Chapter XX: A Court Matter (12)

"Oho!" cried Hummel, the bear beginning to stir within him, "that looks like defiance, and must be met with different language. You shall not receive the handkerchief with my good will; it has been given back to my daughter, and if she presents it to you she will act as a disobedient child, contrary to the commands of her father."

"Then it is my intention to oblige you to recall this prohibition," replied the Doctor, energetically. "Yesterday I accidentally discovered that you exchanged the gloves I sent to Miss Laura for others which must have excited in her the belief that I was an impertinent jester. By such deceitful and injurious treatment of a stranger, even though he were an adversary, you have acted as does not become an honorable man."

Hummel's eyes widened, and he retreated a few steps.

"Zounds!" he growled, "is it possible? Are you your father's son? Are you Fritz Hahn, the young Humboldt? Why you can be as rude as a boor."

"Only where it is necessary," replied Fritz. "In my conduct towards you I have never been deficient in delicacy of feeling; but you have treated me with injustice, and owe me due satisfaction. As an honorable man you must give me this, and my satisfaction will be the handkerchief."

"Enough," interrupted Hummel, raising his hand, "it will be of no avail. For, between ourselves, I have nothing of what you call delicacy of feeling. If you feel yourself offended by me, I should be very sorry, in so far as I see in you a young man of spirit, who also can be rude. But when, on the other hand, I consider that you are Fritz Hahn, I convince myself that it is quite right that you should feel aggrieved by me. With that you must rest content."

"What you say," replied Fritz, "is not only uncivil, but unjust. I leave you, therefore, with the feeling that you owe me some reparation; and this feeling is, at all events, more agreeable to me than if I were in your position."

"I see we understand each other in everything," replied Hummel. "Like two business men, we both seek our own advantage. It is agreeable to you to feel that I have injured you, and to me that is a matter of indifference. So let it remain, Doctor; we are at heart, and before all the world, enemies, but for the rest, all respect to you."

The Doctor bowed and left the office.

Mr. Hummel looked meditatingly on the spot where the Doctor had stood.

He was during the whole day in a mild, philanthropic mood, which he at first showed by philosophizing with his book-keeper.

"Have you ever raised bees?" he asked him, over the counter.

"No, Mr. Hummel," replied he; "how could I manage it?"

"You are not very enterprising," continued Hummel, reproachfully. "Why should you not give yourself this pleasure?"

"I live in a garret, Mr. Hummel."

"That does not matter. By the new inventions you may keep bees in a tobacco-box. You put the swarm in, open the window, and from time to time cut your honey out. You might become a rich man by it. You will say that these insects might sting your fellow-lodgers and neighbors; do not mind that; such views are old-fashioned. Follow the example of certain other people, who place their bee-hives close to the street in order to save the expense for sugar."

The book-keeper seemed to wish to comply with this proposition.

"If you mean----" he replied humbly.

"The devil I mean, sir," interrupted Hummel; "do not think of coming to my office with a swarm of bees in your pocket. I am determined under no circumstances to suffer such a nuisance. I am Bumble-bee enough for this street and I object to all humming and swarming about my house and garden."

In the afternoon, when he was taking a walk in the garden with his wife and daughter, he suddenly stopped.

"What was it that flew through the air?"

"It was a beetle," said his wife.

"It was a bee," said Hummel. "Are this rabble beginning to fly about. If there is anything I detest, it is bees. Why there is another. They annoy you, Phillipine."

"I cannot say so," she replied.

A few minutes after, a bee flew about Laura's curls, and she was obliged to protect herself with a parasol from the little worker, who mistook her cheeks for a peach.

"It is strange; they were not so numerous formerly," said Hummel, to the ladies; "it seems to me that a swarm of bees must have established itself in a hollow tree of the park. The park-keeper sleeps out there on a bench. You are on good terms with the man; call his attention to it. The vermin are insufferable."

Madam Hummel consented to make inquiries, and the park-keeper promised to look to it. After a time he came to the hedge, and called out, in a low voice:

"Madam Hummel."

"The man calls you," said Hummel.

"They come from the garden of Mr. Hahn," reported the park-keeper, cautiously; "there is a beehive there."

"Really?" asked Hummel. "Is it possible that Hahn should have chosen this amusement?"

Laura looked at her father anxiously.

"I am a peaceful man, keeper, and I cannot believe my neighbor would do us such an injury."

"It is certain, Mr. Hummel," said the park-keeper; "see, there is one of the yellow things now."

"That's so," cried Hummel, shaking his head; "it's yellow."

"Don't mind, Henry; perhaps it will not be so bad," said his wife, soothingly.

"Not so bad?" asked Hummel, angrily. "Shall I have to see the bees buzzing around your nose? Shall I have to suffer my wife to go about the whole summer with her nose swollen up as large as an apple? Prepare a room for the surgeon immediately: he will never be out of our house during the next month."

Laura approached her father.

"I can see you wish to begin a quarrel anew with our neighbors: if you love me, do not do so. I cannot tell you, father, how much this quarreling annoys me. Indeed I have suffered too much from it."

