence that there were gypsies

in the neighborhood flew like wildfire over the farm. The stables were

guarded, the poultry and families of fatted pigs were put in the charge

of stout maids, and the shepherds and ploughmen received orders to keep

watch at night. Ilse called the children and gave them their supper,

but found it difficult to control their excitement. The youngest were

given over to Mademoiselle, and under strong protest and many tears

were consigned to the secure protection of their beds. Then Ilse

collected old gowns and linen, gave a maid two huge loaves, and

prepared to go to the gate of the farm-yard, where the gypsy woman was

to await her. The Doctor, in his joy about the strangers, had cast off

all anxiety concerning his friend.

"Allow us to witness the interview with the sibyl," he begged.

They found the gypsy woman sitting in the dusk before the gate. Near

her was a half-grown maiden, with brilliant eyes and long tresses, but

scanty dress. The woman rose and received with a distinguished air the

bounty which Ilse handed to her.

"Blessings on you, young lady," she exclaimed, "and may all the

happiness that you now wish be your portion. You have a face that

promises good fortune. Blessings on your golden hair and your blue

eyes. I thank you," she concluded, bending her head. "Will not the

gentlemen also give my little girl a keepsake?" The wild beauty held

out her hand. "Her face is burnt by the sun; be kind to the poor dark

girl," begged the old one, looking furtively round.

The Professor shook his head. The Doctor got out his purse and placed a

piece of gold in the hand of the woman.

"Have you given up fortune-telling?" he asked laughingly.

"Misfortune visits those who prophesy and those who ask," replied the

gypsy woman. "Let the gentleman be on his guard against all that barks

and scratches, for there is mischief in store for him from dogs and

cats."

Ilse and the Professor laughed. Meanwhile the eyes of the gypsy woman

peered restlessly into the bushes.

"We cannot tell fortunes," she continued. "We have no power over the

future. And we make mistakes, like others. But we see much, my

beautiful lady. And though you do not desire it, yet will I tell it

you. The gentleman near you seeks a treasure, and he will find it. But

he must take care lest he lose it. And you, proud lady, will be dear to

a man that wears a crown, and you shall have the choice to become a

queen. The choice and the torment," she added in a lower tone, and her

eyes again wandered unquietly about.

"Away with you," cried Ilse, indignantly; "such gossip does not agree

with your professions."

"We know nothing," murmured the gypsy woman humbly, grasping the

talisman at her neck. "We have only our thoughts, and our thoughts are

idle or true, according to a more powerful will. Farewell, my pretty

lady," she cried out impressively, and strode with her companion into

the darkness.

"How proudly she walks away," exclaimed the Doctor. "I have much

respect for the clever woman. She would not tell fortunes, but she

could not help recommending herself by a bit of secret knowledge."

"She has long ago learnt all about us from the laborers," replied Ilse,

laughing.

"Where have they pitched their camp?" asked the Doctor, with curiosity.

"Probably beyond the village," answered Ilse. "You may see their fires

in the valley. These strangers do not like people to come near their

camp and see what they have for supper."

They descended slowly into the valley and remained standing on the

border of the brook, not far from the garden. All around them the

darkness of the evening lay on bush and meadow. The old house stood out

on the rock, gloomy under the twilight gray of the heavens. At their

feet the water murmured and the leaves of the trees were agitated by

the night wind. Silently did the three look upon the vanishing shadows

of the landscape. The valley alongside the village lay invisible in the

deep gloom of the night. Not one lighted window was to be seen.

"They have disappeared silently like the bats, which are even now

flying through the air," said the Doctor.

But the others did not answer. They were no longer thinking of the

gypsies.

Then through the still evening a low moan was heard. Ilse started and

listened. Again the same weak tone.

"The children!" cried Ilse, in dismay, and rushed toward the hedge

which divided the meadow from the orchard. Much alarmed she shook the

closed gate, then broke through the hedge, and sprang like a lioness

past the espaliers. The friends hastened after her, but could not

overtake her. A bright light shone among the trees before her and

something moved as she flew on. Two men rose from the ground; one

encountered her, but Ilse threw back the arm which was raised to strike

her, so that the man reeled and fell back over the weeping children who

lay on the grass. Felix, who was behind Ilse, sprang forward and seized

the man, while the Doctor the next moment struggled with another, who

glided like an eel from under his hands and disappeared in the

darkness. Meanwhile the first robber struck at the arm of the Professor

with his knife, wrenched himself away from the hand which held him, and

in the next moment broke through the hedge. One heard the crackling of

the branches, and then all was quiet again.

"They live!" cried Ilse, kneeling on the ground, with panting breath,

and embracing the little ones, who now uttered piteous cries. It was

Riekchen, in her night-dress, and Franz, also nearly stripped. The

children had escaped from the eyes of Mademoiselle and the protection

of the bedroom, and slipped into the garden, to see the fire of the

gypsies, of which they had heard their sister speak. They had fallen

into the hands of some of the fellows belonging to the band, who were

looking out for something to steal, and had been robbed of their

clothes.

Ilse took the screaming children in her arms, and in vain did the

friends try to relieve her of the burden. Silently she hastened with

them into the house, rushed into the room, and, still holding them

fast, knelt down by them before the sofa, and the friends heard her

suppressed sobs. But it was only for a few moments that she lost her

self-control. She rose, and looked at the servants, who thronged

terrified into the room.

"No harm has happened to the children," she exclaimed. "Go where you

have to keep watch and send one of the overseers to me."

The Inspector immediately came.

"A robbery has been committed on our estate," said Ilse, "and those who

perpetrated it should be handed over to the law. I request you to seize

their camp."

"Their fire is in the ravine behind the village," Replied the

Inspector; "one may see the flame and smoke from the upper story. But,

Miss Ilse--I say it unwillingly--would it not be more prudent to let

the rogues escape? A large portion of the harvest still lies in

sheaves; they may set it on fire in the night, out of revenge, or

perhaps venture something still worse, in order to free their people."

"No," exclaimed Ilse; "do not hesitate--do not delay. Whether the

vagabonds injure us or not will be decided by a higher will. We must do

our duty. The crime demands punishment, and the master of this estate

is in the position of guardian of the law."

"Let us be quick," said the Professor; "we will accompany you."

"Well, so be it," replied the Inspector, after consideration; "the farm

bailiff shall remain here and we others will seek the band at the

fire."

He hastened out. The Doctor seized a knobbed stick that was in the

corner of the room. "That will suffice for me," he said, laughing, to

his friend. "I consider myself bound to show some forbearance toward

these thievish associates of my studies, who have not quite forgotten

their old tongue." As he was on the point of leaving the room he

stopped: "But you must remain behind, for you are bleeding."

Some drops of blood fell from the sleeve of the Professor.

The countenance of the maiden became white as the door against which

she leant. "For our sake," she murmured faintly. Suddenly she hastened

up to the Professor and bent down to kiss his hand. Felix restrained

her.

"It is not worth speaking of Miss Ilse," he exclaimed. "I can move my

arm."

The Doctor compelled him to take off his coat and Ilse flew for a

bandage.

Fritz examined the wound with the composure of an old duellist. "It is

a slight prick in the muscles of the under part of the arm," he said,

comforting Ilse; "a little sticking-plaster will be sufficient."

The Professor put on his coat again and seized his hat. "Let us start,"

he said.

"Oh, no; remain with us," begged Ilse hastening after him.

The Professor looked at her anxious countenance, shook her heartily by

the hand and left the room with his friend.

The hasty tread of the men had died away. Ilse went alone through all

the rooms in the house. Doors and windows were closed. Hans watched at

the door opening into the court-yard, his father's sword in his hand.

And the housemaids overlooked the court-yard and garden from the upper

floor. Ilse entered the nursery, where the two little ones, surrounded

by Mademoiselle and their brothers and sisters, were sitting in their

beds and struggling between their last tears and their sleep. Ilse

kissed the tired little ones, laid them down on their pillows, then she

hastened out into the yard and listened, now in the direction in which

the band lay, now on the other side, where the clatter of horses' hoofs

might announce the arrival of her father. All was quiet. The maids from

above called to her that the fire of the gypsies was extinguished, and

she again hastened up and down, listening anxiously and looking up to

the starry heaven.

What a day! A few hours before raised above the cares of earth, and now

by a hostile hand dragged back into terror and anxiety! Was this to be

a foreboding of her future life? Were the golden doors only opened to

be closed again discordantly and a poor soul to be thrown back upon

hopeless aspirations? The deceiver had prophesied of one who might wear

a crown. Yes, in the realm in which he ruled as king there was a

blessed serenity and happy peace. Ah, if it might be permitted to

compare the joys of earth with those of heaven, such learning and power

of thought gave a foretaste of eternal glory. For thus did the spirits

of those who had here been good and wise soar, surrounded by light, in

pure clearness of vision, and speak smilingly and happily to one

another of all that had been upon earth; the most secret things would

be revealed to them, and all that was most deeply veiled become

apparent, and they would know that all the pains and sorrows of earth

proceeded from eternal goodness and wisdom. And he who here trod this

earth, a serene heaven in his heart, he had been wounded in the arm by

a wandering vagabond for her sake; and from love for her he had again

gone out into the fearful night, and she was troubled with endless

anguish on his account. "Protect him, all-merciful God," she prayed,

"and help me out of this darkness; give me strength, and enlighten my

mind that I may become worthy of the man who beholds Thy countenance in

past times, and among people that have passed away."

At last she heard the quick trot, and then the snorting of an impatient

horse at the closed door. "Father!" she cried out, hastily drawing back

the bolt, and flying into his arms, as he dismounted. The Proprietor

was much perplexed as he listened to her rapid report. He threw his

horse's bridle to his son, and hastened to the nursery to embrace his

little ones, who at the sight of their father remembered their

misfortunes, and began to weep and lament.

When the Proprietor entered the farmyard, the farming people were drawn

near the house, and the Inspector stated "that no one was to be seen

near the fire or in the neighborhood. There was not a trace near the

fire of their having encamped there. It had been lighted to mislead.

Theft had been their only object here. The greater part of the band had

left early in the evening. They are lying concealed somewhere in the

woods, and when the sun rises they will be far beyond the frontier. I

know the rascals of old."

"He is right," said the Proprietor to the friends, "and I think we have

nothing more to fear. Yet we must be very watchful to-night. A poor

father thanks you," he continued, with emotion. "The last day you have

passed with us, Doctor, has been unpleasantly eventful, which is not

usual with us."

"I must say I depart in anxiety about what I leave behind me," replied

the Doctor, half jesting, half serious. "Just fancy that now the lost

children of Asia are sneaking about these walls!"

"I hope we are rid of the rascals," continued the Proprietor, turning

to his daughter; "but you may count upon a different visit soon; our

sovereign will be here a few weeks hence. I have been called away only

to hear gossip about his visit, and to learn that it is not yet decided

where his Serene Highness will breakfast before the hunt. I know what

that means. The same thing happened fifteen years ago. There is no help

for it; he cannot remain at the Dragon at Rossau. But this visit will

not cause us any very serious inconvenience. Let us now wish each other

good night and sleep in peace."

Both friends entered their bedroom thoughtfully. The Professor stood at

the window, and listened to the tread of the watchmen, who paced around

the yard within and without, to the chirruping of the crickets, and to

the broken sounds which reached the ear from the slumbering fields. He

heard a noise near him, and looked into the countenance of his faithful

friend, who in his excitement had clasped his hands.

"She is religious," began Fritz, doubtfully. "Are we not so also?"

answered the Professor, drawing himself up to his full height.

"She is as far removed from the tenor of your mind as the holy Saint

Elizabeth."

"She has sense," replied the Professor.

"She is firm and self-confident in her own circle, but she will never

be at ease in your world."

"She has aptness here--she will have it everywhere."

"You blind yourself," cried Fritz, in despair; "will you disturb the

peace of your life by a discord, the issue of which you cannot foresee?

Will you demand of her the great change which she must undergo from

being a thorough housekeeper to becoming the confidant of your profound

investigations? Will you deprive her of the secure self-dependence of

an active life and bring into her future, struggle, uncertainty, and

doubt? If you will not think of your own peace, it is your duty to show

consideration for her life."

The Professor leaned his hot head against the window. At last he began:

"But we are the servants and proclaimers of truth; and while we

practice this duty towards every one who will hear us, is it not right

and a duty to do it where we love?"

"Do not deceive yourself," answered Fritz. "You, the man of refined

feeling, who so willingly recognize in every life the right to what

befits it--you would be the last to disturb the harmony of her being,

if you did not desire to possess her. What impels you is not a feeling

of duty, but passion."

"What I do not demand of a stranger, it behooves me to fulfil in the

woman with whom I unite myself for life. And must not every woman that

comes to share our life experience a similar change? How high do you

place the knowledge of the women in the city who come into our circle?"

"What they know is, as a rule, more unreliable than is good for them or

for us," replied Fritz; "but from their youth they are accustomed to

view the learning that interests men, with sympathy. The best results

of intellectual work are so easily accessible to them that everywhere

they find common ground on which they can meet. But here, however

charming and admirable this life may appear to our eyes, it is

attractive just because it is so strange and different from ours."

"You exaggerate, you distort," cried the Professor. "I have felt deeply

in the time that we have passed here how great are the rights that a

noble passion has over one's life. This we have forgotten over our

books. Who can tell what it is that makes two human beings so love one

another, that they cannot part? It is not only pleasure in the

existence of the other, nor the necessity of making one's own being

complete, nor feeling and fancy alone, which joins the object of our

love--although heretofore a stranger--so intimately to us. Is it

necessary that the wife should only be the finer reed, which always

sounds the same notes that the husband plays--only an octave higher?

Speech is incapable of expressing the joy and exultation that I feel

when near her; and I can only tell you, my friend, that it is something

good and great, and it demands its place in my life. What you now

express are only the doubts of cold reason, which is an enemy to all

that is in process of becoming, and continues to raise its pretensions

until it is subdued by accomplished realities."

"It is not alone reason," replied Fritz, offended. "I did not deserve

that you should so misconstrue what I have said. If it was presumptuous

in me to speak to you concerning feelings which you now consider

sacred, I must say in excuse, that I only assume the right which your

friendship has hitherto granted me. I must do my duty to you before I

leave you here. If I cannot convince you, try to forget this

conversation. I shall never touch upon this theme again."

He left the Professor standing at the window, and went to his bed. He

softly took off his boots, threw himself upon the bed, and turned his

face to the wall. After a short time he felt his hand seized, the

Professor was sitting by his bed clasping his friend's hand without

saying a word. At last Fritz withdrew his hand with a hearty pressure

and again turned to the wall.

He rose in the early dawn, gently approached the slumbering Professor,

and then quietly left the room. The Proprietor awaited him in the

sitting-room; the carriage came; there was a short friendly parting,

and Fritz drove away, leaving his friend alone among the crickets of

the field and the ears of corn, whose heavy heads rose and fell like

the waves of the sea under the morning breeze, the same this year as

they had done thousands and thousands of years before.

The Doctor looked back at the rock on which the old house stood, on the

terraces beneath, with the churchyard and wooden church, and on the

forest which surrounded the foot of the hill; and all the past and the

present of this dangerous place rose distinctly before him. Its ancient

character of Saxon times had altered little; and he looked on the rock

and the beautiful Ilse of Bielstein, as they would have been in the

days of yore. Then the rock would have been consecrated to a heathen

god. At that time there would have been a tower standing on it. And

Ilse would have dwelt there, with her golden hair, in a white linen

dress with a garment of otter skin over it. She would have been

priestess and prophetess of a wild Saxon race. Where the church stood

would have been the sacrificial altar, from which the blood of

prisoners of war would have trickled down into the valley.

Again, later, a Christian Saxon chief would have built his log-house

there, and again the same Ilse would have sat between the wooden posts

in the raised apartment of the women, using her spindle, or pouring

black mead into the goblets of the men.

Again, centuries later it would have been a walled castle, with stone

mullions to the windows, and a watch-turret erected on the rock; it had

become a nest for predatory barons, and Ilse of Bielstein again dwelt

there, in a velvet hood which her father had robbed from a merchant on

the king's highway. And when the house was assaulted by enemies. Ilse

stood among the men on the wall and drew the great crossbow, like a

knight's squire.

Again, hundreds of years later, she sat in the hunting-lodge of a

prince, with her father, an old warrior of Swedish times. Than she had

become pious, and, like a city dame, she cooked jams and preserves, and

went down to the pastor to the conventicle. She would not have worn

flowers, and sought to know what husband Heaven destined for her by

putting her finger at hazard on a passage in the Bible.

And now his friend had met this same Saxon child, tall and strong in

body and soul, but still a child of the middle ages, with a placid

expression in her beautiful countenance which only changed when the

heart was excited by any sudden passion; a mind as if half asleep, and

of a nature so child-like and pliant that it was sometimes impossible

to know whether she was wise or simple. In her character there still

remained something of all those Ilses of the two thousand years that

had passed away--a mixture of Sibyl, mead-dispenser, knight's daughter,

and pietist. She was of the old German type and the old German beauty,

but that she should suddenly become the wife of a Professor, that

appeared to the troubled Doctor too much against all the laws of quiet

historical development.

_CHAPTER X_.

THE WOOING.

A few hours after his friend had left the estate, the Professor entered

the study of the Proprietor, who exclaimed, looking up from his work:

"The gypsies have disappeared, and with them your friend. We are all

sorry that the Doctor could not remain longer."

"With you lies the decision whether I too shall be permitted to tarry

longer here," rejoined the Professor, with such deep earnestness that

the host arose, and looked inquiringly at his guest. "I come to ask of

you a great boon," continued the Professor, "and I must depart from

here if you refuse it me."

"Speak out. Professor," replied he.

"It is impossible for us to continue longer in the open relations of

host and guest. For I now seek to win the love of your daughter Ilse."

The Proprietor started, and the hand of the strong man grasped the

table.

"I know what I ask of you," cried the Scholar, in an outburst of

passion. "I know that I claim the highest and dearest treasure you can

give. I know that I shall make your life thereby the poorer. For I

shall take from your side what has been your joy, support, and pride."

"And yet," murmured the Proprietor gloomily, "you spare me the trouble

of saying that!"

"I fear that at this moment you look upon me as an intruder upon the

peace of your home," continued the Professor; "but though it may be

difficult for you to be indulgent towards me, you ought to know all. I

first saw her in the church, and her religious fervor impressed me

powerfully. I have lived in the house with her, and felt more every

hour how beautiful and lovable she is. The influence she exercises over

me is irresistible. The passion with which she has inspired me has

become so great, that the thought of being separated from her fills me

with dismay. I long to be united to her and to make her my wife."

Thus spoke the Scholar, as ingenuously as a child.

"And to what extent have you shown your feelings to my daughter?" asked

the father.

"I have twice in an outburst of emotion touched her hand," answered the

Professor.

"Have you ever spoken to her of your love?"

"If I had I should not stand before you now as I do," rejoined the

Professor. "I am entirely unknown to you, and was brought here by

peculiar circumstances; and I am not in the happy position of a wooer

who can appeal to a long acquaintance. You have shown me unusual

hospitality, and I am in duty bound not to abuse your confidence. I

will not, unbeknown to you, endeavor to win a heart that is so closely

bound up in your life."

The father inclined his head assentingly. "And have you the assurance

of winning her love?"

"I am no child and can see that she is warmly-attached to me. But of

the depth and duration of the feelings of a young girl neither of us

can judge. At times I have had the happy conviction that she cherished

a tender passion for me, but it is just the unembarrassed innocence of

her feelings that makes me uncertain; and I must confess to you that I

know it is possible for those feelings to pass away."

The father looked at this man who thus endeavored to judge impartially,

but whose whole frame was trembling. "It is, sir, my duty to yield to

the wishes of my child's heart, if they are powerful enough to induce

her to leave her home for that of another man--provided that I myself

have not the conviction that it would be detrimental to her happiness.

Your acquaintance with my daughter has been so short that I do not feel

myself in the difficult position of having to give my consent, or to

make my daughter unhappy, and your confession makes it possible for me

to prevent what would, perhaps, in many respects, be unwelcome to me.

Yes, even now you are a stranger to me, and when I invited you to stay

with us I did something that may have an unfortunate sequel for me and

mine."

As the Proprietor spoke thus in the excitement of the moment, his eyes

fell upon the arm which had bled yesterday, and then on the manly

features of the pale countenance before him. He broke off his speech,

and laying his hand on the shoulder of the other exclaimed:--"No, that

is not the sentiment of my heart, and I ought not to answer you thus."

He paced up and down the room endeavoring to find composure.

"But you must listen to a word of confidence, and regard what I say as

not the promptings of importunacy," he continued, more tranquilly. "I

know well that I have not brought up my daughter for myself, and that I

must at some time accustom myself to do without her. But our

acquaintance is too short to judge whether my child would find peace or

happiness if she were united to you. When I tell you that I honor you

and take pleasure in your society, that admission does not affect the

question I have to solve. If you were a country gentleman like me, I

should listen to your communications with a lighter heart, for during

the time of your stay here I should have been able to form a definite

opinion of your qualifications. The difference of our vocations makes

it not only difficult for me to judge of you, but also dangerous for

the future of my child. If a father wishes his daughter to marry a man

who pursues an occupation similar to his own, he is justified in so

doing in every sphere of life, and more especially is it so with a

country gentleman of my stamp; for the qualifications of our children

consist partly in this, that they grow up as the helpmeets of their

parents. What Ilse has learnt in my house gives me the assurance that,

as the wife of a country gentleman, she would fill her place perfectly;

nay, she might supply the deficiencies of her husband, and that would

secure her a comfortable life, even though her husband did not possess

all that was to be desired. As the wife of a Professor, she will have

little use for what she knows, and she will feel unhappy at not having

learnt many other things."

"I admit that she will be deprived of much; I lay little stress on what

you call her deficiencies," said the Professor. "I request you to trust

this matter to me and the future."

"Then, Professor, I will answer you as candidly as you have spoken to

me. I must not decline your proposal hastily. I will not oppose what

may perhaps be for the happiness of my daughter. Yet I cannot, with the

imperfect knowledge which I have of your position, assent to it. And I

am at this moment in the awkward position of not knowing how I can

obtain this knowledge."

"I can well understand how unsatisfactory to you must be any opinion

concerning me which you may gather from strangers. Yet you will have to

be content to do so," continued the Professor, with dignity.

The father assented silently.

"First," continued the Professor, "I beg to inform you concerning my

pecuniary circumstances."

He mentioned his income, gave a faithful account of the sources from

which he derived it, and laid a written statement on the writing-table.

"My legal adviser, who bears a high repute in the University, will give

you any confirmation you may wish of these details. With respect to my

capacity as teacher and my position at the University, I must refer you

to the judgment of my colleagues and the opinion which is held

concerning it in the city."

The Proprietor looked at the statement.

"Even the significance of these sums as regards your position is not

quite clear to me. Having no acquaintance in your town, I have no

facilities for obtaining further information concerning you. But,

Professor, I will without delay endeavor to obtain all the information

I can. I will start for the city of your residence to-morrow."

"How I thank you!" exclaimed the Professor, grasping his hand.

"Not yet," said the Proprietor, withdrawing it.

"I will, of course, if you like, accompany you," continued the

Professor.

"I do not wish that," replied the Proprietor. "You need only write

letters of introduction for me to your acquaintances. For the rest I

must rely upon my own inquiries and on chance. But, Professor, this

journey will only confirm your statements, of the truth of which I am

already convinced. I may obtain the judgment of others concerning you,

which will no doubt accord with mine. But let us suppose that the

information is satisfactory to me, what will be the consequence?"

"That you will permit me to prolong my stay in your house," said the

Professor; "that you will trustingly permit me to pay my addresses to

your daughter; and that you will give your consent to our marriage as

soon as I am certain of your daughter's affection."

"Such preliminaries to wooing are uncommon," said the father, with a

saddened smile; "but they are not unwelcome to a farmer. We are

accustomed to see fruits ripen slowly. Thus, Professor, after my

journey we shall all three retain freedom of choice and a final

decision. This conversation--shall it remain a secret?"

"I entreat you, yes," said the Professor.

Again a slight smile flitted over the grave countenance of the host.

"In order to make so sudden a journey less surprising you had better

remain here. But, during my absence, refrain from any increase of

intimacy with my daughter. You see what great confidence I place in

you."

Thus the Professor had compelled his host to become the confidant of

his love. It was a delightful compact between passion and conscience

that the scholar had entered into, and yet there was an error in this

arrangement. The agreement, which he had effected with eager spirit and

beating heart, turned out a little different from the manner in which

he had represented it to himself and to the father; for, between the

three individuals who were now to enter upon this high-minded method of

wooing, all easy intercourse had suddenly vanished. When Ilse, beaming

with happiness, met the gentlemen on the morning of the eventful

conversation, she found her heaven obscured and overshadowed with dark

clouds. The Professor was uneasy and gloomy. He worked almost the whole

day in his room, and when the little ones in the evening begged him to

tell them some stories, he declined, took hold of the head of the

little sister with both hands, kissed her forehead and laid his own

head upon it as if he wished the child to support him. The words that

he addressed to Ilse were few and constrained, and yet his eyes were

fixed incessantly upon her, but inquiringly and doubtingly; and Ilse

was surprised also at her father, who appeared absent-minded and

sorrowful. A secret had arisen between her father and herself that

deeply absorbed him; nay, even between the two men matters were not as

they had been. Her father, indeed, spoke sometimes in a low voice to

the friend, but she observed a constraint in both when they talked on

indifferent subjects.

Then the next morning there was the secret journey of the father, which

in few words he described as on unimportant business. Had everything

changed about her since that eventful evening? Her heart beat

anxiously. A sense of insecurity came over her--the fear of something

direful that was to befall her. Sorrowfully she withdrew to her room,

where she struggled with bitter thoughts and avoided being alone with

the man she loved.

Of course the change became at once perceptible to the Professor, and

it tortured the sensitive man. Did she wish to repel him in order not

to abandon her father? Had that been only pleased astonishment which he

had taken for affection of the heart? These anxieties made his demeanor

constrained and unequal, and the change in his frame of mind reacted in

turn upon Ilse.

She had joyfully opened the flower-bud of her soul to the rising light,

but a drop of morning dew had fallen into it and the tender petals had

closed again under the burden.

Ilse had acted as doctress and nurse to all who were ill or wounded on

the estate. She had succeeded her mother in this honorable office; her

fame in the district was considerable, and it was not an unnecessary

accomplishment, for Rossau did not possess even one regular

practitioner. Ilse knew how to apply her simple remedies admirably;

even her father and the Inspectors submitted themselves obediently to

her care. She had become so accustomed to the vocation of a Sister of

Charity that it did not shock her maidenly feelings to sit by the

sick-bed of a working man and she looked without prudery at a wound

which had been caused by the kick of a horse or the cut of a scythe.

Now the loved one was near her with his wound, not even keeping his arm

in a sling, and she was fearful lest the injury should become greater.

How glad she would have been to see the place and to have bandaged it

herself!--and in the morning, at breakfast, she entreated him, pointing

to his arm: "Will you not, for our sakes, do something for it?"

The Professor, embarrassed, drew his arm back and replied, "It is too

insignificant."

She felt hurt and remained silent; but when he went to his room her

anxiety became overpowering. She sent the charwoman, who was her trusty

assistant in this art, with a commission to him, and enjoined her to

enter with an air of decision and, overcoming any opposition of the

gentleman, to examine the arm and report to her. When the honest woman

said that she was sent by the young lady and that she must insist upon

seeing the wound, the Professor, though hesitatingly, consented to show

his arm. But when the messenger conveyed a doubtful report, and Ilse,

who had been pacing restlessly up and down before the door, again

ordered cold poultices through her deputy, the Professor would not

apply them. He had good reason; for however painfully he felt the

constraint that was imposed upon him in his intercourse with Ilse, yet

he felt it would be insupportable entirely to lose sight of her and sit

alone in his room with a basin of water. His rejection of her good

counsel, however, grieved Ilse still more; for she feared the

consequences, and, besides, it pained her that he would not accede to

her wishes. When, afterwards, she learnt that he had secretly sent to

Rossau for a surgeon, tears came into her eyes, for she considered it

as a slight. She knew the pernicious remedies of the drunken quack and

she was sure, that evil would result from it. She struggled with

herself until evening; at last, anxiety for her beloved overcame all

considerations, and when he was sitting with the children in the arbor,

she, with anguish of heart and downcast eyes, thus entreated him: "This

stranger will occasion you greater pain. I pray you, let me see the

wound."

The Professor, alarmed at this prospect which threatened to upset all

the self-control which he had attained by laborious struggling,

answered, as Ilse fancied, in a harsh tone--but, in truth, he was only

a little hoarse through inward emotion--"I thank you, but I cannot

allow that."

Ilse then caught hold of her brother and sister who had been in the

hands of the gypsies, placed them before him, and exclaimed eagerly:

"Do you beseech him, if he will not listen to me."

This little scene was so moving to the Professor, and Ilse looked, in

her excitement, so irresistibly lovely, that his composure was

overpowered; and in order to remain faithful to her father, he rose and

went rapidly out of the garden.

Ilse pressed her hands convulsively together and gazed wildly before

her. All had been a dream; the hope she had entertained in a happy hour

that he loved her had been a delusion. She had revealed her heart to

him, and her warm feelings had appeared to him as the bold forwardness

of a stranger. She was in his eyes an awkward country girl, deficient

in the refined tact of the city, who had got something into her foolish

head because he had sometimes spoken to her kindly. She rushed into her

room. There she sank down before her couch and her whole frame shook

with convulsive sobs.

She was not visible for the rest of the evening. The following day she

met the loved one proudly and coldly, said no more than was necessary

and struggled secretly with tears and endless sorrow.

All had been arranged for a refined and tender wooing. But when two

human beings love one another they ought to tell each other so, frankly

and simply, without any previous arrangement, and, indeed--without

reserve.

* * *

The father had started on his journey. He gave as an excuse some

business that he meant to transact on the road. The day following his

massive form and anxious countenance might be seen in the streets of

the University town. Gabriel was much astonished when the gigantic man,

taller than his old friend the sergeant-major of the cuirassiers, rang

at the door and brought a letter from his master, in which Gabriel was

instructed to place himself and the lodging at the disposal of the

gentleman. The stranger walked through the rooms, sat down at the

Professor's writing-table and began a cross-questioning conversation

with Gabriel, the tenor of which the servant could not understand. The

stranger also greeted Mr. Hummel, then went to the University, stopped

the students in the street and made inquiries of them; had a conference

with the lawyer; visited a merchant with whom he had had dealings in

corn; was conducted by Gabriel to the Professor's tailor, there to

order a coat, and Gabriel had to wait long at the door before the

gossiping tailor would let the stranger go. He also went to Mr. Hahn to

buy a straw hat; and in the evening the tall figure might be seen

uncomfortably bent under the Chinese temple, conversing with Mr. Hahn,

over a flask of wine. It was a poor father anxiously seeking from

indifferent people intelligence which should determine whether he

should give his beloved child into the arms of a stranger. What he

learnt was even more favorable than he expected. He now discovered what

Mrs. Rollmaus had long known, that he whom he had received into his

home was, according to the opinion of others, no common man.

When, on returning home, the evening of the following day, he reached

the first houses of Rossau, he saw a figure hastening towards him. It

was the Professor, who, in impatient expectation, had come to meet him

and now hastened up to the carriage with disturbed countenance. The

Proprietor sprang from his seat and said gently to the Professor:

"Remain with us, and may Heaven give you every blessing."

As the two men walked up the foot-path together, the Proprietor

continued, with a sudden flash of good humor:

"You have compelled me, dear Professor, to act as a spy about your

dwelling-place. I have learned that you lead a quiet life, and that you

pay your bills punctually. Your servant speaks reverentially of you,

and you stand high in the opinion of your neighbors. In the city you

are spoken of as a distinguished man, and what you have said of

yourself is in all respects confirmed. Your lodgings are very handsome,

the kitchen is too small, and your storeroom is smaller than one of our

cupboards. From your windows you have at least some view of the

country."

Beyond this not a word was spoken concerning the object of the journey,

but the Professor listened hopefully to the other observations of the

Proprietor, how opulent were the citizens, and how brilliant the shops,

also of the height of the houses in the market-place, the throngs of

people in the streets, and of the pigeons, which, according to old

custom, were kept by the town council, and boldly hopped about like

officials among the carriages and passing human beings.

It was early morning, and again the first rays of the sun warmed the

earth. After a sleepless night, Ilse hastened through the garden to the

little bath-house that her father had built among the reeds and bushes.

There she bathed her white limbs in the water, dressed herself quickly

and ascended the path which passed by the grotto to the top of the

hill, seeking the rays of the sun. As she knew that the cool night air

still lay in the lower ground, she climbed still higher, where the hill

sloped steeply towards the grotto down into the valley. There, on the

declivity, among the copse, she seated herself, far from every human

eye, drying her hair in the sun's rays and arranging her morning

attire.

She gazed upon her father's house where she supposed the friend still

lay slumbering, and looked down before her on the stone roof of the

grotto, and on the large tuft of the willow rose, with the white wool

of its seed bursting from the pod. She supported her head on her hand,

and thought of the evening that had past. How little he had spoken, and

her father had scarcely mentioned his journey. But whatever anxious

cares passed through her mind, her spirits had been refreshed by the

sparkling water, and now the morning cast its mild light over her

heart.

There sat the child of the house. She wrung the water out of her hair

and rested her white feet on the moss. Near her the bees hummed over

the wild thyme, and one little worker circled threateningly round her

feet. Ilse moved, and pushed one of her shoes; the shoe slid down,

turned a somersault, and went bounding away over moss and stone, till

it leapt by the willow rose and disappeared in the depth. She put on

the fellow of the fugitive and hastened along the path to the grotto.

Turning round the corner of the rock she stepped back startled, for in

front of the grotto stood the Professor, thoughtfully contemplating the

embroidered arabesques of the shoe. The sensitive man was scarcely less

startled than Ilse at this sudden encounter. He also had been impelled

to go out into the early morning, to the spot where first the heart of

the maiden had revealed itself to him. He had seated himself on a stone

at the entrance, and leaned his head against the rock in deep and

sorrowful thought. Then he heard a soft rustling, and, amidst gravel

and sand, the little masterpiece of art fell close to his feet. He

hastened forward, for he guessed at once to whom the bounding shoe

belonged. There he saw the loved one standing before him, in a light

morning dress, enveloped in her long blond hair, like a water fairy or

a mountain nymph.

"It is my shoe," said Ilse, with embarrassment, concealing her foot.

"I know it," said the man of learning, equally embarrassed, pushing the

shoe reverently to the border of her dress. The shoe was quickly

slipped on, but the short glimpse of the white foot suddenly gave the

Professor heroic courage, such as he had not had for the last few days.

"I will not move from this spot," he cried, resolutely.

Ilse drew back into the grotto and gathered her hair into the net she

held in her hand. The Professor stood at the entrance of the sanctuary;

near him hung the long shoots of the blackberry, the bees hummed over

the wild thyme, and his heart beat. When Ilse, with blushing cheeks,

stepped out of the grotto into the light of day, she heard her name

uttered by a voice in deep emotion, she felt her hand pressed, an

ardent look shot from those true eyes, sweet words fell from his lips,

his arm clasped her, and she sank silently on his heart.

* * *

As the Professor himself on another occasion had explained, man

sometimes forgets that his life rests on a compact with the

overwhelming powers of nature, which, unawares, influence the little

lords of the world. Thus similar unexpected powers now controlled the

Professor and Ilse. I know not what agencies of nature sent the bees,

or threw the shoe. Was it the elves in whom Ilse did not believe?

Or was it one of the antique acquaintances of the Professor, the

goat-footed Pan, who blew his reed-pipes in the grotto?

The wooing had begun in a scientific manner, but it had been brought to

a conclusion with little wisdom and without any regard for formality.

_CHAPTER XI_.

SPITEHAHN.

Raven-black night brooded over the hostile houses. The world looked

like a great coal-pit in which the lights had been extinguished. The

wind howled through the trees of the park. A rustling of leaves and

crackling of branches was heard. Nothing was to be seen but a monstrous

black curtain that concealed the neighboring woods and a black-tented

roof which was spread over the houses. The streets of the city were

empty. All who loved their beds had long been lying therein, and

whoever possessed a nightcap had now pulled it over his ears. Every

human sound was silenced; the striking of the tower-clock was

interrupted by the stormy winds, and each tone was driven hither and

thither, that no one could count the midnight hour. But around the

house of Mr. Hummel the yelping dogs pursued their wild career in the

courtyard, undaunted by storm or darkness; and when the wind blew like

a bugle-horn between the houses, the pack dispelled sleep from men by

their clamor and din.

"This night suits them well," thought Gabriel, in his room. "This is

just the weather for them." At last he slept, and dreamt that the two

dogs opened the door of his room, placed themselves on two chairs

before his bed and alternately snapped their pocket pistols at him.

As he was lying in this unquiet sleep, there was a knock at his door.

"Get up, Gabriel!" called out the old porter from the factory; "an

accident has happened."

"Through the dogs," exclaimed Gabriel, springing out of bed.

"Some one must have broken in," cried the man again, through the door,

"the dogs are lying on the ground."

Gabriel, alarmed, put on his boots and hastened into the yard, which

was dimly lighted by the dawn. There lay the two poor watch-dogs on the

ground, with no other sign of life than helpless writhing. Gabriel ran

to the warehouse, examined the door and windows, and then the house;

every shutter was closed, and no sign of disturbance could be

discovered. When he returned, Mr. Hummel was standing before the

prostrate dogs.

"Gabriel, a dastardly deed has been perpetrated here. Something has

been done to the dogs. Let them both lie there; an investigation must

be made. I will send for the police."

"Indeed?" answered Gabriel; "compassion should come first, then the

police. Perhaps something may yet be done for the poor brutes."

He took the two animals, carried them to the light, and examined their

condition.

"The black one is done for," he said, compassionately. "The red one has

still some life in him."

"Go to the veterinary surgeon, Klaus," exclaimed Mr. Hummel, "and ask

him to do me the favor to get up at once; he shall be remunerated. This

case must be put into the morning paper. I require satisfaction before

the magistracy and town council.--Gabriel," he continued, in angry

excitement, "the dogs of citizens are being murdered: it is the work of

low malice, but I am not the man to put up with such assassins. They

shall be made an example of, Gabriel."

Meanwhile Gabriel stroked the fur of the red dog, which rolled its eyes

wildly under its shaggy brow and stretched out its paws piteously.

At last the veterinary surgeon came. He found the whole family

assembled in the court. Mrs. Hummel, still in her night-dress, brought

him a cup of coffee, while drinking which he sympathized with them, and

then began the examination. The verdict of the expert pointed to

poisoning. The dissection showed that a little dumpling with arsenic

had been eaten, and, what vexed Mr. Hummel still more, there were glass

splinters besides. For the red dog there was a doubtful prospect of

recovery.

It was a gloomy morning for the Hummel family. Before breakfast Mr.

Hummel sat down to his writing table and wrote out an advertisement for

the daily paper, in which ten dollars reward was offered to any one who

would make known the name of the malignant poisoner of his dog. The ten

dollars were underlined with three dashes. Then he went to his window

and looked savagely upon the haunts of his opponent and on the Chinese

temple which had been the occasion of this new disturbance. Finally he

began to pace up and down the room, turning to his wife as he passed

and muttering:

"I have not the slightest doubt about the matter--not the slightest

doubt."

"I do not understand you," answered his wife, who on this trying

morning was taking a second breakfast; "and I do not understand how you

can be so positive in this matter. It is true, there is something about

those people that has always been repugnant to us, and it may be a

misfortune to have such neighbors. But you have no right to assume that

they have poisoned the dogs. I cannot think that such an idea could

have entered into the head of Mrs. Hahn. I admit that she is an

ordinary woman. Moreover, the doctor says it was dumplings; which

points to a woman as the guilty person. But when our red dog was caught

running off with the snipe they were going to have for dinner, she sent

me back the dog with her compliments, saying she thought it was not

good behavior in him, as he had eaten three of the birds. That was

civil, and I can find no murderous intention in it. And he surely does

not look as if he would do anything to our dogs at midnight."

"He is a treacherous fellow," growled Mr. Hummel; "but you have always

had your own opinion about those people. He has played the hypocrite

toward me from the very first day, when he stood by his pile of bricks

before these windows and turned his back upon me. I have always allowed

myself to be persuaded by you women to treat him as a neighbor, with

greetings and civil speeches; and I have always been silent when you

have carried on your idle gossip with the woman over there."

"Our idle gossip, Henry," exclaimed the wife, setting down her

coffee-cup with a clatter; "I must beg of you not to forget the respect

that is due to me."

"Well, well, I meant no slight," Mr. Hummel hastened to add, hoping to

allay the storm which he had inopportunely brought upon himself.

"What you meant, you, of course, know. I take it as I heard it. But it

shows little feeling in you, Mr. Hummel, for the sake of a dead dog to

treat your wife and daughter as idle gossips."

This disagreement added still more to the gloom and ill-humor of the

morning, but did not in any way advance the discovery of the culprit.

It was in vain that the mistress of the house, in order to divert her

husband's suspicions from the Hahn family, raised many other

conjectures, and, with Laura's help, tried to throw the blame on their

own employes or the watchman, and that she at last suggested even the

shop-porter over the way as the possible evil-doer. Alas! the

reputation of the dogs was so dreadful that the Hummel family could

more easily count the few people who did not wish evil to the dogs,

than the many whose wish and interest it was to see the monsters at the

bottom of Cocytus. The news ran like wildfire through the streets, a

crowd gathered around the fruit-woman at the corner, and people spoke

of the evil deed everywhere, pitilessly, hostilely, and maliciously.

Even among those in the streets who tried to show outward signs of

sympathy, the prevailing feeling was hardly concealed. It is true there

were some sympathisers. First Mrs. Knips, the washerwoman, with voluble

indignation; then even Knips the younger ventured pityingly into the

neighborhood of the house--he was clerk in the hostile business, having

gone over to the enemy, but never ceased to show respect to his former

instructor on all occasions, and to pay unacceptable homage to Miss

Laura. At last the comedian of the theatre, whom they generally invited

on Sundays, came, and related many amusing stories. But even these few

faithful adherents were suspected by some of the household. Gabriel

distrusted the Knips family, while Laura detested the clerk, and the

comedian, formerly a welcome guest, had, some evenings before, in

passing by, inconsiderately expressed to a companion, that it would be

a praiseworthy deed to remove these dogs from the stage of life. Now

this unhappy suggestion was repeated to the mistress of the house, and

it lay heavy on her heart. For fifteen years she had accepted this

man's homage with pleasure, shown him much friendliness, and given him

enthusiastic applause at the theatre, not to speak of the Sunday

dinners and preserves. But now when the gentleman lowered his head

sympathisingly and expressed his horror and indignation at the deed,

his face, from the long habit of comic action, lengthened itself so

hypocritically, that Mrs. Hummel suddenly fancied she saw a devil

grinning out of the features of the once esteemed man. Her sharp

remarks about Judases frightened in turn the comedian, revealing to him

the danger of losing his best house of entertainment, and the more

dolorous he felt, the more equivocal became his expression.

During all these occurrences the Hahn family kept quiet in the

background. They displayed no signs of undue pleasure, and no unnatural

sympathy came from the silent walls. But at mid-day, when Mrs. Hummel

went to refresh herself a little in the air, she met her neighbor; and

Mrs. Hahn, who since the garden scene had felt herself in the wrong,

stopped and expressed her regret in a friendly way that Mrs. Hummel had

experienced such an unpleasant accident. But the hostile feeling and

suspicion of her husband echoed in the answer. Mrs. Hummel spoke

coldly, and both separated with a feeling of animosity.

Meanwhile Laura sat at her writing-table, and noted down in her private

journal the events of the day, and with a light heart she concluded

with these lines:

"They're dead and gone! Removed the curse of hate--

Erased the stain is from the book of hate."

This prophecy contained about as much truth as if, after the first

skirmish of the siege of Troy, Cassandra had noted it down in Hector's

album. It was confuted by the endless horrors of the future.

Spitehahn at all events was not gone; his life was saved. But the

night's treachery had exercised a sorrowful influence on the creature,

both body and soul. He had never been beautiful. But now his body was

thin, his head swelled, and his shaggy coat bristly. The glass

splinters which the skillful doctor had removed from his stomach seemed

to have gotten somehow into his hairs, so that they started bristling

from his body like a bottle-brush; his curly tail became bare, only at

the end did there remain a tuft of hair, like a bent cork-screw with a

cork at the end. He no longer wagged his tail; his yelping ceased;

night and day he roved about silently; only occasionally a low,

significant growl was heard. He came back to life, but all softer

feelings were dead in him; he became averse to human beings, and

fostered dark suspicions in his soul; all attachment and fidelity

ceased; instead of which he evinced a lurking malice and general

vindictiveness. Yet Mr. Hummel did not mind this change; the dog was

the victim of unheard-of wickedness, which had been intended for the

injury of himself, the proprietor of the house; and had he been ten

times more hideous and savage to human beings, Mr. Hummel would still

have made a pet of him. He stroked him, and did not take it amiss when

the dog showed his gratitude by snapping at the fingers of his master.

Whilst the flames of just irritation still shot forth from this new

firebrand of the family peace, Fritz returned from his vacation.

His mother immediately related to him all the events of the last few

weeks--the bell-ringing, the dogs, the new hostility.

"It was well that you were away. Were the beds at the inns comfortable?

They are so careless nowadays of strangers. I hope that in the country,

where they rear geese, people show more care. You must talk to your

father about this new quarrel, and do what you can to restore peace."

Fritz listened silently to his mother's account, and said soothingly:

"You know it is not the first time. It will pass over."

This news did not contribute to increase the cheerfulness of the

Doctor. Sadly he looked from his room on the neighboring house and the

windows of his friend. In a short time a new household would be

established there; might not then his friendship with the Professor be

affected by the disturbances which of old existed between the two

houses? He then began to arrange the notes that he had collected on his

journey. But today the footprints of the grotto gave him an

uncomfortable feeling, and the tales of the wild hunters made him think

of Ilse's wise words, "It is all superstition." He put away his papers,

seized his hat, and went out, meditating, and not exactly gaily

disposed, into the park. When he saw Laura Hummel a few steps before

him on the same path, he turned aside, in order not to meet any one

from the hostile house.

Laura was carrying a little basket of fruit to her godmother. The old

lady resided in her summer house in an adjacent village, and a shady

footpath through the park led to it. It was lonely at this hour in the

wood, and the birds alone saw how free from care was the smile that

played around the little mouth of the agile girl, and how full of glee

were the beautiful deep blue eyes that peered into the thicket. But

although Laura seemed to hasten, she stopped frequently. First it

occurred to her that the leaves of the copper beech would look well in

her brown felt hat: she broke off a branch, took off her hat, and stuck

the leaves on it; and in order to give herself the pleasure of looking

at it, she held her hat in her hand and put a gauze handkerchief over

her head for protection against the rays of the sun. She admired the

chequered light thrown by the sun on the road. Then a squirrel ran

across the path, scrambled quick as lightning up a tree and hid itself

in the branches; Laura looked up and perceived its beautiful bushy tail

through the foliage, and fancied herself on the top of the tree, in the

midst of the foliage and fruit, swinging on a branch, then leaping from

bough to bough, and finally taking a walk--high in the air, on the tops

of the trees--over the fluttering leaves as though upon green hills.

When she came near the water that flowed on the other side of the path,

she perceived that a large number of frogs, sitting in the sun on the

bank, sprang into the water with great leaps, as if by word of command.

She ran up to them and saw with astonishment that in the water, they

had a different appearance; they were not at all so clumsy; they went

along like little gentlemen with big stomachs and thick necks, but with

long legs which struck out vigorously. Then when a large frog steered

up to her and popped his head out of the water, she drew back and

laughed at herself. Thus she passed through the wood, herself a

butterfly, and at peace with all the world.

But her fate pursued her. Spitehahn, from his usual place on the stone

steps, had watched her movements from under the wild hairs that hung

over his head whisker-like, he kept her in view, got up at last and

trotted silently behind her, undisturbed by the rays of the sun, the

basket of fruit, or the red handkerchief of his young mistress. Between

the town and the village the road ascended from the valley and its

trees to a bare plain, on which the soldiery of the town sometimes

man[oe]uvred, and where in peaceful hours a shepherd pastured his

flock. The path ran obliquely over the open plain to the village. Laura

stopped on the height at times to admire the distant sheep and the

brown shepherd, who looked very picturesque with his large hat and

crook. She had already passed the flock when she heard a barking and

threatening cry behind her; turning round she saw the peaceful

community in wild uproar. The sheep scattered in all directions--some

running away frightened, others huddled together in a ditch; the

shepherd's dogs barked, and the shepherd and his boy ran with raised

sticks around the disturbed flock. While Laura was looking astonished

at the tumult, the shepherd and his boy rushed up to her, followed by

two large dogs. She felt herself seized by a rough man's hand; she saw

the angry face of the shepherd, and his stick was brandished close

before her eyes.

"Your dog has dispersed my flock. I demand punishment and

compensation."

Frightened and pale as death, Laura sought for her purse; she could

scarcely find words to say, "I have no dog; let me go, good shepherd."

But the man shook her arm roughly. Two gigantic black dogs sprang upon

her and snapped at her handkerchief.

"It is your dog; I know the red rascal," cried the shepherd.

This was quite true, for Spitehahn had also observed the flock of sheep

and devised his dire plan. Suddenly, with a hoarse yell, he sprang on a

sheep and bit it severely in the leg. Then followed the flight of the

flock, rushing together in a heap--Spitehahn in the midst of them,

barking, scratching and biting, the brute sped along a dry ditch to the

left, and finally down the slope to the wood into the thickest copse.

At length he trotted home in safety, showing his teeth, and leaving his

young mistress trembling beneath the hand of the shepherd, who was

still brandishing his stick over her.

"Let go of the young lady," called out the angry voice of a man. Fritz

Hahn sprang forward, pushed back the arm of the shepherd, and caught

Laura, fainting, in his arms.

The interposition of a third party drew from the shepherd new

complaints, at the conclusion of which he again, in a flaming passion,

endeavored to lay hold of the girl, and threatened to set his dogs at

the Doctor. But Fritz, deeply roused, exclaimed, "Keep your dogs back,

and behave yourself like a man, or I will have you punished. If the dog

injured your flock, adequate compensation shall be made. I am ready to

be security to you or to the owner of these sheep."

Thus he spoke, holding Laura firmly in his arms; her head lay upon his

shoulders, and the red handkerchief hung over his waistcoat down to his

breast. "Compose yourself, dear Miss," he said, with tender anxiety.

Laura raised her head and looked fearfully on the countenance which,

excited with tenderness and sympathy, bent over her, and she perceived

her situation with alarm. Fearful fate! He again, for the third time,

the inevitable friend and preserver! She extricated herself from him,

and said, in a faint voice, "I thank you, Doctor, I can walk alone

now."

"No, I cannot leave you thus," cried Fritz, and again began to

negotiate with the shepherd, who meanwhile had fetched the two victims

of the murderous dog, and laid them down as proofs of the ill deed.

Fritz put his hand into his pocket and handed the shepherd a part of

the money promised as compensation, gave him his name, and settled a

future meeting with the man, who, after the appearance of the money,

became more calm.

"I pray you take my arm," he said, turning chivalrously to Laura.

"I cannot accept that," replied the girl, quite confused, and thinking

of the existing hostility.

"It is only my duty as a man," said Fritz, soothingly. "You are too

exhausted to go alone."

"Then I beg of you to take me to my godmother; she lives near here."

Fritz took the little basket from her, collected the fruit that had

fallen out, and then conducted her to the village.

"I should not have been so much afraid of the man," said Laura, "but

the black dogs were so fearful."

She took his arm hesitatingly; for now, when the fright had

passed, she felt the painfulness of her situation, and was alas!

conscience-smitten. For early in the day she had thought the travelling

toilet of the Doctor, as she saw him return home, unendurable; but

Fritz was not a man who could long be considered unendurable. He was

now full of tender feelings and care for her, endeavored to spare her

every roughness on the road, stretching out his foot in going along to

put the little stones out of the way. He began an indifferent

conversation about her godmother, which obliged her to talk, and

brought other thoughts into her head. It happened besides, that he

himself highly esteemed the lady in question. Indeed, she had once,

when he was a schoolboy, given him a cherry-cake and he had in return

composed a poem on her birthday. At the word poem Laura was astounded.

In that house, too! Could they write poetry? But then the Doctor spoke

very slightingly of the elevating creations of happier hours, and when

she asked him:

"Have you really written poetry?"

He answered, laughingly, "Only for home use, like every one."

Then she felt much depressed by his cold disregard of the muse. There

certainly was a difference between one style of verse and another; at

Hahn's they only wrote about cherry-cakes. But immediately afterwards

she blamed herself for her unbecoming thoughts towards her benefactor.

So she turned in a friendly way to him and spoke of the pleasure she

had found just before in watching the squirrels of the wood. She had

once bought one of a boy in the streets and had set it free, and the

little animal had twice sprung from the trees upon her shoulders; and

she had at last run away with tears in her eyes, that it might remain

in the woods. Now, when she saw a squirrel, it always appeared as if it

belonged to her; and she undoubtedly deceived herself; but the

squirrels seemed to be of the same opinion with regard to her. This

story led to the remarkable discovery that the Doctor had had a similar

experience with a small owl, and he imitated the way in which the owl

nodded its head when he brought in its food; and in doing so his

spectacles looked so much like owl's eyes that Laura could not help

laughing.

Conversing in this way they arrived at her godmother's house. Fritz

relinquished Laura's arm and wished to take his leave. She remained

standing on the threshold with her hand on the latch and said, in an

embarrassed tone:

"Will you not come in, at least for a moment, as you know my

godmother?"

"With pleasure," replied the Doctor.

Her godmother was sitting in her summer cottage, which was somewhat

smaller, damper, and less pleasant than her lodging in the town. When

the children of the hostile houses entered together--first Laura, still

pale and solemn, behind her the Doctor with an equally serious

countenance--the good lady was so astonished that she sat staring on

the sofa and could only bring out the words:

"What do I see? Is it possible? You two children together!"

This exclamation dispelled the magic which for a moment had bound the

young souls to each other. Laura went coldly up to her godmother and

related how the Doctor had accidently come up at the time of her

distress. But the Doctor explained that he had only wished to bring the

young lady safely to her; then he inquired after the health of the old

lady and took his leave.

While her godmother was applying restoratives and determining

that Laura should return home another way under the care of her

maid-servant, the Doctor went back with light steps to the wood. His

frame of mind was entirely changed and a smile frequently passed over

his countenance. The thought was constantly recurring to him how the

girl had rested in his arms. He had felt her bosom against his; her

hair had touched his cheeks and he had gazed on her white neck. The

worthy youth blushed at the thought and hastened his steps. In one

thing at least the Professor was not wrong--a woman is, after all, very

different from the ideal that a man derives from the study of human

life and the history of the world. It certainly seemed to the Doctor

now that there was something very attractive in wavy locks, rosy cheeks

and a beautiful form. He admitted that this discovery was not new, but

he had not hitherto felt its value with such distinctness. It had been

so touching when she recovered from her swoon, opened her eyes and

withdrew herself bashfully from his arms. Also his having defended her

so valiantly filled him with cheerful pride. He stopped on the field of

battle and laughed out right heartily. Then he went along the same road

by which Laura had come from the wood. He looked along the ground as if

he could discover the traces of her little feet upon the gravel, and he

enjoyed the brightness and warmth of the air, the alluring song of the

birds, the fluttering of the dragon-flies, with as light a heart as his

pretty neighbor had done shortly before. Then the recollection of his

friend came across him. He thought, with satisfaction, of the

agitations of the Professor's mind and the commotion which Thusnelda

had brought into it. The result had had a droll effect upon the

Professor. His friend had been very comical in the pathos of his rising

passion. Such a firm, earnest being contrasted curiously with the

whimsical attacks which fate makes on the life of earth-born creatures.

When he came to the last bush in which rustled one of the little

grasshoppers, whose chirping he had often heard in times of anxiety, he

spoke out gaily, "Even these have their turn, first the sheep, then the

grasshoppers." He began singing half aloud a certain old song in which

the grasshoppers were asked to go away and no longer to burden his

spirit. Thus he returned home from his walk in right cheerful frame of

mind, like a man of the world.

"Henry," began Mrs. Hummel, in the afternoon, solemnly to her husband,

"compose yourself to listen to a terrible story. I conjure you to

remain calm and avoid a scene, and take pains to overcome your

aversion. And, above all, consider our feelings."

She then related to him the misfortune that had occurred.

"As to the dog," replied Mr. Hummel, emphatically, "it has not been

clearly shown that it was our dog. The testimony of the shepherd does

not satisfy me; I know this fellow and require an impartial witness.

There are so many strange dogs running about the city nowadays that the

safety of the community is endangered, and I have often said it is a

disgrace to our police. But if it should be our dog, I cannot see

anything particularly wrong about it. If the sheep stretched out its

leg to him and he bit it a little, that is its own affair and there is

nothing to be said about it. As to what further concerns the shepherd,

I know his master--so that is my affair. Finally, with regard to the

young man across the way that is your affair. I do not wish to visit on

him the evil conduct of his parents, but I must say once for all that I

will have nothing to do with the people opposite."

"I must call your attention to the fact, Mr. Hummel," interposed his

wife, "that the Doctor has already paid money to the shepherd."

"Money for my child? That I will not tolerate," exclaimed Mr. Hummel.

"How much did he pay?"

"But father----" said Laura imploringly.

"Can you expect," exclaimed Mrs. Hummel, reproachfully, "that your

daughter, in danger of death, should count the groschens that her

rescuer paid for her?"

"That's just like a woman," grumbled the master of the house; "you have

no head for business. Can you not incidentally ask him? The shepherd I

take upon myself, but shall not trouble myself about the Doctor. Only

this I tell you. The affair must be shortly settled and our relations

with that house must remain as before. All I ask is to go on smoothly.

I intend to take no notice of these Hahns."

After this decision he left the ladies to their feelings.

"Your father is right," said Mrs. Hummel, "to leave the principal

matter to us. With his harsh disposition thanks would come very

ungraciously."

"Mother," said Laura, entreatingly, "you have more tact than I. Can you

not go over there?"

"My child," answered Mrs. Hummel, clearing her throat, "that is not

easy. This unfortunate occurrence of the dogs has left us women too

much at variance. No, as you are the principal person now concerned,

you must go over there yourself."

"I cannot visit the Doctor," exclaimed Laura alarmed.

"That is not necessary," said Mrs. Hummel, soothingly. "There is one

advantage our neighborhood possesses--we are able to see from our

windows when the men go out. You may then rush over to the mother and

address your thanks for the son to her. You are very judicious, my

child, and will know how to act."

Thereupon Laura took her seat at the window, not well pleased to sit as

watcher upon her neighbors; this lying in wait was repugnant to her. At

last the Doctor appeared on the threshold; he looked the same as usual;

there was nothing chivalrous to be seen in him; his figure was slender

and he was of middle height--Laura liked tall people. He had an

intellectual countenance, but it was concealed by his large spectacles,

which gave him a pedantic appearance; when he did smile his face became

quite handsome, but his usual serious expression was not becoming to

him. Fritz disappeared round the corner and Laura put on her hat with a

heavy heart and went into the hostile house, which she had never yet

entered. Dorchen, who was not in the secret, looked astonished at the

visit, but with quick intuition connected it with the return of the

Doctor and announced, of her own accord, that neither of the gentlemen

were at home, but that Mrs. Hahn was in the garden.

Mrs. Hahn was sitting in the Chinese temple. Both women stood opposite

each other with a feeling of embarrassment; both thought at the same

time of their last conversation and to both the recollection was

painful. But with Mrs. Hahn the danger to which Laura had been exposed

at once overcame this natural nervousness. "Ah, you poor young lady!"

she began, but while overflowing with compassion, with delicate tact

she drew away from the Chinese building, feeling that it was not an

appropriate place for this visit and invited her to sit on a little

bench in front of the white Muse. This was the pleasantest spot about

the house; here the orange tree smiled upon its donor, and Laura could

bring herself into a grateful mood. She told her neighbor how deeply

she felt indebted to the Doctor, and she begged her to say this to her

son, because she herself in the confusion had not properly fulfilled

this duty. She then entered into the necessary business about the bad

shepherd. Good Mrs. Hahn was pleased with her thanks and in a motherly

way begged Laura to take off her hat for a little while, as it was warm

in the garden. But Laura did not take off her hat. She expressed in

fitting terms her pleasure in the garden, said how beautifully it

bloomed, and heard with satisfaction of the splendid orange tree which

had been sent anonymously to Mr. Hahn, the fruit of which was sweet,

for Mr. Hahn had celebrated the return of his son by an artistic drink,

for which he had taken the first fruit of the little tree.

It was altogether a diplomatic visit, not extended unnecessarily; and

Laura was glad when, on departing, she had repeated her compliments and

thanks to the Doctor.

In Laura's secret record, also, the events of this day were very

shortly disposed of. Even an observation she had begun on the happiness

of the lonely dwellers in the wood remained unfinished. How was it,

Laura?--you, who write down everything; who, when an insect or a

sparrow hops in at the window, burst forth into verse! Here was an

event influencing your whole life--danger, unconsciousness in the arms

of a stranger, who, in spite of his learned aspect, is a handsome

youth! This would be the time to depict and indulge in fancy dreams.

Capricious girl, why does this adventure lie like a dead stone in the

fantastic landscape that surrounds thee? Is it with thee as with the

traveler, who, weary of the Alpine scenery, looks below him and wonders

that this marvelous nature so little impresses him, till gradually, but

perhaps not for years, the scenes pursue him, waking or dreaming, and

draw him anew to the mountains? Or has the nearness of the wicked

animal who occasioned the outrage impeded the flight of your soaring

wings? There he lies before your threshold, red and ragged, licking his

lips.

_CHAPTER XII_.

THE DEPARTURE FROM THE ESTATE.

Autumn had come. The trees about the house had assumed their colored

dress of decay. White webs hung over the stubble, and the dew drops lay

upon them till the wind tore the woven fabrics away and bore them from

field and valley into the blue distance. A happy pair went hand in hand

about the place. This year the fall of the leaf did not affect the

Professor, for a new spring had begun in his life; and his happiness

was written in his countenance in characters which might be read by the

most unlearned.

Ilse was betrothed. Modestly she bore the invisible crown which,

according to the opinion of the household and neighborhood, now

encircled her head. There were still hours in which she could scarcely

believe in her happiness. When she rose early from her bed, and heard

the trailing of the plough, or when she stood in the dairy amidst the

clattering of the milk pails, her future appeared like a dream. But in

the evening, when she was sitting near her beloved one, listening to

his words and conversing on subjects serious and trifling, she would

lay her hand gently on his arm in order to assure herself that he

belonged to her, and that she was thenceforth to enter into the life in

which his spirit moved.

The marriage was to take place before the winter, and before the

lectures began at the University. For the Professor had petitioned

against a long engagement and the father had yielded.

"I would gladly have kept Ilse with me over the winter. Clara must

assume a portion of her duties, and the guidance of her sister would

have been a great help to her. But it is better for you that it should

be otherwise. You, my son, have sought the hand of my daughter after a

short acquaintance, and the sooner Ilse accustoms herself to the life

of the city, the better it will be for you both; and I think it would

be easier for her in the winter."

It was a time of happy excitement, and the necessity of providing for

the new household brought down the feelings of the betrothed from their

state of exaltation to earthly things.

The Professor made a journey to the University. He went first to his

friend.

"Wish me joy," he exclaimed; "have confidence in her and me."

The Doctor embraced him and never left his side during his stay. He

accompanied him in all his shopping expeditions and assisted him in the

arrangement of the rooms. Gabriel, who, from the visit of the country

gentleman, had anticipated coming events, and who had become doubtful

of his own indispensability, felt proud when the Professor said to him:

"Between you and me things are to remain as they were. Do your best to

make yourself useful to my wife."

Then came Mr. Hummel. In the name of the family he extended his

congratulations, and of his own accord offered the use of two rooms in

his house which he himself did not occupy. But Laura was more anxious

than all the rest about the new inmate. She burst forth in verse thus:

"How will she be, of sweet or lofty mien?

Proud, dignified, or charmingly serene?

My heart beats fast and thoughts in chaos seem!

Will fond anticipations prove a dream?"

When the Professor begged of her and her mother to receive his future

wife with friendliness and help her in her arrangements, and when he

added to Laura that he hoped she would be on a friendly footing with

his bride, he did not guess how much happiness he had given that young

heart, which felt an unquiet longing to attach itself devotedly to some

one. The indefinite descriptions which he gave concerning the character

of his intended made a very vague impression which to Laura became a

frame in which she daily depicted new faces.

Meanwhile the women were occupied in the old house preparing Ilse's

outfit. The approaching marriage of her sister had transformed Clara

into a young lady; she helped and gave good advice, and in everything

showed herself clever and practical. Ilse spoke of this in terms of

praise one evening to her father and then threw her arms around his

neck and burst into tears. The father's mouth quivered; he did not

answer, but he held his daughter close to his heart. It fortunately

happened that the last weeks before their separation were full of work

and distraction. There was yet much to be done in the household and the

father would not permit the betrothed couple to omit a single visit to

his acquaintances in the neighborhood.

One of the first was to the family of Rollmaus. Ilse in a special

letter had informed Mrs. Rollmaus of her betrothal; and this had

created great excitement. Mrs. Rollmaus burst forth into a stream of

triumph; but Mr. Rollmaus saddled his horse and rode to Bielstein, but

not to the house. He inquired for the Proprietor at the gate of the

court-yard and rode to meet him in the field. There he took him aside

and began his congratulations with this short question:

"What is he worth?"

The question was answered numerically, and he seemed satisfied. For he

turned his horse round, trotted up to the house and extended his

congratulations to Ilse and her betrothed, whom he now looked upon as

her equal, and this time he pressingly repeated his invitation to call.

After his return, he said to his wife:

"I could have wished a better match for Ilse, but the man is not so bad

after all."

"Rollmaus," replied the wife, "I hope you will behave properly on this

occasion."

"What do you mean?" asked the Crown Inspector.

"You must propose the health of the betrothed couple at dinner, when

they come."

The husband muttered a suppressed growl. "But I'll have none of your

oratorical trash and sentiment; I will have nothing to do with that."

"The eloquence must be in the introduction," said Mrs. Rollmaus; "and

if you will not do it, I will undertake it myself. You may merely

propose the health."

The house of Rollmaus displayed its finest table linen and dinner

service for the visit, and Mrs. Rollmaus showed not only a good heart

but good cooking. After the first course she clinked her glass and

began excitedly:

"Dear Ilse, as Mr. Rollmaus in proposing your health will express

himself shortly and laconically, I take the occasion to mention

beforehand that as old friends of your parents, we wish you joy from

the bottom of our hearts. And as we have lived together as good

neighbors, sympathizing both in misfortune and when there was an

agreeable addition to the family, and as we have often rendered each

other mutual assistance in household matters, it is very sad for us to

think that you are going to leave our country. Yet we rejoice that you

are going to a city where intellect and higher aims are appreciated. I

will not be voluminous, therefore I beg of you both to remember us with

true friendship."

She put her handkerchief to her eyes and Mr. Rollmaus expressed the

family feeling generally, in four words:

"Health to the couple."

At departing Mrs. Rollmaus wept a little and begged the Proprietor to

permit them to be at the marriage, though no other guests were to be

present.

There was to be still another distraction. The Sovereign wished to stop

on the way to his hunting castle and take breakfast in the old house.

"It is well. Ilse, that you are with us," said her father.

"But one does not know at all what such a person is accustomed to,"

rejoined Ilse, between pleasure and anxiety.

"His own cook will come over from the Forester's house; he will help.

Only see to it that he finds something in the kitchen."

It was a day of busy preparation, and the children, the housekeeper and

the workwomen sat among heaps of branches and autumn flowers, twining

wreaths and garlands.

"Spare nothing," said Ilse to the old gardener; "he is the beloved

father of our country. We, his children, bring him our flowers as a

tribute."

Hans, with the help of the Professor, arranged immense emblems and

monograms of dahlias.

The evening before the hunt the purveyor and cook, with their

attendants, arrived. The purveyor begged leave to set the table in the

garden. "The Sovereign will be accompanied by the necessary servants;

the rest of the waiting may be done by the waiting-maids of the house.

Country customs please his Highness."

On the morning of the chase the Proprietor rode in his best clothes to

Rossau to receive the Sovereign, and the children thronged round the

windows of the upper story, spying along the highway like bandits.

Shortly before midday the carriage came up the hill and stopped at the

door of the house. The Proprietor and Forester, who were riding on each

side of the royal carriage, dismounted. The Sovereign descended with

his suite, greeting them as he crossed the threshold. He was of

advanced age and middle height; had a small delicate face, from which

could be seen that in youth he had been considered a handsome man, with

two intelligent eyes, beneath which were many small wrinkles. Ilse

entered the hall and the Proprietor introduced his daughter in his

simple way. The Sovereign greeted Ilse graciously with a few sentences

and favored the Professor, who was presented to him as bridegroom of

the daughter, with some attention; whereupon the Professor was invited

by the master of the hounds to join the party at breakfast. The

Sovereign stepped into the garden directly, praised the house and the

landscape and recollected having been here with his father as a boy of

fourteen.

Breakfast passed off admirably. The Sovereign asked questions of the

Proprietor, that evinced a great interest in the condition of the

country. When they arose from the table, he approached the Professor,

asked various particular questions about the University, and knew the

names of several of his colleagues. The answers and general demeanor of

the Scholar induced him to prolong the conversation. He told him that

he himself was somewhat of a collector. He had brought ancient coins

and other antiques from Italy and any increase in his collection gave

him much pleasure. And he was pleased to find that the Professor was

already acquainted with several of the more important ones.

When the Sovereign, in conclusion, asked the Professor, whether he

belonged to this country, Felix answered that accident had brought him

there. It suddenly occurred to him that this was an opportunity, which

might never recur, of making known to the highest power in the country

the fate of the lost manuscript, and thereby, perhaps, gaining an order

for further research in the residence. He began his account. The

Sovereign listened with evident excitement. While cross-questioning him

about it, he drew him further from the company and seemed so entirely

engrossed in the affair as to forget the hunting. The master of the

hounds, at least, looked at his watch often and spoke to the Proprietor

of the interest, which the Sovereign seemed to take in his son-in-law.

At last his Highness closed the conversation:--

"I thank you for your communication. I value the confidence which you

have shown me. If I can be of any use to you in this matter apply

directly to me; and should you happen to come into my neighborhood, let

me know. It would give me pleasure to see you again."

When the Sovereign passed through the hall to the carriage he stopped

and looked round. The master of the hounds gave the Proprietor a hint.

Ilse was called and again made her obeisance, and the Sovereign in a

few words thanked her for her hospitable reception. Before the carriage

had disappeared from the farm-buildings the Sovereign again looked back

to the house, and this civility was fully appreciated.

"He turned quite round," said one of the laborer's wives, who had

placed herself with the working people near the evergreen arch by the

barns.

All were contented and rejoiced in the graciousness and civility which

had been given and received in good part. Ilse praised the Sovereign's

attendants, who had made everything so easy; and the judicious

questions of the ruler had pleased the Professor much. When the

Proprietor returned in the evening, he related how well the chase had

gone off, and that the Sovereign had spoken most kindly to him and had

wished him joy of his son-in-law before everybody.

The last day that the maiden was to pass in her father's house came.

She went with her sister Clara down to the village, stood by the window

of the poor Lazarus, stopped at every house and committed the poor and

sick to the care of her sister. Then she sat a long time with the

Pastor in his study. The old man held his dear child by the hand and

would not let her go. On departing, he gave her the old Bible which his

wife had used.

"I meant to take it with me to my last abode," he said, "but it will be

better preserved in your hands."

When Ilse returned she seated herself in her room and the maids and

workwomen of the house entered one after another. She took leave of

each of them separately and spoke to them once more of what each had

most at heart, gave comfort and good advice, and a small keepsake from

her little store. In the evening she sat between her father and lover.

The tutor had taught the children some verses; Clara brought the bridal

wreath, and the little brother appeared as a guardian angel; but when

he began his speech he burst out sobbing, concealed his head in Ilse's

lap and would not be comforted.

When at bed-time they had all left. Ilse for the last time sat in her

chair in the sitting room. When her father prepared to retire, she

handed him a candle. The father put it down and paced up and down

without speaking. At last he began:

"Your room, Ilse, shall remain unchanged. Should you return to us you

shall find it as you left it. No one can replace you here. No one can

be what you have been to your brothers, sisters, and to your father. I

give you up with sorrow to enter upon a life which is unknown to us

both. Good night, my beloved child. Heaven's blessing upon you. God

guard your noble heart. Be brave. Ilse, for life is full of trials."

He drew her to him and she wept quietly on his breast.

The following day the morning sun shone through the windows of the old

wooden church upon the place before the altar. Again Ilse's head was

surrounded by a heavenly radiance and the countenance of the man into

whose hand the old pastor laid that of his favorite beamed with

happiness. The children of the house and the workwomen of the farm

strewed flowers. Ilse, with her wreath and veil, stepped over the last

flowers of the garden, looking heavenward. From the arms of her father

and sisters, amid the loudly expressed blessings of Mrs. Rollmaus and

the gently-murmured prayer of the old Pastor, her husband helped her

into the carriage. Another hurrah from the people, one more glance at

the old home, and Ilse pressed the hand of her husband and clung

closely to him.

_CHAPTER XIII_.

THE FIRST GREETINGS OF THE CITY.

The leaves were falling in the woods around the city. Ilse stood at the

window thinking of her home. The wreaths over the door were faded, the

linen and clothes were stowed away in the presses, her own life glided

on so quietly, while all around her was noise and bustle. Her husband

was sitting in the next room over his work; no sound but the rustling

of the leaves as he turned them penetrated through the door and at

times the clattering of plates in the kitchen which was close by. Her

dwelling was very pretty, but hedged in on all sides; at one side the

narrow street; behind was the neighboring house, with many windows for

curious eyes; toward the wood, also, the horizon was shut in by grey

trunks and towering branches. From the distance, the hum and cries of

the busy town sounded in her ear from morning till night; above were to

be heard the tones of a pianoforte, and on the pavement the unceasing

tread of the passers-by, wagons rolling and loud voices quarreling.

However long she looked out of the window, there were always new people

and unknown faces, many beautiful equipages and, on the other hand,

many poor people. Ilse thought that every passer-by who wore

fashionable attire must be a person of distinction, and when she saw a

shabby dress she thought how heavily life pressed upon the poor here.

But all were strangers to her; even those who dwelt near, and could

watch her proceedings on all sides, had little intercourse with her,

and if she inquired concerning individuals, the inmates of her house

could give but scanty account of them. All was strange and cold and all

was an endless tumult. Ilse felt in her dwelling as if she were on a

small island in a stormy sea, and the strange life caused her much

anxiety.

But, however gigantic and noisy the town seemed to Ilse, it was at

bottom a friendly monster. Nay, it fostered perhaps, rather than

otherwise, a secret inclination to poetic feelings and to private

courtesy. It was true that the stern burgomasters had given up the

custom of welcoming distinguished strangers with wine and fish, but

still they sent their first morning greeting through their winged

proteges, which had already delighted Ilse's father. The pigeons flew

round Ilse's window, crowded against the panes and picked at the wood

till Ilse strewed some food for them. When Gabriel removed the

breakfast, he could not refrain from taking some credit for this to

himself:

"I have for some weeks past scattered food before the window, thinking

it would be agreeable to you to see the pigeons."

And when Ilse looked at him gratefully, he continued ingenuously:

"For I also came from the country, and when I first went to the

barracks I shared my rations with a strange poodle."

But the town took care that other birds should become intimate with the

lady from the country. On the very first day that Ilse went out alone

(it was an unpleasant walk, for she could scarcely resist stopping

before the showy shop-windows, and she colored when people looked

boldly in her face), she had found some poor children in front of a

confectioner's, who looked longingly through the windows at the pastry;

this longing look bad touched her and she entered and distributed cakes

among them. Since then, it happened that every noon there was a slight

ringing at Ilse's door, and little children, in tattered clothes,

produced empty cans, which were filled and carried home, to the great

vexation of Mr. Hummel, who could not approve of such encouragement to

rogues.

When Ilse, on the evening of her arrival, was taken by her husband into

her room, she found a beautiful cover spread over her table, a

masterpiece of fancy work, and on it a card, with the word Welcome.

Gabriel stated that Miss Laura had brought this present. The first

visit, therefore, on the following morning was made to those who

occupied the lower story. When Ilse entered the sitting-room of the

Hummel family, Laura sprang up blushing, and stood embarrassed before

the Professor's wife; her whole soul went out to the stranger, but

there was something in Ilse's demeanor that inspired her with awe. Ah!

the much longed-for one was undoubtedly noble and dignified, even more

so than Laura had expected; and she felt herself so very insignificant

and awkward that she shyly received Ilse's warm thanks and drew back

some steps, leaving it to her mother to do the talking. But she did not

weary of gazing at the beautiful woman and, in imagination, adorning

her figure with the finest costumes of the tragic stage.

Laura declared to her mother that she would like to make the return

visit alone, and on the first suitable day stole upstairs in the

twilight hour with beating heart,--yet determined to have a good talk.

But, as accident would have it, immediately after her arrival the

Doctor entered, much to the disturbance of the general peace, and

consequently there was nothing but a fragmentary conversation, and

hackneyed commonplaces which were very unsatisfactory. She took leave,

angry with the Doctor and dissatisfied with herself because she had

found nothing better to say.

Since then the new lodger upstairs became an object of incessant and

secret adoration to Laura. After dinner she placed herself at the

window, watching for the hour when Ilse went out with her husband. Then

she watched her from behind the curtains with admiration. She would

often flit across the hallway and about the door of the lodgers. But

when Ilse appeared in the distance she would hide, or if she met her

she would make a deep courtesy and, on the spur of the moment, could

only think of ordinary things to say. She was much troubled lest her

pianoforte playing might disturb her, and inquired at what hours it

would be least annoying to her; and, one day when that nuisance of a

red dog had snarled at Ilse and had maliciously bitten at her dress,

she was so angry that she took her parasol and drove the monster

downstairs.

In her mother's name--for she could not venture upon it in her own--she

began a campaign of small attentions against the tenants of the upper

floor. When venders offered their tempting wares for the kitchen, Laura

would frequently disappoint Mr. Hummel's epicurean tastes; for she

regularly sent the young geese and fat hens upstairs, till at last the

servant, Susan, became so bitter at this preference of the lodgers that

she besought the aid of Mrs. Hummel. One day Laura learnt from Gabriel

that the Professor's wife had asked for a certain kind of apple; Laura

hastened to the market and searched till she found a little basket of

them and brought them home; and this time she compelled even Mr. Hummel

himself to send up the basket with many compliments. Ilse was pleased

with these household courtesies, but did not guess the secret source.

"There is one class of people of whom I am much afraid," said Ilse to

her husband; "and that is the students. When I was scarcely grown up

and on a visit to an aunt, I saw a whole company of them march through

the gates with their great swords, hats with plumes, and velvet coats.

They were so wild that I did not venture into the streets all that day.

As I am now to associate with these fierce fellows, I shall not exactly

be afraid of them, but still they make me uneasy."

"They are not at all so bad," said the Professor, consolingly; "you

will soon get accustomed to them."

Notwithstanding this, Ilse awaited the first visit of the students with

much anxiety.

It happened that one morning the bell rang just when the Professor was

detained at the University library, and Gabriel and the maid had been

sent out. Ilse opened the door herself. A young man whose colored cap

and black map under his arm proclaimed him a student, started back in

surprise. He looked quite different from what she expected, being

without ostrich feather or sword, and his face was pale and thin; yet

Ilse felt respect for the learned young man, at the same time dreading

that the rude nature of his class might suddenly break out. She was,

however, a brave woman and took a practical view of the visit. As long

as the misfortune has come I must be courteous. "You wish to speak to

my husband; he is not at home at present. Will you have the kindness to

walk in?"

The student, a poor philologist who was a candidate for a scholarship,

was thrown into great alarm at the majestic being who stood before him.

He made many bows and did not venture to refuse. Ilse took him into the

parlor, motioned him to an arm-chair and asked whether she could be of

any service to him. The poor fellow became still more embarrassed and

Ilse was also infected by his discomfiture. She made an effort,

however, to begin a conversation, and inquired whether he belonged to

the city. This was not the case. From what country did he come? she

also was a stranger. He proved to be from her own province--not indeed

close to her home, but within ten miles of it; he had, therefore, from

his earliest youth looked on the same mountains and knew the dialect of

her country and the songs of the birds. Now she moved nearer to him and

made him converse, till at last they chatted together like old friends.

At length Ilse said: "My husband will probably not be home for some

time; I should not like to deprive him of the pleasure of seeing you.

May we have the pleasure of your company at dinner next Sunday?"

Surprised and with expressions of thanks the student arose to take

leave and was accompanied to the door by Ilse. But he had been so

confused by the adventure that he had forgotten his portfolio. Again he

rang the bell diffidently. Again he stood embarrassed at the door and

with many excuses asked for his portfolio.

Ilse was pleased with this meeting and with having so well overcome her

first difficulty. She called out joyfully to her husband when he came

to the door, "Felix, the first student has been here."

"Indeed," answered the husband, in no wise disturbed by the

announcement; "what is his name?"

"I do not know his name, but he wore a red cap and said he was not a

freshman. I was not at all afraid and I asked him to dinner for

Sunday."

"Well," replied the Professor, "if you do that to everyone our house

will soon be full."

"Was it not right?" asked Ilse, troubled. "I saw that he was not one of

the principal ones, but I wished, on your account, to do too much

rather than too little."

"Never mind," said the Professor; "we will not forget that he was the

first one to look into your dear face."

Sunday came, and with it, at the hour of noon, the student, who had on

this occasion paid exceptional attention to his toilet. But Ilse,

observing the demeanor of her husband toward the student, maintained a

quiet, motherly dignity. In accordance with this she gave him a second

helping of the roast and provided him with quantities of vegetables.

This kindly treatment and several glasses of wine, the last of which

was poured out by Ilse, strengthened the heart of the student and

raised him above the petty things of earthly life. After dinner the

Professor conversed with the Doctor on some learned subjects. But Ilse

kindly kept up a conversation with the young gentleman and put him so

much at his ease that he began to speak of his family affairs. Then the

student became confiding and pathetic and began some very sorrowful

disclosures. In the first place, naturally, that he had no money; then

he ventured to add the painful confession of a tender attachment for

the daughter of a lawyer who lived in the same house with him, and whom

he had secretly worshiped for a whole year and expressed it in poetry.

But at last the father interposed; he, with a tyranny peculiar to

magistrates, forbade the acceptance of the poems by his daughter and

contrived to remove the student from the house. Since that time the

heart of the student had been an abyss of despair; no longer did any

poem--they were sonnets--penetrate to the secluded beloved one. Nay, he

even had grounds to believe that she too despised him; for she attended

balls, and only the previous evening he had seen her with flowers in

her hair alighting from her father's carriage at a brilliantly lighted

house. Sorrowfully he had stood at the door of the house among the

spectators; but she had glided past him smiling and beaming. Now he

wandered about in despair and alone, weary of his life and full of

dismal thoughts, concerning which he gave gloomy intimations. Finally,

he asked Ilse's permission to send her these poems which expressed the

condition of his heart. Ilse, of course, consented, with expressions of

sincere compassion.

The student took his leave and the next morning Ilse received a package

with a very respectful letter, by post, in which he excused himself for

not sending her all the poetical pieces which would place his

misfortune in the right light, as he had not copies of them ready.

Enclosed with them was a sonnet to Ilse herself, very tender and full

of reverence, in which it was clearly the secret intention of the

student to make Ilse the mistress of his dreams in the place of his

unfaithful love.

Ilse, somewhat embarrassed, laid this enclosure on the writing-table of

her husband.

"If I have done wrong, Felix, tell me."

The Professor laughed.

"I will send him back his poem myself; that will cool his ardor. You

know now that it is dangerous to receive the confidence of a student.

The poems, by the way, are poorer than need be."

"Thus I have had a lesson," said Ilse, "which I have brought upon

myself; for the future I will be more cautious."

But she could not so easily banish the recollection of the student.

Every afternoon, when the weather was favorable. Ilse went at the same

hour with her husband to the adjacent wood. The happy couple sought out

lonely by-paths, where the branches were more thickly intertwined and

the green carpet beneath contrasted gaily with the yellow leaves. Then

Ilse thought of the trees on her father's estate; and the conversation

with her husband always reverted to her father, brothers, and sisters,

and to the latest news she had had from home. In the meadow which

extended from the last buildings of the town to the wood there stood a

bench under a large bush; from there could be seen the hostile houses

in the foreground and behind them the gables and towers of the city.

When Ilse came upon the place the first time, she was pleased at the

sight of her own windows and the surrounding gloomy towers, and it led

her to think of the seat in the cave, from which she had so often

looked on her father's house; she sat down on the bench, drew out the

letters which she had just received from her brothers and sisters, and

read to her husband the simple sentences in which they reported the

latest events on the farm. From that time forth this became her

favorite resting-place, as she and her husband bent their steps

homeward.

The day after the reception of the student's package, on arriving at

the bench, she saw a small nosegay lying on it; she picked it up with

curiosity; a delicately folded note of rose-colored paper was appended

to it, with this inscription: "A greeting from B." After this as many

stars as there were letters in the name of her father's country-place.

Surprised, she handed the note to the Professor. He opened it and read

these unpretentious lines:--

The little dwarfes in their stone-built bower,

Have written the rhyme on this card.

They send from thy father's home a flower,

With their heart-felt, innermost regard.

"That is meant for you," he said, in astonishment.

"How delightful!" exclaimed Ilse.

"The '_dwarf_' must certainly be a joke of the Doctor," decided the

Professor; "truly, he has well disguised his handwriting."

Ilse, delighted, pinned on the nosegay.

"When the Doctor comes this evening he shall not find out that we have

discovered him."

The Professor dilated upon the droll idea of his friend and Ilse, who

before had looked upon the Doctor with secret distrust, heartily

agreed.

But when, in the evening, the Doctor feigned the greatest nonchalance,

he was jestingly scolded for his art of dissimulation and loaded with

thanks. When, however, he firmly declared that the nosegay and verse

did not come from him, fruitless discussion arose as to the author, and

the Professor began to look very serious.

A few days later the offering in the wood was repeated; another nosegay

lay on the bench with the same address and a verse. Again did Ilse

endeavor gently to maintain, that there had been collusion on the part

of the Doctor, but the Professor rejected that and put the rose-colored

note in his pocket. Ilse took the nosegay with her, but this time did

not place it in her girdle. When the Doctor came the adventure was

again discussed.

"It can be no one but the little student," said Ilse, much distressed.

"That I fear, also," said the Professor, and related to the Doctor

Ilse's annoyance at the confidential package from the devotee of the

muses. "Harmless as the thing appears in itself, it still has a serious

aspect. These addresses imply close watching, which is anything but

agreeable, and such activity and assiduity may lead the adorer to still

greater daring. He must be checked. I will endeavor to-morrow to

convince him of his error."

"And if he should deny the act," interposed the Doctor. "You should at

least make this impossible. As the nosegay has escaped the observation

of others passing by, it has probably been laid there the last moment

before your appearance, which would not be difficult to do, as you

always pass at the same hour. We must endeavor to surprise the daring

man."

"I will go alone to-morrow," said the Professor.

"You ought not to watch a student in the wood," said the Doctor,

decidedly. "Besides, if your wife remains at home the nosegay will

probably not lie on the bench. Leave the affair to me. Go out as usual

to-morrow and the following days and I shall watch the place from some

other point."

This being settled, the Professor took both the small nosegays from the

glass and threw them out of the window.

On the following day, a quarter of an hour before his friends started,

the Doctor went to the wood, disguised in a grey coat and dark hat, in

order to fall upon the presumptuous versifier from his hiding-place; he

undertook to chastise the offender so that the Professor would be

spared any personal interference. He found a good place just opposite

the bench, where the dense beech foliage would conceal the hunter from

his game. There he placed himself in a good position, drew a large

opera-glass from his pocket and fixed his eyes attentively on the bench

in question. The bench was still empty; the few pedestrians passed it

by with indifference; the time seemed long; the Doctor looked for half

an hour through the glasses, until his eyes began to ache, but he

persevered. His place was well chosen; the offender could not escape.

Suddenly, just as his eyes accidentally glanced toward Mr. Hummel's

house, he saw the garden gate open; something dark passed out between

the trees and came toward the bench out of the thicket, looked

cautiously round, passed by the bench and disappeared again among the

trees and through the hostile garden gate. An expression of infinite

astonishment was depicted on the countenance of the Doctor; he closed

his opera glass and laughed quietly to himself; then adjusted the

glasses again, and peered after the vanished figure. He shook his head

and fell into deep thought. He listened and heard the quiet steps of

two promenaders. The Professor and Ilse came out of the wood. They

stopped a few steps from the bench and looked at the fatal nosegay

which lay there so innocently. The Doctor burst out from the copse,

laughing, took up the nosegay, and, offering it to Ilse, said:

"It is not the student."

"Who then?" asked the Professor, uneasily.

"That I cannot tell," replied the Doctor; "but the affair is

harmless--the nosegay is from a lady."

"Seriously?" asked the Professor.

"You may depend upon it," replied Fritz, convincingly. "It is from some

one whom we both know and your wife need not hesitate to accept the

greetings. It is given with the best intentions."

"Have the townspeople so many verses and secrets?" asked Ilse,

curiously, taking the flowers with a light heart.

Again there was guessing: they could not find any one on whom they

could fix it.

"I am glad that the mystery is thus solved," said the Professor; "but

tell your poetess that such missives might easily fall into bad hands."

"I have no influence over her," replied the Doctor; "but whatever may

have put it into her head to do this, it will not always remain a

secret."

At last came the long-wished-for hour in which Laura was to have a

private meeting with the distinguished stranger, as Ilse up to this day

was designated in the private memoirs. Her mother had gone out when

Ilse entered the sitting-room to ask a household question. Laura gave

the information, gained courage and at last ventured to request Ilse to

go with her into the garden. There they sat together under the last

rays of an October sun and interchanged opinions concerning the boat,

the Chinese temple and the passers-by. Finally, Laura respectfully took

Ilse's hand and drew her into a corner of the garden to show her a

great rarity--the abandoned nest of a hedge-sparrow. The birds had long

flown away and the remains of the nest still hung on the half bare

branches.

"Here they were," cried Laura, impressively; "charming little

creatures; there were five speckled eggs there and they reared their

little ones successfully. I was in mortal terror all the time on

account of the cats that prowl about here."

"You have never lived in the country," said Ilse. "People here in the

city are delighted if they can only keep one poor little sparrow in

their garden. At home they chirruped, sang and flew about in all the

trees; and unless there was something unusual about them, one took no

particular notice of them. Here each little creature is valued and

cared for, even the sparrows. The first morning I was here I was

shocked at the sight of these poor creatures; they are not to be

compared to their brothers in the country, their feathers are bristly

and uneven, and their whole bodies are black and sooty, like

charcoal-burners. I would gladly have taken a sponge to wash the whole

lot."

"It would be of no use; they would become black again," said Laura,

despondingly. "It is caused by the soot in the gutters."

"Does one become, so dusty and is one so roughly handled in the city?

That is sad. It is certainly much more beautiful in the country." As

Ilse softly acknowledged this, her eyes moistened involuntarily with

the thought of the distant woody hills. "I am only a stranger here,"

she added more cheerfully. "The city would be very pleasant if there

were not so many people: they annoy me with their staring, whenever I

go out alone."

"I will accompany you if you like," said Laura, delighted; "I shall

always be ready."

This was a kind offer and was thankfully accepted. Laura, in her great

joy, ventured to ask Ilse to go with her into her private room. They

ascended to the upper story. There the little sofa, the ivy screen, the

shepherd and shepherdess, were duly admired, and finally the new piano.

"Will you play something for me?" asked Ilse. "I cannot play at all. We

had an old piano but I learnt only a few tunes from my dear, mother for

the children to dance to."

Laura took a piece of music, the first leaf of which was beautifully

ornamented with gilded elves and lilies, and played the "Elfin Waltz,"

secretly trembling, but with great execution; and she explained,

laughingly, with a shake of her black locks, the passages where the

spirits came fluttering in and mysteriously chattered together. Ilse

was highly delighted.

"How quickly your little fingers fly," she said, regarding Laura's

delicate hand with admiration. "See how large my hand is in comparison

and how hard the skin--that comes from doing housework."

Laura looked entreatingly at her. "If I might only hear you sing."

"I can sing nothing but hymns and some old country songs."

"Oh, do sing them," begged Laura. "I will endeavor to accompany you."

Ilse began an old melody and Laura tried a modest accompaniment and

listened with transport to the rich sound of Ilse's voice; she felt her

heart tremble under the swelling tones and ventured to join in the last

verse.

After this she searched for a song which was known to both, and, when

they succeeded tolerably in singing together, Laura clapped her hands

enthusiastically, and they determined to practice some easy songs to

surprise the Professor.

In the course of conversation Ilse confessed that she had seldom heard

a concert, and occasionally when visiting in the neighborhood, had seen

a play, but only one opera.

"The piece was called the _Freischuetz_," said Ilse; "the heroine was

the forester's daughter, and she had a friend just as merry, with

beautiful locks and frank eyes like yours; and the man whom she loved

lost his faith in the gracious protection of heaven, and in order to

obtain the girl he denied God and surrendered himself to the Evil One.

That was fearful; her heart became heavy and a foreboding came over

her; but she did not lose her strength of mind, nor her trust in help

from above; and her faith saved her lover, over whom the Evil One had

already stretched out his hand."

Then she accurately described the whole dramatic course of the action.

"It was enchanting," she said. "I was very young, and when I came back

to our hotel I could not compose myself and my father was obliged to

scold me."

Laura listened, sitting on a footstool at Ilse's feet; she held her

hand fast and heard her account as a child listens to a tale she

already knows.

"How well you describe it; 'tis as if one was reading a poem."

"Ah, no," exclaimed Ilse, shaking her head; "this compliment is just

what I do not in the least deserve. I have never in my life made a

verse and I am so prosaic that I do not know how my unpolished nature

will adapt itself to the town, for here they write verses; they hum

about in the air like flies in summer."

"What do you mean?" asked Laura, hanging her head.

"Only think, even I, a stranger, have received verses!"

"That is quite natural," said Laura, folding her handkerchief to

conceal her confusion.

"I have found little nosegays on the bench in the park, with dear

little poems, and the name of my home given by a letter and stars. See,

first a large B, and then----"

Laura, in her delight at this account, looked up, from her

handkerchief. Her cheeks were suffused with color. There was a roguish

smile in her eyes.

Ilse looked at the beaming countenance and, as she spoke, guessed that

she was the giver.

Laura bent down to kiss her hand, but Ilse raised the curly head,

threatening her with her finger and kissing her.

"You are not angry with me," said Laura, "for being so bold?"

"It was very sweet and kind of you, but you must know that it caused us

a great deal of uneasiness. The Doctor discovered you, but he did not

tell us your name."

"The Doctor?" exclaimed Laura, starting up. "Must that man always

interfere where I am concerned!"

"He kept your secret faithfully. Now I may tell my husband all about

it, may I not? but, between ourselves, he was very much displeased for

a time."

This was a triumph for Laura. Again she seated herself at Ilse's feet

and archly begged her to relate what the Professor had said.

"That would not be right," answered Ilse, gravely; "that is his

secret."

Thus an hour passed in pleasant talk till the clock struck, and Ilse

rose hastily. "My husband will wonder where I have disappeared to,"

said she. "You are a dear girl. If you like we will become good

friends."

Ah! that pleased Laura very much. She accompanied her visitor to the

staircase, and on the step it occurred to her that she had forgotten

the principal thing she wanted to say; her room was directly above that

of the Professor's wife, and when Ilse opened the window she could

communicate quickly with her by signals. Just as Ilse was about to

close her door, Laura ran down once more in order to express her joy

that Ilse had granted her this hour.

Laura returned to her room, paced up and down with rapid steps, and

snapped her fingers like one who has won the great prize in a lottery.

She confided to her journal her account of the consecrated hour, and of

every word that Ilse had spoken, and concluded with verses:

"I found thee, pure one! Now my dream will live.

And tho' 'twixt joy and pain thy soul may pine,

I touch thy garment's hem and homage give,

And lovingly thee in my heart enshrine."

Then she seated herself at the piano and played with impassioned

expression the melody which Ilse had sung to her. And Ilse below heard

this heartfelt outburst of thanks for her visit.

_CHAPTER XIV_.

A DAY OF VISITS.

A carriage drove up to the door. Ilse entered her husband's study,

attired for her first visit. "Look at me," she said; "do I look all

right?"

"Very well," cried the Professor, joyfully, scanning his wife. But it

was well that everything was as it should be without his help, for in

matter of the toilet the critical eye of the Professor was of doubtful

value.

"Now I begin a new game," continued Ilse, "such as the children used to

play at home. I am to knock at your friends' doors and call out,

Halloa, halloa! and when the ladies ask. Who is there? I shall answer,

as in the game:

"I am a poor, poor beggar-maid,

And what I want is this:

For me I want a piece of bread;

For my husband I want a kiss."

"Well, so far as the kisses are concerned that I am to dispense to the

wives of my colleagues," replied the Professor, putting on his gloves,

"I should, on the whole, be obliged to you if you would take that

business upon yourself."

"Ah, you men are very strict," said Ilse; "my little Franz also always

refuses to play the game, because he would not kiss the stupid girls. I

only hope that I'll not disgrace you."

They drove through the streets. On the way the Professor gave his wife

an account of the persons and the particular branch of learning of each

of his colleagues to whom he was taking her.

"Let us visit pleasant people first," he said. "Yonder lives Professor

Raschke, our professor of philosophy, and a dear friend of mine. I hope

his wife will please you."

"Is he very famous," asked Ilse, laying her hand on her beating heart.

The carriage stopped before a low dwelling at the further end of the

suburb. Gabriel hastened into the house to announce the visitors;

finding the kitchen empty, he knocked at the parlor-door, and, finally,

being experienced in the customs of the family, opened the entrance

into the court yard. "Professor Raschke and his wife are in the

garden."

The visitors passed through a narrow yard into a kitchen-garden, which

the owner of the house had given his lodger permission to walk in, to

get the benefit of the air. The couple were walking along the path

under the noon-sun of an autumn day. The lady carried a little child on

her arm; the husband held a book in his hand, from which he was reading

to his companion. In order, however, to do as much family duty as

possible, the Professor had fastened the pole of a baby carriage to his

belt and thus drew a second child after him. The backs of the couple

were turned to the guests and they moved slowly forward, listening and

reading aloud.

"An encounter in the narrow path is not desirable," said Felix; "we

must wait until they turn round the square and face us."

It was some time before the procession overcame the hindrances of the

journey, for the Professor in the eagerness of reading, sometimes

stopped to explain, as might be seen from the motion of his hands. Ilse

examined the appearance of the strange pedestrians with curiosity. The

wife was pale and delicate; one could perceive that she had recently

left a sick bed. The man had a nobly formed, intellectual face, about

which hung long dark hair with a sprinkling of gray upon it. They had

come close to the guests, when the wife turned her eyes from her

husband and perceived the visitors.

"What a pleasure!" cried the Philosopher, dropping his book into the

great pocket of his coat. "Good morning, my dear colleague. Ha! that is

our dear Professor's wife. Unhitch me from the carriage, Aurelia; the

family bonds hamper me."

The unhitching took some time, as the hands of the mistress of the

house were not free, and Professor Raschke by no means kept still, but

struggled forward, and had already seized with both hands those of his

colleague and wife.

"Come into the house, my dear guests," he exclaimed, striding forward

with long steps, while Felix introduced his wife to the lady. Professor

Raschke forgot his baby carriage, which Ilse lifted over the threshold

and rolled into the hall. There she took up the neglected child from

its seat and both ladies entered the room with a diminutive chip of

philosophy in their arms, exchanging their first friendly greetings,

while the little one in Ilse's arms lustily swung his rattle, and the

youngest child on the arm of its mother began to scream. Meanwhile

colleague Raschke went about clearing the room, removed books and

papers from the sofa, shook faded sofa-cushions into form, which

emitted clouds of dust, and cordially invited his guests to be seated.

At length the confusion subsided. Ilse played with the child on her

lap, while Mrs. Raschke after a disappearance for a moment came back

without the screaming infant. She sat shyly by Ilse, but asked her

friendly questions in a gentle voice. The lively Philosopher, however,

was always interrupting the conversation of the ladies; he stroked the

hand of the Professor, while he nodded in the direction of his wife.

"This is quite right; I rejoice that you accustom yourself to our mode

of life while still so young, for our wives have not an easy time of

it--their outer life is limited and they have many demands made upon

them at home. We are often wearisome companions, difficult to deal

with, peevish, morose, and perverse." He shook his head disapprovingly

over the character of the world of learning, but his face smiled with

genuine pleasure.

The end of the visit was hastened by the baby, who began to cry

piteously in the next room.

"Are you going already?" said the Philosopher to Ilse; "this cannot be

counted as a visit. You please me much, and you have true eyes; and I

see that you have a kind disposition, and that is everything. All we

want is, in the face a good mirror through which the images of life are

reflected fully and purely, and in the heart an enduring flame which

will communicate its warmth to others. Whoever has that will do well,

even if it is her fate to be the wife as you are, of a sedentary

student, and as is this poor mother of five screaming young ones."

Again he strode rapidly about, fetched an old hat from the corner and

handed it to the wife of his colleague. Ilse laughed.

"Oh, I see. It is a gentleman's hat," said Professor Raschke; "perhaps

it belongs to your husband."

"I also am provided with one," said the Professor.

"Then it must be my own after all," said Raschke; and jamming the hat

on his head, he accompanied his guests to the carriage.

For some time Ilse sat in the carriage dumb with astonishment. "Now I

have regained my courage, Felix; the professors are still less alarming

than the students."

"All will not receive you so warmly," answered the Professor. "He who

comes next is my colleague Struvelius; he teaches Greek and Latin, as I

do; he is not one of my intimate acquaintances, but is a thorough

scholar."

This time it was a house in the city; the apartments were a little

more ancient than in Ilse's new dwelling. This professor's wife wore a

black silk dress, and was sitting before a writing-table covered with

books and papers; a delicate lady, of middle age, with a small but

clever face and an extraordinary coiffure; for her short hair was

combed behind her ears in one large roll of curl, which gave her a

certain resemblance to Sappho or Corinne, so far as a comparison is

allowable with ladies of antiquity, the growth of whose hair is by no

means satisfactorily ascertained.

Mrs. Struvelius arose slowly and greeted the visitors with haughty

demeanor; she expressed her pleasure to Ilse and then turned to the

Professor. "I have to-day commenced reading the work of colleague

Raschke and I admire the deep thought of the man."

"His writings are delightful," replied the Professor, "because in all

of them we discover a thorough and pure-minded man."

"I agree with your premise and consequent conclusion in this particular

instance, but with regard to the general proposition you assert, allow

me to say that many works that form an epoch in literature would have

no great excellence, if it were necessary to be a perfect man in order

to write a good book."

Ilse looked timidly at the learned lady who had ventured to oppose her

husband.

"Yet we will come to an agreement," continued the Professor's wife,

fluently, as if she were reading from a book. "It is not requisite for

every valuable work that its author should be a man of character, but

he who truly has this noble qualification, would be unlikely to produce

anything which would have an unfavorable influence on his branch of

learning; undoubtedly the weaknesses of a learned work originate more

frequently than one supposes in the author's weakness of character."

The Professor nodded assentingly.

"For," she continued, "the position which a scholar assumes with

respect to the great questions of the day, affecting his branch of

learning--nay, with respect even to the advantages and deficiencies of

his method--may generally be explained from his character. You have

always lived in the country," she said, turning to Ilse. "It would be

instructive to me to learn what impression you have received of the

mutual relations of people in the town."

"I have met but few as yet," rejoined Ilse, timidly.

"Of course," said Mrs. Struvelius. "But I mean that you will observe

with surprise that near neighborhood does not always imply intimate

intercourse. But Struvelius must be told you are here."

She rose, opened the door of the next room, and standing bolt upright

by the door, called out:

"Professor and Mrs. Werner!"

A slight murmur and the hasty rustling of leaves of a book were heard

in the adjoining room. The wife closed the door and continued:

"For after all we live among many and associate with few. In the city

we choose from among many individuals with a certain arbitrariness. One

might have more acquaintance than one has, but even this feeling gives

you confidence, and such confidence is more easily acquired in town

than in the country."

The side door opened. Professor Struvelius entered with an

absent-minded manner. He had a sharp nose, thin lips and wore an

unusual style of head dress. For his hair stood so peculiarly after its

own fashion, that one was justified in assuming that the head gear was

hereditary and had suggested the name of the family. He bowed slightly,

pushed a chair forward and seated himself in it silently--probably his

thoughts were still occupied with his Greek historian. Ilse suffered

from the conviction that the visit was an inopportune interruption and

that it was a great condescension on the part of his wife to speak to

her at all.

"Are you musical?" said Mrs. Struvelius, inquisitively.

"I can hardly say so," answered Ilse.

"I am glad of it," said the hostess, moving opposite to her and

examining her with her sharp eyes. "From my estimate of you, I should

think you could not be musical. The art of music makes us weak and

leads too frequently to an imperfect state of existence."

Felix endeavored, with little success, to make the Professor take part

in the conversation; and the visitors soon rose. On taking leave, Mrs.

Struvelius stretched the lower part of her arm in a rectangular line

toward Ilse and said, with a solemn pressure of the hand:

"Pray feel yourself at home with us." And the words of her husband,

bidding them adieu, were cut short by the closing of the door.

"What do you say now?" said the Professor, as they drove away.

"Ah, Felix, I feel very insignificant; my courage has left me, I would

rather return home."

"Be composed," said the husband, consolingly; "you are going about

to-day as if you were at a fair, looking over the contents of the

tables. What does not please you, you need not buy. The next visit is

to our historian, a worthy man, who is one of the good genii of our

University. His daughter also is an amiable young lady."

A servant opened the door and conducted them into the reception-room.

There were some good landscapes on the wall; a pianoforte, a pretty

flower stand, with rare plants, well arranged and taken care of. The

daughter entered hastily; she had a delicate face with beautiful dark

eyes. A stately old gentleman with a distinguished air followed her. He

looked something like a high official, only his lively way of speaking

showed him to be a man of learning. Ilse was warmly and heartily

welcomed. The old gentleman seated himself near her and began an easy

conversation, and Ilse soon felt herself as comfortable as with an

intimate acquaintance. She was also reminded of her home, for he asked:

"Are any of the remains of the old monastery at Rossau still

preserved?"

Felix looked up with curiosity, and Ilse answered: "Only the walls; the

interior is rebuilt."

"It was one of the oldest ecclesiastical foundations of your region,

and has stood many centuries, and undoubtedly exercised influence over

a wide district. It is remarkable that the records of the monastery are

almost all wanting, and all other accounts or notices, so far as I

know, are very scanty. One may suppose that much still lies in

concealment there."

Ilse observed how the countenance of her husband lighted up; but he

replied, quietly:

"In the place itself, my inquiries were in vain."

"That is possible," agreed the Historian. "Perhaps the documents have

been taken to the seat of government, and lie there unused."

Thus passed one visit after another. Next came the Rector, a

Professor of Medicine, an agreeable man of the world, who kept up an

elegant establishment. His wife was a plump, active lady, with

restless, inquiring eyes. Then came the Secretary of the theological

Consistory, a tall, thin gentleman with a sweet smile; his wife, too,

was over-proportioned in everything,--in nose, mouth, and hospitality.

The last was the Mineralogist, a clever young man with a very pretty

wife; they had only been married a few months. While the young women,

seated on the sofa, were rapidly becoming acquainted. Ilse was for the

second time surprised by a question from the Professor:

"Your home is not without interest for my department. Is there not a

cave in the neighborhood?"

Ilse colored and looked again at her husband.

"It is on my father's estate."

"Indeed! I am just now at work on a new discovery that has been made on

your estate," exclaimed the Mineralogist.

He produced a stone of remarkably radiated structure.

"This is a very rare mineral that has been discovered in the

neighborhood of the cave; it was sent me by an apothecary of the

province."

He told her the name of the mineral, and spoke of the stone of which

the cave was formed, and the rock on which her father's house stood,

just as if he had been there himself, and made Ilse describe the lines

of the hills and the quarries of the neighborhood. He listened

attentively to her clear answers, and thought the geological structure

of the estate very remarkable.

Ilse was delighted and exclaimed:

"We imagined that no one in the world cared about us; but I see the

learned gentlemen know more about our country than we ourselves do."

"We know, at least, how to find something more precious than fragments

of rock there," replied the Professor courteously.

After their return home, Ilse entered her husband's room, where he had

already sat down to his work.

"Let me remain with you to-day, Felix? My head is confused with all the

persons to whom you have taken me; I have seen so much within one day,

and have had so much friendliness shown me by clever and distinguished

men. The learned lady frightened me most; and, Felix, it is perhaps

wrong in me to say so, for she is much more clever and refined, but I

found a resemblance in her to a good old acquaintance of ours."

"Mrs. Rollmaus," assented the Professor. "But this lady is in reality

very clever," he added.

"Heaven grant," said Ilse, "that she may be equally true-hearted! But I

feel terrified at her learning. I like the other ladies, and the

husbands still better. There is something noble about almost all of

them, they converse wonderfully well, they are unconstrained and seem

to have real inward happiness and gladness of heart; and naturally so,

for they hover over the earth like your gods of old, and, therefore,

they may well be cheerful. Ah! and there was the patched smoking jacket

which dear Professor Raschke wore--moth and rust will never eat that!

When I think that all these clever people have treated me with kindness

and regard, solely on my husband's account, I do not know how I can

thank you sufficiently. And now that I have been received into this new

society, I can only ask that my entrance into it may be blessed."

"The husband stretched out his hand and drew her toward him; she

clasped his head with her hands and bent over him.

"What are you working at now?" she asked, softly.

"Nothing very important; merely a treatise that I have to prepare every

year for the University."

He then told her something of the contents of the work.

"And when that is finished, what then?"

"Then I must set about other tasks."

"And thus it goes on always from morning to evening, every year, till

the eyes fail and the strength breaks," said Ilse piteously. "I have a

great favor to ask of you to-day, Felix. Will you show me the books

which you have written--all of them?"

"All that I still possess," said the Professor, and he collected books

and treatises here and there from every corner.

Ilse opened one work after another, and she found that she already knew

the Latin titles of some of them by heart. The Professor became

interested in this occupation, and was always finding more little

treatises which he had forgotten. Ilse laid them all before her in a

heap and began solemnly:

"A great crisis has now come for me. I wish to learn from you the

contents of each writing as far as you are able to explain it to your

wife. When I was already secretly in love with you, the children found

your name in the encyclopedia; we endeavored to read the strange titles

of your books, and Mrs. Rollmaus made conjectures in her way as to the

contents. Then I felt sorry that I could understand nothing of what you

had done for mankind. Since that, I have always hoped the day would

come when I could ask you what it was that you knew better than others,

and by reason of which I should be proud of belonging to you. The hour

is now come; for to-day you have introduced me to your friends as your

wife, and I want to be your wife there too where your treasure and your

heart are--as far as I can."

"Dear Ilse," exclaimed the Professor, carried away by her frank

dignity.

"But do not forget," continued Ilse, with emphasis, "that I understand

very little, and pray have patience with me. I have arranged how I wish

to have it done. Write down for me, in a note-book that I have bought

for the purpose, the titles, as they are in the foreign language and

also in German, first of your earliest works and then the last.

Together with this, note down what value you place on the work, and

what is its importance for mankind. Underneath every work I will set

down what I understand from your explanation, that I may well remember

them."

She produced a note-book; the Professor searched again for some more

treatises, arranged them according to date, and wrote each title on one

page of the book. Then he gave his wife some explanation of the

contents of each work, and helped her to write her remarks in the

note-book.

"Those in German I will endeavor to read myself," said Ilse.

Thus they both sat bending eagerly over the books, and the Professor's

heart beat with pleasure at the earnestness with which his wife

endeavored to understand his occupations. For it is the lot of the

scholar that few look with sympathy upon his trouble, his struggles,

and the worth of his work. The world regards him as a common laborer.

What he has formed, with enduring strength, henceforth becomes a

building-stone in the immeasurable house of learning on which all the

races of the earth have been laboring for thousands of years. Hundreds

of others make a foundation of it to advance their own work; thousands

of new blocks are piled upon it, and there are few to inquire who has

chiseled the separate columns, and still more seldom does a stranger

grasp the hand of the workman. The light works of the poet are long

greeted by those in whom he has raised a cheerful smile or an exalted

feeling. But the scholar seldom makes a valuable confidant or friend of

his reader by his individual works. He does not paint enchanting

pictures for the imagination; he does not flatter the yearning soul; he

demands the utmost seriousness and the closest attention from his

readers, the benefit of which redounds to himself in every criticism

that is made. Even where he inspires respect he remains a stranger.

And yet he is not a mere stonemason who cuts formless blocks according

to prescribed measures. He works independently and contributes his own

life-blood, sometimes suffering great depression, sometimes full of joy

and happiness. The fruits that he proffers his age have grown from the

deepest roots of his life. Therefore the honest mind that enters

heartily into the labor of the learned, and not only inquires for the

ultimate result of learning, but takes an interest in the inward

struggle of the workman, is to him a valuable treasure, a rare

happiness.--Felix now looked with emotion at his wife, who was striving

to occupy this position, and tender emotions swelled the heart of the

strong-minded man while he explained to her the subjects of his

labors,--while he told her about the Roman _tribus_ and the duties of

the senate.

When all was noted down, Ilse laid her hands on the books and

exclaimed:

"Here I have all. What a small space they occupy, yet they employed

many laborious days and nights, and the best portion of your noble

life. This has often given you flushed cheeks as you have to-day. For

this you have studied till your poor brain has been on fire, and for

this you have always sat in a confined room. I have hitherto looked

upon books with indifference; now for the first time I perceive what a

book is, a quiet endless labor."

"That is not to be said of all," replied the Professor; "but the

superior ones are more even than a labor."

He gazed lovingly on the walls along which the high book-shelves

reached up to the very ceiling, so that the room looked as if papered

with the backs of books.

"The great number of them quite frightens me," said Ilse, helping him

to make room for his own books in a dark corner, which was now cleared

for them as their resting-place. "They look so calm and composed, and

yet many of them may have been written with such impassioned feeling,

and have excited their readers, too."

"Yes," said her husband, "they are the great treasure-wards of the

human race. They preserve all that is most valuable of what has ever

been thought or discovered, from one century to another; and they

proclaim what existed once, and once only, upon the earth. Here is what

was produced full a thousand years before our era, and close beside

them those that have come into the world but a few weeks ago."

"Yet, from the coats that they wear, they look almost like each other,"

said Ilse. "I should have difficulty in distinguishing them."

The Professor explained their arrangement and led her from one book

shelf to another, pointing out those works which were his special

favorites.

"And you use them all?"

"Yes, and many more at times. These that you see here are only an

infinitely small portion of the books that have been printed; for since

the invention of books, almost all that we know and call learning is to

be found in them. But that is not all," he continued; "few know that a

book is something more than simply a product of the creative mind,

which its author sends forth as a cabinet-maker does a chair that has

been ordered. There remains, indeed, attached to every human work

something of the soul of the man who has produced it. But a book

contains between its covers the actual soul of the man. The real value

of a man to others--the best portion of his life--remains in this form

for the generations that follow, and perhaps for the farthermost

future. Moreover, not only those who write a good book, but those whose

lives and actions are portrayed in it, continue in fact living among

us. We converse with them as with friends and opponents; we admire or

contend with, love or hate them, not less than if they dwelt bodily

among us. The human soul that is enclosed in such a cover becomes

imperishable on earth, and, therefore, we may say that the soul-life of

the individual becomes enduring in books, and only the soul which is

encased in a book has certain duration on earth."

"But error persists also," said Ilse, "and so do liars and impure

spirits when they are put in books."

"They undoubtedly do, but are refuted by better souls. Very different,

certainly, is the value and import of these imperishable records. Few

maintain their beauty and importance for all periods; many are only

valuable at a later time, because we ascertain from them the character

and life of men in their days, while others are quite useless and

ephemeral. But all books that have ever been written from the earliest

to the latest, have a mysterious connection. For, observe, no one who

has written a book has of himself become what he is; every one stands

on the shoulders of his predecessor; all that was produced before

his time has helped to form his life and soul. Again, what he has

produced, has in some sort formed other men, and thus his soul has

passed to later times. In this way the contents of books form one

great soul-empire on earth, and all who now write, live and nourish

themselves on the souls of the past generations. From this point of

view the soul of mankind is an immeasurable unity, which comprises

every one who ever thus lived and worked, as well as those who breathe

and produce new works at present. The soul, which past generations felt

as their own, has been and is daily transmigrating into others. What is

written today may to-morrow become the possession of thousands of

strangers. Those who have long ago ceased to exist in the body continue

to live in new forms here on earth, and daily revive in thousands of

others."

"Stop," cried Ilse, entreatingly, "I am bewildered."

"I tell you this now, because I too feel myself a modest worker in this

earthly soul-empire. This feeling gives me a pleasure in life which is

indestructible, and it also gives me both freedom and modesty. For

whoever works with this feeling, whether his powers be great or small,

does so not for his own honor, but for all. He does not live for

himself but for all, as all who have before existed continue to live

for him."

He spoke earnestly, sitting surrounded by his books, with the setting

sun casting its friendly rays on his head and on the home of his

spirit--the book-shelves. And Ilse, leaning on his shoulder, said

humbly: "I am yours. Teach me, form me, and make me understand what you

understand."

_CHAPTER XV_.

AMONG THE LEARNED.

Ilse popped her head into her husband's study: "May I interrupt you?"

"Come in."

"Felix, what is the difference between Fauns and Satyrs? Here I read

that Satyrs have goats' feet, but that Fauns have men's feet and little

tails."

"Who says that?" asked Felix, indignantly.

"Why, here it is in print," replied Ilse, And as she spoke she showed

an open book to her husband.

"But it is not true," answered the Professor, as he explained the

matter to her. "The Greeks had Satyrs, the Romans Fauns. The gentleman

with the goat's foot is called Pan. But how did this Bacchanalian train

get into your household?"

"You said yesterday that the Councillor of the Consistory had a Faun's

face. Then the question arose what is a Faun's face, and what is a

Faun? Laura remembered perfectly having learnt at school that he was a

fabulous creature of the Romans, and she brought the book in which

these creatures are portrayed. What a wild set they are! Why have they

pointed ears like the deer, and what have you to say, if even in such

things one cannot rely on your books?"

"Come here," said Felix, "and I will soon introduce you to the whole

company." He selected a book of engravings and showed her the figures

of the whole train of Bacchus. For a time the instruction went on well;

but then Ilse objected, saying: "They all have very few clothes on."

"Art cares more for the body than for dress," said her husband.

But Ilse at last became uneasy; she closed the book and exclaimed,

coloring; "I must go; my help is needed in the kitchen to-day, as a new

pudding has to be made. That is my high school, and the servant is

still a novice." She hastened out. Once more popping her head through

the door, she exclaimed, "Tell your Satyrs and Fauns that I had a

better opinion of them; they are very immodest."

"They are indeed," exclaimed Felix, "and they make no pretensions to

being otherwise."

At dinner, when Felix had sufficiently admired the pudding. Ilse,

laying down her spoon, said seriously: "Do not show me such pictures

again. I would like to love your heathens, but I cannot if they are

like that."

"They are not all so bad," said her husband, consolingly; "if you like,

we will this evening pay a visit to some of the notables of antiquity."

With this day Ilse began a new period of learning. Soon a fixed hour

was arranged for her husband's explanations--the most valuable part of

the day to Ilse. First the Professor gave her a short description of

the great civilized nations of antiquity and the middle ages, and wrote

down a few names and dates for her that she learnt by heart. He pointed

out to her that the whole life of man was, in fact, nothing but an

unceasing receiving, transforming, and giving forth of the materials,

pictures, and impressions presented by the surrounding world; that the

whole intellectual development of man is, in fact, nothing but an

earnest and reverent search after truth; and that the whole of

political history is, in fact, nothing but the gradual subduing of that

egotism which produces disunion between men and nations, by the

creation of new wants, the increase of a feeling of duty and the growth

of love and respect for all mankind.

After this preparation the Professor began to read the _Odyssey_ aloud

to her, adding short explanations. Never had poetry so grand and pure

an influence upon her soul; the lively legendary style of the first

part and the powerful development of the second quite captivated her

heart. The characters became almost like living forms to her; she

wandered, suffered, and triumphed with them--raised into a new world of

more beautiful images and higher feelings. Then when the conclusion

came and the long-suffering Ulysses sat opposite to his wife, the bold

touches of the scene of recognition struck a secret chord in the heart

of the young wife. Deep was the impression. She sat near her beloved

husband, her cheeks suffused with blushes, her eyes moist with tears

and modestly cast down; and when he ended she clasped her white arms

round his neck and sank on his breast, lost in transport and emotion.

Her soul woke up, as it were, from long repose and glowed with deep

feeling. The immortal beauties of this poem cast a radiance over every

hour of the day, over her language, nay, over her bearing. She took

pleasure in trying to read aloud herself, and the Professor listened

with heartfelt pleasure as the majestic verses rolled melodiously from

her lips, and as she unconsciously imitated his mode of speech and the

modulations of his voice. When in the morning he went to his lecture

and she helped him to put on his brown duffel overcoat he was greeted

with the pleasant rhythm of this hexameter:

"Purple and rough was the coat of the cunning and noble Ulysses."

And when she sat opposite to him during her hour of instruction and he

came to a pause, these words of admiration broke from her lips:

"Thus thou cleverly thinkest, and wisely speakest thou always."

And when she wished to praise herself, she murmured to the singing of

the boiling kettle:

"Even in me lives wit, to discover the good from the evil,

Formerly though I was but a child."

Even the estate of her dear father now seemed to her illuminated with

the golden splendor of the Hellenic sun.

"I do not understand," said her father one evening to Clara, "how it is

possible that Ilse should so quickly have forgotten our farming

customs. In her letters she speaks of the time when the cattle shall

again wander in the wide plains; she means, I suppose, the fallow

fields; for we feed our cattle in the stalls."

* * *

The north wind howled round the two neighboring houses, and covered the

window panes with ice flowers; but within doors one day followed the

other with varied coloring and full of light, and each evening, more

enjoyable than the other, passed over the heads of the happy couple,

whether they were alone or whether the friends of the husband, the

instructors of the people, sat with them at the tea-table where a

simple meal was spread.

For the friends of the husband and their clever conversations are

pleasant to the lady of the house. The lamp throws a festive light in

Ilse's chamber, the curtains are drawn, the table well-furnished, and a

decanter of wine is placed on it when the gentlemen enter. Frequently

the conversation begins with trifles; the friends wish to show their

esteem for the Professor's wife--one talks a little about concerts and

another recommends a new picture or book. But sometimes they come out

from the study in eager conversation; their discourse is not always

quite within her comprehension, nor always very attractive, but on the

whole it gives her pleasure and refreshes her mind. Then Ilse sits

quietly there, her hands, which have been active in her work, fall into

her lap, and she listens reverently. No one who is not a professor's

wife can have any idea how charmingly the conversation of the learned

flows. All can speak well, all are eager, and all have a composed

manner that becomes them well. Discussion arises and they begin to

argue on weighty points, their opinions clash, they contradict each

other, one says that something is black, another that it is white; the

first shows that he is in the right and the second refutes him and

drives him into a corner. Now his wife thinks, how will he get out of

this; but she need have no anxiety, he is not at a loss--by a sudden

sally he gains the advantage; then the other comes with new reasons and

carries the matter still further, and the others join in, they become

eager and their voices are raised, and whether at last they convince

one another or each remains of his own opinion--which is frequently the

case--it is always a pleasure to see light thrown on difficult

questions from all sides. If one of them has said something really

important and arrived at the heart of the matter, it puts them all into

an elevated mood; it seems as if a supernatural light had burst in on

them. But the cleverest of all, and he whose opinion is listened to

with the greatest respect, is always the dear husband of the lady of

the house.

Ilse, however, remarked that all the learned gentlemen had not the same

amiable character. Some could not bear opposition and seemed in weak

moments to consider their own importance more than the advancement of

truth. Again, one would only speak and would not listen, and narrowed

the conversation by always returning to the point which the others had

already surmounted. She discovered that even an unlearned woman could,

from the discourse of the wise men, discern something of their

character; and when the guests were gone she ventured to express a

modest judgment upon the learning and character of individuals, and she

was proud when Felix allowed that she had judged rightly.

In such conversations the wife of the scholar learned much that to

other women remained incomprehensible. Thus, for instance, there were

the Roman plebeians. Few women understand what they were. The old

plebeians never gave tea-parties, never played on grand pianos, never

wore hoop skirts and never read French novels. This class is a very

odious institution which has been buried in the ruins of antiquity. But

the wife of a philologist is informed concerning all this. It would be

impossible to recount all that Ilse heard about plebeians and

patricians. Silently she sympathized with the plebeians. She entirely

repudiated the idea that they consisted of insignificant people and a

wanton rabble, and considered them to be sturdy farmers and fearless

politicians who, in unison, valiantly fought against the unjust

patricians to the very end. In connection with this she thought of her

father, and at times wondered whether some of her acquaintances would

not have been plebeians had they been Romans.

The gentlemen were very friendly to her and almost all had one quality

which made their intercourse very pleasant--they were always willing to

explain. At first Ilse did not like to admit that she knew nothing of

many subjects; but one evening she seated herself by her husband and

began: "I have come to one conclusion. Hitherto I have been afraid to

ask questions, not because I was ashamed of my ignorance, why should I

be? but on your account, that people might not remark what a silly wife

you have. But if you approve of it I will now do quite otherwise, for I

observe that they take pleasure in talking and will be willing to favor

me with a 'winged word,' as Homer says."

"Just so," said the husband; "they will like you the better the more

interest you take in them."

"I should like to know everything about the whole world, in order to

become like you. But I feel that I sadly lack the ability to comprehend

it all."

The new plan turned out admirably. Ilse soon learnt that it was easier

to persuade her friends to talk than to desist from it. For they

explained to her conscientiously and at great length what she wished to

learn; but they sometimes forgot that the capacity of a woman who is

receiving new impressions is not so fully developed as their own art of

teaching.

They seemed to her to hover like gods over the earth. But they partook

of the lot of the ambrosial society, for the pure peace which they

infused into the hearts of mortals did not always prevail among

themselves. It was Ilse's fate that soon after her arrival, when she

was beginning to feel at home, a vehement feud broke out among the

immortals of Olympus.

On a dark winter's day the stormy wind beat heavily against the window,

concealing the adjacent wood behind clouds of driving snow. Ilse heard

in her husband' s room the sharp tones of Professor Struvelius amid a

weighty flow of eloquence, and at intervals the long and earnest talk

of her husband. She could not distinguish the words, but the sound of

the two voices was similar to the whir of bird's wings or the rival

singing of the thrush and the ill-omened crow. The conversation

continued a long time and Ilse wondered that Struvelius should speak at

such length. When at last he was gone, Felix entered her room at an

unusual hour and paced silently up and down for some time, occupied in

deep thought. At last he began abruptly:

"I am placed in a position that obliges me to communicate with my

colleagues regarding our manuscript."

Ilse looked up at him inquiringly. Since her marriage there had been no

talk about Tacitus.

"I thought it was your intention not to speak again of it to

strangers."

"I have unwillingly broken my silence. I had no choice but to be frank

with my associate. The province of Science is extensive and it does not

often happen that associates in the same university pitch upon the same

work. Nay, for obvious reasons, they avoid competition. If, therefore,

by accident such a coincidence occurs, the most delicate consideration

should be mutually shown by members of the same institution. To-day

Struvelius told me that he knew I had been occupied with Tacitus and he

requested some particulars of me. He asked me about the manuscripts

that I had seen and collated years ago in other countries and about the

fac-simile of the characters I had made for myself."

"Then you imparted to him what you knew?" inquired Ilse.

"I gave him what I possessed, as a matter of course," replied the

Professor. "For whatever he may do with it is sure to be a gain to

learning."

"Then he will make use of your labors for the advancement of his own!

Now he will appear before the world in your plumes," lamented Ilse.

"Whether he will make proper use of what has been given him, or misuse

it, is his affair; it is my duty to have confidence in the honor of a

respectable colleague. That I did not for a moment doubt; but, indeed,

another idea occurred to me. He was not quite open with me: he

acknowledged that he was occupied with a criticism of certain passages

of Tacitus; but I feel sure that he concealed the most important

particulars from me. Nothing then remained to me but to tell him

plainly that I had long had a warm interest in that author, and that

since last summer I had been the more attracted to him by the

possibility of a new discovery. So I showed him the account which first

brought me into your neighborhood. He is a philologist, like myself,

and knows now of what great importance this author is to me."

"My only consolation is," said Ilse, "that if Struvelius wishes to

disinter the manuscript in our place, a hard fate awaits him at the

hands of my sensible father."

The thought of the defiance of his stem father-in-law was consoling to

the Professor, and he laughed.

"On this point I am safe; but what can he want with Tacitus?--his

department was formerly not concerned with the historians. It can

scarcely be imagined. But the most improbable things happen! Has,

perhaps, the lost manuscript, by any accident, been found and got into

his hands? But it is folly to worry about that."

He strode vehemently up and down, and, shaking his wife's hand with

great emotion, exclaimed at last:

"It is so vexatious to find oneself mastered by selfish feelings."

He again went to his work and when Ilse gently opened the door she saw

him busy writing. Toward evening, however, when she looked after his

lamp and announced the arrival of the Doctor, he was sitting leaning

his head on his hand in moody thought. She stroked his hair gently but

he scarcely noticed it.

The Doctor did not take the affair so much to heart; but was very

angry, both at the secret dealings of the other and at the magnanimity

of his friend, and a lively discussion ensued.

"May you never regret this frank action on your part!" exclaimed the

Doctor. "The man will coin money from your silver. Believe me, he will

play you a trick."

"After all," concluded the Professor thoughtfully, "it is not worth

while to excite myself about it. Should he, by any improbable and

unforeseen accident, really have come into possession of something new,

he has a right to all the materials at hand--both to what I have

collected and to my assistance, so far as it is in my power to give it.

If he is only exercising his critical acumen on the existing text, all

he may be able to accomplish will be insignificant as compared with our

childlike expectations."

Thus imperceptibly and harmlessly did this cloud arise on the

academical horizon.

A month had passed, and the Professor had often met his colleague. It

could not be deemed strange that Struvelius never let the name of

Tacitus pass his silent lips; nevertheless, the Professor watched the

conduct of his colleague with concern, for he thought he noticed that

the other avoided him.

One quiet evening Felix Werner was sitting with Ilse and the Doctor at

the tea-table, when Gabriel entered and laid a small pamphlet, wrapped

in a common newspaper, before the Professor. The Professor tore off the

cover, glanced at the title, and silently handed the pamphlet to the

Doctor. The Latin title of the book, translated, was this: "A Fragment

of Tacitus; Being a Trace of a Lost Manuscript. Communicated by Dr.

Friedobald Struvelius, etc." Without saying a word the friends rose and

carried the treatise into the Professor's study. Ilse remained behind,

startled. She heard her husband reading the Latin text aloud and

perceived that he was compelling himself to master his excitement by

slow and firm reading. The story of this fatal writing must not be

withheld from the reader.

Older contemporaries of the period in which tobacco was smoked in

pipes, know the value of the twisted paper-lighter, an invention which

was commonly called a _fidibus_; they know the normal length and

breadth of such a strip of paper which our fathers formerly used to

make out of musty old records. Such a strip, certainly not of paper,

but cut from a sheet of parchment, had fallen into the hands of the

author. But the strip had previously undergone a hard fate. Two hundred

years before it had been glued by a bookbinder on the back of a thick

volume, to strengthen the binding, and he had for this object covered

it thickly with glue. On the removal of the glue there appeared

characters of an old monk's writing. The word Amen and some holy names

made it certain that what was written had served to promote Christian

piety. But under this monk's writing other and larger Latin characters

were visible, very faded, indeed almost entirely defaced, from which

one could, with some difficulty, distinguish the Roman name Piso. Now,

Professor Struvelius had, by perseverance, and by the employment of

certain chemicals, made it possible to read this under-writing, and

from the form of the characters he saw that it was a work of antiquity.

But as the parchment fidibus was only a piece cut from an entire sheet,

it naturally did not contain complete sentences, only single words,

which fell on the soul of the reader like the lost notes of distant

music borne by the wind to the ear: no melody could be made from it. It

was that which had attracted the author. He had ascertained and filled

in the disjointed words and guessed at the whole of the remaining leaf.

By the wonderful application of great learning, he had, from a few

shadowy spots of the fidibus, restored the whole page of a parchment

writing, as it might have read twelve hundred years ago. It was an

astonishing work.

The most distinctly written of the characters on this strip of

parchment, though scarcely legible to the common eye, was the name of

_Pontifex Piso_--literally translated. Peas the Bridgemaker. The

parchment strip appeared very much concerned about Peas, for the name

occurred several times. But the editor had shown from this name, and

from fragments of destroyed words, that the strip of parchment was the

last remains of a manuscript of Tacitus, and that the words belonged to

a lost portion of the Annals; and he had at last proved from the

character of the shadowy letters that the strip of parchment did not

belong to any extant manuscript of the Roman, but that it was a part of

one quite unknown, which had been destroyed.

After reading the treatise the friends sat gloomy and thoughtful. At

last the Doctor exclaimed:

"How unfriendly to conceal this from you, and yet to call upon you for

assistance."

"That signifies little," replied the Professor. "But I cannot approve

of the work itself; hypercritical acuteness is applied to an uncertain

matter, and objections might be made against much that he has restored

and supposed. But why do you not say openly what interests us both much

more than the mistakes of a whimsical man? We are on the track of a

manuscript of Tacitus, and here we find a fragment of such a

manuscript, which has been cut up by a bookbinder after the Thirty

Years' War. The gain which might accrue to our knowledge from this

little fragment is so insignificant that it would not pay for the

energy expended on it, being a matter of indifference to all the world

except to us. For, my friend, if a manuscript of Tacitus has really

been cut into such strips, it is in all probability the same which we

have been in search of. What is the result?" he added, bitterly. "We

free ourselves from a dreamy vision which has perhaps too long made

fools of us."

"How can this parchment be a part of the manuscript of our friend

Bachhuber?" asked the Doctor; "many prayers have been written here over

the old text."

"Who can assure us that the monks of Rossau have not written their

spiritual aspirations over at least some faded sheets? It is not usual,

but nevertheless possible."

"Above all, you must see Struvelius's parchment strip yourself," said

the Doctor, decidedly. "An accurate examination may explain much."

"It is not agreeable to me to speak to him about it, yet I shall do so

to-morrow."

The day following the Professor entered the room of his colleague

Struvelius more composedly.

"You can imagine!" he began, "that I have read your treatise with

especial interest. After what I have communicated to you concerning an

unknown manuscript of Tacitus, you must perceive that our prospect of

discovering this manuscript is very much diminished, if the strip of

parchment has been cut from the leaves of a Tacitus which was preserved

in Germany two hundred years ago."

"If it has been cut?" repeated Struvelius, sharply. "It _has_ been cut

from it. And what you have communicated to me about this concealed

treasure at Rossau was very indefinite and I am not of the opinion that

much value is to be attached to it. If, in reality, there was a

manuscript of Tacitus in existence there, it has undoubtedly been cut

up, and this ends the question."

"_If_ such a manuscript was in existence there?" retorted Felix. "It

_was_ in existence. But I have come to request you to show me the

parchment leaf. Since the contents have been published there can be no

objection to it."

Struvelius looked embarrassed and answered: "I regret that I cannot

meet your wishes, which are certainly quite justifiable, but I am no

longer in possession of the strip."

"To whom am I to apply?" asked the Professor, surprised.

"Even upon that point I am at present obliged to be silent."

"That is strange," exclaimed Felix; "and forgive me for speaking

plainly, it is worse than unfriendly. For be the importance of this

fragment great or little, it ought not to be withdrawn from the eyes of

others after the publication of its contents. It is incumbent upon you

to enable others to prove the correctness of your restoration of the

text."

"That I allow," replied Struvelius. "But I am not in a position to

enable you to see this strip."

"Have you sufficiently considered," exclaimed the Professor, excitedly,

"that by this refusal you expose yourself to the misinterpretation of

strangers, to charges which never ought to be brought in contact with

your name?"

"I consider myself quite capable of being the keeper of my own good

name and must beg of you to leave its care entirely in my hands."

"Then I have nothing further to say to you," replied Felix, and went

toward the door.

In going he observed that the middle door opened, and the Professor's

wife, alarmed at the loud tones of the speakers, made her appearance

like a good spirit, with her hands stretched imploringly toward him.

But he, after a hurried salutation, closed the door and went angrily

home.

The cloud had gathered and the heavens were darkened. The Professor

once more took up the treatise of his ungracious colleague. It was as

if a mountain-lion, wildly shaking his mane, had dashed in upon the

prey of a lynx or fox, and wresting the booty from the clutches of the

weaker animal, ignominiously routed him.

Twice Ilse called her husband to dinner in vain; when she approached

his chair anxiously she saw a disturbed countenance. "I cannot eat," he

said, abruptly; "send over and ask Fritz to come here directly."

Ilse, alarmed, sent for their neighbor and seated herself in the

Professor's room, following him with her eyes as he strode up and down.

"What has so excited you, Felix?" she asked, anxiously.

"I beg of you, dear wife, to dine without me to-day," he said,

continuing his rapid strides.

The Doctor entered hastily. "The fragment is not from a manuscript of

Tacitus," said the Professor, to his friend.

"Vivat Bachhuber!" replied he, while still at the door, waving his hat.

"There is no reason to rejoice," interrupted the Professor, gloomily;

"the fragment, wherever it may have come from, contains a passage of

Tacitus."

"It must have come from some place," said the Doctor.

"No," cried the Professor, loudly; "the whole is a forgery. The upper

part of the text contains words put together at random and the attempts

of the editor to bring them into a rational connection are not happy.

The lower portion of the so-called fragment has been transcribed from

one of the old fathers, who has introduced a hitherto unobserved

sentence of Tacitus. The forger has written certain words of this

quotation under one another on the parchment strip, regularly omitting

the words lying between. This cannot be doubted."

He led the Doctor, who now looked as much perplexed as himself, to his

books, and demonstrated to him the correctness of his statement.

"The forger gathered his learning from the printed text of the father,

for he has been clumsy enough to transcribe an error in the print made

by the compositor. So there is an end of the parchment sheet and of a

German scholar also!"

He took out his handkerchief to dry the perspiration on his forehead

and threw himself into a chair.

"Hold!" exclaimed the Doctor. "Here the honor and reputation of a

scholar are concerned. Let us once more examine calmly whether this may

not be an accidental coincidence."

"Try, if you can," said the Professor; "I have done with it."

The Doctor long and anxiously collated the restored text of Struvelius

with the printed words of the father.

At last he said sorrowfully: "What Struvelius has restored agrees with

the sense and tenor of the words of the father so remarkably, that one

cannot help considering the slight variation in the words of his

restoration as a cunning concealment of his acquaintance with the

quotation; but still it is not impossible that by good luck and

acuteness a person might arrive at the true connection, as he found

it."

"I do not doubt for a moment that Struvelius made the restoration

honorably and in good faith," replied the Professor; "but still his

position is as annoying as possible. Deceiver or deceived, the

unfortunate treatise is a terrible humiliation, not only for him but

for our University."

"The words of the parchment strip itself," continued the Doctor, "are

undoubtedly transcribed and undoubtedly a forgery; and it is your duty

to reveal the true state of the case."

"The duty of my husband!" exclaimed Ilse, rising.

"Of him who has discovered the forgery, and if Struvelius were his most

intimate friend, Felix would have to do it."

"Explain it first to him," implored Ilse. "Do not treat him as he has

treated you. If he has been in error let him repair it himself."

The Professor reflected a moment and nodding to his friend said: "She

is right." He hastened to the table and wrote to Professor Struvelius,

expressing a wish to speak to him immediately on an important subject.

He gave the letter to Gabriel and his heart felt lighter; he was now

ready to enjoy his dinner.

Ilse begged the Doctor to remain with her husband and endeavored to

lead their thoughts to other subjects. She took a letter from Mrs.

Rollmaus from her pocket, in which the latter begged Ilse to send her

something profound to read, selected by the Professor; and Ilse

expressed a wish that they might thus make some return for the

partridges and other game that Mrs. Rollmaus had sent to them. This

helped in some degree to cast the sanguinary thoughts of the gloomy men

into the background. At last she produced a huge round sausage, which

Mrs. Rollmaus had especially destined for the Doctor, and placed it on

the table. When they looked at the sausage as it lay there so peaceable

and comfortable in its ample dimensions, encircled by a blue ribbon, it

was impossible not to acknowledge that, in spite of false appearances

and empty presumption, there was still something sterling to be found

on earth. As they contemplated the good solid dish, their hearts

softened, and a gentle smile betrayed their natural human weakness.

There was a ring at the door and Professor Struvelius made his

appearance. The Professor collected himself and went with firm steps

into his room; the Doctor went quietly away, promising to return again

shortly.

It must have been apparent to Struvelius, after a glance at his

colleague, that their last conversation was doomed to throw a shadow

over their present meeting, for he looked frightened and his hair stood

on end. The Professor laid before him the printed passage of the old

monk and only added these words: "This passage has possibly escaped

you."

"It has, indeed," exclaimed Struvelius, and sat for some time poring

over it. "I ought to be satisfied with this confirmation," he said at

last, looking up from the folio.

But the Professor laid his finger on the book, saying:

"An extraordinary typographical error in this edition has been copied

into the text of the parchment strip which you have restored--an error

which is corrected at the end of the book. The words of the parchment

strip are thus partly put together from this printed passage and are a

forgery."

Struvelius remained mute, but he was much alarmed, and looked anxiously

upon the contracted brow of his colleague.

"It will now be to your interest to give the necessary explanations

concerning this forgery to the public."

"A forgery is impossible," retorted Struvelius, incautiously. "I myself

removed the old glue that covered the text from the parchment."

"Yet you tell me that the strip is not in your possession. You will

believe that it is no pleasure to me to enter the ranks against a

colleague; therefore you yourself must without delay make the whole

matter public. For it stands to reason the forgery must be made known."

Struvelius reflected.

"I take for granted that you speak with the best intentions," he began

at last, "but I am firmly convinced that the parchment is genuine, and

I must leave it to you to do what you consider your duty. If you choose

to attack your colleague publicly, I shall do my best to bear it."

Having said this, Struvelius went away obdurate, but much disquieted,

and matters took their evil course. Ilse saw with sorrow how severely

her husband suffered from the obstinacy of his colleague. The Professor

set to work and published a short statement of the affair in the

classical magazine to which he contributed. He introduced the fatal

passage of the monk, and forbearingly expressed his regret that the

acute author of the pamphlet had thus been imposed upon by a forgery.

This decisive condemnation created a tremendous sensation in the

University. Like a disturbed swarm of bees, the colleagues moved about

confusedly. Struvelius had but few warm friends, but he had no

opponents. It is true that in the first few days after this literary

condemnation, he was considered as done for. But he himself was not of

this opinion and composed a rejoinder. In this he boasted, not without

self complacency, of the satisfactory confirmation of his restoration

by the passage in the monk's writing, which he had undoubtedly

overlooked; he treated the coincidence of the error in printing with

that in his parchment as an extraordinary, but in no ways unheard of

accident; and finally, he did not scruple to cast some sharp, covert

hints at other scholars, who considered certain authors as their own

peculiar domain, and despised a small accidental discovery, though an

unprejudiced judge could not hope for a greater.

This offensive allusion to the hidden manuscript cut the Professor to

the quick, but he proudly disdained to enter into any further contest

before the public. The rejoinder of Struvelius was certainly

unsuccessful; but it had the effect of giving courage to those members

of the University who were ill-disposed toward Felix to join the side

of his opponent. The thing was, at all events, doubtful, they said, and

it was contrary to good fellowship to accuse a colleague openly of such

a great oversight; the assailant might have left it to others to do so.

But the better portion of the leading members of the University

contended from the camp of the Professor against these weak ones. Some

of the most distinguished, among them all those who assembled at Ilse's

tea-table, determined that the affair should not drop. In fact, the

quarrel was so unfavorable to Struvelius, that it was seriously

represented to him that he was bound in honor to give some kind of

explanation of the parchment; but he kept silent against this array of

propositions as best he could.

Even the evenings in Ilse's room assumed from this circumstance a

warlike character. Their most intimate friends--the Doctor, the

Mineralogist, and, not last, Raschke--sat there as a council of war,

consulting against the enemy. Raschke acknowledged one evening that he

had just been with the obstinate opponent and had implored of him, at

least to contrive that a third person should obtain a view of the

parchment. Struvelius had in some measure relented and had regretted

that he had promised silence, because a prospect had been held out to

him of obtaining other rare manuscripts. Then Raschke had conjured him

to renounce such dubious treasures and thus to buy back freedom of

speech. It must clearly have been an animated discussion, for Raschke

wiped his nose and eyes with a small fringed tea-napkin, which was

Ilse's pride, and put it into his pocket; and when Ilse laughingly

reminded him of his theft, he brought out not only the napkin, but also

a silk pocket-handkerchief, which he maintained must also belong to

Ilse, although it was evidently the property of some gentleman who took

snuff. It was, therefore, hinted that he might have brought the

handkerchief from Struvelius's room.

"Not impossible," he said, "for we were excited." The strange

pocket-handkerchief lay on a chair and was looked upon by the party

present with frigid and hostile feelings.

_CHAPTER XV_.

THE PROFESSORS' BALL.

The Professors' ball took place during these academical disturbances.

It was the only festival of the year which gave to all the families of

the University the opportunity of meeting in gay society. The students

and town-acquaintances were also invited. The ball was an important

event in the city and invitations were in great demand.

An academical ball is something quite different from other balls; for

besides all the merits of a distinguished meeting, it had the three

excellences of German scholarship--industry, freedom, and indifference:

industry in dancing, even in the case of the gentlemen, freedom in

agreeable intercourse between young and old, and indifference to

uniforms and patent leather pumps. Of course, the young people even

here bore a cosmopolitan character, for the same modes of dancing,

dresses, nosegays, and courtesies, glancing eyes and blushing cheeks,

can be found at a thousand similar festivals from the Neva to

California; but any one who was more observant might perceive in the

faces of many of the girls the intellectual eyes and eloquent lips that

descended to them from their learned fathers, and perhaps certain

little academical peculiarities in curls and ribbons. The old saying

which came from a past generation of students, that professors'

daughters are either pretty or homely, commended itself here also to

the notice of observers, the ordinary mixture of both qualities being

rare. Besides a few officers and the flower of the city youth, there

might be seen among the dancers here and there a young scholar, thin

and pale, with smooth lank hair, more fitted to bend thoughtfully over

books than to float about in the giddy dance. But what gave its value

to this festival was, not the young people, but the middle aged

gentlemen and ladies. Among the elderly gentlemen with grey hair and

joyful countenances who stood together in groups or sauntered

pleasantly among the ladies, were many important faces, with delicate

features, brisk, animated, and cheerful demeanor. Among the ladies

there were not a few who, the rest of the year, moved noiselessly about

the studies of their husbands and the nursery, and who now saw

themselves displayed in unwonted gala-dress under the bright glare of

lights, and were as shy and bashful as they had been long ago in their

maiden days.

There was upon this occasion, at the beginning of the festive meeting,

an evident excitement in certain individual groups. Werner's tea-party

had taken for granted that Struvelius would not come. But he was there.

He stood wrapt in thought, with his usual absent look, not far from the

entrance, and Ilse and her husband had to pass him. When Ilse walked

through the ball-room on the Professor's arm, she saw that the eyes of

many were directed curiously toward her, and a heightened color rose in

her cheeks. The Professor led her up to the wife of his colleague

Gunther, who had agreed to remain with her that evening, and Ilse was

glad when she found herself established on one of the raised seats next

to the vivacious woman; and at first she only ventured to look shyly

about. But the splendor of the hall, the many fine people who moved

about in it, and then the first sounds of the overture, raised her

spirits. She now ventured to look more about her and search out her

acquaintances and, above all, her dear husband. She saw him standing

not far from the door of the room, in the midst of his friends and

fellow-professors, towering head and shoulders above them. She saw not

far from the other door his opponent, Struvelius, standing with his

little retinue, chiefly of students. Thus stood these men, in every way

divided, honorably restraining the angry feelings of their bosoms. Many

of her husband's acquaintances came up to Ilse; amongst others the

Doctor, who teased her because she had been so afraid that they would

not find each other in the confusion of strange people. The

Mineralogist also came and declared his intention of asking her to

dance. But Ilse, earnestly entreating him, said:

"I beg of you not to do it. I am not perfect in these new city dances,

and you would not get on well with me; I had rather not dance. Besides,

it is not necessary, for I am in a very gay mood and it amuses me to

look at all the fine people."

Soon various strangers approached and were introduced to her, and she

acquired greater ease in refusing to dance.

The Historian then brought his daughter up to her and the worthy

gentleman at last placed himself near Ilse and talked to her for a long

time; she felt with pleasure that this was a great distinction.

Afterward she ventured to move some steps from her place in order to

ask the wife of Professor Raschke to sit by her. Thus, before long, a

charming little circle of acquaintances collected about her. Pretty

Mrs. Gunther joked pleasantly and gave her information about the

strange ladies and gentlemen. The wife of the Rector also came up and

said she must sit near her, as she observed that all were so merry

about her. And the Rector's wife darted glances here and there which

attracted one gentleman after another to the group; and all who wished

to show their respect for the wife of the University president paid

their compliments also to the wife of the colleague. There was a coming

and going all around her like a fair, and Ilse and the Rector's wife

sat there like two twin stars, the brilliancy of one increasing that of

the other. All went well and charmingly. Ilse was delighted beyond

measure, and there certainly was more shaking of hands in her vicinity

than comports with the etiquette of a ball. When Felix approached her

once and looked inquiringly at her, she pressed the tips of his fingers

gently and gave him such a happy smile that he needed no further

answer.

During a pause Ilse looked along the sides of the room and perceived

the wife of Professor Struvelius on the opposite side. She wore a very

dark dress and her Sappho lock hung seriously and sadly from her fine

head. The wife of her husband's enemy looked pale and her eyes were

quietly cast down. There was something in the beauty of the lady that

moved Ilse's heart and she felt as if she must go over to her. She

revolved in her mind whether Felix would think it right and was afraid

of meeting with a cold rejection; but at last she took heart and walked

right across the room up to the learned lady.

She had no idea of the effect produced by this step. Ilse had attracted

much more attention and had been much more sharply watched than she

knew, and those present were more occupied with the quarrel between the

two professors than she imagined. As she now went with firm step up to

the other lady and stretched out her hand, even before she reached her,

there was a remarkable stillness in the room and many eyes were

directed to both ladies. The wife of Struvelius rose stiffly, descended

one step from her seat, and looked so freezing that Ilse became nervous

and could scarcely frame her lips even into the every-day inquiry after

her health.

"I thank you," replied the lady. "I do not enjoy noisy gatherings. It

is perhaps because I am entirely deficient in all the necessary

qualifications, for people are only in the right place when they have

an opportunity of making their talents in some way available."

"As to my talents, they will go for nothing," said Ilse, shyly; "but

everything is new to me here, and therefore it entertains me much to

look on, and I would like to see everything."

"It is quite a different thing with you," replied the other, coldly.

Fortunately this embarrassed conversation was soon interrupted, for the

wife of the Consistorial Councilor popped into the group like a curious

magpie in order to mediate philanthropically or to take part in this

startling scene. She broke into the conversation and talked for a short

time on indifferent subjects.

Ilse returned to her place much chilled and a little discontented with

herself. She had no reason for it. Little Mrs. Gunther said to her

gently:

"That was right, and I am much pleased with you."

Professor Raschke darted up to her and did not allude to it, but he

called her constantly his dear colleague's wife. He asked her anxiously

whether he could not bring her something good--tea or lemonade. He

admiringly took the finely carved fan that Laura had pressed upon her

from her hand and placed it in the breast-pocket of his coat for safe

keeping. Then he began to amuse her by telling her how, as a student,

to please his wife, he had taught himself to dance in his own little

room, and in the eagerness of the narration, he began to show Ilse the

way in which he had privately learnt his first steps. As he was

swinging round, the swan's down of the fan projected like a great

feather out of his pocket, and a new dance beginning the Professor was

carried off through the whirling couples with Laura's fan.

It was only a few steps that Ilse had taken through the hall; but this

little expression of independent will had gained her the good opinion

of the University; for, if there had been some remarks upon her country

manners, now, on the other hand, men and women agreed in acknowledging

that she had heart and character.

According to old custom, the ball was here interrupted by a general

repast. Worthy professors had already wandered beforehand into the

neighboring room, peering at the laying of the table, and had carefully

placed their card in the places they reserved and arranged with the

waiters about the wine. At last the whole company gathered about the

table. When Ilse went on her husband's arm to her place, she asked, in

a low tone:

"Was it right in me to go over there?"

And he replied, gravely:

"It was not wrong."

With this she was for the present obliged to be content.

During the supper the Rector proposed the first toast--"Our Academical

Society"--and the assembled gentlemen thought his slight allusion to

friendly concord among the colleagues touched in an indelicate way on

the burning question of the day. But this effect passed away

immediately in other toasts, and Ilse remarked that the supper speeches

here were carried on very differently to those in the Rollmaus family.

One colleague after another clinked the glass; and how elegantly and

intellectually they knew how to portray things with their hands behind

their backs and looking coolly around, and alluding, in fine sentences,

to the guests, the ladies and the rest of mankind. When the corks of

the champagne popped, the eloquence became overpowering, and two

professors even clinked their glasses at the same time. Then the

Professor of History arose; all became still. He greeted the new

members of the University--women as well as men--and Ilse saw that this

applied to herself and looked down on her plate. But she grew alarmed

when she found that he became more personal, and at last her own name

as well as that of the wife of the Mineralogist, who was sitting by

Felix, sounded through the room. The glasses resounded, a flourish of

trumpets was blown, many colleagues and some of the ladies arose and

proceeded with their glasses toward them. A little procession took

place behind the chairs, and Ilse and the Mineralogist's wife had to

clink their glasses incessantly, to bow and return thanks. When Ilse

rose blushingly for this purpose, her eyes glanced involuntarily to the

next table, where the wife of Struvelius was sitting opposite, and she

observed that the latter half moved her hand toward her glass, then

quickly drew it back, and looked gloomily down.

The company rose, and now the hilarity began in good earnest, for

the Professors became lively, and called to mind their old agility.