"It is too small for a bandage," she said, sorrowfully; "we must put your own over it. This has been a disagreeable day, Doctor. Oh, forget it, and do not be angry with me."
The Doctor was by no means inclined to be angry, as might be perceived from the eager conversation into which they now fell. Their hearts were lightened; they vied with each other in their efforts at sincerity; and when the carriage set them down at their own doors, they bade each other a cordial good-night.
The following morning, Mr. Hummel entered Laura's private room, and laid a blue paper upon the table.
"There was a mistake yesterday," he said; "here is what belongs to you."
Laura opened the paper quickly; it contained an embroidered handkerchief.
"I have also sent back the gloves to the Doctor, with my compliments, informing him that there was a misunderstanding, and that I, your father, Hummel, sent him what was his own."
"Father," cried Laura, going up to him, "this new insult was unnecessary. Upon me you may inflict whatever your hatred to your neighbors prompts you to do, but that you should again wound another after what has happened yesterday, is cruel of you. This handkerchief belongs to the Doctor, and I shall give it to him at the first opportunity."
"Exactly," said Hummel; "was it not hemmed and embroidered by your own hands? You are responsible for whatever you do now. But you know, and he knows too, how I feel about these exchanges of civilities. If you choose to act contrary to my expressed wishes, you may. I will not consent to our house being upon terms of exchanging presents, either small or great, with the Hahn's; and since you, as I hear, often meet the Doctor at our lodger's, it will be as well for you to bear this in mind."
He went out of the room complacently, and left his daughter in revolt against his harsh commands. She had not ventured to contradict him, for he was unusually calm to-day, different from his ordinary blustering manner, and she felt there was a meaning in his words that checked her utterance and sent the blood to her cheeks. It was a stormy morning for her journal.
Mr. Hummel was busy at his office with a consignment of soldiers' caps, when he was disturbed by a knock at the door, and to his surprise, Fritz Hahn entered. Hummel remained seated with dignity, till his caller had made a respectful bow, then he slowly rose, and began, in a business tone:
"What can I do for you, Doctor? If you need a fine felt hat, as I presume you do, the salesroom is on the floor below."
"I know that," replied the Doctor, politely. "But I am come, in the first place, to thank you for the handkerchief you so kindly selected and sent me as a present yesterday."
"That's pretty good!" said Hummel. "Old Blücher was painted upon it; he is a countryman of mine, and I thought on that account the handkerchief would be acceptable to you."
"Quite right," answered Fritz. "I shall be careful to preserve it as a keepsake. I must, at the same time, add to my thanks the request that you will deliver these gloves to Miss Laura. If a mistake occurred yesterday in the delivery, as you kindly informed me, it was not my fault. As these gloves already belong to your daughter, I, of course, cannot take them back."
"That's better still!" said Hummel, "but you are in error. The gloves do not belong to my daughter; they were bought by you, and have never been seen by her; and early this morning they were returned to their possessor."
"Pardon me," rejoined Fritz, "if I take your own words as testimony against you; the gloves were yesterday, according to the custom of the country, sent as a present to Miss Laura; you yourself received them from the hands of the messenger, and, by your words, acknowledged them. The gloves, therefore, by your own co-operation, have become the property of the young lady, and I have no claim to them."
"No advocate could put the case in a better light," replied Hummel easily. "There is only one objection to it. These gloves were non-apparent; they were covered with paper and flowers, like frogs in the grass. Had you come to me openly with your gloves, and requested to be allowed to give them to my daughter, I should have told you yesterday what I now say, that I consider you a worthy young man, and that I have no objection to your standing as godfather every day in the year, but I do very much object to your showing my daughter what hereabouts are called attentions. I am not kindly disposed towards your family and, what is more, I do not wish to be; therefore I cannot permit that you should be so towards mine. For what is right for one is fitting for the other."
"I am placed again in the unfortunate predicament of confuting you by your own actions," rejoined the Doctor. "You, yesterday, honored me with a mark of civility. As you have made me a present of a handkerchief, in token of your favor, to which, as I had not stood godfather with you, I had no claim, I also may say that what is right for one is fitting for the other. Therefore you cannot object to my sending these gloves to a member of your family."