"I believe you," replied Hummel, cheerfully. "But it is because I love you that I must in good time put an end to this annoyance from over there, before these winged nuisances carry away honey from our garden. I don't intend to have you attacked by the bees of any of our neighbors, do you understand me?"

Laura turned and looked gloomily in the water, on which the fallen catkins of the birch were swimming slowly towards the town.

"Do something, keeper, to preserve peace between neighbors," continued Hummel. "Take my compliments to Mr. Hahn, with the request from me that he will remove his bees, so that I may not be obliged to call in the police again."

"I will tell him, Mr. Hummel, that the bees are disagreeable to the neighborhood; for it is true the gardens are small."

"They are so narrow that one could sell them in a bandbox at a Christmas fair," assented Hummel. "Do it out of pity to the bees themselves. Our three daffodils will not last them long as food, and afterwards there will be nothing for them but to gnaw the iron railings."

He gave the park-keeper a few coppers, and added, to his wife and daughter:

"You see how forbearing I am to our neighbor, for the sake of peace."

The ladies returned to the house, depressed and full of sad forebodings.

As the park-keeper did not appear again, Mr. Hummel watched for him on the following day.

"Well, how is it?" he asked.

"Mr. Hahn thinks that the hives are far enough from the street; they are behind a bush and they annoy no one. He will not give up his rights."

"There it is!" broke out Hummel. "You are my witness that I have done all in the power of man to avoid a quarrel. The fellow has forgotten that there is a Section 167. I am sorry, keeper; but the police must be the last resort."

Mr. Hummel conferred confidentially with a policeman. Mr. Hahn became excited and angry when he was ordered to appear in court, but Hummel had in some measure the best of it, for the police advised Mr. Hahn to avoid annoyance to the neighbours and passers-by by the removal of the hive. Mr. Hahn had taken great pleasure in his bees; their hive had been fitted with all the new improvements, and they were not like our irritable German bees; they were an Italian sort, which only sting when provoked to the utmost. But this was all of no avail, for even the Doctor and his mother herself begged that the hives might be removed; so, one dark night they were carried away, with bitter and depressed feelings, into the country. In the place which they had occupied he erected some starlings' nests on poles. They were a poor comfort. The starlings had, according to old customs, sent messengers of their race through the country and hired their summer dwellings, and only the sparrows took exulting possession of the abode, and like disorderly householders, left long blades of grass hanging from their nests. Mr. Hummel shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and in a loud bass voice, called the new invention the sparrow telegraph.

The garden amusements had begun; the sad prognostication had become a reality; suspicion and gloomy looks once more divided the neighboring houses.

_CHAPTER XVIII_.

CLOUDLETS.

A Professor's wife has much to bear with her husband. When Ilse found herself seated with her friends, the wives of Professors Raschke, Struvelius, and Guenther, over a cozy cup of coffee, which was by no means slighted, all manner of things came to light.

Conversation with these cultured ladies was indeed delightful. It first touched lightly on the subject of servants, and the troubles of housekeeping called forth a volubility of chatter, like the croaking of frogs in a pond, and Ilse wondered that even Flamina Struvelius should express herself so earnestly on the subject of pickling gherkins, and that she should anxiously inquire as to the marks of age on a plucked goose. Merry Mrs. Gunther shocked the ladies of greater experience and at the same time made them laugh, when she told them she could not bear the cry of little children, and that as to her own--of which she had none yet--she would from the beginning train them to quiet habits with the rod. As has been said, the conversation rambled from greater matters to small talk like this. And amidst other trivial remarks it naturally happened that men were quietly discussed, and it was evident that, although the remarks were made as to men in general, each thought of her own husband, and each, without expressing it, thought of the secret load of cares she had to bear, and each one convinced her hearers that her own individual husband was also difficult to manage. The lot of Mrs. Raschke was indeed not to be concealed, as it was notorious throughout the whole town. It was well known that one market-day her husband went to the lecture-room in a brilliant orange and blue dressing-gown, of a Turkish pattern. And the collegians, who loved him dearly and knew his habits well, could not suppress a loud laugh, while Raschke hung his dressing-gown quietly over the reading-desk and began to lecture in his shirt sleeves, and returned home in the great-coat of a student. Since then Mrs. Raschke never let him go out without looking after him herself. It also transpired that after living ten years in the town he constantly lost his way, and she did not dare to change her residence, being convinced that if she did, the Professor would always be going back to his old abode. Struvelius also gave trouble. The last affair of importance had come to Ilse's personal knowledge; but it was also known that he required his wife to correct the proof-sheets of his Latin writings, as she had a slight knowledge of the language--and that he could not resist giving orders to traveling wine merchants. Mrs. Struvelius, after her marriage, found her cellar full of large and small casks of wine, which had as yet not been bottled, while he himself complained bitterly that he could not replenish his stock. And even little Mrs. Guenther related that her husband could not give up working at night; and that on one occasion, poking about with a lamp amongst the books, he came too close to a curtain, which caught fire, and on pulling it down he burnt his hands, and rushed into the bedroom with his fingers black as coals, more like an Othello than a mineralogist.

