Chapter XLII: Tobias Bachhuber (3)

"It is sometimes difficult, from the deep feeling and terse expressions of olden poetry, to understand the fundamental idea of the poet; and most difficult of all in a poem which has been handed down for centuries by popular tradition, and in which changes in the words and meaning must certainly have taken place. The first idea of the song, that mortals dwell in the mountains with the old heathen gods rests on a notion which originated in ancient times. The idea that the God of Christians is more merciful than his representative on earth has been rooted in Germany since the time of the Hohenstaufens. One may refer the origin of the poem to that period. It probably attained the form in which it is now handed down to us, about the middle of the fifteenth century, when the opposition to the hierarchy in Germany was general, both among high and low. The grand idea of this opposition was that the priests cannot forgive sins, and that only repentance, atonement, and elevation of the heart to God can avail. The copy which you have so kindly sent me, is of the early period of Luther, but we know that the song is older, and we possess various texts, in some of which it is more prominently set forth that Tanhaeuser after his second fall might still trust in the divine mercy. But undoubtedly in the text you have sent me the singer considers poor Tanhaeuser as lost if he did not liberate himself from the power of Venus, but that he might be saved if he did. According to popular tradition he remained with her. The great and elevating thought that man may shake off the trammels of past sin may be discovered in this poem, the poetical value of which I place as high as you do."

When Laura received this answer,--Gabriel was again her confidential messenger,--she jumped up with joy from her writing-table. She had with Ilse grieved over poor Tanhaeuser, and given her friend a copy of the poem; now she ran down to her with the Doctor's letter, proud that, by means of a childish joke, at which Ilse had shaken her head, she had entered into a learned discussion. From this day the secret correspondence attained an importance for both Laura and Fritz which they had little thought of in the beginning; for Laura now ventured, when she could not satisfy herself on any subject, or took a secret interest in anything, to impart to her neighbor thoughts which hitherto had been confined to her writing-table, and the Doctor discovered with astonishment and pleasure a female mind of strong and original cast, which sought to obtain clear views from him, and unfolded itself to him with unusual confidence. These feelings might be discovered in his poems, which were no longer taken out of the portfolio, but assumed a more personal character. Laura's eyes moistened as she read the pages in which he expressed in verse his anxiety and impatience to become acquainted with his unknown correspondent. The feeling evinced in his lines was so pure, and one saw in them the good and refined character of the man so clearly that one could not fail to place full confidence in him. The old popular songs, in the first instance the main object, became gradually only the accompaniments of the secret correspondence, and the wings of Laura's enthusiastic soul soared over golden clouds, whilst Mr. Hummel growled below and Mr. Hahn suspiciously awaited fresh attacks from the enemy.

But this poetical relation with the neighbor's son, which had been established by Laura's enterprising spirit, was exposed to the same danger that threatens all poetic moods--of being at any moment destroyed by rude reality. The Doctor was never to know that she was his correspondent,--the daughter of the enemy whom he daily met, the childish girl who quarreled with him in Ilse's room about bread and butter and almonds. When they met, he was always as before the Doctor with the spectacles, and she the little snappish Hummel, who had more of her father's ill manners than Gabriel would admit. The sulking and teasing between them went on every day as formerly. Nevertheless, it was inevitable that a warm feeling should sometimes beam in Laura's eyes, and that the friendly disposition with which she really regarded the Doctor should sometimes be betrayed in a passing word. Fritz, therefore, labored under an uncertainty over which he secretly laughed, but which, nevertheless, tormented him. When he received the well-disguised handwriting he always saw Laura before him; but when he met his neighbor at his friend's she succeeded, by mocking remarks and shy reserve, in perplexing him again. Necessity compelled her to this coquetry, but it acted upon him each time like a cold blast; and then it struck him, it can not be Laura,--is it the actress?

There was general astonishment at the tea-table when the Doctor once hinted that he had been invited to a masked ball, and was not averse to attending the noisy gathering. The ball was given by a large circle of distinguished citizens, to which Mr. Hummel belonged. The peculiarity of this party was that the chief actors of the city were admitted as welcome guests. As the Doctor had hitherto never shown any inclination for this kind of social entertainment, the Professor was astonished. Laura alone guessed the cause, but all received the announcement of this unusual intended dissipation with silent pleasure.

Mr. Hummel was not of the opinion that a masked ball was the place where the worth of a German citizen was shown to greatest advantage. He had unwillingly yielded to the coaxing of the ladies in his family, and was now seen standing among the masks in the ball-room. He had thrown the little black domino carelessly about his back like a priest's mantle; his hat was pressed down over his eyes; the silk fringe of the mask overshadowed his face on all sides, which was as unmistakable as a full moon behind thin clouds. He looked mockingly on the throng of masks that streamed past him, somewhat less comfortable and more silent than they would have been without masks and colored coats. Obnoxious to him more than all were the harlequins scattered about, who, at the beginning of the festival, affected an extravagance of conduct which was not natural to them. Mr. Hummel had good eyes, but it happened to him, as to others, that he was not able to recognize every one who was masked. All the world knew him, however. Some one tugged at his clothes.

