Ilse looked excitedly at her husband. "The thought is elevating," she exclaimed, "and is calculated to make man proud. But how does that agree with this same man being a nonentity, and crushed like a worm in the great events of history?"
"As you are the child of your nation, and of the human race, so has every individual been in every age; and as he has to thank that greater human fabric, of which he is a portion, for his life and nearly all its content, so is his fortune linked to the greater fortune of his nation and to the destiny of mankind. Your people and your race have given you much, and they require as much from you. They have preserved your body and formed your mind, and they demand in return your body and mind. However lightly and freely you move about as an individual, you are answerable to these creditors for the use of your freedom. Whether, as mild masters, they allow you to pass your life in peace, or at some period demand it of you, your duty is the same; whilst you think that you live and die for yourself, you live and die for them. Contemplated in this way, the individual life is immeasurably small compared with the great whole. To us, the individual man who has passed away can only be discerned in so far as he has influenced others; it is only in connection with those who preceded him, and those who come after him, that he is of importance. But in this sense great and little are both of value. For every one of us who brings up his children, or governs the State, or in any way increases the welfare, comfort, and culture of his race, performs a duty towards his people. Countless numbers do this without any personal record of them remaining; they are like drops of water, which, closely united with others, run on as one great stream, not distinguishable by later eyes. But they have not on that account lived in vain; and, as countless insignificant individuals are preservers of culture, and workers for the duration of national strength, so the highest of powers in individuals-the greatest heroes and the noblest reformers-only represent in their lives a small portion of that national strength. Whilst man struggles for himself and his own ends, he unconsciously influences his own time, and his own people for all futurity. By ennobling the ideals and duties of future generations, he pays his own debt to life. You see, my beloved, how death vanishes from history in such a conception. The result of life becomes more important than life itself; beyond the man is the nation-beyond the nation is mankind; every human being that has moved upon earth has lived, not only for himself, but for all others, and for us also; thus our life has been benefited by him. As the Greeks grew up in noble freedom and passed away, and as their thoughts and labors have benefited later generations of men, so our life, though it moves in a small circle, will not be useless to future generations."
"Ah!" cried Ilse, "that is a view of earthly life which is only possible to those who do great things, and in whom later times will take an interest; my blood runs cold at the thought. Are men, then, only like flowers and weeds, and a nation like a great meadow, and what remains, when they are mowed down by time, only useful hay, for later generations? Surely all that once existed and all existing at present have lived also for themselves, and for those whom they have loved, for wife and children and friends, and they were something more than ciphers among millions; something more than leaves on an enormous tree. Though their existence is so insignificant and useless that you can perceive no trace of their work, yet the life and the soul of the beggar and the life and the soul of my poor invalid in the village are guarded by a power which is greater than your great net that is woven of the souls of men."
She arose and gazed anxiously into her husband's face. "Bow your human pride before a power that you do not understand."
The scholar looked at his wife with deep solicitude. "I do bow humbly before the thought that the great unity of human beings on this earth is not the highest power of life. The only difference between you and me is, that my mind is accustomed to hold intercourse With the higher powers of earth. They are to me revelations so holy and worthy of reverence, that I best love to seek the Eternal and Incomprehensible by this path. You are accustomed to find the inscrutable in the conceptions which have been impressed on your mind through pious traditions; and I again repeat what I before said, your faith and yearnings arise from the same source as mine, and we seek the same light, though in different ways. What the Gods, and also the Angels and Archangels were to the faith of earlier generations-higher powers which, as messengers of the Highest, hovered about and influenced the lives of men-the great intellectual unity of nations and mankind are in another sense to us, personalities which endure and yet pass away, though according to different laws from what individual men do. My endeavour to understand these laws is one form of my piety. You yourself will gradually learn to appreciate the modest and elevating conceptions of the holy sphere in which I live. You also will gradually discover that your faith and mine are about the same."
"No," cried Ilse, "I see only one thing, a great gulf which divides my thoughts from yours. Oh, deliver me from the anguish which tortures me in my concern for your soul."
"I cannot do it, nor can it be done in a day. It can only be done by our own lives, by thousands of impressions and by thousands of days, in which you will become accustomed to look upon the world as I do."
He drew his wife, who was standing as if transfixed, nearer to him. "Think of the text: 'In my father's house are many mansions.' He who so spoke knew that man and wife are one through the strongest of earthly feelings, which bears all and suffers all."
"But what can I be to you to whom the individual is so little?" asked Ilse, faintly.
"The highest and dearest being on earth, the flower of my nation, a child of my race in whom I love and honour what was before and will survive us."
Ilse stood alone among the strange books; without, the wind howled round the walls, the clouds flitted across the face of the moon; soon the room became dark, and then was lighted up by a pale glimmer. In the flickering light the walls seemed to spread and rise to an immeasurable height; strange figures rose from among the books, they glided by the walls, and were suspended from the ceiling, an army of grey shadows, which by day were banished to the bookshelves, now came trooping towards her, and the dead who continued to live as spirits on earth stretched out their arms to her and demanded her soul for themselves.
Ilse, with head erect, raised her hands on high, and called to her aid the beautiful images, which from her childhood had surrounded her life with blessing, white figures with shining countenances. She bent her head and prayed: "O guard the peace of my soul."
