The student took his leave and the next morning Ilse received a package with a very respectful letter, by post, in which he excused himself for not sending her all the poetical pieces which would place his misfortune in the right light, as he had not copies of them ready. Enclosed with them was a sonnet to Ilse herself, very tender and full of reverence, in which it was clearly the secret intention of the student to make Ilse the mistress of his dreams in the place of his unfaithful love.
Ilse, somewhat embarrassed, laid this enclosure on the writing-table of her husband.
"If I have done wrong, Felix, tell me."
The Professor laughed.
"I will send him back his poem myself; that will cool his ardor. You know now that it is dangerous to receive the confidence of a student. The poems, by the way, are poorer than need be."
"Thus I have had a lesson," said Ilse, "which I have brought upon myself; for the future I will be more cautious."
But she could not so easily banish the recollection of the student.
Every afternoon, when the weather was favorable. Ilse went at the same hour with her husband to the adjacent wood. The happy couple sought out lonely by-paths, where the branches were more thickly intertwined and the green carpet beneath contrasted gaily with the yellow leaves. Then Ilse thought of the trees on her father's estate; and the conversation with her husband always reverted to her father, brothers, and sisters, and to the latest news she had had from home. In the meadow which extended from the last buildings of the town to the wood there stood a bench under a large bush; from there could be seen the hostile houses in the foreground and behind them the gables and towers of the city. When Ilse came upon the place the first time, she was pleased at the sight of her own windows and the surrounding gloomy towers, and it led her to think of the seat in the cave, from which she had so often looked on her father's house; she sat down on the bench, drew out the letters which she had just received from her brothers and sisters, and read to her husband the simple sentences in which they reported the latest events on the farm. From that time forth this became her favorite resting-place, as she and her husband bent their steps homeward.
The day after the reception of the student's package, on arriving at the bench, she saw a small nosegay lying on it; she picked it up with curiosity; a delicately folded note of rose-colored paper was appended to it, with this inscription: "A greeting from B." After this as many stars as there were letters in the name of her father's country-place. Surprised, she handed the note to the Professor. He opened it and read these unpretentious lines: -
The little dwarfes in their stone-built bower,
Have written the rhyme on this card.
They send from thy father's home a flower,
With their heart-felt, innermost regard.
"That is meant for you," he said, in astonishment.
"How delightful!" exclaimed Ilse.
"The 'dwarf' must certainly be a joke of the Doctor," decided the Professor; "truly, he has well disguised his handwriting."
Ilse, delighted, pinned on the nosegay.
"When the Doctor comes this evening he shall not find out that we have discovered him."
The Professor dilated upon the droll idea of his friend and Ilse, who before had looked upon the Doctor with secret distrust, heartily agreed.
But when, in the evening, the Doctor feigned the greatest nonchalance, he was jestingly scolded for his art of dissimulation and loaded with thanks. When, however, he firmly declared that the nosegay and verse did not come from him, fruitless discussion arose as to the author, and the Professor began to look very serious.
A few days later the offering in the wood was repeated; another nosegay lay on the bench with the same address and a verse. Again did Ilse endeavor gently to maintain, that there had been collusion on the part of the Doctor, but the Professor rejected that and put the rose-colored note in his pocket. Ilse took the nosegay with her, but this time did not place it in her girdle. When the Doctor came the adventure was again discussed.
"It can be no one but the little student," said Ilse, much distressed.
"That I fear, also," said the Professor, and related to the Doctor Ilse's annoyance at the confidential package from the devotee of the muses. "Harmless as the thing appears in itself, it still has a serious aspect. These addresses imply close watching, which is anything but agreeable, and such activity and assiduity may lead the adorer to still greater daring. He must be checked. I will endeavor to-morrow to convince him of his error."
"And if he should deny the act," interposed the Doctor. "You should at least make this impossible. As the nosegay has escaped the observation of others passing by, it has probably been laid there the last moment before your appearance, which would not be difficult to do, as you always pass at the same hour. We must endeavor to surprise the daring man."
"I will go alone to-morrow," said the Professor.