"How is your dog Spitehahn?" asked a gentleman in rococo dress, bowing to him.

Hummel bowed in return. "Thanks for your kind inquiry. I would have brought him for a bite of the calves of your legs if you had been provided with that article."

"Does this kind of a Hummel-bee sting?" asked a green domino, in a falsetto voice.

"Spare your remarks," replied Hummel, angrily; "your voice is fast changing into a woman's. I quite pity your family."

He moved on.

"Will you buy a pack of hareskins, brother Hummel?" asked a wandering pedlar.

"I thank you, brother," replied Hummel, fiercely; "you may let me have the ass's skin that your wife tore from your face in your last quarrel."

"There's the rough felt of our city," cried, pertly, a little clown, as he gave Mr. Hummel a blow upon the stomach with his wand.

This was too much for Mr. Hummel: he seized the diminutive clown by the collar, took his wand away from him, and held the refractory little fellow on his knee. "Wait, my son," he cried; "you'll wish you had a rough felt in another place than on your head."

But a burly Turk caught him by the arm. "Sir, how can you dare to lay hold of my son in this manner?"

"Is this chattel yours?" returned Hummel, furiously; "your blotting-paper physiognomy is unknown to me. If you, as Turk, devote yourself to the rearing of ill-mannered buffoons, you must expect to see Turkish bamboo on their backs, that is a principle of international law. If you do not understand this you may come to me to-morrow morning at my office; I will make the thing clear to you, and hand over to you a bill for the watch-crystal that this creature from your harem has broken for me."

Thereupon he threw the clown into the arms of the Turk, and the wand on the ground, and clumsily made his way through the masks who surrounded him.

"There is not a human soul among them," he growled; "one feels like Robinson Crusoe among the savages." He moved about the ball-room utterly regardless of the white shoulders and bright eyes that danced about him, and again disappeared. At last he caught sight of two grey bats whom he thought he knew, for it appeared to him that the masks were his wife and daughter. He went up to them, but they avoided him and mixed in the throng. They were undoubtedly of his party, but they intended to remain unknown, and they knew that would be impossible if Mr. Hummel was with them. The forsaken man turned and went into the next room, seated himself in solitude at an empty table, took his mask off, ordered a bottle of wine, asked for the daily paper, and lighted a cigar.

"Pardon me, Mr. Hummel," said a little waiter; "no smoking here!"

"You too," replied Mr. Hummel, gloomily. "You see there _is_ smoking here. This is my way of masquerading. Matters are becoming wearisome. Every vestige of humanity and all consideration for others is being trodden under foot to-day; and that is what they call a _bal masque_."

Meanwhile Laura slipped about among the masks, looking for the Doctor. Fritz Hahn could easily be discovered by sharp eyes, for he wore his spectacles over his mask. He was standing in a blue domino, near an elegant lady in a red mantle. Laura pressed up to him. Fritz was writing something in the hand of the lady, most likely her name, for she nodded carelessly; then he wrote again in her hand, pointing to himself. Probably it was his own name, for the lady nodded, and Laura thought that she could see under her veil that she was laughing. Laura heard the Doctor speaking to the lady of a _role_ in which he had lately seen her on the stage, and he addressed her with the familiar "thou." That was, indeed, the privilege of a masquerade ball, but it was entirely unnecessary. The Doctor expressed his pleasure that in the balcony scene the lady had so well understood how to represent the glowing feeling of passion in such difficult metre. The red mantle became attentive, and, turning to the Doctor, began to speak of the _role_ she had taken. The lady spoke for some time, and then Doctor Romeo would continue still longer. The actress stepped back some steps into the shadow of a pillar; the Doctor followed her, and Laura saw that the red mantle curtly answered some other male masks, and again turned to the Doctor. At last the actress seated herself quite behind the pillar, where she was little seen by strangers, and the Doctor stood near her, leaning against it, and continuing the conversation. Laura, who had also placed herself near the pillar, heard how animated it was. The subject was passion. Now it was not the passion which one felt for the other, but that of the stage; but even that was more than a friend of the Doctor could approve of.

Laura stepped hastily forward, placed herself near Fritz Hahn, and raised her finger warningly. The Doctor looked astonished at the bat, and shrugged his shoulders. Then she seized his hand, and wrote his name in it. The Doctor made a bow, upon which she held out her hand. How could he know her in that disfiguring disguise? He gave decided proof of his ignorance, and turned again to the lady in the red mantle. Laura stepped back, and colored up to her temples under the mask. It was in anger with herself, for she was the unfortunate one who had brought him into this danger: and moreover she had come in such a disguise that he could not recognize her.

