Chapter XX: A Court Matter (9)

On the following day, a quarter of an hour before his friends started, the Doctor went to the wood, disguised in a grey coat and dark hat, in order to fall upon the presumptuous versifier from his hiding-place; he undertook to chastise the offender so that the Professor would be spared any personal interference. He found a good place just opposite the bench, where the dense beech foliage would conceal the hunter from his game. There he placed himself in a good position, drew a large opera-glass from his pocket and fixed his eyes attentively on the bench in question. The bench was still empty; the few pedestrians passed it by with indifference; the time seemed long; the Doctor looked for half an hour through the glasses, until his eyes began to ache, but he persevered. His place was well chosen; the offender could not escape. Suddenly, just as his eyes accidentally glanced toward Mr. Hummel's house, he saw the garden gate open; something dark passed out between the trees and came toward the bench out of the thicket, looked cautiously round, passed by the bench and disappeared again among the trees and through the hostile garden gate. An expression of infinite astonishment was depicted on the countenance of the Doctor; he closed his opera glass and laughed quietly to himself; then adjusted the glasses again, and peered after the vanished figure. He shook his head and fell into deep thought. He listened and heard the quiet steps of two promenaders. The Professor and Ilse came out of the wood. They stopped a few steps from the bench and looked at the fatal nosegay which lay there so innocently. The Doctor burst out from the copse, laughing, took up the nosegay, and, offering it to Ilse, said:

"It is not the student."

"Who then?" asked the Professor, uneasily.

"That I cannot tell," replied the Doctor; "but the affair is harmless--the nosegay is from a lady."

"Seriously?" asked the Professor.

"You may depend upon it," replied Fritz, convincingly. "It is from some one whom we both know and your wife need not hesitate to accept the greetings. It is given with the best intentions."

"Have the townspeople so many verses and secrets?" asked Ilse, curiously, taking the flowers with a light heart.

Again there was guessing: they could not find any one on whom they could fix it.

"I am glad that the mystery is thus solved," said the Professor; "but tell your poetess that such missives might easily fall into bad hands."

"I have no influence over her," replied the Doctor; "but whatever may have put it into her head to do this, it will not always remain a secret."

At last came the long-wished-for hour in which Laura was to have a private meeting with the distinguished stranger, as Ilse up to this day was designated in the private memoirs. Her mother had gone out when Ilse entered the sitting-room to ask a household question. Laura gave the information, gained courage and at last ventured to request Ilse to go with her into the garden. There they sat together under the last rays of an October sun and interchanged opinions concerning the boat, the Chinese temple and the passers-by. Finally, Laura respectfully took Ilse's hand and drew her into a corner of the garden to show her a great rarity--the abandoned nest of a hedge-sparrow. The birds had long flown away and the remains of the nest still hung on the half bare branches.

"Here they were," cried Laura, impressively; "charming little creatures; there were five speckled eggs there and they reared their little ones successfully. I was in mortal terror all the time on account of the cats that prowl about here."

"You have never lived in the country," said Ilse. "People here in the city are delighted if they can only keep one poor little sparrow in their garden. At home they chirruped, sang and flew about in all the trees; and unless there was something unusual about them, one took no particular notice of them. Here each little creature is valued and cared for, even the sparrows. The first morning I was here I was shocked at the sight of these poor creatures; they are not to be compared to their brothers in the country, their feathers are bristly and uneven, and their whole bodies are black and sooty, like charcoal-burners. I would gladly have taken a sponge to wash the whole lot."

"It would be of no use; they would become black again," said Laura, despondingly. "It is caused by the soot in the gutters."

"Does one become, so dusty and is one so roughly handled in the city? That is sad. It is certainly much more beautiful in the country." As Ilse softly acknowledged this, her eyes moistened involuntarily with the thought of the distant woody hills. "I am only a stranger here," she added more cheerfully. "The city would be very pleasant if there were not so many people: they annoy me with their staring, whenever I go out alone."

"I will accompany you if you like," said Laura, delighted; "I shall always be ready."

This was a kind offer and was thankfully accepted. Laura, in her great joy, ventured to ask Ilse to go with her into her private room. They ascended to the upper story. There the little sofa, the ivy screen, the shepherd and shepherdess, were duly admired, and finally the new piano.

"Will you play something for me?" asked Ilse. "I cannot play at all. We had an old piano but I learnt only a few tunes from my dear, mother for the children to dance to."

Laura took a piece of music, the first leaf of which was beautifully ornamented with gilded elves and lilies, and played the "Elfin Waltz," secretly trembling, but with great execution; and she explained, laughingly, with a shake of her black locks, the passages where the spirits came fluttering in and mysteriously chattered together. Ilse was highly delighted.

"How quickly your little fingers fly," she said, regarding Laura's delicate hand with admiration. "See how large my hand is in comparison and how hard the skin--that comes from doing housework."

Laura looked entreatingly at her. "If I might only hear you sing."

"I can sing nothing but hymns and some old country songs."

"Oh, do sing them," begged Laura. "I will endeavor to accompany you."

