"I will not suffer you to speak of the Doctor in such a tone at our

table. We are well enough acquainted with him to know that he is in

conduct and principles a noble man. He is master of his own actions,

and if he likes the lady and visits her at times, a third person has no

right to say anything in the matter whatever. It is a malicious calumny

to say that he goes there with any dishonorable intentions, and spends

money that does not belong to him."

The comedian, through fright, got a crumb of bread in his wind-pipe,

and burst out in the most violent fit of coughing that had ever seized

him, but the mother, in excuse of their pleasant visitor, replied:

"You have sometimes felt yourself, that the conduct of the Doctor was

not quite the thing."

"If I have said anything of the kind in foolish ill temper," cried

Laura, "it was an injustice, and I am very sorry for it; I have only

the excuse that I never meant it ill-naturedly. But from others I will

hear no slanderous talk about our neighbor." She rose from table and

left the room. The actor vindicated himself to the mother, but Mr.

Hummel grasped his wine-glass and, peering after his daughter, said:

"On a gloomy day she is scarcely to be distinguished from me."

The Doctor was little troubled about his own misdeeds. He had paid a

visit to his partner after the ball, the occasion on which he had been

seen at the window. One of his school friends, now second tenor at the

theatre, had come and arranged with the actress to have a little picnic

on her approaching birthday, and Fritz had been invited to take part in

it. It was a merry gathering, and the Doctor had found much

entertainment among the light-winged birds of the stage, and had

rejoiced with the benevolence of a wise man at the good tact which was

visible amidst the easy style of their intercourse. There had also been

much intelligent conversation in the course of the evening, and he went

home with the impression that even for a person like himself it was

good to be for once associated with these lively artists. He had

endeavored that same evening, by a stratagem, to ascertain his unknown

correspondent. When they were singing songs, and with lively grace

reciting comic verses, he had produced the May-bug song and had begun

to sing it:

"The May-bug sat on the hedge, brum, brum;

The fly sat beneath him, hum, hum hum."

Some had joined in it; the lady in the mantle did not know the song,

however, but only a similar one from an old _role_; and when the bass

took up the melody from the Doctor, and in the following verses

portrayed each of the birds as they entered by gestures and comic

changes of the melody, the hostess laughed, and without any

embarrassment undertook to learn the song, so that the Doctor again

became very doubtful, and on returning home remained standing on the

threshold and looked significantly at the house of Mr. Hummel. If any

one had accurately investigated why, after this May-bug song, the

Doctor became noisy and gay like the others, he would perhaps have

discovered that the unembarrassed air of the actress had lifted a load

from his heart.

But this helped him little with respect to the "brum" and "hum" of the

neighbors. All Park Street had latterly accorded to their Fritz Hahn

the highest respect; his picture had been placed among the serious men

of learning in their albums, whom they daily contemplated and spoke of.

Now strange features had appeared in the well-known face, and the

street could not bear that one of their children should appear

otherwise than he had been wont to do. Therefore there was much

whispering and shaking of heads, and this came to the knowledge of Mr.

and Mrs. Hahn, and, finally, to the Doctor. He laughed, but he did not

feel quite at ease about it.

"Tannhaeuser, noble knight and man,

In Venus' wiles thou liest ensnared,

While I, a wicked Pope Urban,

To cause you shame and sorrow dared."

Thus did Laura lament in her room, but she concealed her heavy sorrow,

and did not speak a word concerning the danger of the Doctor, even to

Ilse; and when the latter once slightly alluded to the new intimacy of

their friend, Laura broke the thread of her embroidery, and said, while

the blood rushed to her heart:

"Why should not the Doctor visit there? He is a young man for whom it

is good to see different people; he stays too much in his room and with

his parents. If I had been a man like him, I should long ago have tied

up my bundle and gone out into the world, for our narrow field of

active life weakens the energies and dwarfs the mind."

At the tea-table one of the company present turned the conversation on

the actress, and shrugged his shoulders over her free manners. Laura

felt what must be the Doctor's embarrassment; there sat poor Fritz,

obliged to listen to the derogatory criticisms--his intimate

acquaintances were silent, and looked significantly at him; his

position was terrible, for every fool made use of the lady's

unprotected position to show himself a Cato.

"I wonder," she said, "that gentlemen should so severely criticise the

little freaks of an actress. A lady of that profession should be

treated with great consideration, for she is deprived of all the

protection and all the pleasure which we have in our families. I am

convinced that she is a worthy and sensitive girl."

The Doctor looked thankfully at her and confirmed her opinion. He did

not observe it, but it had happened as in his fairy-tale; Laura had

bent down to his feet and picked up the pocket-handkerchief.

But she had still more to bear. The month of March began his theatrical

pranks in the world; first from his grey clouds he had cast a veil of

snow over the landscape; icicles hung from the roofs and white crystals

from the trees, and the wild storm howled all around. Suddenly all was

transformed. A mild south wind blew, the buds of the trees swelled, and

the fresh green made its appearance in the meadow; the children ran

about in the woods and carried home large bunches of spring flowers,

and people, rejoicing in the change, passed in unceasing pilgrimage

through the Park Street out into the sunshine.

Even Mr. Hummel felt the presage of spring. He gave expression to this

annually by mixing the colors for his boat, and taking a pleasure walk

on a well-chosen afternoon with his wife and daughter to a distant

coffee-garden. This festive journey was but an indifferent pleasure for

Laura, for Mr. Hummel walked with sturdy step in front of the ladies;

he secretly rejoiced in the renewal of old nature, and only

occasionally favored his ladies with a remark over his shoulder when he

was annoyed at a change in the vegetation. But Laura knew that her

father thought much of this March pleasure, and this year, too, she

went with her mother behind him to a solitary village, where Mr. Hummel

smoked his pipe, fed the hens, scolded the waiter, and talked with the

landlord about the crops and gave the sun an opportunity of rejoicing

in the healthy appearance of his old friend, Mr. Hummel. Mr. Hummel,

who was usually by no means averse to society, loved now to be alone

with nature, and hated the place of resort of the citizens in the

country, where the aroma of new cakes and fritters destroyed the

perfume of nature.

When he entered the coffee-garden with his ladies, he saw with

dissatisfaction that other guests were already there. He threw an

indignant glance on the gay society which had taken possession of his

usual place, and noticed among them the young actress, as well as other

members of the theatre, and with them the son of his adversary. Then he

turned to his daughter and said, blinking his eyes:

"To-day you will be well satisfied; here you have, besides the

enjoyments of nature, those of art."

It was a terribly hard trial to which Laura's courage was subjected;

but she raised her head proudly, and passed with her parents to another

corner of the garden. There she placed herself with her back to the

strangers. Nevertheless, she learnt more of their proceedings than was

good for her composure. She heard the sounds of laughter, and the merry

hum of the May-bug party; the less she saw of them the more painful was

the noise, and every sound was audible in the deep stillness, and her

mother's ears and eyes also were intent on the other party. After a

time the loud conversation of the artists ceased, and she heard her

name spoken in low terms. Immediately afterwards the gravel crunched

behind her, and she felt that the Doctor was behind her.

He approached the table, greeted the father silently, made some

friendly remarks to the mother about the weather, and was just on the

point of turning to Laura with a forced composure that did not escape

her, when Mr. Hummel, who had till then silently borne the intrusion of

the enemy, took his pipe from his mouth, and began, with gentle voice:

"Is what I hear of you possible, Doctor?--that you wish to change your

mode of life?"

Laura plunged her parasol vehemently into the gravel.

"I know nothing of it," replied the Doctor, coolly.

"It is reported," continued Mr. Hummel, "that you intend to say

farewell to your books and become a professional actor. If this should

be the case, I beg of you to think kindly of my little business. I have

every kind of artistic head-gear: for lovers fine beaver, with galoon

for lackeys, and if ever you act the punchinello, a white felt hat. But

you would rather be called clown, perhaps. That is now the fashionable

_role_; buffoons are out of style; one shall address you as Sir Clown."

"I have no intention of going on the stage," replied the Doctor; "but

if ever the idea should occur to me, I would not come to you for the

artistic work of your manufactory, but for instruction in what you

consider good manners. I should then at least know what, in my

profession, was _not_ befitting men of breeding."

He bowed to the ladies, and went away.

"Always Humboldt," said Mr. Hummel, looking after him.

Laura did not move, but her dark eyebrows were knit so threateningly

that Mr. Hummel could not help perceiving it.

"I am quite of your opinion," he said, pleasantly, to his daughter. "It

is a great pity that he is spoilt by belonging to these straw-hat

people, but now there is no hope for him."

He then took a bit of cake and offered it to a little poodle that was

sitting on its hind legs, begging and moving its paws.

"Billy!" cried a lady's voice through the garden.

The dog Billy, however, did not attend, but continued to show his

devotion to Mr. Hummel, who, having a greater tenderness for dogs than

for men, was feeding him.

The actress came up hastily.

"I beg of you not to give the naughty animal any cake,--there are

almonds in it," said the actress, pushing the dog away.

"A pretty dog," replied Mr. Hummel, sitting down.

"If you only knew how clever he was," said the lady; "he knows all

kinds of tricks. Show the gentleman what you have learnt, Billy."

She held her parasol out: Billy sprang lightly over it, and bounded

into the lap of Mr. Hummel, where he wagged his tail and attempted to

lick the friendly gentleman's face.

"He wants to kiss you," said the actress. "You should be proud of that,

for he does not do it to everyone."

"It is not every one who would like it," replied Mr. Hummel, stroking

the little fellow.

"Do not be troublesome to the gentleman, Billy," said the lady,

reprovingly.

Mr. Hummel arose and presented the dog to her, which would not desist

from his attempts to kiss and lick the face of the worthy citizen.

"He is a simple-hearted creature," said Mr. Hummel, "and is the same

color as my dog Spitehahn."

The actress fondled the dog in her arms.

"The rogue is very much spoilt; he creeps into my muff when I go to the

theatre, and I am obliged to take him with me. I was lately frightened

to death on his account; for once, while I was lamenting as Clara among

the citizens, Billy had run out of the green-room and, standing between

the curtains, began to wag his tail and caper about on his hind legs."

"That must have been very pathetic," said Mrs. Hummel.

"I moved about more than usual," replied the actress, "and at every

turn in the scene I had to call out, 'Lie down, Billy.'"

"Excellent," nodded Mr. Hummel; "always presence of mind."

"To-day I am thankful to the naughty little creature, though,"

continued the actress, "for he has afforded me the opportunity of

making the acquaintance of my neighbors. Mr. Hummel, I believe?"

Mr. Hummel bowed awkwardly. The actress turned to the ladies with a

bow, and the latter answered her greeting silently.

There was much in the lady that pleased Mr. Hummel. She was pretty, had

a gay and cheerful countenance, and wore something on her bonnet with

which he was personally acquainted. He therefore moved a chair towards

her and said, with another bow:

"Will you not have the kindness to take a seat?"

The actress bowed in accepting it, and, turning to Laura, said:

"I rejoice to be able to approach you at last. You are no stranger to

me, and you have often given me great pleasure, and I am glad to be

able to-day to thank you for it."

"Where was it?" asked Laura, embarrassed.

"Where you would certainly never have thought of it," replied the

other. "I have keen eyes, and over the footlights I observe the face of

every spectator. You cannot imagine how painful that is to me

sometimes. As you are always in the same seat, it has often been a

great pleasure to me to rest my eyes on your features and observe their

interested expression; and more than once, without your knowing it, I

have acted for you alone."

"Ha!" thought Laura, "it is Venus." But she felt a chord had been

struck which gave out a pure tone. She told the actress how unwillingly

she missed any of the plays in which she acted, and that in their house

the first question, when they received the new bill of the play, was

whether the lady was going to act.

This gave the mother an opportunity of entering into the conversation.

The actress spoke warmly of the kindness with which she had everywhere

been received. "For the greatest charm of our art is the secret friends

that we gain by our acting--people whom otherwise one perhaps never

sees, whose names one does not know, yet who take an interest in our

life. Then, if by accident one becomes acquainted with these kindly

strangers, it is a rich compensation for all the sufferings of our

vocation, among which the intrusive homage of common persons is perhaps

the greatest."