Ilse related nothing of her short career, but she had also had some experience. True, her husband was very good about working at night, was very discreet over his wine, though on great occasions he drank his glass bravely, as became a German Professor. But as to his eating, matters were very unsatisfactory. Certainly it does not do to care too much about food, especially for a Professor, but not to be able to distinguish a duck from a goose is rather discouraging for her who has striven to procure him a dainty. As for carving he was useless. The tough Stymphalian birds which Hercules destroyed, and the ungenial Ph[oe]nix, mentioned with such respect by his Tacitus, were much better known to him than the form of a turkey. Ilse was not one of those women who delight to spend the whole day in the kitchen, but she understood cooking, and prided herself on giving a dinner worthy of her husband. But all was in vain. He sometimes tried to praise the dishes, but Ilse clearly saw that he was not sincere. Once when she set a splendid pheasant before him, he saw by her expression that she expected some remark, so he praised the cook for having secured such a fine chicken. Ilse sighed and tried to make him understand the difference, but had to be content with Gabriel's sympathizing remark: "It's all useless. I know my master; he can't tell one thing from another!" Since then, Ilse had to rest content with the compliments that the gentlemen invited to tea paid her at the table. But this was no compensation. The Doctor also was not remarkable for his acquirements in this direction. It was lamentable and humiliating to see the two gentlemen over a brace of snipes which her father had sent them from the country.

The Professor, however, looked up to the Doctor as a thoroughly practical man, because he had had some experience in buying and managing, and the former was accustomed to call in his friend as an adviser on many little daily occurrences. The tailor brought samples of cloth for a new coat. The Professor looked at the various colors of the samples in a distracted manner. "Ilse, send for the Doctor to help me make a choice!" Ilse sent, but unwillingly; no Doctor was needed, she thought, to select a coat, and if her dear husband could not make up his mind, was not she there? But that was of no avail; the Doctor selected the coat, waistcoat, and the rest of the Professor's wardrobe. Ilse listened to the orders in silence, but she was really angry with the Doctor, and even a little with her husband. She quietly determined that things should not continue so. She hastily calculated her pocket-money, called the tailor into her room, and ordered a second suit for her husband, with the injunction to make this one first. When the tailor brought the clothes home, she asked her husband how he liked the new suit. He praised it. Then she said: "To please you I make myself as nice-looking as I can: for my sake wear what I have made for you. If I have succeeded this time, I hope that I may in future choose and be responsible for your wardrobe."

But the Doctor looked quite amazed when he met the Professor in a different suit. It so happened, however, that he had nothing to find fault with; and when Ilse was sitting alone with the Doctor, she began--"Both of us love my husband; therefore let us come to some agreement about him. You have the greatest right to be the confidant of his labors, and I should never venture to place myself on an equality with you respecting them. But where my judgment is sufficient I may at least be useful to him, and what little I can, dear Doctor, pray allow me to do."

She said this with a smile; but the Doctor walked gravely up to her.

"You are expressing what I have long felt. I have lived with him for many years, and have often lived for him, and that was a time of real happiness to me; but now I fully recognize that it is you who have the best claim to him. I shall have to endeavor to control myself in many things; it will be hard for me, but it is better it should be so."

"My words were not so intended," said Ilse, disturbed.

"I well understand what you meant; and I know also that you are perfectly right. Your task is not alone to make his life comfortable. I see how earnestly you strive to become his confidant. Believe me, the warmest wish of my heart is that in time you should succeed."

He left with an earnest farewell, and Ilse saw how deeply moved he was. The Doctor had touched a chord, the vibration of which, midst all her happiness, she felt with pain. Her household affairs gave her little trouble, and all went so smoothly that she took no credit to herself for her management. But still it pained her to see how little her work was appreciated by her husband, and she thought to herself, "What I am able to do for him makes no impression on him, and when I cannot elevate my mind to his, he probably feels the want of a soul that can understand him better."

These were transient clouds which swept over the sunny landscape, but they came again and again as Ilse sat brooding alone in her room.

One evening, Professor Raschke having looked in late, showed himself disposed to pass the evening with them, and Felix sent the servant to the Professor's wife, to set her mind at rest as to the absence of her husband. As Raschke, among all her husband's colleagues, was Ilse's favorite, she took pains to order something that would please him. This order doomed to death some chickens that shortly before had been brought in alive. The gentlemen were sitting in Ilse's room when a dreadful scream and clamor issued from the kitchen, and the cook, pale as death, opened the door and appealed to her mistress. It appeared that the girl's heart failed her in attempting to kill the fowls and as Gabriel, who had hitherto performed all such necessary slaughter, was absent, she did not know what to do, so Ilse herself had to perform the indispensable act. When she returned, Felix unfortunately asked why she had left the room, and Ilse told him what had occurred.

The chickens were placed upon the table and did the cook no discredit. Ilse carved and served them, but her husband pushed back his plate, whilst Raschke, out of politeness, picked at the breast, but forbore to eat a morsel. Ilse regarded the two gentlemen with astonishment.

"You do not eat anything, Professor?" she at last said to her guest, anxiously.

"It is only a morbid weakness," replied Raschke, "and it's very foolish indeed, but the screams of the poor bird still linger in my ear."

"And in yours, too, Felix?" asked Ilse, with increasing wonderment.