Ilse began an old melody and Laura tried a modest accompaniment and listened with transport to the rich sound of Ilse's voice; she felt her heart tremble under the swelling tones and ventured to join in the last verse.

After this she searched for a song which was known to both, and, when they succeeded tolerably in singing together, Laura clapped her hands enthusiastically, and they determined to practice some easy songs to surprise the Professor.

In the course of conversation Ilse confessed that she had seldom heard a concert, and occasionally when visiting in the neighborhood, had seen a play, but only one opera.

"The piece was called the _Freischuetz_," said Ilse; "the heroine was the forester's daughter, and she had a friend just as merry, with beautiful locks and frank eyes like yours; and the man whom she loved lost his faith in the gracious protection of heaven, and in order to obtain the girl he denied God and surrendered himself to the Evil One. That was fearful; her heart became heavy and a foreboding came over her; but she did not lose her strength of mind, nor her trust in help from above; and her faith saved her lover, over whom the Evil One had already stretched out his hand."

Then she accurately described the whole dramatic course of the action.

"It was enchanting," she said. "I was very young, and when I came back to our hotel I could not compose myself and my father was obliged to scold me."

Laura listened, sitting on a footstool at Ilse's feet; she held her hand fast and heard her account as a child listens to a tale she already knows.

"How well you describe it; 'tis as if one was reading a poem."

"Ah, no," exclaimed Ilse, shaking her head; "this compliment is just what I do not in the least deserve. I have never in my life made a verse and I am so prosaic that I do not know how my unpolished nature will adapt itself to the town, for here they write verses; they hum about in the air like flies in summer."

"What do you mean?" asked Laura, hanging her head.

"Only think, even I, a stranger, have received verses!"

"That is quite natural," said Laura, folding her handkerchief to conceal her confusion.

"I have found little nosegays on the bench in the park, with dear little poems, and the name of my home given by a letter and stars. See, first a large B, and then----"

Laura, in her delight at this account, looked up, from her handkerchief. Her cheeks were suffused with color. There was a roguish smile in her eyes.

Ilse looked at the beaming countenance and, as she spoke, guessed that she was the giver.

Laura bent down to kiss her hand, but Ilse raised the curly head, threatening her with her finger and kissing her.

"You are not angry with me," said Laura, "for being so bold?"

"It was very sweet and kind of you, but you must know that it caused us a great deal of uneasiness. The Doctor discovered you, but he did not tell us your name."

"The Doctor?" exclaimed Laura, starting up. "Must that man always interfere where I am concerned!"

"He kept your secret faithfully. Now I may tell my husband all about it, may I not? but, between ourselves, he was very much displeased for a time."

This was a triumph for Laura. Again she seated herself at Ilse's feet and archly begged her to relate what the Professor had said.

"That would not be right," answered Ilse, gravely; "that is his secret."

Thus an hour passed in pleasant talk till the clock struck, and Ilse rose hastily. "My husband will wonder where I have disappeared to," said she. "You are a dear girl. If you like we will become good friends."

Ah! that pleased Laura very much. She accompanied her visitor to the staircase, and on the step it occurred to her that she had forgotten the principal thing she wanted to say; her room was directly above that of the Professor's wife, and when Ilse opened the window she could communicate quickly with her by signals. Just as Ilse was about to close her door, Laura ran down once more in order to express her joy that Ilse had granted her this hour.

Laura returned to her room, paced up and down with rapid steps, and snapped her fingers like one who has won the great prize in a lottery. She confided to her journal her account of the consecrated hour, and of every word that Ilse had spoken, and concluded with verses:

"I found thee, pure one! Now my dream will live.
And tho' 'twixt joy and pain thy soul may pine,
I touch thy garment's hem and homage give,
And lovingly thee in my heart enshrine."

Then she seated herself at the piano and played with impassioned expression the melody which Ilse had sung to her. And Ilse below heard this heartfelt outburst of thanks for her visit.

_CHAPTER XIV_.

A DAY OF VISITS.

A carriage drove up to the door. Ilse entered her husband's study, attired for her first visit. "Look at me," she said; "do I look all right?"

"Very well," cried the Professor, joyfully, scanning his wife. But it was well that everything was as it should be without his help, for in matter of the toilet the critical eye of the Professor was of doubtful value.

"Now I begin a new game," continued Ilse, "such as the children used to play at home. I am to knock at your friends' doors and call out, Halloa, halloa! and when the ladies ask. Who is there? I shall answer, as in the game:

"I am a poor, poor beggar-maid,
And what I want is this:
For me I want a piece of bread;
For my husband I want a kiss."

"Well, so far as the kisses are concerned that I am to dispense to the wives of my colleagues," replied the Professor, putting on his gloves, "I should, on the whole, be obliged to you if you would take that business upon yourself."

"Ah, you men are very strict," said Ilse; "my little Franz also always refuses to play the game, because he would not kiss the stupid girls. I only hope that I'll not disgrace you."