Mr. Hummel laughed. "With all respect to you, Doctor, you have forgotten that father and daughter are not quite the same thing. I have no objection that you should occasionally make me a present if you cannot resist the inclination to do so; I shall then consider what I can send you in return; and if you think that these gloves will suit me, I will keep them as a token of reconciliation between us; and if ever we should stand together as godfathers, I shall put them on and exhibit them for your benefit."
"I have delivered them to you as the property of your daughter," replied Fritz, with composure; "how you may dispose of them I cannot decide. You know my wishes."
"Yes, perfectly, Doctor," assented Hummel; "the affair is now settled to the satisfaction of all concerned, and there is an end of it."
"Not quite yet," replied the Doctor. "What now comes is a demand I have upon you. Miss Laura, as godmother with me, prepared and sent me a handkerchief. The handkerchief has not come into my hands, but I have undoubtedly the right to consider it as my property, and I beg of you most humbly to send it to me."
"Oho!" cried Hummel, the bear beginning to stir within him, "that looks like defiance, and must be met with different language. You shall not receive the handkerchief with my good will; it has been given back to my daughter, and if she presents it to you she will act as a disobedient child, contrary to the commands of her father."
"Then it is my intention to oblige you to recall this prohibition," replied the Doctor, energetically. "Yesterday I accidentally discovered that you exchanged the gloves I sent to Miss Laura for others which must have excited in her the belief that I was an impertinent jester. By such deceitful and injurious treatment of a stranger, even though he were an adversary, you have acted as does not become an honorable man."
Hummel's eyes widened, and he retreated a few steps.
"Zounds!" he growled, "is it possible? Are you your father's son? Are you Fritz Hahn, the young Humboldt? Why you can be as rude as a boor."
"Only where it is necessary," replied Fritz. "In my conduct towards you I have never been deficient in delicacy of feeling; but you have treated me with injustice, and owe me due satisfaction. As an honorable man you must give me this, and my satisfaction will be the handkerchief."
"Enough," interrupted Hummel, raising his hand, "it will be of no avail. For, between ourselves, I have nothing of what you call delicacy of feeling. If you feel yourself offended by me, I should be very sorry, in so far as I see in you a young man of spirit, who also can be rude. But when, on the other hand, I consider that you are Fritz Hahn, I convince myself that it is quite right that you should feel aggrieved by me. With that you must rest content."
"What you say," replied Fritz, "is not only uncivil, but unjust. I leave you, therefore, with the feeling that you owe me some reparation; and this feeling is, at all events, more agreeable to me than if I were in your position."
"I see we understand each other in everything," replied Hummel. "Like two business men, we both seek our own advantage. It is agreeable to you to feel that I have injured you, and to me that is a matter of indifference. So let it remain, Doctor; we are at heart, and before all the world, enemies, but for the rest, all respect to you."
The Doctor bowed and left the office.
Mr. Hummel looked meditatingly on the spot where the Doctor had stood.
He was during the whole day in a mild, philanthropic mood, which he at first showed by philosophizing with his book-keeper.
"Have you ever raised bees?" he asked him, over the counter.
"No, Mr. Hummel," replied he; "how could I manage it?"
"You are not very enterprising," continued Hummel, reproachfully. "Why should you not give yourself this pleasure?"
"I live in a garret, Mr. Hummel."
"That does not matter. By the new inventions you may keep bees in a tobacco-box. You put the swarm in, open the window, and from time to time cut your honey out. You might become a rich man by it. You will say that these insects might sting your fellow-lodgers and neighbors; do not mind that; such views are old-fashioned. Follow the example of certain other people, who place their bee-hives close to the street in order to save the expense for sugar."
The book-keeper seemed to wish to comply with this proposition.
"If you mean-" he replied humbly.
"The devil I mean, sir," interrupted Hummel; "do not think of coming to my office with a swarm of bees in your pocket. I am determined under no circumstances to suffer such a nuisance. I am Bumble-bee enough for this street and I object to all humming and swarming about my house and garden."
In the afternoon, when he was taking a walk in the garden with his wife and daughter, he suddenly stopped.