"Yes," rejoined he. "Is it not possible to have these things done quietly?"

"Not always," answered Ilse, mortified, "when the house is so small, and the kitchen so near." She rang and ordered the ill-fated dish to be taken away. "Those who can't bear things to be killed should eat no meat."

"You are quite right," replied Raschke, submissively, "and our sensitiveness has but little justification. We find the preparations unpleasant, yet as a rule we are well satisfied with the result. But when one is accustomed to observe animal life with sympathy, he is necessarily shocked at the sudden termination of an organism for his own selfish purposes, when it is done in a way to which he is not accustomed. For the whole life of an animal is full of mystery to us. The same vital power which we observe in ourselves, is fundamentally at work with them, only limited by a less complicated, and, on the whole, less complete organization."

"How can you compare their souls with that of man's?" asked Ilse; "the irrational with the rational; the transitory with the eternal?"

"As to irrational, my dear lady, it is a word to which in this case one does not attach a very clear meaning. What the difference may be between man and beast is difficult to decide, and on this subject a little modesty becomes us. We know but little of animals, even of those who pass their lives among us. And I confess that the attempt to fathom this unknown problem fills me with awe and reverence, which occasionally rises into fear. I cannot bear that any one who belongs to me should grow fond of an animal. This arises from a weakness of feeling which I own is sentimental. But the influence of the human mind on animals has always seemed to me wonderful and weird; phases of their life are developed, which in certain directions make them very similar to man. Their affectionate devotion to us has something so touching in it, that we are disposed to bestow much more love on them than is good either for them or us."

"Still an animal remains what it was from the creation," said Ilse; "unchanged in its habits and inclinations. We can train a bird, and make a dog fetch and carry what he would rather eat, but that is only an outward compulsion. If let to themselves, their nature and manners remain unaltered, and what we call culture they lack utterly."

"Even upon that point we are by no means sure," rejoined Raschke. "We do not know but that each race of animals has a history and an evolution which extends from the earliest generation to the present. It is not at all impossible that acquirements and knowledge of the world, so far as they may exist in animals, have acted among them, though in a narrower sphere, just as with men. It is quite an assumption that birds sang just the same way a thousand years ago as they do now. I believe that the wolf and the lynx, in cultivated regions, stand on the same footing in the struggle for life as do the remnants of the red Indians among the whites; whilst those animals that live in comparative peace with man, like sparrows and other small creatures, and bees especially, improve in their mode of work, and in the course of time make progress--progress which we in some cases surmise, but which our science has not yet been able to describe."

"Our forester would quite agree with you in this," said Ilse, quietly; "as he complains bitterly that the bullfinches of our neighborhood have, within his memory, quite deteriorated in their singing, because all the good singers have been caught, and the young birds have no one to teach them."

"Exactly," said Raschke; "among animals of every species there are clever and stupid individuals, and it must follow that to some of them is assigned a definite spiritual mission which extends far beyond their own life. And the experience of an old raven, or the enchanting notes of a melodious nightingale, are not lost on the future generations of their race, but influence them continuously. In this sense we may well speak of culture and continued improvement among animals. But as regards the cooking, I admit that we exhibited our sympathies at the wrong time and place, and I hope you are not angry with us, dear friend."

"It shall all be forgotten now," replied Ilse, "I will give you boiled eggs the next time; they will involve no scruples."

"The egg, too, has its story," answered Raschke; "but for the present, I may fitly waive discussing this. What has brought me here," addressing Felix, earnestly, "was neither fowls nor eggs, but our colleague, Struvelius. I am seeking forgiveness for him."

Felix drew himself up stiffly. "Has he commissioned you to come?"

"Not exactly; but it is the wish of some of our colleagues. You know that next year we require an energetic Rector. Some of our acquaintance are speaking of you. Struvelius will probably be Deacon, and for this reason we wish to bring you into friendly relations; and still more for the sake of peace at the University. We regret exceedingly to see our classicists at variance."

"What the man has done to me," replied the Professor, proudly, "I can easily forgive, although his mean and underhand conduct has deeply offended me. I feel much more seriously the effect of his foolish work upon himself and our University. What separates me from him is the dishonesty of spirit that has actuated his conduct."

"The expression is too strong," cried Raschke.

"It applies to his behavior exactly," returned the Professor. "When the forgery was pointed out to him, his fear of humiliation was greater than his love of truth, and he lied in order to deceive others--conduct unworthy of a German professor, and I can never forgive it."

"Again you are too severe," replied Raschke; "he has frankly and loyally admitted his error."

"He did so only when Magister Knips and others clearly proved the forgery that had been committed in the manuscript, and so made any further evasion impossible."

"Human feelings are not so easy to analyze as numbers are," rejoined Raschke; "and only he who judges charitably, judges rightly. He struggled with wounded pride perhaps too long, but he gave in at last."

"I tolerate no unknown quantity in the sense of honor of a scientist; the question here was: Black or white? Truth or falsehood?"

"You have, nevertheless," said Ilse, "shown the Magister much greater leniency, and I have seen him with you since, more than once."