She returned to her mother, who had at last been fortunate enough to find a companion in Laura's godmother, and had got into the corner of the room in order to exchange observations on the bodily development of the baptized little Fritz. Laura placed herself next her mother, and looked at the dancing masks with indifference. Suddenly she sprang up, for Fritz Hahn was dancing with the lady in the red mantle. Was it possible? He had long abjured dancing. More than once he had ridiculed Laura for her pleasure in it; even she herself had at times, when sitting before her private journal, thought how childish this monotonous whirling movement was, and how incompatible with a nobler conception of life;--now he was turning himself round like a top.

"What do I see?" cried her mother; "is not that ----? and the red one is ----"

"It is immaterial with whom he dances," interrupted Laura, in order to avoid hearing the hated confirmation of it. But she knew Fritz Hahn, and she was aware there was some signification in this waltz. Juliet pleased him much, otherwise he would never have done it; he had never shown her this mark of distinction. The old comedian of the city theatre approached them as Pantaloon; he had at last found out the two influential ladies; he tripped up to them, made grotesque obeisances, and began to amuse her mamma with his gossip. One of his first remarks was, "It is said that young Hahn will go upon the stage; he is studying his _role_ as lover with our prima-donna."

Laura turned with annoyance from the flat remark. Her last hope was the time of unmasking; she impatiently awaited the moment. At last there was a pause, and the masks were removed. She took her mother's arm to go through the room to greet their acquaintances. It seemed a long time before she got into the neighborhood of Fritz Hahn, and not once did he look at her. Laura made a movement with her hand to touch him gently; but she pressed her fingers firmly, and passed by fixing her eyes upon him. Now at last he recognized her, as he ought to have done long before. She saw the look of pleasure in his countenance, and her heart became lighter. She stopped while he exchanged some civil sentences with her mother, and she expected that he would acknowledge that she had already greeted him, but he did not mention a word of the occurrence. Had so many written in his hand that he could not bear in mind one poor little bat? When he turned to her he only praised the ball music. This was all the notice he thought her worthy of. His conversation with Juliet had been the free interchange of mind, but to her he only addressed a few indifferent sentences. Her countenance assumed the gloomy Hummel look, as she answered, "You used to have little sympathy for the jingling instrument to which the puppets dance."

The Doctor looked embarrassed, but laughed, and asked her for the next dance. This was bad tact. Laura answered bitterly, "When the grey bat was so bold as to flutter about Romeo, he had no dance free for her; now her eyes are blinded by the bright light." She bowed her head like a queen, took her mother's arm, and left him behind.

What followed was still more aggravating. The Doctor danced once more with the lady in the mantle. Laura observed how fascinatingly she smiled on him, and he danced with no one else. Of her he took no further notice, and she was glad when soon after Mr. Hummel came up to them and said: "It was difficult to find you. When I inquired of the people for the two ugliest disguises, you were pointed out to me. I shall be glad if to-morrow morning you awake without headache. We have had enough of pleasure today."

Laura was glad when the carriage arrived at home; she rushed up to her room, hastily took her book out of the drawer, and wrote rapidly:

"Cursed be my deed and cursed all sinful art;
My own true happiness is now at stake
A troup of enemies surrounds my heart,
Which bleeding from so deadly wounds will break."

she wiped away the tears which rolled upon her paper.

The bright light of the following morning exercised its tranquilizing influence on her fluttering thoughts. Over there Fritz Hahn was still lying in his bed. The good youth had tired himself yesterday. Many drops of water might still flow into the sea before friend Fritz would determine to unite his fate with an actress of tragedy. She brought out her supply of old ballads and selected one; it was a very jolly one: the May-Bug's Marriage--in which the may-bug on the hedge asks in marriage the young maiden fly. Many little birds occupy themselves seriously about the wedding, but at last it is put an end to by some disreputable conduct on the part of the bridegroom.

"Good," said Laura; "my May-Bug Fritz, before you marry the frivolous fly Juliet, other birds shall have their say about it."

She folded up the song, and added to it a little note: "You guess wrongly. The person who sends this to you never was Juliet." As she closed the letter she said to herself, with more composure: "If he does not now perceive that he was mistaken, one cannot think much of his judgment."

The Doctor was sitting a little stupefied over his books, when his eye fell upon the above letter. He cast a look upon the Marriage of the May-Bug; he had never yet come across an old copy of it, and in rapidly glancing over it he saw that many verses were quite different from our current text. Then he took the note, and endeavored to interpret the oracle. Now it was clear that the actress was the sender, for who else could know that he had accosted her as Juliet, and that they had conversed long about this _role_. But what could the words mean, "You guess wrongly?" But even on this point his eyes were blinded; he had maintained that the representation of passion could only be to a certain extent attained by an actor, if he had never in his life experienced a similar feeling. This the actress denied, and they had endeavored to come to an agreement about it; her words, therefore, clearly meant that she had impersonated Juliet without ever having previously felt a great passion. This was a confession that showed great confidence--nay, perhaps still more. The Doctor sat long looking at the note; but he now felt pretty sure who his correspondent was, and the discovery did not give him pleasure. For when he had reasoned the matter out upon rational grounds, it had always been Laura's eyes that beamed upon him from the paper, though undoubtedly quite another look from that which she had favored him with yesterday. He laid the May-Bug Marriage with the other songs, and again asked himself whether he ought to continue the correspondence. At last he sealed in answer one of the worthless trifles of his portfolio, and did not write anything in addition.