It was clear she could not reckon the homage of the Doctor among these

sufferings.

While the ladies were thus talking together, and Mr. Hummel listened

with approbation, some gentlemen approached the table. Mrs. Hummel

politely greeted the second tenor, who had once sung for her at the

godmother's house, and the worthy father of the stage, who knew Mr.

Hummel at the club, began a conversation with him concerning the

building of a new theatre. On this subject Mr. Hummel had, as a

citizen, a very decided opinion, in which the worthy father quite

agreed.

In this way the two parties mingled together, and the table of Mr.

Hummel became a centre round which the children of Thalia thronged.

While the actress was talking with Mrs. Hummel in a very creditable and

domestic manner of the inconveniences of her dwelling, Laura glanced at

the Doctor. He was standing some steps from the party, leaning against

a tree, looking thoughtfully before him. Laura suddenly moved towards

him, and began speaking rapidly: "My father has offended you. I beg

your forgiveness."

The Doctor looked up. "It does not pain me," said he, kindly; "I know

his way."

"I have talked to her," continued Laura, with trembling voice; "she is

clever and amiable, and has an irresistible charm of manner."

"Who?" asked the Doctor; "the actress?"

"Do not attempt concealment with me," continued Laura; "that is

unnecessary between us; there is no one on earth who wishes for your

happiness more than I do. You need not trouble yourself about others

shaking their heads; if you are sure of the love of the lady, all the

rest is a secondary consideration."

The Doctor became more and more astonished. "But I do not wish to marry

the lady."

"Do not deny it, Fritz Hahn; that ill becomes your truthful nature,"

rejoined Laura passionately; "I see how well the lady suits you. Since

I have seen her, I feel convinced that she is capable of appreciating

all that is good and great. Do not hesitate, but venture courageously

to seek her heart. Yet I am so troubled about you, Fritz. Your feelings

are warm and your judgment sound, but you cling too firmly to that

which surrounds you. I tremble, therefore, lest you should make

yourself unhappy by not deciding at the right moment upon a course

which will appear strange to your family. I know you from my early

childhood, and I am sure that your danger always has been to forget

yourself for others. You might pass a self-sacrificing existence, which

I cannot bear to think of. For I desire that all happiness should be

your portion, as your upright heart deserves." Tears coursed down her

cheeks, as she looked lovingly upon him.

Every word that she spoke sounded to the Doctor like the trilling of a

lark and the chirrup of the cricket. He spoke softly to her: "I do not

love the lady; I have never thought of uniting her future with mine."

Laura drew back, and a bright color suffused her face.

"It is a passing acquaintance, nothing more either for her or me; her

life belongs to art, and can hardly adapt itself to quiet domestic

habits. If I could venture to seek a heart for myself, it would not be

hers, but that of another." He looked towards the table, from whence at

that moment there came a loud laugh, evidently of Mr. Hummel, and spoke

the last words so low that they scarcely reached Laura's ear, and he

looked sorrowfully down on the buds of the elderbush in which the young

blossoms still lay hidden.

Laura stood motionless, as if touched by the wand of a magician, but

the tears still continued to flow down her cheeks. She came very near

touching to her lips the cherry of her philopena legend.

Then the merry cockchafers hummed round her, the actress nodded

smilingly to her, and her father called her:--the fairy tale was at an

end. Laura heard the actress say triumphantly to the Doctor, "He

offered me a chair, he is no growling bear after all. And he was so

kind to Billy."

When Fritz returned home, he threw off his hat and overcoat, rushed to

his writing-table, and took up the little letters in the unknown hand.

"It is she," he cried, aloud, "fool that I was to doubt it for one

moment." He read all the letters again, and nodded at each. It was his

own high-minded, noble maiden who had before disguised herself, now she

had shown herself to him as she really was. He waited impatiently for

the hour when he should meet her at their friend's. She entered late,

greeted him quietly, and was more silent and gentle than usual. When

she turned to him she spoke seriously, as to a trusted friend. Her

quiet composure became her well. Now she showed herself to him as she

was, a refined mind full of true enthusiasm. Prudery and sportive moods

had only been the shell that, had concealed the sweet kernel. The

unassumed caution, too, with which she concealed her feelings among her

friends, delighted him. When the next ballad should come, then she

would speak to him as she felt, or she would give him permission to

write openly to her. The next morning the Doctor counted the minutes

till the arrival of the postman. He tore open the door and hastened to

meet the man. Fritz received a letter, he broke the cover impatiently,

there was not a line from his correspondent; he unfolded the old

printed sheet, and read the words of a coarse bacchanalian ditty:

"On the spit with ox and pig,

Clear the green for reel and jig,

Wine and rhyme and wassail-shout,

Pass the flowing bowl about!"

So the honest, simple-minded Doctor asked again: Is it she? or is it

possible that it is not?

_CHAPTER XXIV_.

AMONG THE STUDENTS.

Any one who would know the Professor at his best should see him sitting

surrounded by his students, the mature man amidst blossoming youth, the

teacher among his admiring scholars. For the greatest privilege of the

academical teacher is, that he not only exercises a personal influence

on the present, but ennobles the souls of men in later generations by

his knowledge. Out of the many who listen to lectures a chosen circle

attaches itself to the learned man, the tie of personal intercourse

connects the teacher and the scholar, lightly formed but lasting; for

what attracts one to the other, and often makes the stranger after a

few hours an intimate friend, is the pleasant consciousness that both

value and appreciate the same thing.

This bond, so charming and profitable for both parties, is the noble

poetry which learning grants to its votaries. Strangers and men of

later generations judge the value of a man only by his books, but

however valuable may be the products of a man's mind thus transmitted,

it gives but an imperfect picture of it to later times; far different

does the living source work in the souls of those who receive knowledge

from the lips and eyes of the teacher. They are taught, not only by the

substance of his instructions, but still more by his method of

investigating and expounding, and, most of all, by his character and

the original style of his discourse. For these warm the hearts of his

hearers, charm their minds, and inspire them with respect. Such an

impression of the human mind, which leaves its traces on many, is

often more important in forming the character of young men than the

subject-matter of the instruction they have received. The character of

the teacher works in the scholars; new life is infused into them, and

they imbibe not only his excellencies, but also, sometimes, his

peculiarities and weaknesses. In each hearer the characteristics of the

master assume a different aspect, yet in each the influence of his mind

is apparent, even in minute particulars. The lessons which Felix gave

to his wife were not the only ones given in his house. One evening of

every week belonged to his students. There came, first, a few who

wished to ask questions and obtain information about their work;

afterwards, a greater number assembled. Ilse's room was also opened,

and Gabriel brought tea and simple fare, and an hour passed in easy

conversation, till, at last, the most intimate withdrew into the study

of their teacher, and clustered around him in numbers almost too great

for the narrow room. Here, also, the conversation was varied; sometimes

a humorous account of what they had experienced, or discussions in

which the Professor knew how to make his young friends take an active

part, and, interspersed with these, rapid criticisms upon men and

books, pointed remark and quick retort, such as are natural to those

who can recognize long melodies by a few tones. At these receptions

Felix disclosed his inmost soul with an openness that he never showed

in the lecture-room. He spoke of himself and others without reserve,

and entered pleasantly on what he had most at heart.

Ilse was no stranger at these gatherings. Those who assisted in them,

whether serious men, old students, or young doctors, found pleasure in

the presence of the distinguished lady of the house, who, in her simple

way, took part in their intercourse. The year before she had shown her

intimacy with the Odyssey, when she summoned the gentlemen to the

enjoyment of a leg of wild boar, and expressed the benevolent wish that

they would not disdain to partake of the meal. After that she was

called Penelope in the circle, and she knew that this nickname spread

among the students beyond the walls of her house.

Ilse had her favorites among the young men. Of this number was a worthy

student, not the most distinguished, but one of the most industrious of

the Professor's scholars. He was a countryman of hers and had been the

first to show her that students had tender feelings in their breasts.

This student had, during the last year, worked successfully in filling

his intellectual vacuum with collegiate knowledge. His lyrics he had

almost given up; for when the Professor sent him back his poems, he had

felt remorse and humbly begged pardon. Since that, having obtained a

good scholarship through Felix, he took a less misanthropic view of

domestic affairs; he proved himself a faithful and attached companion,

and now bore the honorable title of Doctorandus, which, according to

our grammarians, signifies a man who is about to be a doctor; he had

also attained a certain degree of recognition among the students; he

filled a position of honor in the great Arminia corps, always wore

their colors on his cap, and was ranked among the privileged seniors of

the society who, on drinking evenings, were exempted from the heavier

obligations of conviviality, and filled up by serious conversation the

pauses in which the stormy youths took breath.

On one of these evenings the conversation took a learned turn even

before the party had retreated from Ilse's apartment to the study. An

interesting manuscript had been found in a distant library in South

Germany. There was much talk about the discovery and the editor, and

Felix recounted with satisfaction to some of his select circle all the

similar discoveries which had been made during the last twenty years.

Then our student, who had just received a cup of tea from Ilse, and was

stirring it with his spoon, said, in evident ignorance of the storm

that was lowering: "May there not be many things still undiscovered in

the neighborhood? In my town there is an old chest, which contains

books and papers from the monastery at Rossau. It is not impossible

that there may be something valuable there."

Thus spoke the student, stirring his spoon, like a boy who applies a

burning match to a bombshell.

The Professor started from his chair, and cast such a flaming glance at

the student that in fright he quickly set down his cup of tea in order

not to spill it "Where is the chest?" said the Professor.

"Where is it? I do not know," replied the student surprised. "I was

told of it, some years ago, by a countryman of mine, who was born in

the district of Rossau"--the student mentioned the name, and Ilse knew

the family--"but it must be in our county, for he lived there as tutor

in several places."

"Was he a philologist?" asked an older scholar, as eager as the

Professor.

"He was a theologian," replied our student. A murmur of regret passed

through the room.

"Then the account is still very uncertain," concluded the critic.

"Did the man see the chest himself?" asked the Professor.

"I am not certain of that, either," replied the student. "I did not

then know the importance that attached to the communication. But, I

think, he must have seen it himself, for I remember he said it was

thickly plated with iron."

"Unfortunate man! You must do your utmost to procure us information

about this chest," cried the Professor. He paced impatiently up and

down the room, the students making way for him respectfully. "Your

communication is of more importance than I can now tell you," began the

Professor, stopping before the student. "Endeavor, in the first place,

to recall what you have heard about it. Did your acquaintance ever see

the chest open?"

"When I come to think of it," replied the student, "I believe that he

saw some old monastic relics lying in it."

"Then it was no longer closed?" inquired the Professor. "And where is

your friend, now?"

"He went to America last year with a brewer's daughter. I do not know

where he now resides, but it may be ascertained from his relations."

Again a murmur of vexation passed through the room.

"Endeavor to discover the residence of the man; write to him, and ask

for accurate information," exclaimed the Professor; "you can do me no

greater service."

The student promised to do all in the power of man. When the party

broke up Gabriel communicated to the student a secret invitation to

dinner on the following day. Ilse knew that it would be agreeable to

Felix to have the company of one who had even an acquaintance who had

seen the chest that contained the books of Rossau, among which, it was

possible, the manuscript of Tacitus might lie, provided it was not

somewhere else.

She, however, did not hear with any satisfaction of the secret chest,

for Ilse was, alas! incredulous in the matter of the manuscript. She

had sometimes vexed her husband by her indifference on the subject,

and, after the unfortunate Struvelius episode, avoided every mention of

the lost treasure. She had, besides, special reasons for it. She knew

how much every thought and discussion concerning it excited Felix. He

always became agitated, and his eyes shone as in fever. It is true he

controlled himself after a few minutes, and laughed at his own fervor;

but these outbreaks of latent ardor were not agreeable to his wife, for

she saw by these sudden flashings that the thought of the manuscript

still fretted the soul of her dear husband, and suspected that in

secret he often dreamt of it, and entertained secret designs against

the walls of her father's house.

Our student had now aroused the storm. Later, the doctor was called in

and there was a long discussion and dispute. Ilse was glad that the

doctor did not attach much importance to the chest, and by sensible

suggestions brought the Professor at last to make humorous remarks upon

his own eagerness.

