"Your home is not without interest for my department. Is there not a cave in the neighborhood?"
Ilse colored and looked again at her husband.
"It is on my father's estate."
"Indeed! I am just now at work on a new discovery that has been made on your estate," exclaimed the Mineralogist.
He produced a stone of remarkably radiated structure.
"This is a very rare mineral that has been discovered in the neighborhood of the cave; it was sent me by an apothecary of the province."
He told her the name of the mineral, and spoke of the stone of which the cave was formed, and the rock on which her father's house stood, just as if he had been there himself, and made Ilse describe the lines of the hills and the quarries of the neighborhood. He listened attentively to her clear answers, and thought the geological structure of the estate very remarkable.
Ilse was delighted and exclaimed:
"We imagined that no one in the world cared about us; but I see the learned gentlemen know more about our country than we ourselves do."
"We know, at least, how to find something more precious than fragments of rock there," replied the Professor courteously.
After their return home, Ilse entered her husband's room, where he had already sat down to his work.
"Let me remain with you to-day, Felix? My head is confused with all the persons to whom you have taken me; I have seen so much within one day, and have had so much friendliness shown me by clever and distinguished men. The learned lady frightened me most; and, Felix, it is perhaps wrong in me to say so, for she is much more clever and refined, but I found a resemblance in her to a good old acquaintance of ours."
"Mrs. Rollmaus," assented the Professor. "But this lady is in reality very clever," he added.
"Heaven grant," said Ilse, "that she may be equally true-hearted! But I feel terrified at her learning. I like the other ladies, and the husbands still better. There is something noble about almost all of them, they converse wonderfully well, they are unconstrained and seem to have real inward happiness and gladness of heart; and naturally so, for they hover over the earth like your gods of old, and, therefore, they may well be cheerful. Ah! and there was the patched smoking jacket which dear Professor Raschke wore-moth and rust will never eat that! When I think that all these clever people have treated me with kindness and regard, solely on my husband's account, I do not know how I can thank you sufficiently. And now that I have been received into this new society, I can only ask that my entrance into it may be blessed."
"The husband stretched out his hand and drew her toward him; she clasped his head with her hands and bent over him.
"What are you working at now?" she asked, softly.
"Nothing very important; merely a treatise that I have to prepare every year for the University."
He then told her something of the contents of the work.
"And when that is finished, what then?"
"Then I must set about other tasks."
"And thus it goes on always from morning to evening, every year, till the eyes fail and the strength breaks," said Ilse piteously. "I have a great favor to ask of you to-day, Felix. Will you show me the books which you have written-all of them?"
"All that I still possess," said the Professor, and he collected books and treatises here and there from every corner.
Ilse opened one work after another, and she found that she already knew the Latin titles of some of them by heart. The Professor became interested in this occupation, and was always finding more little treatises which he had forgotten. Ilse laid them all before her in a heap and began solemnly:
"A great crisis has now come for me. I wish to learn from you the contents of each writing as far as you are able to explain it to your wife. When I was already secretly in love with you, the children found your name in the encyclopedia; we endeavored to read the strange titles of your books, and Mrs. Rollmaus made conjectures in her way as to the contents. Then I felt sorry that I could understand nothing of what you had done for mankind. Since that, I have always hoped the day would come when I could ask you what it was that you knew better than others, and by reason of which I should be proud of belonging to you. The hour is now come; for to-day you have introduced me to your friends as your wife, and I want to be your wife there too where your treasure and your heart are-as far as I can."
"Dear Ilse," exclaimed the Professor, carried away by her frank dignity.
"But do not forget," continued Ilse, with emphasis, "that I understand very little, and pray have patience with me. I have arranged how I wish to have it done. Write down for me, in a note-book that I have bought for the purpose, the titles, as they are in the foreign language and also in German, first of your earliest works and then the last. Together with this, note down what value you place on the work, and what is its importance for mankind. Underneath every work I will set down what I understand from your explanation, that I may well remember them."