Some days after, when the Professor and Ilse were walking through the streets, they passed by the dwelling of the actress; both saw their friend standing at the window of the heroine, and he nodded to them from within.

"How has he made this acquaintance?" asked the Professor; "is not the young lady considered very fast?"

"I fear so," answered Ilse, troubled.

Now Mrs. Knips (who dwelt opposite to the actress) came running in to Madame Hummel one day with the linen still damp, and told her that on the previous evening a great basket of champagne had been taken to the actress's house, and that in the night the loud singing of a dissolute company had been heard over the whole street, and that young Doctor Hahn had been among them!

On Sunday the comedian had been invited to dinner at Mr. Hummel's, and one of his first anecdotes was concerning a jovial party which had taken place at the actress's. With the malice which is often to be found in fellow-artists towards each other, he added, "She has found a new admirer, the son of your neighbor over the way. Well! the father's money will at least come to the support of art." Mr. Hummel opened his eyes and shook his head, but only said, "So Fritz Hahn too has gone among the actors and become dissipated: he is the last one that I should have suspected of this."

Mrs. Hummel endeavored to bring to mind her recollections of the ball, and found in them a sorrowful confirmation of this, but Laura, who had been sitting very pale and silent, broke forth vehemently to the actor:

"I will not suffer you to speak of the Doctor in such a tone at our table. We are well enough acquainted with him to know that he is in conduct and principles a noble man. He is master of his own actions, and if he likes the lady and visits her at times, a third person has no right to say anything in the matter whatever. It is a malicious calumny to say that he goes there with any dishonorable intentions, and spends money that does not belong to him."

The comedian, through fright, got a crumb of bread in his wind-pipe, and burst out in the most violent fit of coughing that had ever seized him, but the mother, in excuse of their pleasant visitor, replied:

"You have sometimes felt yourself, that the conduct of the Doctor was not quite the thing."

"If I have said anything of the kind in foolish ill temper," cried Laura, "it was an injustice, and I am very sorry for it; I have only the excuse that I never meant it ill-naturedly. But from others I will hear no slanderous talk about our neighbor." She rose from table and left the room. The actor vindicated himself to the mother, but Mr. Hummel grasped his wine-glass and, peering after his daughter, said:

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

The Doctor was little troubled about his own misdeeds. He had paid a visit to his partner after the ball, the occasion on which he had been seen at the window. One of his school friends, now second tenor at the theatre, had come and arranged with the actress to have a little picnic on her approaching birthday, and Fritz had been invited to take part in it. It was a merry gathering, and the Doctor had found much entertainment among the light-winged birds of the stage, and had rejoiced with the benevolence of a wise man at the good tact which was visible amidst the easy style of their intercourse. There had also been much intelligent conversation in the course of the evening, and he went home with the impression that even for a person like himself it was good to be for once associated with these lively artists. He had endeavored that same evening, by a stratagem, to ascertain his unknown correspondent. When they were singing songs, and with lively grace reciting comic verses, he had produced the May-bug song and had begun to sing it:

"The May-bug sat on the hedge, brum, brum;
The fly sat beneath him, hum, hum hum."

Some had joined in it; the lady in the mantle did not know the song, however, but only a similar one from an old _role_; and when the bass took up the melody from the Doctor, and in the following verses portrayed each of the birds as they entered by gestures and comic changes of the melody, the hostess laughed, and without any embarrassment undertook to learn the song, so that the Doctor again became very doubtful, and on returning home remained standing on the threshold and looked significantly at the house of Mr. Hummel. If any one had accurately investigated why, after this May-bug song, the Doctor became noisy and gay like the others, he would perhaps have discovered that the unembarrassed air of the actress had lifted a load from his heart.

But this helped him little with respect to the "brum" and "hum" of the neighbors. All Park Street had latterly accorded to their Fritz Hahn the highest respect; his picture had been placed among the serious men of learning in their albums, whom they daily contemplated and spoke of. Now strange features had appeared in the well-known face, and the street could not bear that one of their children should appear otherwise than he had been wont to do. Therefore there was much whispering and shaking of heads, and this came to the knowledge of Mr. and Mrs. Hahn, and, finally, to the Doctor. He laughed, but he did not feel quite at ease about it.

"Tannhaeuser, noble knight and man,
In Venus' wiles thou liest ensnared,
While I, a wicked Pope Urban,
To cause you shame and sorrow dared."