"You ought not to watch a student in the wood," said the Doctor, decidedly. "Besides, if your wife remains at home the nosegay will probably not lie on the bench. Leave the affair to me. Go out as usual to-morrow and the following days and I shall watch the place from some other point."
This being settled, the Professor took both the small nosegays from the glass and threw them out of the window.
On the following day, a quarter of an hour before his friends started, the Doctor went to the wood, disguised in a grey coat and dark hat, in order to fall upon the presumptuous versifier from his hiding-place; he undertook to chastise the offender so that the Professor would be spared any personal interference. He found a good place just opposite the bench, where the dense beech foliage would conceal the hunter from his game. There he placed himself in a good position, drew a large opera-glass from his pocket and fixed his eyes attentively on the bench in question. The bench was still empty; the few pedestrians passed it by with indifference; the time seemed long; the Doctor looked for half an hour through the glasses, until his eyes began to ache, but he persevered. His place was well chosen; the offender could not escape. Suddenly, just as his eyes accidentally glanced toward Mr. Hummel's house, he saw the garden gate open; something dark passed out between the trees and came toward the bench out of the thicket, looked cautiously round, passed by the bench and disappeared again among the trees and through the hostile garden gate. An expression of infinite astonishment was depicted on the countenance of the Doctor; he closed his opera glass and laughed quietly to himself; then adjusted the glasses again, and peered after the vanished figure. He shook his head and fell into deep thought. He listened and heard the quiet steps of two promenaders. The Professor and Ilse came out of the wood. They stopped a few steps from the bench and looked at the fatal nosegay which lay there so innocently. The Doctor burst out from the copse, laughing, took up the nosegay, and, offering it to Ilse, said:
"It is not the student."
"Who then?" asked the Professor, uneasily.
"That I cannot tell," replied the Doctor; "but the affair is harmless-the nosegay is from a lady."
"Seriously?" asked the Professor.
"You may depend upon it," replied Fritz, convincingly. "It is from some one whom we both know and your wife need not hesitate to accept the greetings. It is given with the best intentions."
"Have the townspeople so many verses and secrets?" asked Ilse, curiously, taking the flowers with a light heart.
Again there was guessing: they could not find any one on whom they could fix it.
"I am glad that the mystery is thus solved," said the Professor; "but tell your poetess that such missives might easily fall into bad hands."
"I have no influence over her," replied the Doctor; "but whatever may have put it into her head to do this, it will not always remain a secret."
At last came the long-wished-for hour in which Laura was to have a private meeting with the distinguished stranger, as Ilse up to this day was designated in the private memoirs. Her mother had gone out when Ilse entered the sitting-room to ask a household question. Laura gave the information, gained courage and at last ventured to request Ilse to go with her into the garden. There they sat together under the last rays of an October sun and interchanged opinions concerning the boat, the Chinese temple and the passers-by. Finally, Laura respectfully took Ilse's hand and drew her into a corner of the garden to show her a great rarity-the abandoned nest of a hedge-sparrow. The birds had long flown away and the remains of the nest still hung on the half bare branches.
"Here they were," cried Laura, impressively; "charming little creatures; there were five speckled eggs there and they reared their little ones successfully. I was in mortal terror all the time on account of the cats that prowl about here."
"You have never lived in the country," said Ilse. "People here in the city are delighted if they can only keep one poor little sparrow in their garden. At home they chirruped, sang and flew about in all the trees; and unless there was something unusual about them, one took no particular notice of them. Here each little creature is valued and cared for, even the sparrows. The first morning I was here I was shocked at the sight of these poor creatures; they are not to be compared to their brothers in the country, their feathers are bristly and uneven, and their whole bodies are black and sooty, like charcoal-burners. I would gladly have taken a sponge to wash the whole lot."
"It would be of no use; they would become black again," said Laura, despondingly. "It is caused by the soot in the gutters."
"Does one become, so dusty and is one so roughly handled in the city? That is sad. It is certainly much more beautiful in the country." As Ilse softly acknowledged this, her eyes moistened involuntarily with the thought of the distant woody hills. "I am only a stranger here," she added more cheerfully. "The city would be very pleasant if there were not so many people: they annoy me with their staring, whenever I go out alone."