"What was it that flew through the air?"
"It was a beetle," said his wife.
"It was a bee," said Hummel. "Are this rabble beginning to fly about. If there is anything I detest, it is bees. Why there is another. They annoy you, Phillipine."
"I cannot say so," she replied.
A few minutes after, a bee flew about Laura's curls, and she was obliged to protect herself with a parasol from the little worker, who mistook her cheeks for a peach.
"It is strange; they were not so numerous formerly," said Hummel, to the ladies; "it seems to me that a swarm of bees must have established itself in a hollow tree of the park. The park-keeper sleeps out there on a bench. You are on good terms with the man; call his attention to it. The vermin are insufferable."
Madam Hummel consented to make inquiries, and the park-keeper promised to look to it. After a time he came to the hedge, and called out, in a low voice:
"Madam Hummel."
"The man calls you," said Hummel.
"They come from the garden of Mr. Hahn," reported the park-keeper, cautiously; "there is a beehive there."
"Really?" asked Hummel. "Is it possible that Hahn should have chosen this amusement?"
Laura looked at her father anxiously.
"I am a peaceful man, keeper, and I cannot believe my neighbor would do us such an injury."
"It is certain, Mr. Hummel," said the park-keeper; "see, there is one of the yellow things now."
"That's so," cried Hummel, shaking his head; "it's yellow."
"Don't mind, Henry; perhaps it will not be so bad," said his wife, soothingly.
"Not so bad?" asked Hummel, angrily. "Shall I have to see the bees buzzing around your nose? Shall I have to suffer my wife to go about the whole summer with her nose swollen up as large as an apple? Prepare a room for the surgeon immediately: he will never be out of our house during the next month."
Laura approached her father.
"I can see you wish to begin a quarrel anew with our neighbors: if you love me, do not do so. I cannot tell you, father, how much this quarreling annoys me. Indeed I have suffered too much from it."
"I believe you," replied Hummel, cheerfully. "But it is because I love you that I must in good time put an end to this annoyance from over there, before these winged nuisances carry away honey from our garden. I don't intend to have you attacked by the bees of any of our neighbors, do you understand me?"
Laura turned and looked gloomily in the water, on which the fallen catkins of the birch were swimming slowly towards the town.
"Do something, keeper, to preserve peace between neighbors," continued Hummel. "Take my compliments to Mr. Hahn, with the request from me that he will remove his bees, so that I may not be obliged to call in the police again."
"I will tell him, Mr. Hummel, that the bees are disagreeable to the neighborhood; for it is true the gardens are small."
"They are so narrow that one could sell them in a bandbox at a Christmas fair," assented Hummel. "Do it out of pity to the bees themselves. Our three daffodils will not last them long as food, and afterwards there will be nothing for them but to gnaw the iron railings."
He gave the park-keeper a few coppers, and added, to his wife and daughter:
"You see how forbearing I am to our neighbor, for the sake of peace."
The ladies returned to the house, depressed and full of sad forebodings.
As the park-keeper did not appear again, Mr. Hummel watched for him on the following day.
"Well, how is it?" he asked.
"Mr. Hahn thinks that the hives are far enough from the street; they are behind a bush and they annoy no one. He will not give up his rights."
"There it is!" broke out Hummel. "You are my witness that I have done all in the power of man to avoid a quarrel. The fellow has forgotten that there is a Section 167. I am sorry, keeper; but the police must be the last resort."
Mr. Hummel conferred confidentially with a policeman. Mr. Hahn became excited and angry when he was ordered to appear in court, but Hummel had in some measure the best of it, for the police advised Mr. Hahn to avoid annoyance to the neighbours and passers-by by the removal of the hive. Mr. Hahn had taken great pleasure in his bees; their hive had been fitted with all the new improvements, and they were not like our irritable German bees; they were an Italian sort, which only sting when provoked to the utmost. But this was all of no avail, for even the Doctor and his mother herself begged that the hives might be removed; so, one dark night they were carried away, with bitter and depressed feelings, into the country. In the place which they had occupied he erected some starlings' nests on poles. They were a poor comfort. The starlings had, according to old customs, sent messengers of their race through the country and hired their summer dwellings, and only the sparrows took exulting possession of the abode, and like disorderly householders, left long blades of grass hanging from their nests. Mr. Hummel shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and in a loud bass voice, called the new invention the sparrow telegraph.
The garden amusements had begun; the sad prognostication had become a reality; suspicion and gloomy looks once more divided the neighboring houses.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CLOUDLETS
A Professor's wife has much to bear with her husband. When Ilse found herself seated with her friends, the wives of Professors Raschke, Struvelius, and Günther, over a cozy cup of coffee, which was by no means slighted, all manner of things came to light.
Conversation with these cultured ladies was indeed delightful. It first touched lightly on the subject of servants, and the troubles of housekeeping called forth a volubility of chatter, like the croaking of frogs in a pond, and Ilse wondered that even Flamina Struvelius should express herself so earnestly on the subject of pickling gherkins, and that she should anxiously inquire as to the marks of age on a plucked goose. Merry Mrs. Gunther shocked the ladies of greater experience and at the same time made them laugh, when she told them she could not bear the cry of little children, and that as to her own-of which she had none yet-she would from the beginning train them to quiet habits with the rod. As has been said, the conversation rambled from greater matters to small talk like this. And amidst other trivial remarks it naturally happened that men were quietly discussed, and it was evident that, although the remarks were made as to men in general, each thought of her own husband, and each, without expressing it, thought of the secret load of cares she had to bear, and each one convinced her hearers that her own individual husband was also difficult to manage. The lot of Mrs. Raschke was indeed not to be concealed, as it was notorious throughout the whole town. It was well known that one market-day her husband went to the lecture-room in a brilliant orange and blue dressing-gown, of a Turkish pattern. And the collegians, who loved him dearly and knew his habits well, could not suppress a loud laugh, while Raschke hung his dressing-gown quietly over the reading-desk and began to lecture in his shirt sleeves, and returned home in the great-coat of a student. Since then Mrs. Raschke never let him go out without looking after him herself. It also transpired that after living ten years in the town he constantly lost his way, and she did not dare to change her residence, being convinced that if she did, the Professor would always be going back to his old abode. Struvelius also gave trouble. The last affair of importance had come to Ilse's personal knowledge; but it was also known that he required his wife to correct the proof-sheets of his Latin writings, as she had a slight knowledge of the language-and that he could not resist giving orders to traveling wine merchants. Mrs. Struvelius, after her marriage, found her cellar full of large and small casks of wine, which had as yet not been bottled, while he himself complained bitterly that he could not replenish his stock. And even little Mrs. Günther related that her husband could not give up working at night; and that on one occasion, poking about with a lamp amongst the books, he came too close to a curtain, which caught fire, and on pulling it down he burnt his hands, and rushed into the bedroom with his fingers black as coals, more like an Othello than a mineralogist.
Ilse related nothing of her short career, but she had also had some experience. True, her husband was very good about working at night, was very discreet over his wine, though on great occasions he drank his glass bravely, as became a German Professor. But as to his eating, matters were very unsatisfactory. Certainly it does not do to care too much about food, especially for a Professor, but not to be able to distinguish a duck from a goose is rather discouraging for her who has striven to procure him a dainty. As for carving he was useless. The tough Stymphalian birds which Hercules destroyed, and the ungenial Phœnix, mentioned with such respect by his Tacitus, were much better known to him than the form of a turkey. Ilse was not one of those women who delight to spend the whole day in the kitchen, but she understood cooking, and prided herself on giving a dinner worthy of her husband. But all was in vain. He sometimes tried to praise the dishes, but Ilse clearly saw that he was not sincere. Once when she set a splendid pheasant before him, he saw by her expression that she expected some remark, so he praised the cook for having secured such a fine chicken. Ilse sighed and tried to make him understand the difference, but had to be content with Gabriel's sympathizing remark: "It's all useless. I know my master; he can't tell one thing from another!" Since then, Ilse had to rest content with the compliments that the gentlemen invited to tea paid her at the table. But this was no compensation. The Doctor also was not remarkable for his acquirements in this direction. It was lamentable and humiliating to see the two gentlemen over a brace of snipes which her father had sent them from the country.