They drove through the streets. On the way the Professor gave his wife an account of the persons and the particular branch of learning of each of his colleagues to whom he was taking her.

"Let us visit pleasant people first," he said. "Yonder lives Professor Raschke, our professor of philosophy, and a dear friend of mine. I hope his wife will please you."

"Is he very famous," asked Ilse, laying her hand on her beating heart.

The carriage stopped before a low dwelling at the further end of the suburb. Gabriel hastened into the house to announce the visitors; finding the kitchen empty, he knocked at the parlor-door, and, finally, being experienced in the customs of the family, opened the entrance into the court yard. "Professor Raschke and his wife are in the garden."

The visitors passed through a narrow yard into a kitchen-garden, which the owner of the house had given his lodger permission to walk in, to get the benefit of the air. The couple were walking along the path under the noon-sun of an autumn day. The lady carried a little child on her arm; the husband held a book in his hand, from which he was reading to his companion. In order, however, to do as much family duty as possible, the Professor had fastened the pole of a baby carriage to his belt and thus drew a second child after him. The backs of the couple were turned to the guests and they moved slowly forward, listening and reading aloud.

"An encounter in the narrow path is not desirable," said Felix; "we must wait until they turn round the square and face us."

It was some time before the procession overcame the hindrances of the journey, for the Professor in the eagerness of reading, sometimes stopped to explain, as might be seen from the motion of his hands. Ilse examined the appearance of the strange pedestrians with curiosity. The wife was pale and delicate; one could perceive that she had recently left a sick bed. The man had a nobly formed, intellectual face, about which hung long dark hair with a sprinkling of gray upon it. They had come close to the guests, when the wife turned her eyes from her husband and perceived the visitors.

"What a pleasure!" cried the Philosopher, dropping his book into the great pocket of his coat. "Good morning, my dear colleague. Ha! that is our dear Professor's wife. Unhitch me from the carriage, Aurelia; the family bonds hamper me."

The unhitching took some time, as the hands of the mistress of the house were not free, and Professor Raschke by no means kept still, but struggled forward, and had already seized with both hands those of his colleague and wife.

"Come into the house, my dear guests," he exclaimed, striding forward with long steps, while Felix introduced his wife to the lady. Professor Raschke forgot his baby carriage, which Ilse lifted over the threshold and rolled into the hall. There she took up the neglected child from its seat and both ladies entered the room with a diminutive chip of philosophy in their arms, exchanging their first friendly greetings, while the little one in Ilse's arms lustily swung his rattle, and the youngest child on the arm of its mother began to scream. Meanwhile colleague Raschke went about clearing the room, removed books and papers from the sofa, shook faded sofa-cushions into form, which emitted clouds of dust, and cordially invited his guests to be seated.

At length the confusion subsided. Ilse played with the child on her lap, while Mrs. Raschke after a disappearance for a moment came back without the screaming infant. She sat shyly by Ilse, but asked her friendly questions in a gentle voice. The lively Philosopher, however, was always interrupting the conversation of the ladies; he stroked the hand of the Professor, while he nodded in the direction of his wife. "This is quite right; I rejoice that you accustom yourself to our mode of life while still so young, for our wives have not an easy time of it--their outer life is limited and they have many demands made upon them at home. We are often wearisome companions, difficult to deal with, peevish, morose, and perverse." He shook his head disapprovingly over the character of the world of learning, but his face smiled with genuine pleasure.

The end of the visit was hastened by the baby, who began to cry piteously in the next room.

"Are you going already?" said the Philosopher to Ilse; "this cannot be counted as a visit. You please me much, and you have true eyes; and I see that you have a kind disposition, and that is everything. All we want is, in the face a good mirror through which the images of life are reflected fully and purely, and in the heart an enduring flame which will communicate its warmth to others. Whoever has that will do well, even if it is her fate to be the wife as you are, of a sedentary student, and as is this poor mother of five screaming young ones."

Again he strode rapidly about, fetched an old hat from the corner and handed it to the wife of his colleague. Ilse laughed.

"Oh, I see. It is a gentleman's hat," said Professor Raschke; "perhaps it belongs to your husband."

"I also am provided with one," said the Professor.

"Then it must be my own after all," said Raschke; and jamming the hat on his head, he accompanied his guests to the carriage.

For some time Ilse sat in the carriage dumb with astonishment. "Now I have regained my courage, Felix; the professors are still less alarming than the students."

"All will not receive you so warmly," answered the Professor. "He who comes next is my colleague Struvelius; he teaches Greek and Latin, as I do; he is not one of my intimate acquaintances, but is a thorough scholar."

This time it was a house in the city; the apartments were a little more ancient than in Ilse's new dwelling. This professor's wife wore a black silk dress, and was sitting before a writing-table covered with books and papers; a delicate lady, of middle age, with a small but clever face and an extraordinary coiffure; for her short hair was combed behind her ears in one large roll of curl, which gave her a certain resemblance to Sappho or Corinne, so far as a comparison is allowable with ladies of antiquity, the growth of whose hair is by no means satisfactorily ascertained.