"I will accompany you if you like," said Laura, delighted; "I shall always be ready."
This was a kind offer and was thankfully accepted. Laura, in her great joy, ventured to ask Ilse to go with her into her private room. They ascended to the upper story. There the little sofa, the ivy screen, the shepherd and shepherdess, were duly admired, and finally the new piano.
"Will you play something for me?" asked Ilse. "I cannot play at all. We had an old piano but I learnt only a few tunes from my dear, mother for the children to dance to."
Laura took a piece of music, the first leaf of which was beautifully ornamented with gilded elves and lilies, and played the "Elfin Waltz," secretly trembling, but with great execution; and she explained, laughingly, with a shake of her black locks, the passages where the spirits came fluttering in and mysteriously chattered together. Ilse was highly delighted.
"How quickly your little fingers fly," she said, regarding Laura's delicate hand with admiration. "See how large my hand is in comparison and how hard the skin-that comes from doing housework."
Laura looked entreatingly at her. "If I might only hear you sing."
"I can sing nothing but hymns and some old country songs."
"Oh, do sing them," begged Laura. "I will endeavor to accompany you."
Ilse began an old melody and Laura tried a modest accompaniment and listened with transport to the rich sound of Ilse's voice; she felt her heart tremble under the swelling tones and ventured to join in the last verse.
After this she searched for a song which was known to both, and, when they succeeded tolerably in singing together, Laura clapped her hands enthusiastically, and they determined to practice some easy songs to surprise the Professor.
In the course of conversation Ilse confessed that she had seldom heard a concert, and occasionally when visiting in the neighborhood, had seen a play, but only one opera.
"The piece was called the Freischütz," said Ilse; "the heroine was the forester's daughter, and she had a friend just as merry, with beautiful locks and frank eyes like yours; and the man whom she loved lost his faith in the gracious protection of heaven, and in order to obtain the girl he denied God and surrendered himself to the Evil One. That was fearful; her heart became heavy and a foreboding came over her; but she did not lose her strength of mind, nor her trust in help from above; and her faith saved her lover, over whom the Evil One had already stretched out his hand."
Then she accurately described the whole dramatic course of the action.
"It was enchanting," she said. "I was very young, and when I came back to our hotel I could not compose myself and my father was obliged to scold me."
Laura listened, sitting on a footstool at Ilse's feet; she held her hand fast and heard her account as a child listens to a tale she already knows.
"How well you describe it; 'tis as if one was reading a poem."
"Ah, no," exclaimed Ilse, shaking her head; "this compliment is just what I do not in the least deserve. I have never in my life made a verse and I am so prosaic that I do not know how my unpolished nature will adapt itself to the town, for here they write verses; they hum about in the air like flies in summer."
"What do you mean?" asked Laura, hanging her head.
"Only think, even I, a stranger, have received verses!"
"That is quite natural," said Laura, folding her handkerchief to conceal her confusion.
"I have found little nosegays on the bench in the park, with dear little poems, and the name of my home given by a letter and stars. See, first a large B, and then-"
Laura, in her delight at this account, looked up, from her handkerchief. Her cheeks were suffused with color. There was a roguish smile in her eyes.
Ilse looked at the beaming countenance and, as she spoke, guessed that she was the giver.
Laura bent down to kiss her hand, but Ilse raised the curly head, threatening her with her finger and kissing her.
"You are not angry with me," said Laura, "for being so bold?"
"It was very sweet and kind of you, but you must know that it caused us a great deal of uneasiness. The Doctor discovered you, but he did not tell us your name."
"The Doctor?" exclaimed Laura, starting up. "Must that man always interfere where I am concerned!"
"He kept your secret faithfully. Now I may tell my husband all about it, may I not? but, between ourselves, he was very much displeased for a time."
This was a triumph for Laura. Again she seated herself at Ilse's feet and archly begged her to relate what the Professor had said.
"That would not be right," answered Ilse, gravely; "that is his secret."
Thus an hour passed in pleasant talk till the clock struck, and Ilse rose hastily. "My husband will wonder where I have disappeared to," said she. "You are a dear girl. If you like we will become good friends."