The Professor, however, looked up to the Doctor as a thoroughly practical man, because he had had some experience in buying and managing, and the former was accustomed to call in his friend as an adviser on many little daily occurrences. The tailor brought samples of cloth for a new coat. The Professor looked at the various colors of the samples in a distracted manner. "Ilse, send for the Doctor to help me make a choice!" Ilse sent, but unwillingly; no Doctor was needed, she thought, to select a coat, and if her dear husband could not make up his mind, was not she there? But that was of no avail; the Doctor selected the coat, waistcoat, and the rest of the Professor's wardrobe. Ilse listened to the orders in silence, but she was really angry with the Doctor, and even a little with her husband. She quietly determined that things should not continue so. She hastily calculated her pocket-money, called the tailor into her room, and ordered a second suit for her husband, with the injunction to make this one first. When the tailor brought the clothes home, she asked her husband how he liked the new suit. He praised it. Then she said: "To please you I make myself as nice-looking as I can: for my sake wear what I have made for you. If I have succeeded this time, I hope that I may in future choose and be responsible for your wardrobe."
But the Doctor looked quite amazed when he met the Professor in a different suit. It so happened, however, that he had nothing to find fault with; and when Ilse was sitting alone with the Doctor, she began-"Both of us love my husband; therefore let us come to some agreement about him. You have the greatest right to be the confidant of his labors, and I should never venture to place myself on an equality with you respecting them. But where my judgment is sufficient I may at least be useful to him, and what little I can, dear Doctor, pray allow me to do."
She said this with a smile; but the Doctor walked gravely up to her.
"You are expressing what I have long felt. I have lived with him for many years, and have often lived for him, and that was a time of real happiness to me; but now I fully recognize that it is you who have the best claim to him. I shall have to endeavor to control myself in many things; it will be hard for me, but it is better it should be so."
"My words were not so intended," said Ilse, disturbed.
"I well understand what you meant; and I know also that you are perfectly right. Your task is not alone to make his life comfortable. I see how earnestly you strive to become his confidant. Believe me, the warmest wish of my heart is that in time you should succeed."
He left with an earnest farewell, and Ilse saw how deeply moved he was. The Doctor had touched a chord, the vibration of which, midst all her happiness, she felt with pain. Her household affairs gave her little trouble, and all went so smoothly that she took no credit to herself for her management. But still it pained her to see how little her work was appreciated by her husband, and she thought to herself, "What I am able to do for him makes no impression on him, and when I cannot elevate my mind to his, he probably feels the want of a soul that can understand him better."
These were transient clouds which swept over the sunny landscape, but they came again and again as Ilse sat brooding alone in her room.
One evening, Professor Raschke having looked in late, showed himself disposed to pass the evening with them, and Felix sent the servant to the Professor's wife, to set her mind at rest as to the absence of her husband. As Raschke, among all her husband's colleagues, was Ilse's favorite, she took pains to order something that would please him. This order doomed to death some chickens that shortly before had been brought in alive. The gentlemen were sitting in Ilse's room when a dreadful scream and clamor issued from the kitchen, and the cook, pale as death, opened the door and appealed to her mistress. It appeared that the girl's heart failed her in attempting to kill the fowls and as Gabriel, who had hitherto performed all such necessary slaughter, was absent, she did not know what to do, so Ilse herself had to perform the indispensable act. When she returned, Felix unfortunately asked why she had left the room, and Ilse told him what had occurred.
The chickens were placed upon the table and did the cook no discredit. Ilse carved and served them, but her husband pushed back his plate, whilst Raschke, out of politeness, picked at the breast, but forbore to eat a morsel. Ilse regarded the two gentlemen with astonishment.
"You do not eat anything, Professor?" she at last said to her guest, anxiously.
"It is only a morbid weakness," replied Raschke, "and it's very foolish indeed, but the screams of the poor bird still linger in my ear."
"And in yours, too, Felix?" asked Ilse, with increasing wonderment.
"Yes," rejoined he. "Is it not possible to have these things done quietly?"