When, on the following day at dinner, the student produced the letter

he had written in proof of his zeal, the Professor treated the matter

with more composure. "It is an uncertain account," he said, "even if

the relator tells the truth; he may be in error concerning the

particulars, or even the name of the monastery." When, afterwards,

information came from the house of the student that the theologian had

settled somewhere in Wisconsin as an apothecary, and that the student's

letter had been sent to an uncertain address in a distant country, the

whirlpool which the mention of the chest had provoked had subsided to

peaceful ripples.

The greatest advantage consequent upon this episode came to our

student; for the Professor imparted the account to the Chamberlain, and

pointed out to him that in this chest there might be things of very

great value. The Chamberlain had several years before held the post of

castellan, and was well acquainted with all the relics of his

sovereign's castles, and was aware that there was nothing of that kind

to be found in any of them; but as the student appeared to him to be a

favorite of the family, he took kindly notice of the young man, and

offered to present him as a fellow-countryman to the Hereditary Prince.

This was done. The consequence of the introduction was that our student

was invited one evening on which the Prince received other academical

acquaintances.

It was an anxious evening for the student, and the Arminian had various

reasons to be mistrustful. For, this year, there had been violent

storms among the students. It was the quarrel between the corps of

Markomanns and the Society of Arminians that had raised the tempest.

The recent cause of the storm was curious and instructive to those who

watch the secret links of earthly events. The discord which had

sundered the professors who were the representatives of ancient

learning, the struggle between Werner and Struvelius, had not at the

time much excited the academic youth. But, shortly afterwards, a song

had come forth among the students, in which the adventure of Struvelius

was treated disrespectfully. This song was a weak production; it was in

the form of a ballad, and adorned with a refrain to this effect:

"Struvelius, Struvelius,

Come out here with your Fidibus,

Who burns himself will have a fuss."

The author was never discovered. But when one considers that this song,

so far as could be perceived from its ludicrous style, was averse to

Struvelius and in honor of Werner, and further, that it first appeared

among the Arminians, and that among these children of Arminius was one

who had cherished lyrical tendencies in the past; that this one

belonged to Werner's circle, and that in this circle the parchment had

upon several occasions been contemptuously treated as a fidibus, one

cannot suppress the cautious supposition that our student had degraded

his departing muse by this miserable performance.

This frivolous song had become popular with the Arminians; its refrain

was heard in the streets sometimes in the quiet night; it was very

vexatious to the Professor, and not less so to Werner's tea party, but

it could not be put down by force. The song and its origin were matters

of indifference to the Markomanns and their associates, but they did

not sing it simply because it was modelled upon a drinking song of the

Arminians. About the time that Werner entered upon his rectorate, some

students of all parties were sitting together in a restaurant; a

Markomann attempted to light his pipe by the gas-flame, and a spark

burnt the ribbon of his corps-colors; whereupon some of the Arminians

mockingly sang the refrain. The Markomanns sprang up and commanded

silence. Numerous challenges were the consequence. But, unfortunately,

the matter did not rest there. A number of Arminians had drawn up in

front of the Markomann's club-house, and had openly sung the tune in an

insolent manner on the main street; it led to disagreeable conflicts

between the parties and the city police, and investigations and

punishments were the result. Werner himself had, in private conferences

with some of the leaders, done what he could to suppress the

unfortunate song, and he had succeeded in banishing it at least from

the streets. But the ill-will remained in their hearts. By various

unfortunate occurrences it became clear that there was more disunion

and discordant feeling among the students than usual.

The Arminian, as he hung up his cap in the Prince's ante-room beside

the smart ones of the great Markomann leaders, anxiously revolved all

this in his mind. The evening passed off more pleasantly than he had

expected. In the august chamber the Markomanns observed decorous

civility. The meeting indeed was of some importance; for this was just

the time when the students were talking about holding a great

_Commers_[3] to celebrate the anniversary of some university event.

But, as often happens in the greater affairs of our nation, the feast

was in danger of being disturbed by the quarrel between the clans. Now,

while the Arminian was drinking punch together with the Markomanns, the

Hereditary Prince expressed the desire to participate in the

commemorative _Commers_; and Beppo, the leader of the Markomanns,

explained to the Arminian his views as to how the quarrel might be

adjusted. The Arminian offered to convey this proposal to his corps.

When the Chamberlain hesitated as to the participation of the

Hereditary Prince in the _Commers_, the Arminian, exhilarated by punch

and the flow of conversation, assured him that his comrades would

appreciate the honor done to their festival by the presence of the

Hereditary Prince.

The efforts of our student were successful; the hatchet was buried, and

the academic youths prepared for a festival in common. A large hall,

richly ornamented with the colors of all the associations that took

part in the Commers, was filled with long tables. At the end stood the

presidents in festive attire, with their rapiers. On the chairs sat

many hundred students, arranged according to their respective corps and

clubs. Among the Markomanns were the Prince and his Chamberlain; and

the Prince on this occasion wore their colors in honor of the corps.

The full-toned melody of the songs, accompanied by stirring music,

resounded through the room; it was a goodly sight to behold so many

young men, the hope and strength of the rising generation, united in

festive song, according to the old customs of the university. Hitherto

the festival had passed without any disturbance. The Chamberlain,

remarking that cheeks were beginning to glow, and the songs becoming

wilder, so that the music was not rapid enough for the beating of the

academic pulse, advised the Prince to retire. The Prince, himself

excited by song and wine, immediately rose; before him walked all the

nobility of the Markomanns to clear the way through the surging

multitude. They were obliged to push through the crowd, who had risen

from their chairs and were moving about in confusion. But it chanced

that the Prince was cut off from his academical attendants and bumped

against an insolent Arminian, who, emboldened by wine and embittered by

the not very gentle touch of the advancing Prince, would not make way,

but barred the passage intentionally with his elbows, and coolly

proceeded to puff his pipe in the Prince's face. The Prince was

inconsiderate enough to push the Arminian roughly aside and cry, "You

are an impudent fellow;" whereupon the Arminian spoke the fatal word,

of which the consequence, according to academical custom, is either a

duel or loss of honor to the person insulted. In a moment he was

surrounded by the Markomanns. The same insulting word poured like hail

from all sides on the audacious offender; but he drew out his card-case

mockingly, and called out, "One after another; let the whole retinue

follow suit; like master like man." When the throng became greater, he

cried out to those behind him, "This way, Arminians," and began in loud

bass tones the battle-cry of his corps:

"Struvelius, Struvelius,

Come out here with your Fidibus."

The tumult spread throughout the hall; over chairs and tables sprang

the Arminians to the aid of their endangered champion; the words of

insult and challenges flew in volleys in every direction. In vain did

the presidents call them to their places; in vain did the music

interpose; the angry cries of the contending parties could be heard

above the shrill _fanfare_ of the trumpet. The presidents hastened

together, and, passing along in close array, separated the contending

parties. But the wild uproar was followed by violent discussions; the

associations stood apart from each other; separate groups jeered at one

another, and, according to the old custom of academic belligerents,

endeavored gradually to drive their opponents to use the word of

challenge. Some provoking expressions had already been used which were

forbidden by the social rules of the University; blades were glittering

in the air, and more than one hand clenched a wine bottle. The music

struck up the national hymn, but it was untimely, and from all sides

came the angry shout, "Stop it! stop it!" The frightened musicians were

silenced, and a fresh outbreak of the tremendous tumult seemed

inevitable, when an old leader of the Teutons, who knew his people

well, sprang up into the orchestra, seized a fiddle, seated himself in

a chair high up as director, and began the foolish tune, "_Ach, du

lieber Augustin, alles ist hin._" The music began in plaintive tones.

Every one looked up, and at once noticed the eminent gentleman scraping

strenuously on the fiddle; the mood of all was suddenly changed, and a

general laugh arose. The presidents struck their blades on the table so

violently that more than one broke, and commanded peace; the leaders of

all the associations joined together, and declared the Commers to be

concluded, and called upon the clubs and corps to return peacefully

home, as they intended to take the affair in hand. The students

crowded angrily out of the hall, and dispersed to their respective

head-quarters; but in every group the events of the evening were

discussed with vehement bitterness, and embassies passed rapidly from

one camp to another throughout the night. The Chamberlain had

extricated the Prince from the throng after the first encounter. The

latter was sitting in his room, pale and dismayed at the consequences

likely to ensue from the unfortunate incident. The Chamberlain also was

terrified, for the responsibility of this fracas would fall upon his

head. Besides this he felt real sympathy for the young Prince, who so

deeply felt the insult to his honor, and who, with a fixed and saddened

gaze, received no comfort from the assurance that his princely honor

could suffer no more injury from these plebeians than from the sparrows

on the tree.

After a sleepless night the Prince received the leaders of the

Markomanns, who came to announce the decision of their corps. They

stated that their senior officer, Beppo, had been chosen to represent

the Prince in all further dealings with the Arminian, and he, Beppo,

chivalrously begged him to concede to him this honor; he added that, in

the opinion of his association, the Arminian had no claim to the

privilege of receiving a challenge in consequence of that vile

insulting word, and if the Prince should refuse any further

participation in the matter, the Markomanns would take all the

consequences on themselves. But they could not conceal from him that

they alone held this view, nay, even some of their own corps had

objected. All things, therefore, considered, they thought the best

course would be for the Prince to make this concession--the greatness

of which they undoubtedly deeply felt--to the academical custom.

The Prince had not yet recovered his self-possession, so the

Chamberlain begged the gentlemen to allow his Highness some hours for

reflection.

Meanwhile our student, who had been restrained by the consideration of

his academical duties, and had kept aloof from any personal

implication, in great perplexity went to the Doctor with this news, as

in this affair he could not venture before the Rector. The Doctor

hastened to his friend, who had already had an account from the beadles

and the police.

"As regards the personal conflict of the Prince, I have as yet received

no notice, and it is perhaps desirable, both for him and the

University, that it should not be entered into. I shall be watchful and

endeavor to provide against further consequences; and I shall perform

the duties of my office in every direction in the strictest way; but do

your best to prevent my learning any details of this affair, except

what may give me just ground for taking official steps."

The Chamberlain was almost in a similar quandary as our student; he

also went full of anxiety to the Doctor, related the quarrel, and asked

what the Doctor considered was the duty of the Prince, and whether he

ought to allow himself to be represented in a duel.

The Doctor replied, with some reserve: "Duels are senseless and wrong!

If the Hereditary Prince is imbued with this view, and is willing to

take upon himself the consequences to his own life, and at some future

day to his government, I will be the last to oppose this martyrdom. But

if your young master is not free from the prejudices of his class, and

has been impressed with the idea that there is a certain honor for

cavaliers and officers, which is different from that of men of honor in

general, and which, in certain cases, makes a duel necessary, if your

Prince is going to decide the question upon these grounds, and in

future govern according to such views, in that case I will unreservedly

acknowledge that I cannot allow him the right to set himself in

opposition to the ideas of honor of our academical youths."

"Then you are of opinion," said the Chamberlain, "that the Prince must

consent to the offer of a representative?"

"I have neither the right nor the wish to offer an opinion," said the

Doctor. "I can only say that the idea of a representative does not

please me. It appears to me that the affair is simple,--either reason

or personal courage."

The Chamberlain rose quickly. "That is quite impossible; it would be an

unheard of deviation from custom, and would produce new and painful

complications for the Prince; it is also entirely contrary to my

convictions of what is allowable to a royal prince, and under no

considerations can the proposition be further entertained."

The Chamberlain went away not much pleased with the radical views of

the Doctor. On his return home he said to the Prince:

"The affair must be settled quickly before your father can learn of it.

Your father, considering the social standing of your opponent, would

positively prohibit any concession on your part; and yet I see that the

future intercourse of your Highness with the body of the students, and

even perhaps other personal relations, will be greatly endangered if

the public opinion here is not in some measure satisfied. If,

therefore, I may counsel your Highness, it will be to make a great

concession, and accept Herr von Halling as your representative."

The Prince looked down, depressed, and finally said: "That will perhaps

be best."

The great leader Beppo, one of the best swordsmen of the University,

was to fight for the Hereditary Prince. But now it appeared that the

Arminians were by no means satisfied with this idea of a

representative, and raised the impudent pretension that the Prince

should himself appear before them in fencing attire and cambric shirt.