Ah! that pleased Laura very much. She accompanied her visitor to the staircase, and on the step it occurred to her that she had forgotten the principal thing she wanted to say; her room was directly above that of the Professor's wife, and when Ilse opened the window she could communicate quickly with her by signals. Just as Ilse was about to close her door, Laura ran down once more in order to express her joy that Ilse had granted her this hour.
Laura returned to her room, paced up and down with rapid steps, and snapped her fingers like one who has won the great prize in a lottery. She confided to her journal her account of the consecrated hour, and of every word that Ilse had spoken, and concluded with verses:
"I found thee, pure one! Now my dream will live.
And tho' 'twixt joy and pain thy soul may pine,
I touch thy garment's hem and homage give,
And lovingly thee in my heart enshrine."
Then she seated herself at the piano and played with impassioned expression the melody which Ilse had sung to her. And Ilse below heard this heartfelt outburst of thanks for her visit.
CHAPTER XIV.
A DAY OF VISITS
A carriage drove up to the door. Ilse entered her husband's study, attired for her first visit. "Look at me," she said; "do I look all right?"
"Very well," cried the Professor, joyfully, scanning his wife. But it was well that everything was as it should be without his help, for in matter of the toilet the critical eye of the Professor was of doubtful value.
"Now I begin a new game," continued Ilse, "such as the children used to play at home. I am to knock at your friends' doors and call out, Halloa, halloa! and when the ladies ask. Who is there? I shall answer, as in the game:
"I am a poor, poor beggar-maid,
And what I want is this:
For me I want a piece of bread;
For my husband I want a kiss."
"Well, so far as the kisses are concerned that I am to dispense to the wives of my colleagues," replied the Professor, putting on his gloves, "I should, on the whole, be obliged to you if you would take that business upon yourself."
"Ah, you men are very strict," said Ilse; "my little Franz also always refuses to play the game, because he would not kiss the stupid girls. I only hope that I'll not disgrace you."
They drove through the streets. On the way the Professor gave his wife an account of the persons and the particular branch of learning of each of his colleagues to whom he was taking her.
"Let us visit pleasant people first," he said. "Yonder lives Professor Raschke, our professor of philosophy, and a dear friend of mine. I hope his wife will please you."
"Is he very famous," asked Ilse, laying her hand on her beating heart.
The carriage stopped before a low dwelling at the further end of the suburb. Gabriel hastened into the house to announce the visitors; finding the kitchen empty, he knocked at the parlor-door, and, finally, being experienced in the customs of the family, opened the entrance into the court yard. "Professor Raschke and his wife are in the garden."
The visitors passed through a narrow yard into a kitchen-garden, which the owner of the house had given his lodger permission to walk in, to get the benefit of the air. The couple were walking along the path under the noon-sun of an autumn day. The lady carried a little child on her arm; the husband held a book in his hand, from which he was reading to his companion. In order, however, to do as much family duty as possible, the Professor had fastened the pole of a baby carriage to his belt and thus drew a second child after him. The backs of the couple were turned to the guests and they moved slowly forward, listening and reading aloud.
"An encounter in the narrow path is not desirable," said Felix; "we must wait until they turn round the square and face us."
It was some time before the procession overcame the hindrances of the journey, for the Professor in the eagerness of reading, sometimes stopped to explain, as might be seen from the motion of his hands. Ilse examined the appearance of the strange pedestrians with curiosity. The wife was pale and delicate; one could perceive that she had recently left a sick bed. The man had a nobly formed, intellectual face, about which hung long dark hair with a sprinkling of gray upon it. They had come close to the guests, when the wife turned her eyes from her husband and perceived the visitors.
"What a pleasure!" cried the Philosopher, dropping his book into the great pocket of his coat. "Good morning, my dear colleague. Ha! that is our dear Professor's wife. Unhitch me from the carriage, Aurelia; the family bonds hamper me."
The unhitching took some time, as the hands of the mistress of the house were not free, and Professor Raschke by no means kept still, but struggled forward, and had already seized with both hands those of his colleague and wife.