"Not always," answered Ilse, mortified, "when the house is so small, and the kitchen so near." She rang and ordered the ill-fated dish to be taken away. "Those who can't bear things to be killed should eat no meat."
"You are quite right," replied Raschke, submissively, "and our sensitiveness has but little justification. We find the preparations unpleasant, yet as a rule we are well satisfied with the result. But when one is accustomed to observe animal life with sympathy, he is necessarily shocked at the sudden termination of an organism for his own selfish purposes, when it is done in a way to which he is not accustomed. For the whole life of an animal is full of mystery to us. The same vital power which we observe in ourselves, is fundamentally at work with them, only limited by a less complicated, and, on the whole, less complete organization."
"How can you compare their souls with that of man's?" asked Ilse; "the irrational with the rational; the transitory with the eternal?"
"As to irrational, my dear lady, it is a word to which in this case one does not attach a very clear meaning. What the difference may be between man and beast is difficult to decide, and on this subject a little modesty becomes us. We know but little of animals, even of those who pass their lives among us. And I confess that the attempt to fathom this unknown problem fills me with awe and reverence, which occasionally rises into fear. I cannot bear that any one who belongs to me should grow fond of an animal. This arises from a weakness of feeling which I own is sentimental. But the influence of the human mind on animals has always seemed to me wonderful and weird; phases of their life are developed, which in certain directions make them very similar to man. Their affectionate devotion to us has something so touching in it, that we are disposed to bestow much more love on them than is good either for them or us."
"Still an animal remains what it was from the creation," said Ilse; "unchanged in its habits and inclinations. We can train a bird, and make a dog fetch and carry what he would rather eat, but that is only an outward compulsion. If let to themselves, their nature and manners remain unaltered, and what we call culture they lack utterly."
"Even upon that point we are by no means sure," rejoined Raschke. "We do not know but that each race of animals has a history and an evolution which extends from the earliest generation to the present. It is not at all impossible that acquirements and knowledge of the world, so far as they may exist in animals, have acted among them, though in a narrower sphere, just as with men. It is quite an assumption that birds sang just the same way a thousand years ago as they do now. I believe that the wolf and the lynx, in cultivated regions, stand on the same footing in the struggle for life as do the remnants of the red Indians among the whites; whilst those animals that live in comparative peace with man, like sparrows and other small creatures, and bees especially, improve in their mode of work, and in the course of time make progress-progress which we in some cases surmise, but which our science has not yet been able to describe."
"Our forester would quite agree with you in this," said Ilse, quietly; "as he complains bitterly that the bullfinches of our neighborhood have, within his memory, quite deteriorated in their singing, because all the good singers have been caught, and the young birds have no one to teach them."
"Exactly," said Raschke; "among animals of every species there are clever and stupid individuals, and it must follow that to some of them is assigned a definite spiritual mission which extends far beyond their own life. And the experience of an old raven, or the enchanting notes of a melodious nightingale, are not lost on the future generations of their race, but influence them continuously. In this sense we may well speak of culture and continued improvement among animals. But as regards the cooking, I admit that we exhibited our sympathies at the wrong time and place, and I hope you are not angry with us, dear friend."
"It shall all be forgotten now," replied Ilse, "I will give you boiled eggs the next time; they will involve no scruples."
"The egg, too, has its story," answered Raschke; "but for the present, I may fitly waive discussing this. What has brought me here," addressing Felix, earnestly, "was neither fowls nor eggs, but our colleague, Struvelius. I am seeking forgiveness for him."
Felix drew himself up stiffly. "Has he commissioned you to come?"
"Not exactly; but it is the wish of some of our colleagues. You know that next year we require an energetic Rector. Some of our acquaintance are speaking of you. Struvelius will probably be Deacon, and for this reason we wish to bring you into friendly relations; and still more for the sake of peace at the University. We regret exceedingly to see our classicists at variance."
"What the man has done to me," replied the Professor, proudly, "I can easily forgive, although his mean and underhand conduct has deeply offended me. I feel much more seriously the effect of his foolish work upon himself and our University. What separates me from him is the dishonesty of spirit that has actuated his conduct."