She produced a note-book; the Professor searched again for some more treatises, arranged them according to date, and wrote each title on one page of the book. Then he gave his wife some explanation of the contents of each work, and helped her to write her remarks in the note-book.
"Those in German I will endeavor to read myself," said Ilse.
Thus they both sat bending eagerly over the books, and the Professor's heart beat with pleasure at the earnestness with which his wife endeavored to understand his occupations. For it is the lot of the scholar that few look with sympathy upon his trouble, his struggles, and the worth of his work. The world regards him as a common laborer. What he has formed, with enduring strength, henceforth becomes a building-stone in the immeasurable house of learning on which all the races of the earth have been laboring for thousands of years. Hundreds of others make a foundation of it to advance their own work; thousands of new blocks are piled upon it, and there are few to inquire who has chiseled the separate columns, and still more seldom does a stranger grasp the hand of the workman. The light works of the poet are long greeted by those in whom he has raised a cheerful smile or an exalted feeling. But the scholar seldom makes a valuable confidant or friend of his reader by his individual works. He does not paint enchanting pictures for the imagination; he does not flatter the yearning soul; he demands the utmost seriousness and the closest attention from his readers, the benefit of which redounds to himself in every criticism that is made. Even where he inspires respect he remains a stranger.
And yet he is not a mere stonemason who cuts formless blocks according to prescribed measures. He works independently and contributes his own life-blood, sometimes suffering great depression, sometimes full of joy and happiness. The fruits that he proffers his age have grown from the deepest roots of his life. Therefore the honest mind that enters heartily into the labor of the learned, and not only inquires for the ultimate result of learning, but takes an interest in the inward struggle of the workman, is to him a valuable treasure, a rare happiness. – Felix now looked with emotion at his wife, who was striving to occupy this position, and tender emotions swelled the heart of the strong-minded man while he explained to her the subjects of his labors, – while he told her about the Roman tribus and the duties of the senate.
When all was noted down, Ilse laid her hands on the books and exclaimed:
"Here I have all. What a small space they occupy, yet they employed many laborious days and nights, and the best portion of your noble life. This has often given you flushed cheeks as you have to-day. For this you have studied till your poor brain has been on fire, and for this you have always sat in a confined room. I have hitherto looked upon books with indifference; now for the first time I perceive what a book is, a quiet endless labor."
"That is not to be said of all," replied the Professor; "but the superior ones are more even than a labor."
He gazed lovingly on the walls along which the high book-shelves reached up to the very ceiling, so that the room looked as if papered with the backs of books.
"The great number of them quite frightens me," said Ilse, helping him to make room for his own books in a dark corner, which was now cleared for them as their resting-place. "They look so calm and composed, and yet many of them may have been written with such impassioned feeling, and have excited their readers, too."
"Yes," said her husband, "they are the great treasure-wards of the human race. They preserve all that is most valuable of what has ever been thought or discovered, from one century to another; and they proclaim what existed once, and once only, upon the earth. Here is what was produced full a thousand years before our era, and close beside them those that have come into the world but a few weeks ago."
"Yet, from the coats that they wear, they look almost like each other," said Ilse. "I should have difficulty in distinguishing them."
The Professor explained their arrangement and led her from one book shelf to another, pointing out those works which were his special favorites.
"And you use them all?"
"Yes, and many more at times. These that you see here are only an infinitely small portion of the books that have been printed; for since the invention of books, almost all that we know and call learning is to be found in them. But that is not all," he continued; "few know that a book is something more than simply a product of the creative mind, which its author sends forth as a cabinet-maker does a chair that has been ordered. There remains, indeed, attached to every human work something of the soul of the man who has produced it. But a book contains between its covers the actual soul of the man. The real value of a man to others-the best portion of his life-remains in this form for the generations that follow, and perhaps for the farthermost future. Moreover, not only those who write a good book, but those whose lives and actions are portrayed in it, continue in fact living among us. We converse with them as with friends and opponents; we admire or contend with, love or hate them, not less than if they dwelt bodily among us. The human soul that is enclosed in such a cover becomes imperishable on earth, and, therefore, we may say that the soul-life of the individual becomes enduring in books, and only the soul which is encased in a book has certain duration on earth."