"The Magister was less to blame in the matter," her husband replied. "When the question was clearly before him, he employed his acuteness to some purpose."

"He took money for it," said Ilse.

"He is a poor devil, accustomed, as a broker, to take his profits on any exchange of antiquities, and no one would expect in such a transaction that he should act like a gentleman. So far as his oppressed spirit belongs to science, it is not without a sort of manly pride; and I have the warmest sympathy for a nature of that kind. His life on the whole is a continual martyrdom to the interests of others; and when I employ such a man, I know exactly how far to trust him."

"Do not deceive yourself in that!" cried Raschke.

"I shall take the risk and the responsibility," replied the Professor. "But have done with the Magister--it is not he who is in question. When I compare his offense with that of Struvelius, there is no doubt in my mind as to who has shown the greater deficiency in sense of honor.

"This again is so unjust," cried Raschke, "that I cannot listen to such expressions in the absence of my colleague. It is with deep regret that I miss in you the candor and dispassionate impartiality which I consider to be unreservedly demanded in judging a fellow-professor."

"You yourself told me," replied Felix, more quietly, "that he promised silence to the trader, because the latter had held out the prospect of obtaining other secret parchments. How can you, after such an exhibition of selfishness, find a word to say in his defense?"

"It is true he did so," replied Raschke, "and therein was his weakness?"

"Therein was his dishonesty," said the Professor, "and that I shall never condone. Whoever thinks otherwise, may shake his hand in approbation of his conduct."

Raschke rose. "If your words mean that he who grasps the hand of Struvelius in pardon for what he has done, has lost in character and self-respect, I reply to you that I am the man, and that this act of mine has never lessened my sense of dignity nor humiliated me in my own eyes. I entertain the highest respect for your pure and manly feelings, which I have ever deemed exemplary; but I must now tell you, that I am not satisfied with you. If this obduracy has come upon you merely because Struvelius has personally offended you, you are violating the standard which we are ever in duty bound to observe in judging our fellow men."

"Let it not be observed then!" exclaimed the Professor. "I recognize no standard of leniency when I have to do with the demands which I make upon the sense of honor and propriety in my personal acquaintances. It affects me deeply that you are opposed to me in this way of thinking; but such as I am, an erring and imperfect mortal, I cannot moderate these claims upon those about me.

"Let me hope then," broke in Raschke, "that it will never be your misfortune to have to confess to others that you have been deceived by an impostor in the very matter wherein your consciousness of self-reliance has been so strongly aroused. For he who judges others so proudly, would suffer no small affliction in the confession of his own shortsightedness."

"Yes, that would be fearful for me," said Felix, "to involve others in error and falsehood against my will. But trust me, to atone for such a wrong I would use all my life and strength. Meanwhile, between that man and me the gulf will remain as dark as ever."

Raschke shoved back his chair. "I must go, then, for our discussion has so excited me that I should make a very unentertaining companion. It is the first time, my dear lady, that I have ever left this house with any feeling of unpleasantness; and it is not my least annoyance, that my untimely advocacy of the existence of souls in poultry made me bristle up my crest against you also."

Ilse regarded the excited countenance of the worthy man with pain, and, in order to soothe him and restore the old friendly relations, she said to him, coaxingly: "But you shall not escape the poor chicken, you'll have to eat it, and I shall take care that your wife gives it to you to-morrow morning for breakfast."

Raschke pressed her hand, and rushed out through the door. The Professor walked up and down the room in agitation, and then stopping before his wife said, abruptly, "Was I in the wrong?"

"I don't know," replied Ilse, hesitating; "but when our friend spoke to you, all my feelings went with him, and I felt that he was right."

"You, too!" said the Professor, moodily. He turned on his heel and went into his study.

Ilse once more sat alone with a heavy heart, and she murmured, "In many things he looks on life very differently from what I do. Towards animals he is kinder, and towards men sometimes harsher than I am. Strive as I may, I shall always be to him an awkward country lass. He was kind to Madam Rollmaus, and will be so towards me; but he will ever have to make allowances for me."

She sprung from her chair with a burning face.

In the meantime Raschke was roving about in the anteroom; there too disorder prevailed. Gabriel had not returned from his distant errand, and the cook had put all the dinner things upon a side-table till his return, and Raschke had to look for his own great-coat. He groped among the clothes and seized a coat and a hat. As to-day he was not as absent-minded as usual, a glance at the rejected meal reminded him of the fact that he had to eat a chicken, as enjoined by Ilse. He, therefore, seized a newspaper which Gabriel had carefully laid out for his master, took the chicken from the dish, wrapped it up in the paper, and deposited it in his pocket, the depth and capacity of which agreeably surprised him. Rushing past the astonished cook he left the house. On opening the front door he stumbled over something on the threshold, and heard a fearful growl behind him as he hurried down the steps into the open air.

The words of the friend whose house he had just left, still rung in his ear. Werner's whole bearing had been very characteristic, and his nature was a strong one. Strange, that in a moment of anger his face had suddenly assumed a likeness to that of a Danish dog. Here the philosopher's chain of ideas was broken by the sudden recollection of the talk about animal souls.