Thus did Laura lament in her room, but she concealed her heavy sorrow, and did not speak a word concerning the danger of the Doctor, even to Ilse; and when the latter once slightly alluded to the new intimacy of their friend, Laura broke the thread of her embroidery, and said, while the blood rushed to her heart:

"Why should not the Doctor visit there? He is a young man for whom it is good to see different people; he stays too much in his room and with his parents. If I had been a man like him, I should long ago have tied up my bundle and gone out into the world, for our narrow field of active life weakens the energies and dwarfs the mind."

At the tea-table one of the company present turned the conversation on the actress, and shrugged his shoulders over her free manners. Laura felt what must be the Doctor's embarrassment; there sat poor Fritz, obliged to listen to the derogatory criticisms--his intimate acquaintances were silent, and looked significantly at him; his position was terrible, for every fool made use of the lady's unprotected position to show himself a Cato.

"I wonder," she said, "that gentlemen should so severely criticise the little freaks of an actress. A lady of that profession should be treated with great consideration, for she is deprived of all the protection and all the pleasure which we have in our families. I am convinced that she is a worthy and sensitive girl."

The Doctor looked thankfully at her and confirmed her opinion. He did not observe it, but it had happened as in his fairy-tale; Laura had bent down to his feet and picked up the pocket-handkerchief.

But she had still more to bear. The month of March began his theatrical pranks in the world; first from his grey clouds he had cast a veil of snow over the landscape; icicles hung from the roofs and white crystals from the trees, and the wild storm howled all around. Suddenly all was transformed. A mild south wind blew, the buds of the trees swelled, and the fresh green made its appearance in the meadow; the children ran about in the woods and carried home large bunches of spring flowers, and people, rejoicing in the change, passed in unceasing pilgrimage through the Park Street out into the sunshine.

Even Mr. Hummel felt the presage of spring. He gave expression to this annually by mixing the colors for his boat, and taking a pleasure walk on a well-chosen afternoon with his wife and daughter to a distant coffee-garden. This festive journey was but an indifferent pleasure for Laura, for Mr. Hummel walked with sturdy step in front of the ladies; he secretly rejoiced in the renewal of old nature, and only occasionally favored his ladies with a remark over his shoulder when he was annoyed at a change in the vegetation. But Laura knew that her father thought much of this March pleasure, and this year, too, she went with her mother behind him to a solitary village, where Mr. Hummel smoked his pipe, fed the hens, scolded the waiter, and talked with the landlord about the crops and gave the sun an opportunity of rejoicing in the healthy appearance of his old friend, Mr. Hummel. Mr. Hummel, who was usually by no means averse to society, loved now to be alone with nature, and hated the place of resort of the citizens in the country, where the aroma of new cakes and fritters destroyed the perfume of nature.

When he entered the coffee-garden with his ladies, he saw with dissatisfaction that other guests were already there. He threw an indignant glance on the gay society which had taken possession of his usual place, and noticed among them the young actress, as well as other members of the theatre, and with them the son of his adversary. Then he turned to his daughter and said, blinking his eyes:

"To-day you will be well satisfied; here you have, besides the enjoyments of nature, those of art."

It was a terribly hard trial to which Laura's courage was subjected; but she raised her head proudly, and passed with her parents to another corner of the garden. There she placed herself with her back to the strangers. Nevertheless, she learnt more of their proceedings than was good for her composure. She heard the sounds of laughter, and the merry hum of the May-bug party; the less she saw of them the more painful was the noise, and every sound was audible in the deep stillness, and her mother's ears and eyes also were intent on the other party. After a time the loud conversation of the artists ceased, and she heard her name spoken in low terms. Immediately afterwards the gravel crunched behind her, and she felt that the Doctor was behind her.

He approached the table, greeted the father silently, made some friendly remarks to the mother about the weather, and was just on the point of turning to Laura with a forced composure that did not escape her, when Mr. Hummel, who had till then silently borne the intrusion of the enemy, took his pipe from his mouth, and began, with gentle voice:

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

Laura plunged her parasol vehemently into the gravel.

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

"It is reported," continued Mr. Hummel, "that you intend to say farewell to your books and become a professional actor. If this should be the case, I beg of you to think kindly of my little business. I have every kind of artistic head-gear: for lovers fine beaver, with galoon for lackeys, and if ever you act the punchinello, a white felt hat. But you would rather be called clown, perhaps. That is now the fashionable _role_; buffoons are out of style; one shall address you as Sir Clown."

"I have no intention of going on the stage," replied the Doctor; "but if ever the idea should occur to me, I would not come to you for the artistic work of your manufactory, but for instruction in what you consider good manners. I should then at least know what, in my profession, was _not_ befitting men of breeding."

He bowed to the ladies, and went away.

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

Laura did not move, but her dark eyebrows were knit so threateningly that Mr. Hummel could not help perceiving it.

"I am quite of your opinion," he said, pleasantly, to his daughter. "It is a great pity that he is spoilt by belonging to these straw-hat people, but now there is no hope for him."

He then took a bit of cake and offered it to a little poodle that was sitting on its hind legs, begging and moving its paws.

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

The dog Billy, however, did not attend, but continued to show his devotion to Mr. Hummel, who, having a greater tenderness for dogs than for men, was feeding him.