"Come into the house, my dear guests," he exclaimed, striding forward with long steps, while Felix introduced his wife to the lady. Professor Raschke forgot his baby carriage, which Ilse lifted over the threshold and rolled into the hall. There she took up the neglected child from its seat and both ladies entered the room with a diminutive chip of philosophy in their arms, exchanging their first friendly greetings, while the little one in Ilse's arms lustily swung his rattle, and the youngest child on the arm of its mother began to scream. Meanwhile colleague Raschke went about clearing the room, removed books and papers from the sofa, shook faded sofa-cushions into form, which emitted clouds of dust, and cordially invited his guests to be seated.
At length the confusion subsided. Ilse played with the child on her lap, while Mrs. Raschke after a disappearance for a moment came back without the screaming infant. She sat shyly by Ilse, but asked her friendly questions in a gentle voice. The lively Philosopher, however, was always interrupting the conversation of the ladies; he stroked the hand of the Professor, while he nodded in the direction of his wife. "This is quite right; I rejoice that you accustom yourself to our mode of life while still so young, for our wives have not an easy time of it-their outer life is limited and they have many demands made upon them at home. We are often wearisome companions, difficult to deal with, peevish, morose, and perverse." He shook his head disapprovingly over the character of the world of learning, but his face smiled with genuine pleasure.
The end of the visit was hastened by the baby, who began to cry piteously in the next room.
"Are you going already?" said the Philosopher to Ilse; "this cannot be counted as a visit. You please me much, and you have true eyes; and I see that you have a kind disposition, and that is everything. All we want is, in the face a good mirror through which the images of life are reflected fully and purely, and in the heart an enduring flame which will communicate its warmth to others. Whoever has that will do well, even if it is her fate to be the wife as you are, of a sedentary student, and as is this poor mother of five screaming young ones."
Again he strode rapidly about, fetched an old hat from the corner and handed it to the wife of his colleague. Ilse laughed.
"Oh, I see. It is a gentleman's hat," said Professor Raschke; "perhaps it belongs to your husband."
"I also am provided with one," said the Professor.
"Then it must be my own after all," said Raschke; and jamming the hat on his head, he accompanied his guests to the carriage.
For some time Ilse sat in the carriage dumb with astonishment. "Now I have regained my courage, Felix; the professors are still less alarming than the students."
"All will not receive you so warmly," answered the Professor. "He who comes next is my colleague Struvelius; he teaches Greek and Latin, as I do; he is not one of my intimate acquaintances, but is a thorough scholar."
This time it was a house in the city; the apartments were a little more ancient than in Ilse's new dwelling. This professor's wife wore a black silk dress, and was sitting before a writing-table covered with books and papers; a delicate lady, of middle age, with a small but clever face and an extraordinary coiffure; for her short hair was combed behind her ears in one large roll of curl, which gave her a certain resemblance to Sappho or Corinne, so far as a comparison is allowable with ladies of antiquity, the growth of whose hair is by no means satisfactorily ascertained.
Mrs. Struvelius arose slowly and greeted the visitors with haughty demeanor; she expressed her pleasure to Ilse and then turned to the Professor. "I have to-day commenced reading the work of colleague Raschke and I admire the deep thought of the man."
"His writings are delightful," replied the Professor, "because in all of them we discover a thorough and pure-minded man."
"I agree with your premise and consequent conclusion in this particular instance, but with regard to the general proposition you assert, allow me to say that many works that form an epoch in literature would have no great excellence, if it were necessary to be a perfect man in order to write a good book."
Ilse looked timidly at the learned lady who had ventured to oppose her husband.
"Yet we will come to an agreement," continued the Professor's wife, fluently, as if she were reading from a book. "It is not requisite for every valuable work that its author should be a man of character, but he who truly has this noble qualification, would be unlikely to produce anything which would have an unfavorable influence on his branch of learning; undoubtedly the weaknesses of a learned work originate more frequently than one supposes in the author's weakness of character."
The Professor nodded assentingly.
"For," she continued, "the position which a scholar assumes with respect to the great questions of the day, affecting his branch of learning-nay, with respect even to the advantages and deficiencies of his method-may generally be explained from his character. You have always lived in the country," she said, turning to Ilse. "It would be instructive to me to learn what impression you have received of the mutual relations of people in the town."