"It is indeed to be deplored that it is still so difficult to determine the significance of expression as revealing the animal soul. If success attended our efforts here, science too would gain by it. If the expressions and gestures exhibited in moments of passion by man and the higher animals could be compared and collated in every detail, important and interesting inferences might be drawn, both from that which they manifested in common and from that wherein they differed. For, in this way, the true nature and purport of their dramatic actions, and probably new laws governing the same, might be ascertained."

Whilst the philosopher was thus meditating, he felt a repeated tugging at the end of his overcoat. As his wife was accustomed, when he was wrapt in thought, to nudge him gently if he met a friend, he paid no attention, but took off his hat politely to the post on the bridge, and said, "Good evening."

"The common character and origin of mimical expression in man and the higher animals might, perhaps, if fully known, give us glimpses into the great secret of life." Again something pulled him. Raschke mechanically lifted his hat. Another tug. "No more, dear Aurelia, I have taken my hat off." It then occurred to him that it could not be his wife who was pulling so low down at his coat. It must be his little daughter Bertha, who occasionally walked with him, and, just like her mother, would also nudge him gently when he had to bow to any one. "Very well, dear child," said he, as Bertha kept continually pulling at his hind coat pocket, and he put his hand behind him to catch the little teazer. He caught hold of something round and shaggy, and at once felt the sharp edges of teeth in his fingers, which made him turn round with a start. He then saw, by the lamplight, a red, brindled monster, with a great head and bristly hair, and a tuft instead of a tail. It was an awful transformation of wife and daughter, and he stared with amazement at this mysterious being, that stood opposite to him, likewise regarding him in silence.

"A remarkable meeting," cried Raschke. "What art thou, unknown beast--presumably a dog? Get away with thee!" The animal slunk back a few paces, and Raschke pursued his inquiry further. "If the facial expression and the gesticulation attendant upon emotion could be thus referred and traced back to original and common forms, the instinctive tendency to appropriate and to adapt what is foreign would undoubtedly result as one of the most universal and effective of laws. It would be instructive from the involuntary actions of men and animals to ascertain that which naturally belonged to each species and that which each had acquired. Get away, dog;--home with you, I say! What is he after, anyway? He is apparently one of Werner's people. The poor brute is possessed of some overpowering idea and will lose his way running about the city!"

In the meantime, Spitehahn's attacks had become more violent, and he at last dropped into a ludicrous march upon his hind legs, while, placing his forefeet on the Professor's back, he buried his nose in the latter's coat-pocket.

Raschke's interest in the thoughts of the dog increased. He stopped by a lamp-post and carefully examined his overcoat. He found that it possessed a cape and long sleeves, which the philosopher had never observed before on his own coat. The matter was now clear: he had thoughtlessly taken the wrong coat, and the honest dog meant to preserve his master's wardrobe, and to make the thief restore it. Raschke was so pleased with the dog's cleverness, that he turned round and spoke coaxingly to Spitehahn, trying to stroke his bristly coat. The dog snapped at his hand. "You are quite right," said Raschke, "in being angry with me. I will show you that I confess I am in the wrong." So he took the coat off, and hung it over his arm. "It is, indeed, much heavier than my own." He marched briskly on in his light coat, and saw with satisfaction that the dog made no more attacks on his skirts. On the other hand, Spitehahn seized the greatcoat, and began biting at it, snapping at the Professor's hand and growling furiously.

The Professor got angry with the dog, and as he came to a bench in the Promenade, he laid the coat down on it, in order to deal with the animal in earnest, and drive him home. By this means he got rid of the dog and, what was more, of the coat too; for Spitehahn, jumping up eagerly on the bench with a mighty leap, seized the coat, and kept the Professor at bay. "It is Werner's coat," said the Professor, "and it is Werner's dog, and it would be unjustifiable to beat the poor animal because in his fidelity he has become excited, and it would be also wrong to leave both dog and coat." So he remained with the dog, trying to coax him; the animal, however, took no further notice of the Professor; on the contrary, he devoted himself to the coat, which he turned over and over again, scraping and gnawing at it. Raschke perceived that the coat would not long stand such treatment. "The dog must be mad," he said to himself, suspiciously, "and I shall have to resort to violence after all towards the poor creature;" and he considered whether it were better to jump up on the bench and drive the mad dog off with a good kick, or to make the unavoidable attack from below. He decided on the latter, and searched about for a stone or stick to arm himself for the encounter. He then looked up at the trees and the dark sky, and could not in the least tell where he was. "Is this witchcraft?" he said to himself, amused. "Pray tell me," addressing a solitary passer-by, "in what part of the town we are; and will you have the goodness to lend me your stick for a moment?"

"These are strange questions," replied the stranger, in a surly tone. "I want my stick myself at this time of night. And who are you, sir, I should like to know?" And he approached the Professor menacingly.

"I am a peaceable man," replied the Professor, "and little inclined to violent courses. But a struggle has commenced between that dog on the bench and me about an overcoat, and I should be extremely obliged to you if you would rescue the coat from the dog. But pray do no more harm to him than is absolutely necessary."

"Is it your coat?" asked the man.

"Unfortunately, I cannot say it is," replied Raschke, conscientiously.