"But error persists also," said Ilse, "and so do liars and impure spirits when they are put in books."
"They undoubtedly do, but are refuted by better souls. Very different, certainly, is the value and import of these imperishable records. Few maintain their beauty and importance for all periods; many are only valuable at a later time, because we ascertain from them the character and life of men in their days, while others are quite useless and ephemeral. But all books that have ever been written from the earliest to the latest, have a mysterious connection. For, observe, no one who has written a book has of himself become what he is; every one stands on the shoulders of his predecessor; all that was produced before his time has helped to form his life and soul. Again, what he has produced, has in some sort formed other men, and thus his soul has passed to later times. In this way the contents of books form one great soul-empire on earth, and all who now write, live and nourish themselves on the souls of the past generations. From this point of view the soul of mankind is an immeasurable unity, which comprises every one who ever thus lived and worked, as well as those who breathe and produce new works at present. The soul, which past generations felt as their own, has been and is daily transmigrating into others. What is written today may to-morrow become the possession of thousands of strangers. Those who have long ago ceased to exist in the body continue to live in new forms here on earth, and daily revive in thousands of others."
"Stop," cried Ilse, entreatingly, "I am bewildered."
"I tell you this now, because I too feel myself a modest worker in this earthly soul-empire. This feeling gives me a pleasure in life which is indestructible, and it also gives me both freedom and modesty. For whoever works with this feeling, whether his powers be great or small, does so not for his own honor, but for all. He does not live for himself but for all, as all who have before existed continue to live for him."
He spoke earnestly, sitting surrounded by his books, with the setting sun casting its friendly rays on his head and on the home of his spirit-the book-shelves. And Ilse, leaning on his shoulder, said humbly: "I am yours. Teach me, form me, and make me understand what you understand."
CHAPTER XV.
AMONG THE LEARNED
Ilse popped her head into her husband's study: "May I interrupt you?"
"Come in."
"Felix, what is the difference between Fauns and Satyrs? Here I read that Satyrs have goats' feet, but that Fauns have men's feet and little tails."
"Who says that?" asked Felix, indignantly.
"Why, here it is in print," replied Ilse, And as she spoke she showed an open book to her husband.
"But it is not true," answered the Professor, as he explained the matter to her. "The Greeks had Satyrs, the Romans Fauns. The gentleman with the goat's foot is called Pan. But how did this Bacchanalian train get into your household?"
"You said yesterday that the Councillor of the Consistory had a Faun's face. Then the question arose what is a Faun's face, and what is a Faun? Laura remembered perfectly having learnt at school that he was a fabulous creature of the Romans, and she brought the book in which these creatures are portrayed. What a wild set they are! Why have they pointed ears like the deer, and what have you to say, if even in such things one cannot rely on your books?"
"Come here," said Felix, "and I will soon introduce you to the whole company." He selected a book of engravings and showed her the figures of the whole train of Bacchus. For a time the instruction went on well; but then Ilse objected, saying: "They all have very few clothes on."
"Art cares more for the body than for dress," said her husband.
But Ilse at last became uneasy; she closed the book and exclaimed, coloring; "I must go; my help is needed in the kitchen to-day, as a new pudding has to be made. That is my high school, and the servant is still a novice." She hastened out. Once more popping her head through the door, she exclaimed, "Tell your Satyrs and Fauns that I had a better opinion of them; they are very immodest."
"They are indeed," exclaimed Felix, "and they make no pretensions to being otherwise."
At dinner, when Felix had sufficiently admired the pudding. Ilse, laying down her spoon, said seriously: "Do not show me such pictures again. I would like to love your heathens, but I cannot if they are like that."
"They are not all so bad," said her husband, consolingly; "if you like, we will this evening pay a visit to some of the notables of antiquity."