The stout Ulf, for instance, the originator of the whole embroilment,

declared that he found the Markomann leader also on his list, and he

would not renounce the delightful prospect of having a pass with that

gentleman in his private capacity.

This could not be denied. Meanwhile a large council of seniors, which

the Markomanns had quickly called together, decided that a substitute

should be allowed to enter the lists for the Prince. On the other hand,

their cunning proposition that the Arminian should first enter the

lists against the other men of their corps, was declined. They wished

by this to relieve the Prince of the whole affair, as it might be

assumed that even the great strength of the Arminian would be exhausted

before half the names on his list were cancelled. Nothing, therefore,

remained but for the two combatants to fight together at two different

times, the Markomann, in the name of the Prince, first.

"We shall do our best to make the second meeting unnecessary," said the

Markomann significantly to the representative of the Arminian, on the

breaking-up of the conference.

Every precaution was taken to keep the fatal duel secret; only those

concerned in it knew the hour: even to their near associates another

day was spoken of; for the beadles were watchful, and the University

had been called upon by the highest authorities to avert further

consequences by all means in their power.

The day before the duel, the Prince invited the Markomanns to dinner,

and there was so much talk upon relevant matters that the Chamberlain

felt decidedly uncomfortable. Shortly before the breaking-up of the

party, the Prince was standing with Beppo in a recess of the window;

suddenly he seized the hand of the young man, held it fast, and his

frame was violently convulsed with suppressed sobbing. The valiant

youth looked at the Prince much moved.

"All will go well, your Highness," said he, consolingly.

"For you, but not for me," replied the Prince, and turned away.

As towards evening the Hereditary Prince walked restlessly through the

rooms, the Chamberlain, who also wished to be relieved from his

troubled thoughts, proposed that they should that evening pay a visit

to the Rector. This was the only place where he was sure to hear

nothing of the disagreeable history, and he was sharp-sighted enough to

guess that this visit would be particularly agreeable to the Prince.

Ilse knew everything. Our student friend, who had involuntarily played

the magpie, creating mischief between the parties, still haunted the

neighborhood; he ventured, on one of the student evenings, to remain

behind with Penelope when the others went into the Rector's room; he

related the whole quarrel, described the dangerous position of the

Prince, and begged her to say nothing of the occurrence to her husband.

When, therefore, the Prince entered, a forced restraint and uneasiness

was manifest in those present. The Chamberlain was more charming than

ever, and related agreeable Court stories, but without effect. The

Prince sat embarrassed in his place, next to Ilse; he felt the

seriousness of even her friendly words; he saw how sorrowfully her eyes

rested upon him, and when they met his he turned quickly away. At last

he began, with unsteady voice:

"You once showed me the portraits of famous men that you have; may I

ask you to let me see the volume again?"

Ilse glanced at him and rose. The Prince followed her, as before, into

the next room. She laid the volume before him; he looked over it

without interest, and at last began, in a low tone:

"All I wished was to be alone with you. I am helpless and very unhappy.

I have no person on earth who will give me disinterested advice as to

what I shall do. I have given offense to a student, and have been

bitterly insulted by him. And I am now compelled to allow another to

fight out the quarrel for me."

"My poor Prince!" cried Ilse.

"Do not speak to me of it, gracious lady, with the feelings with which

a woman would regard it, but speak, as if you were my friend in advice.

That I should burden you with my troubles makes me feel at this moment

contemptible to myself, and I fear I seem so also to you." He glanced

gloomily down.

Ilse spoke softly. "I can only say what is in my heart; if your

Highness has done an injustice, apologize for it; if you have been

insulted, forgive it."

The Prince shook his head.

"That would be of no use, it would only disgrace me afresh in my own

eyes, and those of all others. It was not on that point that I ask you.

Only one thing I wish to know; ought I to allow another to fight my

battle because I am a prince? All say that I must do it; but I have no

confidence in any, only in you."

The blood mantled in Ilse's face. "Your Highness lays a responsibility

upon me that frightens me."

"You once told me the truth," said the Prince, gloomily, "as no one on

earth has yet done, and every word you spoke was good and from your

heart. I therefore now pray you to give me your honest opinion."

"Then," said Ilse, looking at him eagerly, while the old Saxon blood

boiled in her veins, "if your Highness began the quarrel, you must end

it yourself like a man, and you must yourself take care that it is done

in an honorable way. Your Highness ought not to allow another to brave

your opponent and endanger himself on account of the wrong you have

done. To lead a stranger to wrong, to compel another to risk his life,

while you quietly look on, would be worst of all!"

The Prince replied, dejectedly:

"He is courageous, and superior to his adversary."

"And does your Highness think it right to take advantage of your

opponent by the powers of one who is stronger than yourself? Whether

your representative wins or loses, you will be more indebted to him

than you ought to be to a stranger; and through your whole life you

will be burdened with the thought that he has shown courage, while you

have not."

The Prince became pale and silent.

"I feel just as you do," he said, at last.

"Everything of this kind is dreadful," continued Ilse, wringing her

hands; "everywhere there seems to be ill-will and thoughts of bloody

revenge. But, if it is impossible for you to prevent a wrong, it is

your duty to take care that it does not become greater, and that its

consequences do not fall on the head of another, only on your own. My

heart tells me that you must yourself do, if not what is right, at all

events what is least wrong."

The Prince nodded his head, and again sat silent.

"I cannot speak of it to those about me," he began, at last, "least of

all to him," pointing to the Chamberlain. "If I am to prevent another

from fighting in my stead, it must be done immediately. Do you know any

one who can help me?"

"My husband's office forbids his doing anything for your Highness in

this affair. But the Doctor?"

The Prince shook his head.

"Our student," exclaimed Ilse; "he is truly devoted to your Highness:

he is a countryman of ours, and feels greatly troubled about this

matter."

The Prince reflected.

"Will you allow me to have the use of your servant for a few hours this

evenings when you no longer need him yourself?"

Ilse called Gabriel into the room, and said to him:

"Do what his Highness desires of you."

The Prince approached the window, and spoke in a low tone to the

servant.

"Leave everything to me, your Highness," said Gabriel, as he went back

to his tea-cups.

The Prince approached Ilse, who was standing motionless, staring at the

book.

"I have looked over the portraits," he said, with more composure than

he had shown during the whole evening, "and I have found what I was

looking for. I thank you."

Ilse rose, and returned with him to the company.

The guests had left, and Ilse was sitting alone in her room. What had

she done? Become the confidant of a man implicated in a bloody deed,

the secret adviser of a lawless action. She, a woman, was the

confederate of a strange man; she, the helpmate of one who should be

the guardian of the laws, had become the abettor of a crime. What dark

spirit had infatuated her when she confidentially held counsel with the

stranger in whispers on a subject which she could not venture to

confess to her husband? No!--he who had drawn her into this was not a

stranger. She had from her childhood heard of him with deep interest;

he was the future ruler of her country, and would be there master of

life and death. From the time she first knew him, so touching in his

joyless youth and in the weak helplessness of his position, she had

been tenderly solicitous about him; and from that day she had always

found in him an amiable and pure mind. She was now trembling with

anguish for him. She had driven him to his fate; she bore the guilt of

an action that was considered unseemly for one in his position. If from

her advice evil befell him--if the opponent of the poor, weak youth

should kill him,--how could she bear it on her conscience?

She sprang up, and wrung her hands. Her husband called her, and she

shuddered, for she felt herself guilty in his sight. Again she asked

herself: "What bad spirit has distracted me? Am I no longer what I was?

Ah me! I have not acted as becomes a Christian woman, nor as a careful

wife who opens the shrine of her soul to one alone. Yet," she

exclaimed, raising her head, proudly, "if he were again to stand before

me, and again ask whether he should act as a man or as a coward, I

would again and again say the same thing. May God forgive me!"

When Krueger entered the Prince's bedroom to undress him, the latter

laconically charged him with a commission that greatly astonished the

lackey. But as he saw himself thereby confirmed in his confidential

position, he promised obedience and silence. He extinguished the lamp,

and went to his post. An hour after, he introduced the student, who had

been brought by Gabriel through a back-door, into the bedroom of the

Prince. There a conversation took place in a low tone, the consequence

of which was that the student hastened from the house in great

excitement, and commissioned Gabriel, who was waiting, to order a cab

to be ready at an early hour in the morning near the corner of the next

street.

A serious company, the flower of the different corps and associations,

tried fellows of daring aspect, were assembled at early dawn in the

hall of a tavern some distance from the town--an impressive sight for

every student heart. On this day most of the sanguinary agreements of

the memorable evening were to be settled in their proper order. The

first matter in hand concerned the academic honor of the Hereditary

Prince. The combatants were drawn up, dressed in their fencing attire;

each one stood, with his seconds and umpires, in a corner of the room;

the physician--it was the old Teuton of the fiddle--had prepared his

apparatus in a corner, and looked with grim satisfaction on his

impending work, which promised him new and instructive cases. But the

Arminians were unappeasable: once more their seconds addressed

themselves to the referees, and complained that the Prince was not

there, at least, to acknowledge his representative by his presence.

They therefore demanded that the impending combat should not be

reckoned for him, but accounted as a personal struggle between the two

students, who had frequently come athwart each other in various

delicate relations. As the Markomanns had not clear consciences, having

equivocally contrived to evade the question, they now proposed that the

Prince should subsequently meet the seconds at some place to be agreed

upon, where the customary reconciliation should take place.

This was discussed with much bitterness, but briefly, as the hour

demanded. Suddenly the freshman, a young Arminian, who kept watch

outside, knocked twice at the door. All stood motionless. But the

seconds gathered the swords together and threw them into a dark closet,

while our student, who, as backer for his comrade, was binding silk

about wrist and arm, sprang quickly to the door and opened it. A slight

figure in a cloak and felt hat entered. It was the Hereditary Prince.

He removed his hat: his face looked paler than usual, but he spoke in a

composed manner:

"I have come to you in secret; I beg that the gentlemen present will

permit me to take upon myself the responsibility of giving satisfaction

and will show me due consideration if I prove unpractised in any of the

customary formalities; it is the first time that I try my skill."

There was a silence so profound that one could hear the slightest stir.

All present felt that this was a manly act. But Beppo, the Markomann,

stood confounded, and began:

"Your Highness's presence now removes the only obstacle to our

proceeding with the duel. I insist that the course determined upon be

not reversed," and in a lower voice he added, "I beseech your Highness,

not to do what is so plainly unnecessary; it will cast upon us all a

responsibility that we dare not assume."

The Prince answered firmly: "You have fulfilled your promise; I am as

grateful for the will as for the deed. But I am resolute." He took off

his coat, and said: "Put the bandages on."

The second of the Arminian turned towards the umpire, saying, "I beg to

inform our opponent that not a moment is to be lost; we are not here to

exchange civilities; if the Prince wishes to have satisfaction himself,

we are ready."

The Markomanns prepared the Prince, and one must acknowledge that the

brave fellows did it with as anxious solicitude as if they had in fact

been warriors of the race whose name they bore, and were preparing

their young king's son for deadly single combat.

The Prince stepped up to the mark; the weapon trembled in the hand of

his second, a scarred veteran, as he took his position beside him.

"Ready!"--"Go!" The blades whistled in the air. The Prince did not

behave badly; a long habit of cautious self-command stood him in good

stead; he avoided exposing himself dangerously; and his second drew

upon himself a sharp warning from the umpire for inconsiderately

exposing his own person within reach of the enemy's blade. The Arminian

was far superior in strength and skill, but he afterwards acknowledged

to his intimate friends that it had quite disconcerted him to see the

princely scion within reach of his broadsword. After the fourth pass,

blood streamed from Ulf's broad cheek on to his shirt. His second

demanded the continuation of the fight, but the umpire declared the

quarrel ended. As the Prince stood still in his place the sword fell

from his hand, and there was a slight tremulous motion in his fingers;

but he smiled, and there was a pleased expression on his face. In one

short quarter of an hour a boy had attained the self-reliance of a man.

Before the Prince turned to his antagonist he embraced the Markomann,

and said: "Now I can thank you from my heart." The umpire led him to

his opponent, who was standing ill-humoredly before the Doctor, but yet

could not suppress a smile that gave him some pain, and both shook

hands. Then the Arminians approached to greet the Prince, while the

umpire called out "Second event."