"There is something wrong here," cried the stranger, again looking with suspicion at the Professor.

"Something, indeed," replied Raschke; "the dog is mad, the coat has been changed, and I don't know where we are."

"Close to the Valley Gate, Professor Raschke," answered the voice of Gabriel, who rapidly joined the group. "But, pardon me, how came you here?"

"How opportune," cried Raschke, delighted; "just take charge of the coat and the dog."

With astonishment Gabriel saw his friend Spitehahn, who was now sitting on the coat, quite abashed and chapfallen at the sight of his master. Gabriel drove the dog off, and seized the coat. "It is my own overcoat!" he said.

"Yes, Gabriel," rejoined the Professor, "that was my mistake, and the dog has displayed a wonderful fidelity in guarding it."

"Fidelity!" said Gabriel, indignantly, as he pulled a parcel out of the pocket; "it was greedy selfishness. There must be something to eat in here."

"Ah! I recollect now," cried Raschke; "it is the fowl that's to blame. Give me the parcel, Gabriel; I must eat it myself. And we may now wish one another good-night in peace, unless you will go with me a little way to show me the road amongst these trees."

"But you can't go in this night air without an overcoat," said the tender-hearted Gabriel. "We are not far from our house, and it would be better for you to return with me to the Professor's."

Raschke paused a while, and laughed. "You are quite right, my good Gabriel: my sudden departure was all wrong, and the soul of an animal has this day given a lesson to a human soul."

"If you mean this dog," replied Gabriel, "it is the first time in his life he has given anybody a lesson. I suppose that he followed you from our door, for I put bones there for him every evening."

"At one time I thought he was quite mad," said the Professor.

"He is a sly one when he chooses," replied Gabriel, with an air of mystery; "but if I were to tell all my experiences with him to this day----"

"Do tell me, Gabriel," cried the Professor, quite excited. "Nothing is so valuable with respect to animals as authentic anecdotes, collected by those who have observed them closely."

"I can vouch for my experience," said Gabriel, with an air of confidence; "and if you really wish to know what he is, I can tell you he is possessed--he is a devil--he's a depraved brute--and bears a grudge against the whole human race!"

"Hum!--is that so?" murmured the philosopher. "I believe it is much easier to look into the heart of a Professor than that of a dog."

Spitehahn crept along quietly but depressed, with his tail between his legs, listening to the praise bestowed on him, whilst Raschke, accompanied by Gabriel, returned through the park to the house. Gabriel flung open the parlor door, and announced "Professor Raschke."

Ilse stretched out both hands, "Welcome--welcome, dear Professor!" and led him in to her husband's study.

"Here I am again," said Raschke, in a cheerful tone, "after an adventure like a fairy tale. I have been brought back by two animals who have shown me the right path--a roast fowl and a perverted dog."

Felix sprang to his feet, the two friends shook hands cordially, and, after all misunderstanding, the evening passed off most pleasantly.

When Raschke at length withdrew, Gabriel said sorrowfully to his mistress: "It was the new coat; the chicken and the dog have ruined it beyond all recognition."

_CHAPTER XIX_.

THE ILLNESS.

It was the first burst of spring in the wood and gardens adjoining the city. The buds and the caterpillars had slumbered together in quiet winter dreams; now the leaves expanded, and the grubs crawled over the young green shoots. Under the bright rays of the sun in its higher course, the struggle of life began,--the blooming and withering, the rich colors, and the frost under which they were to fade, the bright green leaves and the caterpillars that gnawed them; the eternal strife began anew in buds and blossoms just as in the heart of man.

Ilse, in her hours of instruction, was now reading Herodotus; he, too, was a harbinger of spring for the human race; hovering above the borderland between dreamy poetry and unclouded reality, the glad proclaimer of a time in which the people of the earth rejoiced in their own beauty and perfection, and first began to seek seriously truth and knowledge. Again Ilse read with passionate excitement the pages which brought a shattered world before her eyes with such vivid reality. But there was not the same serene and exalted pleasure in the narrative as in the works of the great poet who so directed the fate and deeds of his heroes as to produce a pleasing impression upon the mind, even when they excited sorrow and fear. For it is the privilege of human invention to form the world as the tender heart of man desires it; with alternations and fitting proportions of happiness and sorrow, the recognition of each individual according to his powers and actions, and due compensation. But the mind which here delineated the life of the past, did so in a superhuman manner, life crowded life, so that one devastated the other, destruction mercilessly overtook them, good and bad alike; here too, there was retribution; here, too, there was a curse, but their effect was incomprehensible and cruel. What was good ceased to be good, and evil gained the victory. What was first a blessing afterwards became ruin; what was now beneficent greatness and dominion, afterwards became a disease, which destroyed the state. The individual heroes were of little importance; if a great human power rose and dominated for a moment. Ilse soon saw it disappear in the whirling stream of events. Cr[oe]sus, the over-confident, good-hearted king, fell; the powerful Cyrus passed away, and Xerxes was beaten. But nations also sank, the blooming flower of Egypt withered, the golden realm of Lydia was shattered, and mighty Persia first corrupted others and then itself. In the young Hellenic people, that rose with such heroic strength, she already saw busily at work violence, evil deeds, and enmities, through which the most beautiful picture of antiquity, after short prosperity, was to pass away.