With this day Ilse began a new period of learning. Soon a fixed hour was arranged for her husband's explanations-the most valuable part of the day to Ilse. First the Professor gave her a short description of the great civilized nations of antiquity and the middle ages, and wrote down a few names and dates for her that she learnt by heart. He pointed out to her that the whole life of man was, in fact, nothing but an unceasing receiving, transforming, and giving forth of the materials, pictures, and impressions presented by the surrounding world; that the whole intellectual development of man is, in fact, nothing but an earnest and reverent search after truth; and that the whole of political history is, in fact, nothing but the gradual subduing of that egotism which produces disunion between men and nations, by the creation of new wants, the increase of a feeling of duty and the growth of love and respect for all mankind.
After this preparation the Professor began to read the Odyssey aloud to her, adding short explanations. Never had poetry so grand and pure an influence upon her soul; the lively legendary style of the first part and the powerful development of the second quite captivated her heart. The characters became almost like living forms to her; she wandered, suffered, and triumphed with them-raised into a new world of more beautiful images and higher feelings. Then when the conclusion came and the long-suffering Ulysses sat opposite to his wife, the bold touches of the scene of recognition struck a secret chord in the heart of the young wife. Deep was the impression. She sat near her beloved husband, her cheeks suffused with blushes, her eyes moist with tears and modestly cast down; and when he ended she clasped her white arms round his neck and sank on his breast, lost in transport and emotion. Her soul woke up, as it were, from long repose and glowed with deep feeling. The immortal beauties of this poem cast a radiance over every hour of the day, over her language, nay, over her bearing. She took pleasure in trying to read aloud herself, and the Professor listened with heartfelt pleasure as the majestic verses rolled melodiously from her lips, and as she unconsciously imitated his mode of speech and the modulations of his voice. When in the morning he went to his lecture and she helped him to put on his brown duffel overcoat he was greeted with the pleasant rhythm of this hexameter:
"Purple and rough was the coat of the cunning and noble Ulysses."
And when she sat opposite to him during her hour of instruction and he came to a pause, these words of admiration broke from her lips:
"Thus thou cleverly thinkest, and wisely speakest thou always."
And when she wished to praise herself, she murmured to the singing of the boiling kettle:
"Even in me lives wit, to discover the good from the evil,
Formerly though I was but a child."
Even the estate of her dear father now seemed to her illuminated with the golden splendor of the Hellenic sun.
"I do not understand," said her father one evening to Clara, "how it is possible that Ilse should so quickly have forgotten our farming customs. In her letters she speaks of the time when the cattle shall again wander in the wide plains; she means, I suppose, the fallow fields; for we feed our cattle in the stalls."
The north wind howled round the two neighboring houses, and covered the window panes with ice flowers; but within doors one day followed the other with varied coloring and full of light, and each evening, more enjoyable than the other, passed over the heads of the happy couple, whether they were alone or whether the friends of the husband, the instructors of the people, sat with them at the tea-table where a simple meal was spread.
For the friends of the husband and their clever conversations are pleasant to the lady of the house. The lamp throws a festive light in Ilse's chamber, the curtains are drawn, the table well-furnished, and a decanter of wine is placed on it when the gentlemen enter. Frequently the conversation begins with trifles; the friends wish to show their esteem for the Professor's wife-one talks a little about concerts and another recommends a new picture or book. But sometimes they come out from the study in eager conversation; their discourse is not always quite within her comprehension, nor always very attractive, but on the whole it gives her pleasure and refreshes her mind. Then Ilse sits quietly there, her hands, which have been active in her work, fall into her lap, and she listens reverently. No one who is not a professor's wife can have any idea how charmingly the conversation of the learned flows. All can speak well, all are eager, and all have a composed manner that becomes them well. Discussion arises and they begin to argue on weighty points, their opinions clash, they contradict each other, one says that something is black, another that it is white; the first shows that he is in the right and the second refutes him and drives him into a corner. Now his wife thinks, how will he get out of this; but she need have no anxiety, he is not at a loss-by a sudden sally he gains the advantage; then the other comes with new reasons and carries the matter still further, and the others join in, they become eager and their voices are raised, and whether at last they convince one another or each remains of his own opinion-which is frequently the case-it is always a pleasure to see light thrown on difficult questions from all sides. If one of them has said something really important and arrived at the heart of the matter, it puts them all into an elevated mood; it seems as if a supernatural light had burst in on them. But the cleverest of all, and he whose opinion is listened to with the greatest respect, is always the dear husband of the lady of the house.