But the Prince, who had resumed his mantle, went to the director of the

duels, and began: "I cannot go away without making a great request. I

was, unfortunately, the cause of the painful occurrence that has

occasioned this discord among the students. I well know that I have no

right here to express any wish, but it would be a pleasant recollection

forever for me if I could bring about peace and reconciliation."

At this moment the Prince might have made any demand upon his

Markomanns, and even the Arminians were impressed by the extraordinary

event. A murmur of approbation passed through the room, and the umpire

exclaimed in a loud voice: "The Prince has spoken well." The gloomy

looks of some individuals were disregarded; the seconds and seniors

held a consultation upon the spot, and the result was that the

impending challenges were amicably settled, and a general

reconciliation brought about.

The Prince, surrounded by the Markomanns, left the house and jumped

into the carriage awaiting him. Krueger opened the bed-room door to him.

The Chamberlain had been much surprised this morning at the long repose

of his young master; but when he came to breakfast he found his Prince

sitting comfortably at the table.

After Krueger had gone away, the Prince began: "The duel has been

settled, Weidegg. I fought it out myself." The Chamberlain stood up,

horrified. "I tell you it because it could not long be kept a secret. I

hope that the quarrel among the students will be settled by it. Do not

say anything against it, nor be annoyed at the matter. I have done what

I considered to be right, or, at all events, what was least wrong, and

am happier than I have been for a long time."

The Markomanns had begged of all present to give their word that the

events of the morning should not be spoken of, and one may assume that

every one kept his promise. Nevertheless, the news flew quick as

lightning through the University and city, that the Prince himself had

composed the quarrel by his valiant and manly conduct. The Chamberlain

perceived from the indications of pleasure from the Markomanns, and the

friendly greetings which his young master received in the street, and

still more from the altered demeanor of the Prince himself, that the

secret duel had had a good result, and this reconciled him a little to

the vexatious occurrence.

When the Prince some time after visited the Rector's house, he was led

into the latter's study, and Werner greeted him, smiling. "I was

obliged to inform the government of what had lately taken place, and to

add, according to the unanimous sentiments of the students summoned to

appear before me, that your Highness had, by your interposition,

contributed essentially to the restoration of peace. It has become my

duty to express to you the warm acknowledgment of the academical

authorities. I venture to give expression to my own wish, that all that

your Highness has gone through on this occasion may ever leave an

agreeable and also profitable recollection."

As the Prince bowed to Ilse, he said, in a low voice: "All has gone off

well. I thank you." Ilse looked proudly at her young Prince. Yet she

had not recovered from the fearful anxiety of the previous day, and she

was more reserved with him than usual.

_CHAPTER XXV_.

CHAOS.

Spring smiled cheerfully on the country; the flowering shrubs and the

beds in the garden combined their colors brilliantly; this year,

starlings actually sang in Mr. Hahn's cages, and rananculi and other

wild flowers in the meadow in front of Mr. Hummel's garden rejoiced in

the moist warmth. It was a pleasant time for our academical citizens;

the quarrels of the winter were settled, the beadles put on their

night-caps at ten o'clock, and the lectures of the Professors went on

smoothly and pleasantly.

The Rector also enjoyed the repose, and he needed it, for Ilse saw with

anxiety that his cheeks were thinner, and that in the evening a

lassitude came over him that formerly he had not known.

"He ought to rest from his work a few months," advised the physician;

"that will lend him new life and strength for years to come; every man

of studious habits requires such relaxation two or three times during

his life; traveling would be the best thing."

Felix laughed, but his wife kept this counsel faithfully in mind, and

endeavored, meanwhile, as often as possible, to draw her husband from

his books into the air. She put her arm within his and took him into

the wood and green meadows; she pointed out to him the butterflies that

fluttered over the wild flowers, and the flights of birds that enjoyed

themselves in the warm sun-light.

"Now is the time for that restlessness of which you once told me. Have

you not noticed it?"

"Yes," said the Professor, "and if you will go with me, we will, at

least in fancy, travel together into foreign parts."

"Will you take me with you?" exclaimed Ilse, delighted. "I am like the

woodchuck: I only know the hole from which my master brought me, and

the cover of the cage in which I am fed. If I could have my wish, I

should like to see snow-capped peaks rising high above the clouds, and

abysses of immeasurable depths. But from the mountains I would descend

to olive-trees and oranges. For years I have heard of the men who have

lived there, and have seen how your heart leaps for joy whenever you

speak of the blue ocean and of the grandeur of the old cities. I would

gladly see all this, and hear you talk and feel the pleasure which you

would have in revisiting the scenes so dear to you."

"Very well," said the Professor; "to the Alps and then to Naples; but

in passing I must work a few weeks at Florence upon Tacitus."

"Ah!" thought Ilse, "there is the manuscript again."

They were sitting under a large oak, one of the giants of the Middle

Ages, that towered above the new generation of trees in the forest, as

the cupola of St Peter's does above the towers and roofs of the Holy

City.

When they came out from the copse into the open space, they saw, amidst

the flowers in the meadow, the livery of a lackey, and then perceived

the Prince and his attendant, together with a proprietor from a

neighboring village. The gentleman approached and greeted them.

"We have a design upon some hours of your leisure," called out the

Chamberlain to the Professor, and the Prince began:

"I wish to invite some of the ladies and gentlemen of the University to

an entertainment in the open air, as I cannot have the pleasure of

receiving them at a house of my own. It will be a small party, and as

rural as possible; we thought of this spot, as your wife had often

extolled it. I would be grateful for your assistance and advice as to

the arrangements."

"If your Highness wishes to please the ladies, you should also invite

the children. If it is at the same time a children's party, your

Highness maybe assured that it will leave a pleasant impression."

This was agreed to. Dainty invitations were sent to the Rector and

Deans, and the Professors with whom the Prince was personally

acquainted, and their families, to an entertainment in the open air.

The idea was approved by great and small, and gave rise to pleasant

anticipations among the acquaintances of the Rector's wife.

Laura had received an invitation, and her pleasure was great. But when

in the evening it appeared that the Doctor was not invited, she was

quite put out.

"I do not mean to be his advocate," said she, to Ilse, "but he is

precisely in my position; and if I am asked on your account, he ought

to be for the sake of your husband. Their having neglected to do this

is want of tact, or something worse; and, as he is not asked, I am

determined not to go; for, let Fritz Hahn be what he will, he has not

deserved a slight from these people."

In vain did Ilse try to explain to her that the Doctor had not visited

the Prince, from whom the invitations came. Laura remained obstinate,

and replied:

"You are an eloquent defender of your Prince, and more acquainted

with the customs of great people than I had supposed. But when the

picnic-day comes I shall feign illness, you may rely on that. If my

friend over the way is not invited I shall not go. But do not tell the

Doctor, lest little Fritz should fancy I do it for love of him; it is

not friendship for him, but displeasure at the Court people."

One Sunday there drew up in the neighborhood of the great oak, first a

large van with Krueger and a cook, then the Prince's equipages bringing

the ladies and gentlemen, and an omnibus adorned with garlands and

wreaths brought the children of the different families. A tent had been

set up in the meadow, and a little apart, concealed in the copse, a

wooden hut was erected as a temporary kitchen; a band of music was

stationed in the wood and welcomed the parties as they arrived. The

Prince and his Chamberlain received their guests near the wood, and

conducted them to the centre of the picnic-grounds, where a prodigious

work of the highest confectionery art formed the lighthouse, in the

neighborhood of which they all dropped anchor. Soon there was a clatter

of cups, the unavoidable preparation for thorough German festivity. In

the beginning the company were solemn; there was something unusual in

the arrangement of the fete which occasioned reflection. But when

Raschke, raising the flaps of his coat, seated himself on the grass,

and the other gentlemen followed his example and lit the cigars which

were presented to them, the meadow assumed a bucolic appearance. Even

the Rector sat on the turf with his legs crossed in Turkish fashion;

near him the Consistorial Councillor on a chair; and somewhat further

off, on the trunk of a shattered tree, the still hostile Struvelius,

with his bristling hair and silent manner, like the sorrowful spirit of

an old willow. Apart from them, but enthroned on a high ant-hill, over

which he had spread his pocket-handkerchief, sat Master Knips; he held

his slouch hat respectfully under his arm, and rose whenever the Prince

approached. Meanwhile the latter exerted himself to entertain the

ladies, with whom he had been a favorite since the occurrence of last

winter, and to-day he completely gained the hearts of both mothers and

daughters. Ilse and he worked together with a mutual understanding:

Ilse, elevated by the thought that people were pleased with her Prince,

and he happy at heart that he had some work in common with the Rector's

wife.

Never yet had he felt on such an intimate footing with her as he did

to-day. He looked only at her, he thought only of her. Amid the buzz of

conversation, amid the sound of the music, he listened to every word

that fell from her lips. Whenever he approached her he felt a glow of

transport. In plucking a leaf from a tree, the lace of her sleeve

passed over his face, and the touch of the delicate texture brought the

color into his cheeks. Her hand rested a moment on his as she offered

him a ladybird, and the slight pressure made his heart beat fast.

"The ladybird knows your Highness's future," said Ilse. "You should ask

it: Ladybird, ladybird, shall I be happy long?--one year, two years?

and so forth, till it flies away."

The Prince began the sentence, but had not arrived at the first year

when it flew away.

"That does not apply to you," said Ilse, laughing, to console him. "The

little creature was angry at me yet."

"I had rather bear the misfortune myself," said the Prince, in a low

tone, "than that you should suffer it."

While Ilse, startled at the deep meaning of his words, turned to the

ladies, he stealthily picked up the kerchief that had fallen from her

shoulders, and, behind a tree, pressed it to his lips.

Still merrier did the young people become, when from the hut behind the

bushes two men stepped forth with red-coats and drums, and invited them

to try their skill at the popinjay. The Chamberlain took the

superintendence of the boys, and Ilse of the girls; foresters and

lackeys helped with the cross-bows; the arrows struck incessantly on

the body of the bird, for the hitting was made easy, and those who did

not win could admire the prizes, which were arranged on two tables.

Everything went on smoothly, as is fitting at Court _fetes_; the

lackeys moved incessantly among the company, with every imaginable

refreshment; the splints from the popinjays fell like hail, and the

Prince distributed the prizes to the children who thronged round him.

Bertha Raschke became queen of tournament, and a little son of the

Consistorial Councillor her consort. The children, carrying their

presents, followed the drummers with joyous shouts up to a long table,

where a supper was prepared for them. They were to sit down with the

king and queen in the middle. The foresters and lackeys served the

different courses. The Chamberlain could not have devised anything

better to please the parents; and the fathers walked behind the chairs

and enjoyed seeing the little ones drinking harmless wine out of the

crystal glasses, their rosy faces expressing delighted astonishment at

the beautiful china and silver dishes. They soon became merry; finally

the little Consistorial Councillor proposed the health of the Prince;

all the children cried "Hurrah!" the drummers drummed, the music struck

up, and the parents stood round thanking the giver of the feast. Ilse

brought a garland of wild flowers which the ladies had woven, and

begged permission of the Prince to put it upon him. He stood amidst the

happy party elevated by the innocent joy of all around him, and by the

respectful attachment which was visible on all countenances. He looked

at Ilse with silent thanks, and without apparent cause his eyes filled

with tears. Again the children screamed out "Hurrah!" and the drums

beat.

A horseman in strange livery galloped out of the wood; the Chamberlain,

in consternation, approached the Prince, and handed him a letter with a

black seal. The Prince hastened into the tent, and the Chamberlain

followed him.

The wild flowers had brought the young gentleman no good fortune. The

pleasure of the _fete_ was over; the company stood in groups about the

tent, uncertain and sympathizing. At last the Prince and the

Chamberlain came out. While the latter turned to the Rector and to

those who surrounded him. Ilse saw the Prince at her side with deep

sorrow depicted on his countenance.