Mrs. Struvelius arose slowly and greeted the visitors with haughty demeanor; she expressed her pleasure to Ilse and then turned to the Professor. "I have to-day commenced reading the work of colleague Raschke and I admire the deep thought of the man."

"His writings are delightful," replied the Professor, "because in all of them we discover a thorough and pure-minded man."

"I agree with your premise and consequent conclusion in this particular instance, but with regard to the general proposition you assert, allow me to say that many works that form an epoch in literature would have no great excellence, if it were necessary to be a perfect man in order to write a good book."

Ilse looked timidly at the learned lady who had ventured to oppose her husband.

"Yet we will come to an agreement," continued the Professor's wife, fluently, as if she were reading from a book. "It is not requisite for every valuable work that its author should be a man of character, but he who truly has this noble qualification, would be unlikely to produce anything which would have an unfavorable influence on his branch of learning; undoubtedly the weaknesses of a learned work originate more frequently than one supposes in the author's weakness of character."

The Professor nodded assentingly.

"For," she continued, "the position which a scholar assumes with respect to the great questions of the day, affecting his branch of learning--nay, with respect even to the advantages and deficiencies of his method--may generally be explained from his character. You have always lived in the country," she said, turning to Ilse. "It would be instructive to me to learn what impression you have received of the mutual relations of people in the town."

"I have met but few as yet," rejoined Ilse, timidly.

"Of course," said Mrs. Struvelius. "But I mean that you will observe with surprise that near neighborhood does not always imply intimate intercourse. But Struvelius must be told you are here."

She rose, opened the door of the next room, and standing bolt upright by the door, called out:

"Professor and Mrs. Werner!"

A slight murmur and the hasty rustling of leaves of a book were heard in the adjoining room. The wife closed the door and continued:

"For after all we live among many and associate with few. In the city we choose from among many individuals with a certain arbitrariness. One might have more acquaintance than one has, but even this feeling gives you confidence, and such confidence is more easily acquired in town than in the country."

The side door opened. Professor Struvelius entered with an absent-minded manner. He had a sharp nose, thin lips and wore an unusual style of head dress. For his hair stood so peculiarly after its own fashion, that one was justified in assuming that the head gear was hereditary and had suggested the name of the family. He bowed slightly, pushed a chair forward and seated himself in it silently--probably his thoughts were still occupied with his Greek historian. Ilse suffered from the conviction that the visit was an inopportune interruption and that it was a great condescension on the part of his wife to speak to her at all.

"Are you musical?" said Mrs. Struvelius, inquisitively.

"I can hardly say so," answered Ilse.

"I am glad of it," said the hostess, moving opposite to her and examining her with her sharp eyes. "From my estimate of you, I should think you could not be musical. The art of music makes us weak and leads too frequently to an imperfect state of existence."

Felix endeavored, with little success, to make the Professor take part in the conversation; and the visitors soon rose. On taking leave, Mrs. Struvelius stretched the lower part of her arm in a rectangular line toward Ilse and said, with a solemn pressure of the hand:

"Pray feel yourself at home with us." And the words of her husband, bidding them adieu, were cut short by the closing of the door.

"What do you say now?" said the Professor, as they drove away.

"Ah, Felix, I feel very insignificant; my courage has left me, I would rather return home."

"Be composed," said the husband, consolingly; "you are going about to-day as if you were at a fair, looking over the contents of the tables. What does not please you, you need not buy. The next visit is to our historian, a worthy man, who is one of the good genii of our University. His daughter also is an amiable young lady."

A servant opened the door and conducted them into the reception-room. There were some good landscapes on the wall; a pianoforte, a pretty flower stand, with rare plants, well arranged and taken care of. The daughter entered hastily; she had a delicate face with beautiful dark eyes. A stately old gentleman with a distinguished air followed her. He looked something like a high official, only his lively way of speaking showed him to be a man of learning. Ilse was warmly and heartily welcomed. The old gentleman seated himself near her and began an easy conversation, and Ilse soon felt herself as comfortable as with an intimate acquaintance. She was also reminded of her home, for he asked:

"Are any of the remains of the old monastery at Rossau still preserved?"

Felix looked up with curiosity, and Ilse answered: "Only the walls; the interior is rebuilt."

"It was one of the oldest ecclesiastical foundations of your region, and has stood many centuries, and undoubtedly exercised influence over a wide district. It is remarkable that the records of the monastery are almost all wanting, and all other accounts or notices, so far as I know, are very scanty. One may suppose that much still lies in concealment there."

Ilse observed how the countenance of her husband lighted up; but he replied, quietly:

"In the place itself, my inquiries were in vain."

"That is possible," agreed the Historian. "Perhaps the documents have been taken to the seat of government, and lie there unused."