Ilse and Laura were sitting opposite each other, with an open book lying between them. Laura, indeed, was not admitted to the private lessons of the Professor, but her soul faithfully accompanied Ilse on the path of learning. Ilse imparted the acquisitions of her hours of instructions to her, and enjoyed the sweet pleasure of infusing new ideas into the mind of her friend.

"I felt great indignation at this Xerxes," cried Laura, "even from what I read in the primer:

'Xantippe was a cross, mean thing
No peace her husband had.
But Xerxes was a Persian King
And he was just as bad.'

I long thought that Xantippe was his wife, and I wish he had had her. On the other hand, look at the three hundred Spartans who sent the others home and encircled themselves with wreaths, anointed themselves, and put on the festive garb to march to death. That elevates the heart; they were men. If I could show my veneration for their memory by means of my stupid head and weak hands, I would work for it till my fingers ached. But what can a poor creature like me do? At the utmost, embroider traveling-bags for their journey to the lower world, and these would come two thousand years too late. We women are pitiable creatures," she exclaimed, with vexation.

"There were others in the battle," said Ilse, "who affected me more than the three hundred Spartans. These were the Thespians, who fought and died with them. The Spartans were impelled by their proud hearts and the strict discipline and commands of their rulers. But the Thespians died willingly. They were a small people, and they well knew that the greatest honor would attach to their distinguished neighbors. But they were faithful in their humble position, and that was far more self-sacrificing and noble. Ah! it was easy for all of them," she continued, sorrowfully; "but for those who remained behind, their poor parents, wives and children at home, what destruction of happiness and unspeakable misery!"

"Misery!" cried Laura; "if they thought as I do, they were proud of the death of their loved ones, and like them wore garlands in their sorrow. What is the purpose of our life if we cannot rejoice in giving ourselves up for higher things?"

"For higher things?" asked Ilse. "What men value higher than wife and child, is that higher for us also? Our duty is to devote our whole hearts to them, our children, and our home. When, therefore, they are taken from us, our whole lives are desolated and nothing remains but endless sorrow. It is natural for us to view their vocation differently than they do themselves."

"I would like to be a man," cried Laura. "Are we then so weak in mind and spirit, that we must have less enthusiasm, less feeling of honor, and less love for our Fatherland than they? It is a fearful thought to be one's whole life long only the waiting-maid of a master who is no stronger or better than oneself, and who wears overshoes, that his feet may not get wet, and a woollen muffler the moment a breath of cold air blows."

"They do wear these things here in the town," replied Ilse, laughing.

"Yes, nearly all of them do," said Laura, evasively; "but believe me, Frau Ilse, these men have no right to expect us to devote our whole heart and lives to them. It is just the most thorough of them that do not give us their full heart. And how should they? We are good enough to entertain them, and darn their stockings, and perhaps become their confidants, if they should accidentally be at a loss what to do; but the best of them look beyond us to the great All, and in that is their special life. What is right for them should also be fitting for us."

"And have we not enough in what they give us of their life?" asked Ilse. "If it is only a portion it makes us happy."

"Is it happiness never to experience the highest of emotions?" exclaimed Laura. "Can we die like Leonidas?"

Ilse pointed to the door of her husband's room. "My Hellas sits there within and works, and my heart beats when I hear his step, or only the scratching of his pen. To live or die for the man one loves is also an elevating idea, and makes one happy. Ah, happy only if one knows that one is a source of happiness to him also!"

Laura threw herself at the feet of her friend, and looked entreatingly into her anxious face. "I have made you serious with my prattling, and that was wrong of me; for I would gladly conjure a smile to your lips every hour, and always see a friendly light in those soft eyes. But do bear with me; I am a strange, unaccountable girl, and often discontented with myself and others, and frequently without knowing why. But Xerxes was a good for nothing fellow, to that I stick; and if I had him here I could box his ears every day."

"At all events he received his due," replied Ilse.

Laura started suddenly. "Was that a proper retribution for the wretch who had destroyed or made miserable hundreds of thousands, to return home without a scratch? No punishment would be severe enough for such a wicked king. But I know right well how he became so; his mother and father spoiled him; he had always lived at home, had grown up in luxury and all men were subject to him. And so he treated all with contempt. It would be the same with others if they were in the same position. I can well imagine myself such a monster, and many of my acquaintances too."

"My husband?" asked Ilse.

"No, he is more like Cyrus or Cambyses," replied Laura.

Ilse laughed. "That is not true. But how would it be with the Doctor over there?"

Laura raised her hand threateningly towards the neighboring house. "He would be Xerxes, just as he is in the book, if one could think of him without spectacles, in a golden dressing-gown, with a sceptre in his hand, without his good heart (for Fritz Hahn undoubtedly has that); somewhat less clever than he is, and still more spoilt, as a man also who has written no book, and learnt nothing but to treat others badly; he would then be Xerxes out and out. I see him sitting before me on a throne, by a brook, striking the water with a whip because it made his boots wet. He might have become a very dangerous fellow if he had not been born here close to the city park."