Ilse, however, remarked that all the learned gentlemen had not the same amiable character. Some could not bear opposition and seemed in weak moments to consider their own importance more than the advancement of truth. Again, one would only speak and would not listen, and narrowed the conversation by always returning to the point which the others had already surmounted. She discovered that even an unlearned woman could, from the discourse of the wise men, discern something of their character; and when the guests were gone she ventured to express a modest judgment upon the learning and character of individuals, and she was proud when Felix allowed that she had judged rightly.
In such conversations the wife of the scholar learned much that to other women remained incomprehensible. Thus, for instance, there were the Roman plebeians. Few women understand what they were. The old plebeians never gave tea-parties, never played on grand pianos, never wore hoop skirts and never read French novels. This class is a very odious institution which has been buried in the ruins of antiquity. But the wife of a philologist is informed concerning all this. It would be impossible to recount all that Ilse heard about plebeians and patricians. Silently she sympathized with the plebeians. She entirely repudiated the idea that they consisted of insignificant people and a wanton rabble, and considered them to be sturdy farmers and fearless politicians who, in unison, valiantly fought against the unjust patricians to the very end. In connection with this she thought of her father, and at times wondered whether some of her acquaintances would not have been plebeians had they been Romans.
The gentlemen were very friendly to her and almost all had one quality which made their intercourse very pleasant-they were always willing to explain. At first Ilse did not like to admit that she knew nothing of many subjects; but one evening she seated herself by her husband and began: "I have come to one conclusion. Hitherto I have been afraid to ask questions, not because I was ashamed of my ignorance, why should I be? but on your account, that people might not remark what a silly wife you have. But if you approve of it I will now do quite otherwise, for I observe that they take pleasure in talking and will be willing to favor me with a 'winged word,' as Homer says."
"Just so," said the husband; "they will like you the better the more interest you take in them."
"I should like to know everything about the whole world, in order to become like you. But I feel that I sadly lack the ability to comprehend it all."
The new plan turned out admirably. Ilse soon learnt that it was easier to persuade her friends to talk than to desist from it. For they explained to her conscientiously and at great length what she wished to learn; but they sometimes forgot that the capacity of a woman who is receiving new impressions is not so fully developed as their own art of teaching.
They seemed to her to hover like gods over the earth. But they partook of the lot of the ambrosial society, for the pure peace which they infused into the hearts of mortals did not always prevail among themselves. It was Ilse's fate that soon after her arrival, when she was beginning to feel at home, a vehement feud broke out among the immortals of Olympus.
On a dark winter's day the stormy wind beat heavily against the window, concealing the adjacent wood behind clouds of driving snow. Ilse heard in her husband' s room the sharp tones of Professor Struvelius amid a weighty flow of eloquence, and at intervals the long and earnest talk of her husband. She could not distinguish the words, but the sound of the two voices was similar to the whir of bird's wings or the rival singing of the thrush and the ill-omened crow. The conversation continued a long time and Ilse wondered that Struvelius should speak at such length. When at last he was gone, Felix entered her room at an unusual hour and paced silently up and down for some time, occupied in deep thought. At last he began abruptly:
"I am placed in a position that obliges me to communicate with my colleagues regarding our manuscript."
Ilse looked up at him inquiringly. Since her marriage there had been no talk about Tacitus.
"I thought it was your intention not to speak again of it to strangers."