Thus passed one visit after another. Next came the Rector, a Professor of Medicine, an agreeable man of the world, who kept up an elegant establishment. His wife was a plump, active lady, with restless, inquiring eyes. Then came the Secretary of the theological Consistory, a tall, thin gentleman with a sweet smile; his wife, too, was over-proportioned in everything,--in nose, mouth, and hospitality. The last was the Mineralogist, a clever young man with a very pretty wife; they had only been married a few months. While the young women, seated on the sofa, were rapidly becoming acquainted. Ilse was for the second time surprised by a question from the Professor:

"Your home is not without interest for my department. Is there not a cave in the neighborhood?"

Ilse colored and looked again at her husband.

"It is on my father's estate."

"Indeed! I am just now at work on a new discovery that has been made on your estate," exclaimed the Mineralogist.

He produced a stone of remarkably radiated structure.

"This is a very rare mineral that has been discovered in the neighborhood of the cave; it was sent me by an apothecary of the province."

He told her the name of the mineral, and spoke of the stone of which the cave was formed, and the rock on which her father's house stood, just as if he had been there himself, and made Ilse describe the lines of the hills and the quarries of the neighborhood. He listened attentively to her clear answers, and thought the geological structure of the estate very remarkable.

Ilse was delighted and exclaimed:

"We imagined that no one in the world cared about us; but I see the learned gentlemen know more about our country than we ourselves do."

"We know, at least, how to find something more precious than fragments of rock there," replied the Professor courteously.

After their return home, Ilse entered her husband's room, where he had already sat down to his work.

"Let me remain with you to-day, Felix? My head is confused with all the persons to whom you have taken me; I have seen so much within one day, and have had so much friendliness shown me by clever and distinguished men. The learned lady frightened me most; and, Felix, it is perhaps wrong in me to say so, for she is much more clever and refined, but I found a resemblance in her to a good old acquaintance of ours."

"Mrs. Rollmaus," assented the Professor. "But this lady is in reality very clever," he added.

"Heaven grant," said Ilse, "that she may be equally true-hearted! But I feel terrified at her learning. I like the other ladies, and the husbands still better. There is something noble about almost all of them, they converse wonderfully well, they are unconstrained and seem to have real inward happiness and gladness of heart; and naturally so, for they hover over the earth like your gods of old, and, therefore, they may well be cheerful. Ah! and there was the patched smoking jacket which dear Professor Raschke wore--moth and rust will never eat that! When I think that all these clever people have treated me with kindness and regard, solely on my husband's account, I do not know how I can thank you sufficiently. And now that I have been received into this new society, I can only ask that my entrance into it may be blessed."

"The husband stretched out his hand and drew her toward him; she clasped his head with her hands and bent over him.

"What are you working at now?" she asked, softly.

"Nothing very important; merely a treatise that I have to prepare every year for the University."

He then told her something of the contents of the work.

"And when that is finished, what then?"

"Then I must set about other tasks."

"And thus it goes on always from morning to evening, every year, till the eyes fail and the strength breaks," said Ilse piteously. "I have a great favor to ask of you to-day, Felix. Will you show me the books which you have written--all of them?"

"All that I still possess," said the Professor, and he collected books and treatises here and there from every corner.

Ilse opened one work after another, and she found that she already knew the Latin titles of some of them by heart. The Professor became interested in this occupation, and was always finding more little treatises which he had forgotten. Ilse laid them all before her in a heap and began solemnly:

"A great crisis has now come for me. I wish to learn from you the contents of each writing as far as you are able to explain it to your wife. When I was already secretly in love with you, the children found your name in the encyclopedia; we endeavored to read the strange titles of your books, and Mrs. Rollmaus made conjectures in her way as to the contents. Then I felt sorry that I could understand nothing of what you had done for mankind. Since that, I have always hoped the day would come when I could ask you what it was that you knew better than others, and by reason of which I should be proud of belonging to you. The hour is now come; for to-day you have introduced me to your friends as your wife, and I want to be your wife there too where your treasure and your heart are--as far as I can."

"Dear Ilse," exclaimed the Professor, carried away by her frank dignity.

"But do not forget," continued Ilse, with emphasis, "that I understand very little, and pray have patience with me. I have arranged how I wish to have it done. Write down for me, in a note-book that I have bought for the purpose, the titles, as they are in the foreign language and also in German, first of your earliest works and then the last. Together with this, note down what value you place on the work, and what is its importance for mankind. Underneath every work I will set down what I understand from your explanation, that I may well remember them."

She produced a note-book; the Professor searched again for some more treatises, arranged them according to date, and wrote each title on one page of the book. Then he gave his wife some explanation of the contents of each work, and helped her to write her remarks in the note-book.

"Those in German I will endeavor to read myself," said Ilse.

Thus they both sat bending eagerly over the books, and the Professor's heart beat with pleasure at the earnestness with which his wife endeavored to understand his occupations. For it is the lot of the scholar that few look with sympathy upon his trouble, his struggles, and the worth of his work. The world regards him as a common laborer. What he has formed, with enduring strength, henceforth becomes a building-stone in the immeasurable house of learning on which all the races of the earth have been laboring for thousands of years. Hundreds of others make a foundation of it to advance their own work; thousands of new blocks are piled upon it, and there are few to inquire who has chiseled the separate columns, and still more seldom does a stranger grasp the hand of the workman. The light works of the poet are long greeted by those in whom he has raised a cheerful smile or an exalted feeling. But the scholar seldom makes a valuable confidant or friend of his reader by his individual works. He does not paint enchanting pictures for the imagination; he does not flatter the yearning soul; he demands the utmost seriousness and the closest attention from his readers, the benefit of which redounds to himself in every criticism that is made. Even where he inspires respect he remains a stranger.

And yet he is not a mere stonemason who cuts formless blocks according to prescribed measures. He works independently and contributes his own life-blood, sometimes suffering great depression, sometimes full of joy and happiness. The fruits that he proffers his age have grown from the deepest roots of his life. Therefore the honest mind that enters heartily into the labor of the learned, and not only inquires for the ultimate result of learning, but takes an interest in the inward struggle of the workman, is to him a valuable treasure, a rare happiness.--Felix now looked with emotion at his wife, who was striving to occupy this position, and tender emotions swelled the heart of the strong-minded man while he explained to her the subjects of his labors,--while he told her about the Roman _tribus_ and the duties of the senate.

When all was noted down, Ilse laid her hands on the books and exclaimed:

"Here I have all. What a small space they occupy, yet they employed many laborious days and nights, and the best portion of your noble life. This has often given you flushed cheeks as you have to-day. For this you have studied till your poor brain has been on fire, and for this you have always sat in a confined room. I have hitherto looked upon books with indifference; now for the first time I perceive what a book is, a quiet endless labor."

"That is not to be said of all," replied the Professor; "but the superior ones are more even than a labor."

He gazed lovingly on the walls along which the high book-shelves reached up to the very ceiling, so that the room looked as if papered with the backs of books.

"The great number of them quite frightens me," said Ilse, helping him to make room for his own books in a dark corner, which was now cleared for them as their resting-place. "They look so calm and composed, and yet many of them may have been written with such impassioned feeling, and have excited their readers, too."

"Yes," said her husband, "they are the great treasure-wards of the human race. They preserve all that is most valuable of what has ever been thought or discovered, from one century to another; and they proclaim what existed once, and once only, upon the earth. Here is what was produced full a thousand years before our era, and close beside them those that have come into the world but a few weeks ago."

"Yet, from the coats that they wear, they look almost like each other," said Ilse. "I should have difficulty in distinguishing them."

The Professor explained their arrangement and led her from one book shelf to another, pointing out those works which were his special favorites.

"And you use them all?"

"Yes, and many more at times. These that you see here are only an infinitely small portion of the books that have been printed; for since the invention of books, almost all that we know and call learning is to be found in them. But that is not all," he continued; "few know that a book is something more than simply a product of the creative mind, which its author sends forth as a cabinet-maker does a chair that has been ordered. There remains, indeed, attached to every human work something of the soul of the man who has produced it. But a book contains between its covers the actual soul of the man. The real value of a man to others--the best portion of his life--remains in this form for the generations that follow, and perhaps for the farthermost future. Moreover, not only those who write a good book, but those whose lives and actions are portrayed in it, continue in fact living among us. We converse with them as with friends and opponents; we admire or contend with, love or hate them, not less than if they dwelt bodily among us. The human soul that is enclosed in such a cover becomes imperishable on earth, and, therefore, we may say that the soul-life of the individual becomes enduring in books, and only the soul which is encased in a book has certain duration on earth."

"But error persists also," said Ilse, "and so do liars and impure spirits when they are put in books."

"They undoubtedly do, but are refuted by better souls. Very different, certainly, is the value and import of these imperishable records. Few maintain their beauty and importance for all periods; many are only valuable at a later time, because we ascertain from them the character and life of men in their days, while others are quite useless and ephemeral. But all books that have ever been written from the earliest to the latest, have a mysterious connection. For, observe, no one who has written a book has of himself become what he is; every one stands on the shoulders of his predecessor; all that was produced before his time has helped to form his life and soul. Again, what he has produced, has in some sort formed other men, and thus his soul has passed to later times. In this way the contents of books form one great soul-empire on earth, and all who now write, live and nourish themselves on the souls of the past generations. From this point of view the soul of mankind is an immeasurable unity, which comprises every one who ever thus lived and worked, as well as those who breathe and produce new works at present. The soul, which past generations felt as their own, has been and is daily transmigrating into others. What is written today may to-morrow become the possession of thousands of strangers. Those who have long ago ceased to exist in the body continue to live in new forms here on earth, and daily revive in thousands of others."

"Stop," cried Ilse, entreatingly, "I am bewildered."

"I tell you this now, because I too feel myself a modest worker in this earthly soul-empire. This feeling gives me a pleasure in life which is indestructible, and it also gives me both freedom and modesty. For whoever works with this feeling, whether his powers be great or small, does so not for his own honor, but for all. He does not live for himself but for all, as all who have before existed continue to live for him."