"I have met but few as yet," rejoined Ilse, timidly.
"Of course," said Mrs. Struvelius. "But I mean that you will observe with surprise that near neighborhood does not always imply intimate intercourse. But Struvelius must be told you are here."
She rose, opened the door of the next room, and standing bolt upright by the door, called out:
"Professor and Mrs. Werner!"
A slight murmur and the hasty rustling of leaves of a book were heard in the adjoining room. The wife closed the door and continued:
"For after all we live among many and associate with few. In the city we choose from among many individuals with a certain arbitrariness. One might have more acquaintance than one has, but even this feeling gives you confidence, and such confidence is more easily acquired in town than in the country."
The side door opened. Professor Struvelius entered with an absent-minded manner. He had a sharp nose, thin lips and wore an unusual style of head dress. For his hair stood so peculiarly after its own fashion, that one was justified in assuming that the head gear was hereditary and had suggested the name of the family. He bowed slightly, pushed a chair forward and seated himself in it silently-probably his thoughts were still occupied with his Greek historian. Ilse suffered from the conviction that the visit was an inopportune interruption and that it was a great condescension on the part of his wife to speak to her at all.
"Are you musical?" said Mrs. Struvelius, inquisitively.
"I can hardly say so," answered Ilse.
"I am glad of it," said the hostess, moving opposite to her and examining her with her sharp eyes. "From my estimate of you, I should think you could not be musical. The art of music makes us weak and leads too frequently to an imperfect state of existence."
Felix endeavored, with little success, to make the Professor take part in the conversation; and the visitors soon rose. On taking leave, Mrs. Struvelius stretched the lower part of her arm in a rectangular line toward Ilse and said, with a solemn pressure of the hand:
"Pray feel yourself at home with us." And the words of her husband, bidding them adieu, were cut short by the closing of the door.
"What do you say now?" said the Professor, as they drove away.
"Ah, Felix, I feel very insignificant; my courage has left me, I would rather return home."
"Be composed," said the husband, consolingly; "you are going about to-day as if you were at a fair, looking over the contents of the tables. What does not please you, you need not buy. The next visit is to our historian, a worthy man, who is one of the good genii of our University. His daughter also is an amiable young lady."
A servant opened the door and conducted them into the reception-room. There were some good landscapes on the wall; a pianoforte, a pretty flower stand, with rare plants, well arranged and taken care of. The daughter entered hastily; she had a delicate face with beautiful dark eyes. A stately old gentleman with a distinguished air followed her. He looked something like a high official, only his lively way of speaking showed him to be a man of learning. Ilse was warmly and heartily welcomed. The old gentleman seated himself near her and began an easy conversation, and Ilse soon felt herself as comfortable as with an intimate acquaintance. She was also reminded of her home, for he asked:
"Are any of the remains of the old monastery at Rossau still preserved?"
Felix looked up with curiosity, and Ilse answered: "Only the walls; the interior is rebuilt."
"It was one of the oldest ecclesiastical foundations of your region, and has stood many centuries, and undoubtedly exercised influence over a wide district. It is remarkable that the records of the monastery are almost all wanting, and all other accounts or notices, so far as I know, are very scanty. One may suppose that much still lies in concealment there."
Ilse observed how the countenance of her husband lighted up; but he replied, quietly:
"In the place itself, my inquiries were in vain."
"That is possible," agreed the Historian. "Perhaps the documents have been taken to the seat of government, and lie there unused."
Thus passed one visit after another. Next came the Rector, a Professor of Medicine, an agreeable man of the world, who kept up an elegant establishment. His wife was a plump, active lady, with restless, inquiring eyes. Then came the Secretary of the theological Consistory, a tall, thin gentleman with a sweet smile; his wife, too, was over-proportioned in everything, – in nose, mouth, and hospitality. The last was the Mineralogist, a clever young man with a very pretty wife; they had only been married a few months. While the young women, seated on the sofa, were rapidly becoming acquainted. Ilse was for the second time surprised by a question from the Professor: