"The expression is too strong," cried Raschke.
"It applies to his behavior exactly," returned the Professor. "When the forgery was pointed out to him, his fear of humiliation was greater than his love of truth, and he lied in order to deceive others-conduct unworthy of a German professor, and I can never forgive it."
"Again you are too severe," replied Raschke; "he has frankly and loyally admitted his error."
"He did so only when Magister Knips and others clearly proved the forgery that had been committed in the manuscript, and so made any further evasion impossible."
"Human feelings are not so easy to analyze as numbers are," rejoined Raschke; "and only he who judges charitably, judges rightly. He struggled with wounded pride perhaps too long, but he gave in at last."
"I tolerate no unknown quantity in the sense of honor of a scientist; the question here was: Black or white? Truth or falsehood?"
"You have, nevertheless," said Ilse, "shown the Magister much greater leniency, and I have seen him with you since, more than once."
"The Magister was less to blame in the matter," her husband replied. "When the question was clearly before him, he employed his acuteness to some purpose."
"He took money for it," said Ilse.
"He is a poor devil, accustomed, as a broker, to take his profits on any exchange of antiquities, and no one would expect in such a transaction that he should act like a gentleman. So far as his oppressed spirit belongs to science, it is not without a sort of manly pride; and I have the warmest sympathy for a nature of that kind. His life on the whole is a continual martyrdom to the interests of others; and when I employ such a man, I know exactly how far to trust him."
"Do not deceive yourself in that!" cried Raschke.
"I shall take the risk and the responsibility," replied the Professor. "But have done with the Magister-it is not he who is in question. When I compare his offense with that of Struvelius, there is no doubt in my mind as to who has shown the greater deficiency in sense of honor.
"This again is so unjust," cried Raschke, "that I cannot listen to such expressions in the absence of my colleague. It is with deep regret that I miss in you the candor and dispassionate impartiality which I consider to be unreservedly demanded in judging a fellow-professor."
"You yourself told me," replied Felix, more quietly, "that he promised silence to the trader, because the latter had held out the prospect of obtaining other secret parchments. How can you, after such an exhibition of selfishness, find a word to say in his defense?"
"It is true he did so," replied Raschke, "and therein was his weakness?"
"Therein was his dishonesty," said the Professor, "and that I shall never condone. Whoever thinks otherwise, may shake his hand in approbation of his conduct."
Raschke rose. "If your words mean that he who grasps the hand of Struvelius in pardon for what he has done, has lost in character and self-respect, I reply to you that I am the man, and that this act of mine has never lessened my sense of dignity nor humiliated me in my own eyes. I entertain the highest respect for your pure and manly feelings, which I have ever deemed exemplary; but I must now tell you, that I am not satisfied with you. If this obduracy has come upon you merely because Struvelius has personally offended you, you are violating the standard which we are ever in duty bound to observe in judging our fellow men."
"Let it not be observed then!" exclaimed the Professor. "I recognize no standard of leniency when I have to do with the demands which I make upon the sense of honor and propriety in my personal acquaintances. It affects me deeply that you are opposed to me in this way of thinking; but such as I am, an erring and imperfect mortal, I cannot moderate these claims upon those about me.
"Let me hope then," broke in Raschke, "that it will never be your misfortune to have to confess to others that you have been deceived by an impostor in the very matter wherein your consciousness of self-reliance has been so strongly aroused. For he who judges others so proudly, would suffer no small affliction in the confession of his own shortsightedness."
"Yes, that would be fearful for me," said Felix, "to involve others in error and falsehood against my will. But trust me, to atone for such a wrong I would use all my life and strength. Meanwhile, between that man and me the gulf will remain as dark as ever."
Raschke shoved back his chair. "I must go, then, for our discussion has so excited me that I should make a very unentertaining companion. It is the first time, my dear lady, that I have ever left this house with any feeling of unpleasantness; and it is not my least annoyance, that my untimely advocacy of the existence of souls in poultry made me bristle up my crest against you also."
Ilse regarded the excited countenance of the worthy man with pain, and, in order to soothe him and restore the old friendly relations, she said to him, coaxingly: "But you shall not escape the poor chicken, you'll have to eat it, and I shall take care that your wife gives it to you to-morrow morning for breakfast."
Raschke pressed her hand, and rushed out through the door. The Professor walked up and down the room in agitation, and then stopping before his wife said, abruptly, "Was I in the wrong?"
"I don't know," replied Ilse, hesitating; "but when our friend spoke to you, all my feelings went with him, and I felt that he was right."
"You, too!" said the Professor, moodily. He turned on his heel and went into his study.
Ilse once more sat alone with a heavy heart, and she murmured, "In many things he looks on life very differently from what I do. Towards animals he is kinder, and towards men sometimes harsher than I am. Strive as I may, I shall always be to him an awkward country lass. He was kind to Madam Rollmaus, and will be so towards me; but he will ever have to make allowances for me."
She sprung from her chair with a burning face.
In the meantime Raschke was roving about in the anteroom; there too disorder prevailed. Gabriel had not returned from his distant errand, and the cook had put all the dinner things upon a side-table till his return, and Raschke had to look for his own great-coat. He groped among the clothes and seized a coat and a hat. As to-day he was not as absent-minded as usual, a glance at the rejected meal reminded him of the fact that he had to eat a chicken, as enjoined by Ilse. He, therefore, seized a newspaper which Gabriel had carefully laid out for his master, took the chicken from the dish, wrapped it up in the paper, and deposited it in his pocket, the depth and capacity of which agreeably surprised him. Rushing past the astonished cook he left the house. On opening the front door he stumbled over something on the threshold, and heard a fearful growl behind him as he hurried down the steps into the open air.
The words of the friend whose house he had just left, still rung in his ear. Werner's whole bearing had been very characteristic, and his nature was a strong one. Strange, that in a moment of anger his face had suddenly assumed a likeness to that of a Danish dog. Here the philosopher's chain of ideas was broken by the sudden recollection of the talk about animal souls.
"It is indeed to be deplored that it is still so difficult to determine the significance of expression as revealing the animal soul. If success attended our efforts here, science too would gain by it. If the expressions and gestures exhibited in moments of passion by man and the higher animals could be compared and collated in every detail, important and interesting inferences might be drawn, both from that which they manifested in common and from that wherein they differed. For, in this way, the true nature and purport of their dramatic actions, and probably new laws governing the same, might be ascertained."
Whilst the philosopher was thus meditating, he felt a repeated tugging at the end of his overcoat. As his wife was accustomed, when he was wrapt in thought, to nudge him gently if he met a friend, he paid no attention, but took off his hat politely to the post on the bridge, and said, "Good evening."
"The common character and origin of mimical expression in man and the higher animals might, perhaps, if fully known, give us glimpses into the great secret of life." Again something pulled him. Raschke mechanically lifted his hat. Another tug. "No more, dear Aurelia, I have taken my hat off." It then occurred to him that it could not be his wife who was pulling so low down at his coat. It must be his little daughter Bertha, who occasionally walked with him, and, just like her mother, would also nudge him gently when he had to bow to any one. "Very well, dear child," said he, as Bertha kept continually pulling at his hind coat pocket, and he put his hand behind him to catch the little teazer. He caught hold of something round and shaggy, and at once felt the sharp edges of teeth in his fingers, which made him turn round with a start. He then saw, by the lamplight, a red, brindled monster, with a great head and bristly hair, and a tuft instead of a tail. It was an awful transformation of wife and daughter, and he stared with amazement at this mysterious being, that stood opposite to him, likewise regarding him in silence.
"A remarkable meeting," cried Raschke. "What art thou, unknown beast-presumably a dog? Get away with thee!" The animal slunk back a few paces, and Raschke pursued his inquiry further. "If the facial expression and the gesticulation attendant upon emotion could be thus referred and traced back to original and common forms, the instinctive tendency to appropriate and to adapt what is foreign would undoubtedly result as one of the most universal and effective of laws. It would be instructive from the involuntary actions of men and animals to ascertain that which naturally belonged to each species and that which each had acquired. Get away, dog; – home with you, I say! What is he after, anyway? He is apparently one of Werner's people. The poor brute is possessed of some overpowering idea and will lose his way running about the city!"
In the meantime, Spitehahn's attacks had become more violent, and he at last dropped into a ludicrous march upon his hind legs, while, placing his forefeet on the Professor's back, he buried his nose in the latter's coat-pocket.
Raschke's interest in the thoughts of the dog increased. He stopped by a lamp-post and carefully examined his overcoat. He found that it possessed a cape and long sleeves, which the philosopher had never observed before on his own coat. The matter was now clear: he had thoughtlessly taken the wrong coat, and the honest dog meant to preserve his master's wardrobe, and to make the thief restore it. Raschke was so pleased with the dog's cleverness, that he turned round and spoke coaxingly to Spitehahn, trying to stroke his bristly coat. The dog snapped at his hand. "You are quite right," said Raschke, "in being angry with me. I will show you that I confess I am in the wrong." So he took the coat off, and hung it over his arm. "It is, indeed, much heavier than my own." He marched briskly on in his light coat, and saw with satisfaction that the dog made no more attacks on his skirts. On the other hand, Spitehahn seized the greatcoat, and began biting at it, snapping at the Professor's hand and growling furiously.
The Professor got angry with the dog, and as he came to a bench in the Promenade, he laid the coat down on it, in order to deal with the animal in earnest, and drive him home. By this means he got rid of the dog and, what was more, of the coat too; for Spitehahn, jumping up eagerly on the bench with a mighty leap, seized the coat, and kept the Professor at bay. "It is Werner's coat," said the Professor, "and it is Werner's dog, and it would be unjustifiable to beat the poor animal because in his fidelity he has become excited, and it would be also wrong to leave both dog and coat." So he remained with the dog, trying to coax him; the animal, however, took no further notice of the Professor; on the contrary, he devoted himself to the coat, which he turned over and over again, scraping and gnawing at it. Raschke perceived that the coat would not long stand such treatment. "The dog must be mad," he said to himself, suspiciously, "and I shall have to resort to violence after all towards the poor creature;" and he considered whether it were better to jump up on the bench and drive the mad dog off with a good kick, or to make the unavoidable attack from below. He decided on the latter, and searched about for a stone or stick to arm himself for the encounter. He then looked up at the trees and the dark sky, and could not in the least tell where he was. "Is this witchcraft?" he said to himself, amused. "Pray tell me," addressing a solitary passer-by, "in what part of the town we are; and will you have the goodness to lend me your stick for a moment?"
"These are strange questions," replied the stranger, in a surly tone. "I want my stick myself at this time of night. And who are you, sir, I should like to know?" And he approached the Professor menacingly.
"I am a peaceable man," replied the Professor, "and little inclined to violent courses. But a struggle has commenced between that dog on the bench and me about an overcoat, and I should be extremely obliged to you if you would rescue the coat from the dog. But pray do no more harm to him than is absolutely necessary."
"Is it your coat?" asked the man.
"Unfortunately, I cannot say it is," replied Raschke, conscientiously.
"There is something wrong here," cried the stranger, again looking with suspicion at the Professor.
"Something, indeed," replied Raschke; "the dog is mad, the coat has been changed, and I don't know where we are."
"Close to the Valley Gate, Professor Raschke," answered the voice of Gabriel, who rapidly joined the group. "But, pardon me, how came you here?"
"How opportune," cried Raschke, delighted; "just take charge of the coat and the dog."
With astonishment Gabriel saw his friend Spitehahn, who was now sitting on the coat, quite abashed and chapfallen at the sight of his master. Gabriel drove the dog off, and seized the coat. "It is my own overcoat!" he said.
"Yes, Gabriel," rejoined the Professor, "that was my mistake, and the dog has displayed a wonderful fidelity in guarding it."
"Fidelity!" said Gabriel, indignantly, as he pulled a parcel out of the pocket; "it was greedy selfishness. There must be something to eat in here."
"Ah! I recollect now," cried Raschke; "it is the fowl that's to blame. Give me the parcel, Gabriel; I must eat it myself. And we may now wish one another good-night in peace, unless you will go with me a little way to show me the road amongst these trees."
"But you can't go in this night air without an overcoat," said the tender-hearted Gabriel. "We are not far from our house, and it would be better for you to return with me to the Professor's."
Raschke paused a while, and laughed. "You are quite right, my good Gabriel: my sudden departure was all wrong, and the soul of an animal has this day given a lesson to a human soul."
"If you mean this dog," replied Gabriel, "it is the first time in his life he has given anybody a lesson. I suppose that he followed you from our door, for I put bones there for him every evening."
"At one time I thought he was quite mad," said the Professor.
"He is a sly one when he chooses," replied Gabriel, with an air of mystery; "but if I were to tell all my experiences with him to this day-"
"Do tell me, Gabriel," cried the Professor, quite excited. "Nothing is so valuable with respect to animals as authentic anecdotes, collected by those who have observed them closely."
"I can vouch for my experience," said Gabriel, with an air of confidence; "and if you really wish to know what he is, I can tell you he is possessed-he is a devil-he's a depraved brute-and bears a grudge against the whole human race!"
"Hum! – is that so?" murmured the philosopher. "I believe it is much easier to look into the heart of a Professor than that of a dog."
Spitehahn crept along quietly but depressed, with his tail between his legs, listening to the praise bestowed on him, whilst Raschke, accompanied by Gabriel, returned through the park to the house. Gabriel flung open the parlor door, and announced "Professor Raschke."
Ilse stretched out both hands, "Welcome-welcome, dear Professor!" and led him in to her husband's study.
"Here I am again," said Raschke, in a cheerful tone, "after an adventure like a fairy tale. I have been brought back by two animals who have shown me the right path-a roast fowl and a perverted dog."
Felix sprang to his feet, the two friends shook hands cordially, and, after all misunderstanding, the evening passed off most pleasantly.
When Raschke at length withdrew, Gabriel said sorrowfully to his mistress: "It was the new coat; the chicken and the dog have ruined it beyond all recognition."
CHAPTER XIX.
THE ILLNESS
It was the first burst of spring in the wood and gardens adjoining the city. The buds and the caterpillars had slumbered together in quiet winter dreams; now the leaves expanded, and the grubs crawled over the young green shoots. Under the bright rays of the sun in its higher course, the struggle of life began, – the blooming and withering, the rich colors, and the frost under which they were to fade, the bright green leaves and the caterpillars that gnawed them; the eternal strife began anew in buds and blossoms just as in the heart of man.
Ilse, in her hours of instruction, was now reading Herodotus; he, too, was a harbinger of spring for the human race; hovering above the borderland between dreamy poetry and unclouded reality, the glad proclaimer of a time in which the people of the earth rejoiced in their own beauty and perfection, and first began to seek seriously truth and knowledge. Again Ilse read with passionate excitement the pages which brought a shattered world before her eyes with such vivid reality. But there was not the same serene and exalted pleasure in the narrative as in the works of the great poet who so directed the fate and deeds of his heroes as to produce a pleasing impression upon the mind, even when they excited sorrow and fear. For it is the privilege of human invention to form the world as the tender heart of man desires it; with alternations and fitting proportions of happiness and sorrow, the recognition of each individual according to his powers and actions, and due compensation. But the mind which here delineated the life of the past, did so in a superhuman manner, life crowded life, so that one devastated the other, destruction mercilessly overtook them, good and bad alike; here too, there was retribution; here, too, there was a curse, but their effect was incomprehensible and cruel. What was good ceased to be good, and evil gained the victory. What was first a blessing afterwards became ruin; what was now beneficent greatness and dominion, afterwards became a disease, which destroyed the state. The individual heroes were of little importance; if a great human power rose and dominated for a moment. Ilse soon saw it disappear in the whirling stream of events. Crœsus, the over-confident, good-hearted king, fell; the powerful Cyrus passed away, and Xerxes was beaten. But nations also sank, the blooming flower of Egypt withered, the golden realm of Lydia was shattered, and mighty Persia first corrupted others and then itself. In the young Hellenic people, that rose with such heroic strength, she already saw busily at work violence, evil deeds, and enmities, through which the most beautiful picture of antiquity, after short prosperity, was to pass away.
Ilse and Laura were sitting opposite each other, with an open book lying between them. Laura, indeed, was not admitted to the private lessons of the Professor, but her soul faithfully accompanied Ilse on the path of learning. Ilse imparted the acquisitions of her hours of instructions to her, and enjoyed the sweet pleasure of infusing new ideas into the mind of her friend.
"I felt great indignation at this Xerxes," cried Laura, "even from what I read in the primer:
'Xantippe was a cross, mean thing
No peace her husband had.
But Xerxes was a Persian King
And he was just as bad.'
I long thought that Xantippe was his wife, and I wish he had had her. On the other hand, look at the three hundred Spartans who sent the others home and encircled themselves with wreaths, anointed themselves, and put on the festive garb to march to death. That elevates the heart; they were men. If I could show my veneration for their memory by means of my stupid head and weak hands, I would work for it till my fingers ached. But what can a poor creature like me do? At the utmost, embroider traveling-bags for their journey to the lower world, and these would come two thousand years too late. We women are pitiable creatures," she exclaimed, with vexation.
"There were others in the battle," said Ilse, "who affected me more than the three hundred Spartans. These were the Thespians, who fought and died with them. The Spartans were impelled by their proud hearts and the strict discipline and commands of their rulers. But the Thespians died willingly. They were a small people, and they well knew that the greatest honor would attach to their distinguished neighbors. But they were faithful in their humble position, and that was far more self-sacrificing and noble. Ah! it was easy for all of them," she continued, sorrowfully; "but for those who remained behind, their poor parents, wives and children at home, what destruction of happiness and unspeakable misery!"
"Misery!" cried Laura; "if they thought as I do, they were proud of the death of their loved ones, and like them wore garlands in their sorrow. What is the purpose of our life if we cannot rejoice in giving ourselves up for higher things?"
"For higher things?" asked Ilse. "What men value higher than wife and child, is that higher for us also? Our duty is to devote our whole hearts to them, our children, and our home. When, therefore, they are taken from us, our whole lives are desolated and nothing remains but endless sorrow. It is natural for us to view their vocation differently than they do themselves."
"I would like to be a man," cried Laura. "Are we then so weak in mind and spirit, that we must have less enthusiasm, less feeling of honor, and less love for our Fatherland than they? It is a fearful thought to be one's whole life long only the waiting-maid of a master who is no stronger or better than oneself, and who wears overshoes, that his feet may not get wet, and a woollen muffler the moment a breath of cold air blows."
"They do wear these things here in the town," replied Ilse, laughing.
"Yes, nearly all of them do," said Laura, evasively; "but believe me, Frau Ilse, these men have no right to expect us to devote our whole heart and lives to them. It is just the most thorough of them that do not give us their full heart. And how should they? We are good enough to entertain them, and darn their stockings, and perhaps become their confidants, if they should accidentally be at a loss what to do; but the best of them look beyond us to the great All, and in that is their special life. What is right for them should also be fitting for us."
"And have we not enough in what they give us of their life?" asked Ilse. "If it is only a portion it makes us happy."
"Is it happiness never to experience the highest of emotions?" exclaimed Laura. "Can we die like Leonidas?"
Ilse pointed to the door of her husband's room. "My Hellas sits there within and works, and my heart beats when I hear his step, or only the scratching of his pen. To live or die for the man one loves is also an elevating idea, and makes one happy. Ah, happy only if one knows that one is a source of happiness to him also!"
Laura threw herself at the feet of her friend, and looked entreatingly into her anxious face. "I have made you serious with my prattling, and that was wrong of me; for I would gladly conjure a smile to your lips every hour, and always see a friendly light in those soft eyes. But do bear with me; I am a strange, unaccountable girl, and often discontented with myself and others, and frequently without knowing why. But Xerxes was a good for nothing fellow, to that I stick; and if I had him here I could box his ears every day."
"At all events he received his due," replied Ilse.
Laura started suddenly. "Was that a proper retribution for the wretch who had destroyed or made miserable hundreds of thousands, to return home without a scratch? No punishment would be severe enough for such a wicked king. But I know right well how he became so; his mother and father spoiled him; he had always lived at home, had grown up in luxury and all men were subject to him. And so he treated all with contempt. It would be the same with others if they were in the same position. I can well imagine myself such a monster, and many of my acquaintances too."
"My husband?" asked Ilse.
"No, he is more like Cyrus or Cambyses," replied Laura.
Ilse laughed. "That is not true. But how would it be with the Doctor over there?"
Laura raised her hand threateningly towards the neighboring house. "He would be Xerxes, just as he is in the book, if one could think of him without spectacles, in a golden dressing-gown, with a sceptre in his hand, without his good heart (for Fritz Hahn undoubtedly has that); somewhat less clever than he is, and still more spoilt, as a man also who has written no book, and learnt nothing but to treat others badly; he would then be Xerxes out and out. I see him sitting before me on a throne, by a brook, striking the water with a whip because it made his boots wet. He might have become a very dangerous fellow if he had not been born here close to the city park."
"I think so too," replied Ilse. In the evening, in the course of her hour of study. Ilse said to her husband: "When Leonidas died with his heroes, he saved his countrymen from the rule of foreign barbarians; but after him many thousands of these glorious men fell in the civil wars of the cities. In these quarrels the people became deteriorated, and before long other strangers came and deprived their descendants of their freedom. For what end did these many thousands die? – of what use was all the hatred, and enthusiasm, and party zeal? – it was all in vain, it was all a token of decay. Man is here like a grain of sand that is trodden down into the earth. I find myself facing a terrible mystery and I am afraid of life."
"I will endeavour to give you a solution," replied her husband, seriously; "but the words which I am now about to speak to you are like the key to the chambers of the wicked Bluebeard: do not open every room too hastily, for in some of them you will discover what, in your present frame of mind, may raise anew your fears."
"I am your wife," cried Ilse, "and if you have any answer for the questions which torment me I demand it of you."
"My answer is no secret to you," said the Professor. "You are not only what you consider yourself-a human being born to joy and sorrow, united to individuals by nature, love, and faith-but you are bound body and soul to an earthly power, of which you think but little, but which, nevertheless, guides you from the first breath you drew to the last gasp of life. When I tell you that you are a child of your people, and a child of the human race, the expression will come so naturally to you that you will not assign any deep meaning to it. Yet this is your highest earthly relation. We are too much accustomed from childhood on to cherish in our hearts only the individuals to whom we are bound by nature or choice, and we seldom stop to think that our nation is the ancestor from whom our parents are descended, that has produced our language, laws, manners, that has given us all we possess, given us everything that constitutes our life, and almost all that determines our fortunes, and elevates our hearts. Yet not our nation alone has accomplished this; the peoples of the earth stand to one another as brothers and sisters, and one nation helps to decide the life and fate of others. All have lived, suffered, and worked together, in order that you may live, enjoy, and do your part in life."
Ilse smiled. "The bad king Cambyses, and his Persian also?"
"They also," replied the Professor; "for the great net of which your life is one of the meshes, is woven from an infinite number of threads, and if one had been lost the web would be imperfect. Take first a simple illustration. You are indebted to the people of a period, of which every record is now wanting, for the table by which you sit, the needle which you hold in your hand, and the rings on your fingers and in your ears; the shuttle was invented by an unknown people in order that your dress might be woven, and a similar palm-leaf pattern to that which you wear, was devised in the manufactory of a Phœnician."
"Good," said Ilse; "that pleases me; it is a charming thought that antiquity has provided so considerately for my comfort."
"Not that alone," continued the scholar. "What you know, and believe also, and much that occupies your heart, has been delivered to you through your nation from its own and foreign sources. Every word that you speak has been transmitted and remodelled through hundreds of generations, to receive thereby that sound and significance which you now so easily command. It was for this object that our ancestors came into the country from Asia, and that Arminius struggled with the Romans for the preservation of our language, that you might be able to give Gabriel an order which both could understand. It was for you the poets lived, who, in the youth of the Hellenic people, invented the powerful rhythm of the epic verse, which it gives me such pleasure to hear from your lips. Furthermore, that you may believe, as you do, it was necessary that three hundred years ago there should take place in your Fatherland a great and mighty struggle of opinion; and again, more than a thousand years earlier, a mighty conflict of the soul in a small people of Asia; and again, fifty generations earlier still, venerated commandments given under the tents of a wandering people. You have to thank a past which begins with the first life of man on earth for most that you have and are, and in this sense the whole human race has lived in order that you might be able to live."