"I beg of you to excuse me to the ladies, as I am obliged to depart

immediately: my sister's husband has died, after a short illness, and

my poor sister is very unhappy." In great agitation, he continued: "I

myself knew my brother-in-law only slightly, but he was very kind to my

sister, and she felt happier with him than she had ever been in her

life. She writes to me in despair, and the misfortune is for her quite

inexpressible. Under existing circumstances she cannot remain in her

present abode, and I foresee that she must return to us. It is our

bitter fate always to be tossed about, never to remain quiet. I know

that I shall meet with a similar misfortune. I feel myself happy

here,--to you I can confess this,--and I regret to say that this death

makes it very uncertain whether I shall ever return. I go to my sister

tomorrow for a few days. Pray think of me kindly."

He bowed and retired into the tent, and in a few minutes his carriage

was on its way back to the city.

Ilse hastened to her husband, who had been requested by the Chamberlain

to act for the Prince. It was immediately determined to break up the

party: the children were put into the carriages, and the rest returned

to the city in earnest conversation.

Meanwhile Laura feigned illness, and sat in her little sitting-room

rummaging about among the old ballads. After the meeting in the village

garden she had discovered with dismay that, in her anxiety about the

Doctor, she had much diminished her treasure: full a dozen of the best

were gone, and thus the tie by which she held the collector's heart

fast threatened to come to an end. She had, therefore, not sent

anything since the drinking-song. But to-day, when the Doctor had

experienced treatment that gave her more concern than it did him, she

sought for something to console him.

A heavy step on the staircase disturbed her in the work of selection.

She had hardly time to throw her treasures into the secret drawer

before Mr. Hummel was at the door. It was a rare visit, and Laura

received him with the foreboding that his coming portended serious

results. Mr. Hummel approached his daughter and looked at her closely,

as if she had been a new Paris invention.

"So you have a headache, and could not accept the invitation? I am not

accustomed to that in my daughter. I cannot prevent your mother from

allowing her feelings to affect her brains, at times; but I have a

right to demand that your head should, under all circumstances, remain

sound. Why did you not accept the invitation to the picnic?"

"It would have been an intolerable constraint upon me," said Laura.

"I understand," replied Mr. Hummel. "I am not much in favor of princes,

but not much against them either. I cannot discover that they have

greater heads than other people. I am therefore obliged to consider

them simply as ordinary customers who are not always number one,

neither do they always wear number one goods. Nevertheless, when a

prince invites you, with other distinguished persons, to a respectable

summer entertainment, and you refuse to go, I, as your father, ask you

for the reason; and, between you and me, it shall now be no question of

headache."

Laura perceived, from the expression of her father's countenance, that

he had some other idea in his head.

"If you wish to know the truth, I will make no secret of it. I am not

invited on my own account; for what do these people care about me? It

is only as the appendage of our lodgers."

"You knew that when the invitation came, and yet you jumped for joy."

"The idea only occurred to me afterwards when--"

"When you learnt that the Doctor over there was not invited," completed

Mr. Hummel. "Your mother is a very worthy woman, for whom I entertain

the highest respect, but it sometimes happens that one can screw a

secret out of her. When you thus ruminate over what neither your father

nor the world should know, you should confide it to no one, either in

our house or in any other."

"Very well," said Laura, with decision; "if you have discovered it,

hear it now from me. I am a plebeian just as much as Fritz Hahn is; he

has been in the society of those Court people more frequently than I;

their taking no notice of him made it clear to me that they considered

one who is his equal as a superfluous addition."

An expression of irony overspread the broad features of Mr. Hummel.

"So that fellow over there is your equal?" he began; "that is exactly

what I wished to disabuse your mind of. I should not approve of your

regulating your feelings according to that weather-cock over the way. I

do not choose that the idea should ever come into the head of Hahn

Junior to build an arch across the street, and to wander about in

slippers from one house to the other. The thought does not please

me. I will bring forward only one reason, which has nothing to do with

the old grudge. He is his father's son, and he has no real energy

of character. One who can endure to sit year after year in that

straw-nest, turning over the pages of books, would not, if I were a

girl, be the man for me. It is possible that he may be very learned,

and may know much about things that other men care little for; but I

have not yet heard that he has accomplished anything by it. Therefore,

if that should happen, which will not happen so long as the property

over there is a poultry-yard,--if I, Henry Hummel, should consent that

my only child should sit knitting stockings in front of the white Muse,

it would be a misfortune for my child herself. For you are my daughter.

You are just as self-willed as I am; and if you should get among those

white-livered people, you would disturb them lamentably, and be very

unhappy yourself. Therefore, I am of opinion that your headache was

silliness, and I wish never to hear again of like ailments. Good day,

Miss Hummel."

He strode out of the door, and as he heavily descended the stairs, he

hummed the tune:

"Bloom, sweet violet, that I myself have reared."

Laura sat at her writing-table supporting her heavy head with both her

hands. This had been a trying scene. The speech of her stern father had

wounded her deeply. But in his depreciating observations on their

neighbor's son there was a certain truth, which had already crept like

a hateful spider over the bright leaves of her sympathy. He must go out

into the world. Her friends below were thinking of going into foreign

parts. Ah! she herself, a poor bird, fluttered her wings in vain, for

the fetters on her feet held her back. But he could free himself. She

would lose him from her neighborhood, perhaps lose him for ever; but

this ought not to hinder her from telling him the truth. She hastily

searched among the old sheets; she could find but one ballad, which

undoubtedly did not fit the Doctor, inasmuch as it expressed the

feelings of a dissolute wanderer. The song was inappropriate, but there

was none better. Our ancestors, when not occupied in highway exploits,

took little pleasure in travelling. The letter must do the work. She

wrote as follows:--

"The summer birds are flying, and man also yearns after the distant

lands of his dreams. Do not be angry with the sender of this, for

begging you to imbibe something of the spirit of this song. Your home

is too narrow for you. Your merits are not appreciated here as they

deserve. You are deprived in the quiet house of your parents of those

experiences which a man gains when he forms his life by his own

qualifications. I well know that your highest task will always be to

promote learning by your writings. That you may do everywhere. But do

not think it beneath you to influence younger minds by personal

intercourse with them, and to participate in the struggles of their

generation. Away, Doctor! the unknown bird sings to you the song of the

wanderer. With sorrow will your loss be felt by those you leave

behind."

About the same hour, Gabriel was sitting in his room brushing the last

specks of dust from his best livery which he had spread over a chair.

At his feet lay the red dog, licking his paws and giving utterance to

an occasional growl. Gabriel looked contemptuously at the dog.

"You are not handsomer, nor better than last winter. Your knavish

nature delights in nothing but eating, and flying at the legs of the

passers-by. I have never known a dog so much hated, or who deserved it

so well; for your only pleasure is to despise all that is respectable.

What is your favorite amusement? When it has rained and a ray of sun

attracts people to walk in the wood, you lurk on the steps; and when a

young girl appears clad in her light summer dress, then you leap like a

frog into the puddle that lies before her, and spatter her dress all

over, and I have to fetch a cab to take her home. What did the

strolling cigar-dealer do yesterday to provoke you. His chest was

standing on the bench in Mr. Hummel's garden, and the prospect of a

bargain was certain. The cigar-man went a few steps from his chest to

speak to an acquaintance, and you, miscreant, made a spring at the

bread and butter lying on the chest, and came with all fours on the

glass. It broke, and the splinters mixed With the cigars; you trampled

them altogether into a powder, and then returned to the house. You,

monster, caused your master to deal roughly with the trader when he

complained of you, and the man packed up his wares and went away from

our house with a curse on his lips. On what nocturnal excursion have

you been since then? No human eye has seen you."

He bent down towards the dog.

"So this time it has gone into your flesh. I am glad to see you can

injure yourself as well as others."

Gabriel examined the dog's paw and extracted a glass splinter. The dog

looked at him and whined.

"If I only knew," continued Gabriel, shaking his head, "what pleases

the dog in me. Is it the bones, or perhaps some roguish trait of mine

that amuses him? He hates the whole world, and even snarls at his

master; but he comes to visit me and behaves himself like a worthy

companion. And he is still more crazy about my master. I do not believe

that the Rector knows much of Spitehahn. But whenever this fiend sees

my Professor, he peeps at him slyly from under his shaggy eyebrows, and

does his best to wag his tuft of a tail. And when my master goes to the

University, he runs after him like a lamb behind its mother. How comes

it that this black soul attaches itself to the Professor? What does he

want with our learning? They do not believe in you anyhow, Spitehahn."

He looked round suspiciously and hastily donned his coat. Arrayed in

his Sunday attire he left the house. The Hahn family were not at home,

for Dorchen was looking out of the dressing-room window. She laughed

and nodded. Gabriel took courage, and stepped into the enemies' hall.

The door of the room opened. Dorchen stood on the threshold curtsying,

and Gabriel, holding the handle of the door, began, solemnly:

"It would be much more pleasant for me if I could have the pleasure of

accompanying you in your walk to-day."

Dorchen replied, twitching at her apron:

"I have got to stay here to mind the house, but that need not prevent

you from going."

"I should then take ho pleasure in it," replied Gabriel, bowing, "for I

should be always thinking of you, and I had much rather be with you

here than only think of you in the open air. If, therefore, you would

allow me to stay here a little while--?"

"Why, come in, of course, Gabriel."

"Only to the threshold," said Gabriel, advancing, still holding the

open door. "I only wanted to say that the number of which you lately

dreamt is not to be found at any of the offices. I have, therefore,

taken another, and have had it drawn by a little beggar lad, as that

brings good luck. I shall be so pleased if you will play this number

with me. It is quite a sum, for it is a whole eighth of a ticket."

"But that will be no good sign," said Dorchen, with pretty

embarrassment.

"Why not, Fraeulein? It was a real beggar-boy."

"No, I mean when two play together who love one another."

"Dear Dorchen!" cried Gabriel, approaching nearer and seizing her hand.

A hollow gurgle interrupted the conversation. Dorchen drew back from

him terrified.

"It was a ghost," she cried.

"That is impossible," said Gabriel, consolingly: "for, first, it is

day-time; secondly, it is in a new house; and, thirdly, spirits

generally do not make such a noise. It was something in the street."

"Your being here is a real comfort to me," exclaimed the timid Dorchen.

"It is fearful to be alone in a large house."

"To be together in a small house is particularly jolly," cried Gabriel,

boldly. "Ah, Dorchen! if we could venture to think of it."

Again a slight rumble was heard.

"There must be something here," cried Dorchen. "I am so alarmed!"

She sprang away from him to the middle of the room. Gabriel took a yard

measure, and looked under the furniture.

"So you are there, are you?" he cried, angrily, poking with the yard

measure under the sofa.

Spitehahn leaped forth with a bark on to the nearest chair, from the

chair on to the console, on which the clock stood; he knocked down the

clock, and dashed through the half-opened door.

It was the parlor clock and a wedding present. Mr. Hahn wound it up

every evening before he went to bed; it had two alabaster pillars with

gilded capitals; the rest was of American wood, and represented a

triumphal arch. Now the treasure lay in ruins, the pillars shattered,

the woad broken, and the dial split. In the opened works a single wheel

whirled with fearful rapidity, all the rest was motionless. Dorchen

stood dismayed before the fragments, and wrung her hands.

"The monster," groaned Gabriel, occupying himself in vain with the

shattered work of art, and endeavoring with no better result to comfort

the poor maiden, who trembled before the terrors of the ensuing hour.

"I had a foreboding," cried Mr. Hahn, on his return home, "that

something would happen to-day. I forgot yesterday, for the first time,

to wind up the clock. But now my patience is at an end; there will be

war to the knife between him over the way and me." He approached the

sobbing maid threateningly. "Bear witness to the truth," he cried out;

"the court will demand your testimony. Do not seek safety in hypocrisy

and lies. Was it the dog, or was it you?"

Dorchen dramatically related the whole transgression of Spitehahn; she

poked under the sofa, as if she could draw the dog out bodily; she

confessed, weepingly, to the open door, and explained Gabriel's

presence as owing to an inquiry he had made of her.

"Unfortunate one," cried the master of the house, "I see your

embarrassment: it was yourself; your conscience pricks you. How can you

show that the dog was under the sofa? On your peril, I demand a

tangible evidence."

"Here it is," cried Dorchen, still sobbing, and pointing in tragic

attitude with her hand to the ground.