The actress came up hastily.

"I beg of you not to give the naughty animal any cake,--there are almonds in it," said the actress, pushing the dog away.

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

"If you only knew how clever he was," said the lady; "he knows all kinds of tricks. Show the gentleman what you have learnt, Billy."

She held her parasol out: Billy sprang lightly over it, and bounded into the lap of Mr. Hummel, where he wagged his tail and attempted to lick the friendly gentleman's face.

"He wants to kiss you," said the actress. "You should be proud of that, for he does not do it to everyone."

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

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

Mr. Hummel arose and presented the dog to her, which would not desist from his attempts to kiss and lick the face of the worthy citizen.

"He is a simple-hearted creature," said Mr. Hummel, "and is the same color as my dog Spitehahn."

The actress fondled the dog in her arms.

"The rogue is very much spoilt; he creeps into my muff when I go to the theatre, and I am obliged to take him with me. I was lately frightened to death on his account; for once, while I was lamenting as Clara among the citizens, Billy had run out of the green-room and, standing between the curtains, began to wag his tail and caper about on his hind legs."

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

"I moved about more than usual," replied the actress, "and at every turn in the scene I had to call out, 'Lie down, Billy.'"

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

"To-day I am thankful to the naughty little creature, though," continued the actress, "for he has afforded me the opportunity of making the acquaintance of my neighbors. Mr. Hummel, I believe?"

Mr. Hummel bowed awkwardly. The actress turned to the ladies with a bow, and the latter answered her greeting silently.

There was much in the lady that pleased Mr. Hummel. She was pretty, had a gay and cheerful countenance, and wore something on her bonnet with which he was personally acquainted. He therefore moved a chair towards her and said, with another bow:

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

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

"I rejoice to be able to approach you at last. You are no stranger to me, and you have often given me great pleasure, and I am glad to be able to-day to thank you for it."

"Where was it?" asked Laura, embarrassed.

"Where you would certainly never have thought of it," replied the other. "I have keen eyes, and over the footlights I observe the face of every spectator. You cannot imagine how painful that is to me sometimes. As you are always in the same seat, it has often been a great pleasure to me to rest my eyes on your features and observe their interested expression; and more than once, without your knowing it, I have acted for you alone."

"Ha!" thought Laura, "it is Venus." But she felt a chord had been struck which gave out a pure tone. She told the actress how unwillingly she missed any of the plays in which she acted, and that in their house the first question, when they received the new bill of the play, was whether the lady was going to act.

This gave the mother an opportunity of entering into the conversation. The actress spoke warmly of the kindness with which she had everywhere been received. "For the greatest charm of our art is the secret friends that we gain by our acting--people whom otherwise one perhaps never sees, whose names one does not know, yet who take an interest in our life. Then, if by accident one becomes acquainted with these kindly strangers, it is a rich compensation for all the sufferings of our vocation, among which the intrusive homage of common persons is perhaps the greatest."

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

While the ladies were thus talking together, and Mr. Hummel listened with approbation, some gentlemen approached the table. Mrs. Hummel politely greeted the second tenor, who had once sung for her at the godmother's house, and the worthy father of the stage, who knew Mr. Hummel at the club, began a conversation with him concerning the building of a new theatre. On this subject Mr. Hummel had, as a citizen, a very decided opinion, in which the worthy father quite agreed.

In this way the two parties mingled together, and the table of Mr. Hummel became a centre round which the children of Thalia thronged. While the actress was talking with Mrs. Hummel in a very creditable and domestic manner of the inconveniences of her dwelling, Laura glanced at the Doctor. He was standing some steps from the party, leaning against a tree, looking thoughtfully before him. Laura suddenly moved towards him, and began speaking rapidly: "My father has offended you. I beg your forgiveness."

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

"I have talked to her," continued Laura, with trembling voice; "she is clever and amiable, and has an irresistible charm of manner."

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

"Do not attempt concealment with me," continued Laura; "that is unnecessary between us; there is no one on earth who wishes for your happiness more than I do. You need not trouble yourself about others shaking their heads; if you are sure of the love of the lady, all the rest is a secondary consideration."

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

"Do not deny it, Fritz Hahn; that ill becomes your truthful nature," rejoined Laura passionately; "I see how well the lady suits you. Since I have seen her, I feel convinced that she is capable of appreciating all that is good and great. Do not hesitate, but venture courageously to seek her heart. Yet I am so troubled about you, Fritz. Your feelings are warm and your judgment sound, but you cling too firmly to that which surrounds you. I tremble, therefore, lest you should make yourself unhappy by not deciding at the right moment upon a course which will appear strange to your family. I know you from my early childhood, and I am sure that your danger always has been to forget yourself for others. You might pass a self-sacrificing existence, which I cannot bear to think of. For I desire that all happiness should be your portion, as your upright heart deserves." Tears coursed down her cheeks, as she looked lovingly upon him.