"I have unwillingly broken my silence. I had no choice but to be frank with my associate. The province of Science is extensive and it does not often happen that associates in the same university pitch upon the same work. Nay, for obvious reasons, they avoid competition. If, therefore, by accident such a coincidence occurs, the most delicate consideration should be mutually shown by members of the same institution. To-day Struvelius told me that he knew I had been occupied with Tacitus and he requested some particulars of me. He asked me about the manuscripts that I had seen and collated years ago in other countries and about the fac-simile of the characters I had made for myself."
"Then you imparted to him what you knew?" inquired Ilse.
"I gave him what I possessed, as a matter of course," replied the Professor. "For whatever he may do with it is sure to be a gain to learning."
"Then he will make use of your labors for the advancement of his own! Now he will appear before the world in your plumes," lamented Ilse.
"Whether he will make proper use of what has been given him, or misuse it, is his affair; it is my duty to have confidence in the honor of a respectable colleague. That I did not for a moment doubt; but, indeed, another idea occurred to me. He was not quite open with me: he acknowledged that he was occupied with a criticism of certain passages of Tacitus; but I feel sure that he concealed the most important particulars from me. Nothing then remained to me but to tell him plainly that I had long had a warm interest in that author, and that since last summer I had been the more attracted to him by the possibility of a new discovery. So I showed him the account which first brought me into your neighborhood. He is a philologist, like myself, and knows now of what great importance this author is to me."
"My only consolation is," said Ilse, "that if Struvelius wishes to disinter the manuscript in our place, a hard fate awaits him at the hands of my sensible father."
The thought of the defiance of his stem father-in-law was consoling to the Professor, and he laughed.
"On this point I am safe; but what can he want with Tacitus? – his department was formerly not concerned with the historians. It can scarcely be imagined. But the most improbable things happen! Has, perhaps, the lost manuscript, by any accident, been found and got into his hands? But it is folly to worry about that."
He strode vehemently up and down, and, shaking his wife's hand with great emotion, exclaimed at last:
"It is so vexatious to find oneself mastered by selfish feelings."
He again went to his work and when Ilse gently opened the door she saw him busy writing. Toward evening, however, when she looked after his lamp and announced the arrival of the Doctor, he was sitting leaning his head on his hand in moody thought. She stroked his hair gently but he scarcely noticed it.
The Doctor did not take the affair so much to heart; but was very angry, both at the secret dealings of the other and at the magnanimity of his friend, and a lively discussion ensued.
"May you never regret this frank action on your part!" exclaimed the Doctor. "The man will coin money from your silver. Believe me, he will play you a trick."
"After all," concluded the Professor thoughtfully, "it is not worth while to excite myself about it. Should he, by any improbable and unforeseen accident, really have come into possession of something new, he has a right to all the materials at hand-both to what I have collected and to my assistance, so far as it is in my power to give it. If he is only exercising his critical acumen on the existing text, all he may be able to accomplish will be insignificant as compared with our childlike expectations."
Thus imperceptibly and harmlessly did this cloud arise on the academical horizon.
A month had passed, and the Professor had often met his colleague. It could not be deemed strange that Struvelius never let the name of Tacitus pass his silent lips; nevertheless, the Professor watched the conduct of his colleague with concern, for he thought he noticed that the other avoided him.
One quiet evening Felix Werner was sitting with Ilse and the Doctor at the tea-table, when Gabriel entered and laid a small pamphlet, wrapped in a common newspaper, before the Professor. The Professor tore off the cover, glanced at the title, and silently handed the pamphlet to the Doctor. The Latin title of the book, translated, was this: "A Fragment of Tacitus; Being a Trace of a Lost Manuscript. Communicated by Dr. Friedobald Struvelius, etc." Without saying a word the friends rose and carried the treatise into the Professor's study. Ilse remained behind, startled. She heard her husband reading the Latin text aloud and perceived that he was compelling himself to master his excitement by slow and firm reading. The story of this fatal writing must not be withheld from the reader.