There certainly was an indubitable proof under the sofa, although not

strictly tangible. The dog had left behind him as sure a confirmation

as if he had impressed his seal on the ground.

Now, Mrs. Hahn indignantly gave the orders which became a housewife

under such circumstances.

"Do not attempt it," cried Mr. Hahn; "away with towels and cloths; this

shall remain."

"But, Andreas," exclaimed his wife.

"This shall remain, I say; it must be acknowledged and certified to.

Bring Mr. Ruddy immediately, and his wife, and whatever witnesses you

can find on the street."

The witnesses came, and, standing round, examined the place of the evil

deed; but Mr. Hahn hastened to his writing-table, and wrote a strong

letter to Mr. Hummel, in which he related the misdeed, and

threateningly demanded compensation. This letter Mr. Ruddy carried off

to Mr. Hummel, with a board on which were laid the ruins of the clock.

Hummel read the letter carefully, and threw it on the table.

"I congratulate your master upon his new undertaking for the summer,"

he said, coldly. "Carry the debris back again; I have no answer for

such nonsense. Some people _will_ make fools of themselves."

The following day a judicial complaint again raised its Medusa's head

between the two houses. This time even Mrs. Hahn was deeply incensed;

and when she, shortly after, met Laura on the street, she turned her

good-humored face to the other side, to avoid greeting the daughter of

the enemy.

Laura received the Doctor's answer to her letter. In a pretty poem the

happiness of the parental house was extolled, and he spoke of his great

delight in his neighbor's charming daughter, whom the poet saw in the

garden among her flowers, whenever he looked over the high hedge. He

further added: "The advice which you express so sincerely in your lines

has found an echo in me. I know what is lacking in my life. My learning

makes it impossible for me to find recognition in wider circles, an

honor, which the friends of a learned man desire for him more eagerly

than he himself does; it also makes it difficult for me to adopt the

academical course to which I have now a call in foreign parts. But the

nature of my studies takes from me all hope that any outward results

can ever overcome the hindrances which oppose themselves to the secret

wishes of my soul."

"Poor Fritz!" said Laura; "and yet poorer me! Why must he give up all

hope because he studies Sanscrit? It is not courage that is wanting to

these learned men, as father says, but passion. Like the old gods about

whom you write, you have no human substance, and no blood in your

veins. A few sparks are occasionally kindled up in your life and one

hopes they may light up into a mighty flame; but immediately it is all

smothered and extinguished by prudent consideration." She rose

suddenly. "Ah! if one could but lay hold of Fritz by the hair and cast

him into the wildest tumult, through which he would have to fight his

way bloodily, defy my father, and hazard a great deal, in order to win

what he in his gentle way says he desires for himself! Away with this

quiet, learned atmosphere: it makes those who breathe it contemptible!

Their strongest excitement is a sorrowful shrug of the shoulders over

other mortals or themselves."

Thus did the passionate Laura chafe in her attic-room, and again was

her paper moistened by bitter tears, as she sought consolation in

heroic verses, and called upon the foreign gods of the Doctor to take

the field against the pranks of Spitehahn.

Glorious Indra and all ye divinities shining; in heaven,

That have so often conferred blessings on races of men,

Haste in rescue to us, for great misfortune doth threaten.

Ominous shadows of night darken our peaceable home,

Banish the child from the father; while flat on the door-step

outsprawling,

Growleth with vengeful intent fiercely th' insidious cur.

The peace was disturbed not only for the neighbors of the Park street,

but also for the young Prince, at whose fete the trouble had begun.

The Prince was detained some weeks from the city. After his return, he

lived in the quiet retirement that the duties of mourning imposed upon

him. Lectures in his room were again resumed, but his place at Ilse's

tea-table remained empty.

On the day when the University prizes were distributed, the students

made a great torchlight procession to their Rector's house. The flaming

lights waved in the old streets; the fanfares resounded, in the midst

of which the lusty voices of the singing students might be heard;

gables and balconies were lighted in colored splendor; the marshals

swung their weapons gaily, and the torch-bearers scattered the sparks

among the thronging crowds of spectators. The procession turned into

the street towards the valley; it stopped before the house of Mr.

Hummel. Again there was music and singing; a deputation solemnly

crossed the threshold. Hummel looked proudly on the long stream of red

lights which flickered about and lighted up his house. The whole honor

was intended for his house alone, though he could not prevent the glare

and smoke from illuminating the enemies' roof, also.

Upstairs some of the rector's most intimate friends were assembled; he

received the leaders of the students in his room, and there were

speeches and replies. While those assembled were crowding nearer to

listen to the speech-making, the door of Ilse's room gently opened, and

the Prince entered. Ilse hastened to meet him, but he began, without

greeting:

"I have come to-day to bid you farewell. What I foresaw has happened. I

have received orders to return to my father. To-morrow I and my

attendant will take formal leave of the Rector and yourself, but I

wished first to see you for a moment; and, now that I stand before you,

I cannot express the feelings that prompted me to come. I thank you for

all your kindness. I beg of you not to forget me. It is you who have

made the city so dear to me. It is you who make it hard for me to go

away."

He spoke these words so softly that it seemed only as if a breath had

passed into Ilse's ear; and he did not await her answer, but left the

room as quickly as he came into it.

Outside, in the open place by the common, the students threw their

torches in a great heap; the red flame rose high in the air, and the

gray smoke encircled the tops of the trees; it rolled over the houses

and crept through the open windows, and stifled the breath. The flame

became lower, and a thin smoke ascended from the dying embers. It had

been a rapid, brilliant glow, a fleeting fire, now extinguished, and

only smoke and ashes remained. But Ilse was still standing by her

window, and looking sorrowfully out upon the empty place.

_CHAPTER XXVI_.

THE DRAMA.

"He was a tyrant," exclaimed Laura, "and she was right not to obey

him."

"He did his duty harshly, and she also," replied Ilse.

"He was a cross-grained, narrow-minded fellow, who was at last humbled;

but she was a noble heroine, who cast from her all that was most dear

on earth in order to fulfill her highest obligations," said Laura.

"He acted under the impulse of his nature, as she did according to

hers. Hers was the stronger character, and she went victoriously to

death. The burden of his deed crushed him during life," rejoined Ilse.

The characters which the ladies were discussing were Antigone and

Creon.

The Professor had one autumn evening laid the tragedies of Sophocles on

his wife's table. "It is time that you should learn to appreciate the

greatest poets of antiquity in their works." He read them aloud and

explained them. The lofty forms of the Attic stage hovered in the

peaceful atmosphere of the German home. Ilse heard around her curses

and heart-breaking lamentations, she saw a dark fatality impending over

men of the noblest feeling and iron will; she felt the storm of passion

raging in powerful souls, and heard, amidst the cry of revenge and

despair, the soft chords of soul-stirring pathos, sounding with

irresistible magic.

The time had indeed come when Ilse could comprehend and enter into the

feelings and fate of others than herself.

The bright rays of the midday sun do not always shine upon the paths of

man. Not with the eye alone does he seek his way amid the shadows of

night, but he hearkens, too, to the secret voices within his breast.

From the battle of clashing duties, from the irresistible impulse of

passion, it is not with most men a careful thought or a wise adage that

saves or ruins; it is the quick resolve which breaks forth from within

like an uncontrollable impulse of nature and which is yet produced by

the compulsion of their whole past lives--by all that man knows and

believes, by all that he has suffered and done. What forces us to the

good or the bad in the sombre hours of trial, people call character,

and the changing steps of the wayfarer through life as he seeks his way

amid difficulty and danger, the spectator at the play calls dramatic

movement.

He only who has wandered amid the flitting shadows of night, and has

seriously listened to the secret admonitions of his inmost soul, can

fully understand the spirit of others who, in a similar position, have

sought to extricate themselves from an intricate labyrinth, and have

found safety or met destruction.

Ilse, too, had experienced hours of fleeting terrors; she also had

trembled as to whether she had pursued the right path.

The seventh tragedy of the Greek poet had been read; the boldest

representation of bitter passion and bloody revenge. Ilse sat mute and

horrified at the outbreak of fearful hatred from the heart of Electra.

Then her husband, in order to recall her to less anxious thoughts,

began: "Now you have heard all that remains to us of the art and power

of a wonderful poetical mind, and you must tell me which of his

characters has most attracted you."

"If you mean that in which the power of his poetry has most impressed

me, it is always the newest form which has appeared to me the greatest,

and today it is the monstrous conception of Electra. But if you ask

which has pleased me most--"

"The gentle Ismene?" interrupted the Professor, laughing.

Ilse shook her head. "No, it is the valiant son of Achilles. At first

he was tempted to yield to the cunning counsel of his confederate, and

do violence to an unfortunate fellow-creature; but after a long

struggle his noble nature conquers: he sees that it will be wrong, and

he asserts his manhood by refusing."

The Professor closed the book, and looked with astonishment at his

wife.

"There is," continued Ilse, "in the greatest characters of your Greek

poet a stern rigidity that frightens me. Something is wanting in all to

make them like us; they do not doubt as we do, nor struggle; even when

they do right, their greatness consists in their immovable

determination to do something fearful, or rigid persistence in stemming

a terrible fate. But while we expect that the strong man shall act

powerfully, according to his nature, either for good or evil, he does

not gain our full human sympathy, unless we have the certainty that he

experiences an inward struggle such as we may ourselves feel."

"Such as we may ourselves feel?" asked the Professor, seriously, laying

aside the book. "How do you come by this experience? Have you, Ilse,

some secret from your husband?"

Ilse rose and looked at him with dismay.

But the Professor continued, cheerfully: "I will first tell you why I

ask, and what I would like to know from you. When I brought you from

your country-home you were, in spite of your deep German feeling, in

many respects just such as we like to picture to ourselves Nausicaa and

Penelope. You freely received impressions from the world around you;

you stood sure and strong in a firmly-bound sphere of right and duty;

with childlike trust you gathered from the moral habits of your circle,

and from Holy Scripture, your standard of judgment and conduct. Your

love for me, and contact with other souls, and the insight into a new

sphere of knowledge, awakened in your heart passionate vibrations;

uncertainty came, and then doubt; new thoughts struggled against old

impressions, the demands of your new life against the tenor of your

maiden years. You were for months more unhappy than I had any idea of.

But now, when I have been rejoicing in your cheerful repose of mind, I

find you have acquired a knowledge of human nature that astonishes me.

I have often lately seen, with secret pleasure, how warmly you have

sympathized with, and how mildly you have judged, the characters of the

drama. I had expected that their hard and monstrous fate would have

been repulsive to you, and that you would have felt rapid transitions

from tenderness to aversion. But you have sympathy with the dark forms

as well as with the bright, as if your soul had begun to anticipate

that in one's own life, good and evil, blessing and curse, might be

associated, and as if you had yourself experienced that man has not to

follow an outward moral law alone, however exalted its origin, but that

he may at some period be compelled to seek for some other law in the

depths of his own soul. But such an insight men can only attain when

they themselves experience danger and trouble. It is improbable that

this should have been the case with you, unless you have gone through

some experience to which I have been a stranger. I do not wish to urge

your confidence; I know what trust I can repose in you; but if you

think fit, I would gladly know what has given rise to this sensitive

feeling for the secret struggles of men who are hurried along by a

tragic fate."

Ilse seized him by the hand and drew him into her room. "It was on this

spot," she exclaimed, "a stranger asked me whether he should expose

himself to the danger of death for the sake of his honor, or whether he

should expose another in his place. I had given him a right to ask such

a question, for I had before spoken to him of his life with greater

frankness than was prudent for a careful woman. I stood and struggled

against the question that he put to me, but I could not refuse to

answer; and, Felix, to tell you the truth, I did not wish to do so. I

gave him counsel which might have brought him to a bloody end. I gave

him that advice secretly, and I became entangled in a fatal web from

which I could not extricate myself. I thought of you, but I did not

dare to tell you, as you must either have been unfaithful to the duties

of your office, or you must for ever have wounded the honorable

feelings of another. I questioned our holy teachings: they told me only

that my advice was sinful. I was unhappy, Felix, that I had come into

this position, but still more unhappy that neither you nor the

teachings of my faith could help me out of it. It was no merit of mine

that things turned out better than I feared they would. Since that I

have known, Felix, what struggles of conscience are; now you know the

only secret that I have ever had from you. If I did wrong, judge me

mildly, for by all that is sacred I could not have done otherwise."