Every word that she spoke sounded to the Doctor like the trilling of a lark and the chirrup of the cricket. He spoke softly to her: "I do not love the lady; I have never thought of uniting her future with mine."

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

"It is a passing acquaintance, nothing more either for her or me; her life belongs to art, and can hardly adapt itself to quiet domestic habits. If I could venture to seek a heart for myself, it would not be hers, but that of another." He looked towards the table, from whence at that moment there came a loud laugh, evidently of Mr. Hummel, and spoke the last words so low that they scarcely reached Laura's ear, and he looked sorrowfully down on the buds of the elderbush in which the young blossoms still lay hidden.

Laura stood motionless, as if touched by the wand of a magician, but the tears still continued to flow down her cheeks. She came very near touching to her lips the cherry of her philopena legend.

Then the merry cockchafers hummed round her, the actress nodded smilingly to her, and her father called her:--the fairy tale was at an end. Laura heard the actress say triumphantly to the Doctor, "He offered me a chair, he is no growling bear after all. And he was so kind to Billy."

When Fritz returned home, he threw off his hat and overcoat, rushed to his writing-table, and took up the little letters in the unknown hand. "It is she," he cried, aloud, "fool that I was to doubt it for one moment." He read all the letters again, and nodded at each. It was his own high-minded, noble maiden who had before disguised herself, now she had shown herself to him as she really was. He waited impatiently for the hour when he should meet her at their friend's. She entered late, greeted him quietly, and was more silent and gentle than usual. When she turned to him she spoke seriously, as to a trusted friend. Her quiet composure became her well. Now she showed herself to him as she was, a refined mind full of true enthusiasm. Prudery and sportive moods had only been the shell that, had concealed the sweet kernel. The unassumed caution, too, with which she concealed her feelings among her friends, delighted him. When the next ballad should come, then she would speak to him as she felt, or she would give him permission to write openly to her. The next morning the Doctor counted the minutes till the arrival of the postman. He tore open the door and hastened to meet the man. Fritz received a letter, he broke the cover impatiently, there was not a line from his correspondent; he unfolded the old printed sheet, and read the words of a coarse bacchanalian ditty:

"On the spit with ox and pig,
Clear the green for reel and jig,
Wine and rhyme and wassail-shout,
Pass the flowing bowl about!"

So the honest, simple-minded Doctor asked again: Is it she? or is it possible that it is not?

_CHAPTER XXIV_.

AMONG THE STUDENTS.

Any one who would know the Professor at his best should see him sitting surrounded by his students, the mature man amidst blossoming youth, the teacher among his admiring scholars. For the greatest privilege of the academical teacher is, that he not only exercises a personal influence on the present, but ennobles the souls of men in later generations by his knowledge. Out of the many who listen to lectures a chosen circle attaches itself to the learned man, the tie of personal intercourse connects the teacher and the scholar, lightly formed but lasting; for what attracts one to the other, and often makes the stranger after a few hours an intimate friend, is the pleasant consciousness that both value and appreciate the same thing.

This bond, so charming and profitable for both parties, is the noble poetry which learning grants to its votaries. Strangers and men of later generations judge the value of a man only by his books, but however valuable may be the products of a man's mind thus transmitted, it gives but an imperfect picture of it to later times; far different does the living source work in the souls of those who receive knowledge from the lips and eyes of the teacher. They are taught, not only by the substance of his instructions, but still more by his method of investigating and expounding, and, most of all, by his character and the original style of his discourse. For these warm the hearts of his hearers, charm their minds, and inspire them with respect. Such an impression of the human mind, which leaves its traces on many, is often more important in forming the character of young men than the subject-matter of the instruction they have received. The character of the teacher works in the scholars; new life is infused into them, and they imbibe not only his excellencies, but also, sometimes, his peculiarities and weaknesses. In each hearer the characteristics of the master assume a different aspect, yet in each the influence of his mind is apparent, even in minute particulars. The lessons which Felix gave to his wife were not the only ones given in his house. One evening of every week belonged to his students. There came, first, a few who wished to ask questions and obtain information about their work; afterwards, a greater number assembled. Ilse's room was also opened, and Gabriel brought tea and simple fare, and an hour passed in easy conversation, till, at last, the most intimate withdrew into the study of their teacher, and clustered around him in numbers almost too great for the narrow room. Here, also, the conversation was varied; sometimes a humorous account of what they had experienced, or discussions in which the Professor knew how to make his young friends take an active part, and, interspersed with these, rapid criticisms upon men and books, pointed remark and quick retort, such as are natural to those who can recognize long melodies by a few tones. At these receptions Felix disclosed his inmost soul with an openness that he never showed in the lecture-room. He spoke of himself and others without reserve, and entered pleasantly on what he had most at heart.