He spoke earnestly, sitting surrounded by his books, with the setting sun casting its friendly rays on his head and on the home of his spirit--the book-shelves. And Ilse, leaning on his shoulder, said humbly: "I am yours. Teach me, form me, and make me understand what you understand."

_CHAPTER XV_.

AMONG THE LEARNED.

Ilse popped her head into her husband's study: "May I interrupt you?"

"Come in."

"Felix, what is the difference between Fauns and Satyrs? Here I read that Satyrs have goats' feet, but that Fauns have men's feet and little tails."

"Who says that?" asked Felix, indignantly.

"Why, here it is in print," replied Ilse, And as she spoke she showed an open book to her husband.

"But it is not true," answered the Professor, as he explained the matter to her. "The Greeks had Satyrs, the Romans Fauns. The gentleman with the goat's foot is called Pan. But how did this Bacchanalian train get into your household?"

"You said yesterday that the Councillor of the Consistory had a Faun's face. Then the question arose what is a Faun's face, and what is a Faun? Laura remembered perfectly having learnt at school that he was a fabulous creature of the Romans, and she brought the book in which these creatures are portrayed. What a wild set they are! Why have they pointed ears like the deer, and what have you to say, if even in such things one cannot rely on your books?"

"Come here," said Felix, "and I will soon introduce you to the whole company." He selected a book of engravings and showed her the figures of the whole train of Bacchus. For a time the instruction went on well; but then Ilse objected, saying: "They all have very few clothes on."

"Art cares more for the body than for dress," said her husband.

But Ilse at last became uneasy; she closed the book and exclaimed, coloring; "I must go; my help is needed in the kitchen to-day, as a new pudding has to be made. That is my high school, and the servant is still a novice." She hastened out. Once more popping her head through the door, she exclaimed, "Tell your Satyrs and Fauns that I had a better opinion of them; they are very immodest."

"They are indeed," exclaimed Felix, "and they make no pretensions to being otherwise."

At dinner, when Felix had sufficiently admired the pudding. Ilse, laying down her spoon, said seriously: "Do not show me such pictures again. I would like to love your heathens, but I cannot if they are like that."

"They are not all so bad," said her husband, consolingly; "if you like, we will this evening pay a visit to some of the notables of antiquity."

With this day Ilse began a new period of learning. Soon a fixed hour was arranged for her husband's explanations--the most valuable part of the day to Ilse. First the Professor gave her a short description of the great civilized nations of antiquity and the middle ages, and wrote down a few names and dates for her that she learnt by heart. He pointed out to her that the whole life of man was, in fact, nothing but an unceasing receiving, transforming, and giving forth of the materials, pictures, and impressions presented by the surrounding world; that the whole intellectual development of man is, in fact, nothing but an earnest and reverent search after truth; and that the whole of political history is, in fact, nothing but the gradual subduing of that egotism which produces disunion between men and nations, by the creation of new wants, the increase of a feeling of duty and the growth of love and respect for all mankind.

After this preparation the Professor began to read the _Odyssey_ aloud to her, adding short explanations. Never had poetry so grand and pure an influence upon her soul; the lively legendary style of the first part and the powerful development of the second quite captivated her heart. The characters became almost like living forms to her; she wandered, suffered, and triumphed with them--raised into a new world of more beautiful images and higher feelings. Then when the conclusion came and the long-suffering Ulysses sat opposite to his wife, the bold touches of the scene of recognition struck a secret chord in the heart of the young wife. Deep was the impression. She sat near her beloved husband, her cheeks suffused with blushes, her eyes moist with tears and modestly cast down; and when he ended she clasped her white arms round his neck and sank on his breast, lost in transport and emotion. Her soul woke up, as it were, from long repose and glowed with deep feeling. The immortal beauties of this poem cast a radiance over every hour of the day, over her language, nay, over her bearing. She took pleasure in trying to read aloud herself, and the Professor listened with heartfelt pleasure as the majestic verses rolled melodiously from her lips, and as she unconsciously imitated his mode of speech and the modulations of his voice. When in the morning he went to his lecture and she helped him to put on his brown duffel overcoat he was greeted with the pleasant rhythm of this hexameter:

"Purple and rough was the coat of the cunning and noble Ulysses."

And when she sat opposite to him during her hour of instruction and he came to a pause, these words of admiration broke from her lips:

"Thus thou cleverly thinkest, and wisely speakest thou always."

And when she wished to praise herself, she murmured to the singing of the boiling kettle:

"Even in me lives wit, to discover the good from the evil,
Formerly though I was but a child."

Even the estate of her dear father now seemed to her illuminated with the golden splendor of the Hellenic sun.

"I do not understand," said her father one evening to Clara, "how it is possible that Ilse should so quickly have forgotten our farming customs. In her letters she speaks of the time when the cattle shall again wander in the wide plains; she means, I suppose, the fallow fields; for we feed our cattle in the stalls."

* * *

The north wind howled round the two neighboring houses, and covered the window panes with ice flowers; but within doors one day followed the other with varied coloring and full of light, and each evening, more enjoyable than the other, passed over the heads of the happy couple, whether they were alone or whether the friends of the husband, the instructors of the people, sat with them at the tea-table where a simple meal was spread.