"And the Prince?" asked her husband, softly.

"He is a good and gentle soul, an immature man, while I was your wife.

With him there was no doubt and no struggle."

"I know enough, you earnest, high-minded woman," said the Professor, "I

see that, as against your knowledge of life, I can now pack up my

books. For of what value is the teaching of books, however good they

may be, in comparison to that of life. A foolish student's duel, in

which you were the invisible adviser, has done more, perhaps to form

your mind, than my prudent words would have done in the course of

years. Be of good courage. Lady Ilse of Bielstein; whatever fate may

still await us, I know now that you are fitted for inward struggles,

and we need not be solicitous about dangers from without. For, however

much we human beings may be troubled and agitated here on earth, he who

has once learnt to know himself so well that he is able to read the

secret writing of other souls, is well protected against the

temptations of the world."

What the German scholar said as he now so warmly clasped his wife in

his arms was not amiss, only it is a pity that we have no certainty of

reading the secrets of other souls; and it is a pity that the greatest

knowledge of the secret writing in the souls of others cannot serve us

in warding off the storms of our own passions.

* * *

The Chamberlain, who now acted as marshal to the Hereditary Prince, was

holding a conference with his father upon the concerns of his office.

Among other things there was also the question of promoting Krueger, of

butter-machine fame, to higher honors and, what was of no less

importance, to the full salary due the valet of an Hereditary Prince.

Contrary to expectations the Sovereign was ready to agree to his

proposals, and the Chamberlain, pleased at the gracious humor of his

master, was about to take leave, when the Sovereign stopped him by the

kind remark, "Your sister Malwine, looks ill; does she dance too much?

You should take care of her delicate health; nothing would be more

injurious to such a constitution than an early marriage. I hope to see

her pleasant countenance at Court for a long time yet."

Now Fraeulein Malwine was secretly betrothed to one of the Sovereign's

officers; it was known at Court and in the city, but the betrothed were

poor, and the consent of the Sovereign was necessary for their union.

In order to obtain this it was advisable to await a favorable

opportunity. Therefore the Chamberlain was alarmed at his master's

words; he perceived a secret threat in them, and while he thanked him

for his gracious sympathy, his face betrayed his dismay.

After the Sovereign, by this short turn of the peg, had tuned the

strings of his instrument, he continued, with indifference: "If you

have a quarter of an hour to spare, I wish you to accompany me into the

cabinet of antiquities."

They passed through corridors and halls into a distant part of the

castle, where, on an upper floor, a large collection of old coins,

carved stones, and other minor relics of Greek and Roman times, were

arranged. Many generations of rulers had contributed to it, but the

greatest part had been brought by the Sovereign himself when returning

from his travels. He had, in former years, taken great interest in the

arrangement of these things, and spent large sums in purchasing others;

but gradually this fancy had passed off, and for years the feather

brush of the curator had only removed the dust for occasional strangers

who had happened accidentally to hear of this almost unknown

collection, and had honored it with a visit.

The Chamberlain, therefore accompanied his master with the feeling that

this unusual idea signified something; and he felt a gloomy

anticipation that what was impending boded no good. The Sovereign

returned with a nod the low obeisance of the dilapidated curator; he

passed in review the long rows of rooms, had some cases opened for him,

took in his hand the written catalogue, and examined carefully the gold

coins of Alexander the Great and his successors, and inspected a

collection of old glass vessels and vases, in which the artistic work

of the ancient glass-cutters was particularly striking. Then he asked

for the strangers' book, in which the names of the visitors were

recorded. After he had sent the man away with a commission, he began,

to his attendant: "The collection is less seen that it deserves; I have

long thought of having it made better known and more useful to men of

learning, by a better arrangement and a good catalogue. It has been one

of the little pleasures of my life; I have learnt much by it, and it

has at times banished annoyances from my mind. Do you know of any one

who would be fitted to undertake the management of a work so important

and exacting?"

The Chamberlain bethought himself, but no one occurred to him.

"I should prefer a stranger," continued the Sovereign. "That will give

rise to a passing and unembarrassed connection. He must of course be

learned and have good guarantees of character."

The Chamberlain named several connoiseurs from other capitals. The

Sovereign looked at him keenly, and shook his head. "Think it over," he

repeated; "perhaps some one will occur to you."

The examination continued. An antique vase interested the Sovereign by

reminding him of how he had obtained it. A Roman woman, of great beauty

and commanding figure, had suddenly confronted him and offered it to

him with such a distinguished manner, that he, as he laughingly

expressed it, was so surprised by the unusual demeanor of the woman,

and her sonorous voice, that he paid her more than she asked.

No one yet occurred to the Chamberlain.

On his way back to his apartments the Sovereign remained standing in

one of the spacious but lonely halls and asked the Chamberlain, "Has it

not occurred to you that Scarletti dresses badly?"

The Chamberlain dissented, for the actress mentioned was supposed to be

in favor.

"Yesterday evening she carried an immense bouquet. To which of our

young men is this ungraceful attention to be ascribed?"

Again the Chamberlain was astounded.

"As you are disposed to know nothing to-day," continued the Sovereign,

in a sharp tone, "I must tell you that I should be sorry to see the

Hereditary Prince having any intercourse whatever with the ladies of

the theatre. He is not old enough to carry on such connections with the

necessary reserve; and the vanity of these ladies will bring every

favor to public notice."

The Chamberlain affirmed, upon his honor, that he knew nothing of these

civilities of the Hereditary Prince, and that, even if the assumption

of his gracious master was well founded, it could only have been a

passing idea of the Prince that had occasioned this gift. "Your

Highness will be convinced that I would not lend a hand to anything of

this kind."

"But I do not choose that you should close your eyes to it," continued

the Sovereign, bitterly; "you stood in the box behind the Hereditary

Prince, and you must have seen the coquettish look of admiration which

she cast upon him. The present was probably sent by the new valet; let

him know that in my service one does not carry two faces under one

hood. But I require of you," he continued, more calmly, "that you

should redouble your vigilance. What occupies him now?"

"He attends regularly the small evening parties of the Princess."

"And in the day?" added the Sovereign, continuing the examination.

"As your Highness knows, he is fond of music; he plays duets with the

music-master."

"What does he read?"

The Chamberlain named some French books. "May I be allowed humbly

to make a proposal? It would, in every point of view, be useful

to his Highness if he had the pleasure of devising or arranging

something--perhaps the laying out of a park, or the management of a

farm. I venture to suggest that a similar occupation has been found

advantageous to young princes at other courts. Perhaps one of your

Highness's castles could be adapted for such a purpose."

"And the Hereditary Prince and Mr. von Weidegg would keep their own

court, and remain many months in the year far from ours, at their

villa," replied the Sovereign.

"I assure your Highness that I never thought of such a thing," answered

the Chamberlain, offended.

"I do not blame you," replied the Sovereign, with cutting courtesy.

"Consideration for my coffers forbids my assenting to your proposal;

but I shall think of it. It is a disappointment to me that the Prince

has not learned to take an interest in anything during his stay at the

University. Has he had no personal relations during that time that may

have given some zest to his life?"

"He took great pleasure in the circle of Professor Werner," replied the

good Chamberlain, hesitatingly.

"I hope he preserves a grateful recollection of his teacher."

"He speaks with great interest of him and his family," rejoined the

Chamberlain.

"It is well," concluded the Sovereign. "I will take into consideration

the question of agricultural occupation; and do not forget to think a

little concerning my collection."

This new demand could no longer be withstood by the Chamberlain; he was

silent for some minutes, inwardly struggling, while the Sovereign moved

on with his head turned towards him, like one who waits for something

decisive.

"I do not know that I can propose any one better for the purpose than

Professor Werner himself," said the Chamberlain, at last.

The Sovereign again stopped. "You consider him fitted for the work?"

"With respect to his scientific capabilities I naturally can form no

judgment," replied the Chamberlain, cautiously.

Irritated by this cowardly attempt to draw back, the Sovereign asked

with emphasis, "Would he undertake such a charge?"

"He has a very distinguished position at the University, and is happily

married; and he would, undoubtedly, not like to leave his present

position for any length of time."

"Perhaps that may be arranged," rejoined the Sovereign. "Werner, then,

is the man. At a short interview I accidentally had with him he made a

good impression on me. Do not forget to remind me this evening that the

archives at Bielstein are to be searched."

Thus did a father exert himself for the benefit of his son.

The Chamberlain reminded his lord that evening that there had been a

question of an investigation in the archives of Bielstein, and the

sovereign thanked him for it. The following morning orders were given

through the Council to the keepers of the records and members of other

branches of the Court and State administration, to seek out and send

all records of a certain age that had reference to the castle of

Bielstein and monastery of Rossau. This order occasioned a great

raising of dust, and five large leather sacks were filled with records

and old papers. The collection was sent to the Professor; and in a

letter the Sovereign expressed his thanks for the attentions which the

Professor had shown the Hereditary Prince. He added that, remembering a

former conversation, he sent for his inspection all that, in a cursory

search, could be found concerning a place in which he took an interest.

This letter gave cause for serious consideration to two inquiring

minds. When the dubious report of the student concerning an existing

chest had disturbed the peace of the house, the friends had again

turned their attention to the inventory of the deceased Bachhuber, and

had once more pondered over every word of it: "In a hollow and dry

place, LOCO CAVO ET SICCO." The word place, _locus_, occasioned much

thought; but they could come to no certainty about it. "Of the house of

Bielstein, domus Bielsteyn!"--here the expression house, _domus_, was

very remarkable. Did it mean that the manuscript lay concealed

in the dwelling house itself, or was the word house used in the

obsolete meaning of estate or property? The Doctor contended for the

dwelling-house, the Professor for the estate. Much depended upon this;

for if _domus_ signified estate, the manuscript might be concealed in

any part of the property. "I have deposited it all, _haec omnia

deposui_!" The word all, _omnia_, was very comforting; for it gave the

certainty that the deceased Bachhueber had not left the manuscript

behind. But the depositing was a matter of some doubt. Did the word

betoken that the manuscript was deposited only in Bielstein, and thus

given over and entrusted, so to speak, to the inhabitants?--or had the

writer chosen the expression because he wished to signify the interring

and blocking it up in some deep place? To us laymen in the Latin

tongue, it appears clear indeed that Bachhuber was very glad to have a

Latin vocabulary in which to signify the concealment of his treasure;

however, the feeling of the learned men was otherwise. Finally, the

friends agreed in taking the view, that, in spite of this account, the

walls of the house were worthy of future attention. The hollow places

which the Doctor had registered might be examined; the cupboard in the

wall in Ilse's bedroom appeared a place not to be despised. The

Professor, therefore, determined to obtain some certainty on that point

during the next vacation. The business of the Rector had only allowed a

short visit to the castle this time; but the Professor would be aided

by his position in the family, which opened Ilse's room and cupboard to

him.

It was a fine August day; the father was riding about in his fields,

and Ilse sitting with Clara in household consultation, when an uproar

was raised in the kitchen, and the housekeeper, quite beside herself,

rushed into the sitting-room, exclaiming: "There are ghosts around

again!" There was, in fact, a loud knocking in the house, and the maids

congregated in the hall. The noise came from the upper story; so Ilse

hastened upstairs, and, on opening the door to her room, found the

Professor, in his shirt sleeves, working in the cupboard with various

tools he had obtained from the carpenter. He received her, laughing,

and called out, to tranquilize her, that he was nailing the cupboard

boards tighter. This was right, but he had first broken through them.

The manuscript was not there, and nothing was to be seen but an empty

space and a few bits of mortar. There was, however, one inexplicable

thing, which might be a trace of the manuscript--a small bit of blue

cloth rag; how that had come into the wall was a riddle. On further

examination, it appeared that it was not colored with indigo;

therefore, probably, it had existed previous to the introduction of

that color into civilization. Whether a mouse, in her motherly care,

had deposited it there as an ornament to her bed, and at the same time

for food in a desperate case of necessity, could not be ascertained, as

at present these folk seem to have no traditions of the past, and the

individual had probably been eaten some centuries ago by an ancestor of

one of our cats.