Ilse was no stranger at these gatherings. Those who assisted in them, whether serious men, old students, or young doctors, found pleasure in the presence of the distinguished lady of the house, who, in her simple way, took part in their intercourse. The year before she had shown her intimacy with the Odyssey, when she summoned the gentlemen to the enjoyment of a leg of wild boar, and expressed the benevolent wish that they would not disdain to partake of the meal. After that she was called Penelope in the circle, and she knew that this nickname spread among the students beyond the walls of her house.

Ilse had her favorites among the young men. Of this number was a worthy student, not the most distinguished, but one of the most industrious of the Professor's scholars. He was a countryman of hers and had been the first to show her that students had tender feelings in their breasts. This student had, during the last year, worked successfully in filling his intellectual vacuum with collegiate knowledge. His lyrics he had almost given up; for when the Professor sent him back his poems, he had felt remorse and humbly begged pardon. Since that, having obtained a good scholarship through Felix, he took a less misanthropic view of domestic affairs; he proved himself a faithful and attached companion, and now bore the honorable title of Doctorandus, which, according to our grammarians, signifies a man who is about to be a doctor; he had also attained a certain degree of recognition among the students; he filled a position of honor in the great Arminia corps, always wore their colors on his cap, and was ranked among the privileged seniors of the society who, on drinking evenings, were exempted from the heavier obligations of conviviality, and filled up by serious conversation the pauses in which the stormy youths took breath.

On one of these evenings the conversation took a learned turn even before the party had retreated from Ilse's apartment to the study. An interesting manuscript had been found in a distant library in South Germany. There was much talk about the discovery and the editor, and Felix recounted with satisfaction to some of his select circle all the similar discoveries which had been made during the last twenty years. Then our student, who had just received a cup of tea from Ilse, and was stirring it with his spoon, said, in evident ignorance of the storm that was lowering: "May there not be many things still undiscovered in the neighborhood? In my town there is an old chest, which contains books and papers from the monastery at Rossau. It is not impossible that there may be something valuable there."

Thus spoke the student, stirring his spoon, like a boy who applies a burning match to a bombshell.

The Professor started from his chair, and cast such a flaming glance at the student that in fright he quickly set down his cup of tea in order not to spill it "Where is the chest?" said the Professor.

"Where is it? I do not know," replied the student surprised. "I was told of it, some years ago, by a countryman of mine, who was born in the district of Rossau"--the student mentioned the name, and Ilse knew the family--"but it must be in our county, for he lived there as tutor in several places."

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

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

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

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

"I am not certain of that, either," replied the student. "I did not then know the importance that attached to the communication. But, I think, he must have seen it himself, for I remember he said it was thickly plated with iron."

"Unfortunate man! You must do your utmost to procure us information about this chest," cried the Professor. He paced impatiently up and down the room, the students making way for him respectfully. "Your communication is of more importance than I can now tell you," began the Professor, stopping before the student. "Endeavor, in the first place, to recall what you have heard about it. Did your acquaintance ever see the chest open?"

"When I come to think of it," replied the student, "I believe that he saw some old monastic relics lying in it."

"Then it was no longer closed?" inquired the Professor. "And where is your friend, now?"

"He went to America last year with a brewer's daughter. I do not know where he now resides, but it may be ascertained from his relations."

Again a murmur of vexation passed through the room.

"Endeavor to discover the residence of the man; write to him, and ask for accurate information," exclaimed the Professor; "you can do me no greater service."

The student promised to do all in the power of man. When the party broke up Gabriel communicated to the student a secret invitation to dinner on the following day. Ilse knew that it would be agreeable to Felix to have the company of one who had even an acquaintance who had seen the chest that contained the books of Rossau, among which, it was possible, the manuscript of Tacitus might lie, provided it was not somewhere else.

She, however, did not hear with any satisfaction of the secret chest, for Ilse was, alas! incredulous in the matter of the manuscript. She had sometimes vexed her husband by her indifference on the subject, and, after the unfortunate Struvelius episode, avoided every mention of the lost treasure. She had, besides, special reasons for it. She knew how much every thought and discussion concerning it excited Felix. He always became agitated, and his eyes shone as in fever. It is true he controlled himself after a few minutes, and laughed at his own fervor; but these outbreaks of latent ardor were not agreeable to his wife, for she saw by these sudden flashings that the thought of the manuscript still fretted the soul of her dear husband, and suspected that in secret he often dreamt of it, and entertained secret designs against the walls of her father's house.

Our student had now aroused the storm. Later, the doctor was called in and there was a long discussion and dispute. Ilse was glad that the doctor did not attach much importance to the chest, and by sensible suggestions brought the Professor at last to make humorous remarks upon his own eagerness.

When, on the following day at dinner, the student produced the letter he had written in proof of his zeal, the Professor treated the matter with more composure. "It is an uncertain account," he said, "even if the relator tells the truth; he may be in error concerning the particulars, or even the name of the monastery." When, afterwards, information came from the house of the student that the theologian had settled somewhere in Wisconsin as an apothecary, and that the student's letter had been sent to an uncertain address in a distant country, the whirlpool which the mention of the chest had provoked had subsided to peaceful ripples.