For the friends of the husband and their clever conversations are pleasant to the lady of the house. The lamp throws a festive light in Ilse's chamber, the curtains are drawn, the table well-furnished, and a decanter of wine is placed on it when the gentlemen enter. Frequently the conversation begins with trifles; the friends wish to show their esteem for the Professor's wife--one talks a little about concerts and another recommends a new picture or book. But sometimes they come out from the study in eager conversation; their discourse is not always quite within her comprehension, nor always very attractive, but on the whole it gives her pleasure and refreshes her mind. Then Ilse sits quietly there, her hands, which have been active in her work, fall into her lap, and she listens reverently. No one who is not a professor's wife can have any idea how charmingly the conversation of the learned flows. All can speak well, all are eager, and all have a composed manner that becomes them well. Discussion arises and they begin to argue on weighty points, their opinions clash, they contradict each other, one says that something is black, another that it is white; the first shows that he is in the right and the second refutes him and drives him into a corner. Now his wife thinks, how will he get out of this; but she need have no anxiety, he is not at a loss--by a sudden sally he gains the advantage; then the other comes with new reasons and carries the matter still further, and the others join in, they become eager and their voices are raised, and whether at last they convince one another or each remains of his own opinion--which is frequently the case--it is always a pleasure to see light thrown on difficult questions from all sides. If one of them has said something really important and arrived at the heart of the matter, it puts them all into an elevated mood; it seems as if a supernatural light had burst in on them. But the cleverest of all, and he whose opinion is listened to with the greatest respect, is always the dear husband of the lady of the house.

Ilse, however, remarked that all the learned gentlemen had not the same amiable character. Some could not bear opposition and seemed in weak moments to consider their own importance more than the advancement of truth. Again, one would only speak and would not listen, and narrowed the conversation by always returning to the point which the others had already surmounted. She discovered that even an unlearned woman could, from the discourse of the wise men, discern something of their character; and when the guests were gone she ventured to express a modest judgment upon the learning and character of individuals, and she was proud when Felix allowed that she had judged rightly.

In such conversations the wife of the scholar learned much that to other women remained incomprehensible. Thus, for instance, there were the Roman plebeians. Few women understand what they were. The old plebeians never gave tea-parties, never played on grand pianos, never wore hoop skirts and never read French novels. This class is a very odious institution which has been buried in the ruins of antiquity. But the wife of a philologist is informed concerning all this. It would be impossible to recount all that Ilse heard about plebeians and patricians. Silently she sympathized with the plebeians. She entirely repudiated the idea that they consisted of insignificant people and a wanton rabble, and considered them to be sturdy farmers and fearless politicians who, in unison, valiantly fought against the unjust patricians to the very end. In connection with this she thought of her father, and at times wondered whether some of her acquaintances would not have been plebeians had they been Romans.

The gentlemen were very friendly to her and almost all had one quality which made their intercourse very pleasant--they were always willing to explain. At first Ilse did not like to admit that she knew nothing of many subjects; but one evening she seated herself by her husband and began: "I have come to one conclusion. Hitherto I have been afraid to ask questions, not because I was ashamed of my ignorance, why should I be? but on your account, that people might not remark what a silly wife you have. But if you approve of it I will now do quite otherwise, for I observe that they take pleasure in talking and will be willing to favor me with a 'winged word,' as Homer says."

"Just so," said the husband; "they will like you the better the more interest you take in them."

"I should like to know everything about the whole world, in order to become like you. But I feel that I sadly lack the ability to comprehend it all."

The new plan turned out admirably. Ilse soon learnt that it was easier to persuade her friends to talk than to desist from it. For they explained to her conscientiously and at great length what she wished to learn; but they sometimes forgot that the capacity of a woman who is receiving new impressions is not so fully developed as their own art of teaching.

They seemed to her to hover like gods over the earth. But they partook of the lot of the ambrosial society, for the pure peace which they infused into the hearts of mortals did not always prevail among themselves. It was Ilse's fate that soon after her arrival, when she was beginning to feel at home, a vehement feud broke out among the immortals of Olympus.

On a dark winter's day the stormy wind beat heavily against the window, concealing the adjacent wood behind clouds of driving snow. Ilse heard in her husband' s room the sharp tones of Professor Struvelius amid a weighty flow of eloquence, and at intervals the long and earnest talk of her husband. She could not distinguish the words, but the sound of the two voices was similar to the whir of bird's wings or the rival singing of the thrush and the ill-omened crow. The conversation continued a long time and Ilse wondered that Struvelius should speak at such length. When at last he was gone, Felix entered her room at an unusual hour and paced silently up and down for some time, occupied in deep thought. At last he began abruptly:

"I am placed in a position that obliges me to communicate with my colleagues regarding our manuscript."

Ilse looked up at him inquiringly. Since her marriage there had been no talk about Tacitus.

"I thought it was your intention not to speak again of it to strangers."