When Ilse entered her room she found a letter from her father on her table; she opened it hastily, and, after reading the first lines, sank down sobbing.
Her father had informed her of the death of an old friend. The good pastor had been borne away from the narrow valley to the place of rest, which he had chosen in the churchyard, near his wife. He had never recovered from the disquiet which the departure of Ilse had caused him; he had passed the winter in lingering illness, and one warm spring evening death came upon him while sitting before his peach-tree in the garden. There the faithful servant found him, and ran with the terrible news to the manor. A few hours before he had requested Clara to write to his dear child in the city, that all was well with him.
Ilse had often been anxious about the life of her friend during the winter, so the account was not a surprise to her. Yet now she felt his loss as a terrible misfortune; it was a life which had been firmly and faithfully devoted to her; she well knew that in later years she had become almost exclusively the object of his thoughts and fond affections. She had abandoned one who had been part of her life, impelled by a stronger feeling, and it now appeared as if she had done wrong in parting from him. She saw the staff broken which had bound her firmly to the feelings of her childhood. It seemed as if the ground tottered beneath her, as if all had become insecure, the heart of her husband, and her own future.
The Professor found her dissolved in tears and bending over the letter; her grief moved him, and he anxiously begged her to think of herself. He spoke to her tenderly, and at last she raised her eyes to him and promised to be composed.
But it was in vain. After a few hours he was obliged to carry her to bed.
It was a dangerous illness. There were days in which she lay unconscious in death-like weakness. When, at times, she opened her weary eyes, she looked into the careworn countenance of her husband, and saw Laura's curly head tenderly bending over her; then all would vanish again in vague insensibility.
It was a long struggle between life and death, but life was victorious. Her first impression, when she awoke as from a painless slumber, was the rustling of a black dress, and the large curl of Mrs. Struvelius, who had popped her head through the closed curtains, and was gazing sorrowfully on her with her great grey eyes. She gently called her husband by name, and the next moment he was kneeling by her bed, covering her hand with kisses; and the strong man had so completely lost all self-control that he wept convulsively. She laid her hand on his head, stroked the matted hair, and said to him, gently: "Felix, my love, I will live."
There followed now a time of great weakness and slow convalescence; she had many an hour of helpless depression, but withal a faint smile would play at times over her thin, pale lips.
Spring had come. The buds had not all been destroyed by the frost of the previous night, and the birds twittered before her windows. Ilse was deeply moved to see what a good nurse her husband was, – how adroitly he gave her medicine and food, and would scarcely suffer anyone to take his place by her bedside; he stubbornly refused to take a few hours' sleep in the night, till she herself begged him to do so, and then he could not resist. She learned from Laura that he had been in great distress of mind, and when she was at the worst had been quite distracted and moody, and angry with every one. He had sat day and night by her bedside, so that it was wonderful how he had been able to endure it. "The physician was unable to manage him," said Laura; "but I found the right way, for I threatened him seriously that I would complain to you of his obstinacy. Then he consented to my taking his place for a few hours, and at last Mrs. Struvelius also, but unwillingly, because he maintained that her dress rustled too much."
Laura herself showed how devoted was her love; she was always on the spot, hovering noiselessly about the sick-bed like a bird; she would sit motionless for hours, and when Ilse opened her eyes, and her strength was a little restored, she had always something pleasant to tell her. She informed her that Mrs. Struvelius had come on the second day, and, after making a little speech to the Professor, in which she solemnly claimed the right of a friend, she seated herself on the other side of the bed. He, however, had not listened to what she said, and had suddenly started and asked who she was, and what she wanted there. She had answered him quietly that she was Flaminia Struvelius, and that her heart gave her a right to be there; thereupon she repeated her argument, and at last he gave in. "Her husband, too, has been here," added Laura, cautiously. "Just when you were at the worst, he rushed up to your husband, who shook hands with him, but, between ourselves, I do not think he knew him. Then," related Laura, "that absurd fellow, the Doctor, came the very first evening, with a blanket and a tin coffee-machine, and declared he would watch also. As he could not be allowed in the sick-room, he placed himself with his tin apparatus in the Professor's room; the Professor took care of you, and the Doctor took care of the Professor." Ilse drew Laura's head down to her, and whispered in her ear, "and sister Laura took care of the Doctor." Upon this Laura kissed her, but shook her head vehemently. "He was not troublesome, at any rate," she continued; "he kept very quiet, and he was useful as a Cerberus to keep away the visitors and dismiss the many inquirers. This he did faithfully. If it were possible for you to see him, I believe it would give him great pleasure."
Ilse nodded. "Let him come in." The Doctor came; Ilse stretched out her hand towards him; and felt from the warm pressure, and from the emotion on his countenance, that the learned confidant of her beloved husband, on whose approbation she had not always counted, was a true friend. Ilse found also that other gentlemen pressed to her bedside.
"If the wife of my colleague will give me audience, I beg to apply for admittance," said a cheerful voice, outside.
"Come in, Professor Raschke," cried Ilse, from her bed.
"There she is," exclaimed he, louder than is usual in a sick-room, "returned to the glad light after a dangerous crisis."
"What are the souls of animals doing, dear Professor?" asked Ilse.
"They are eating the leaves in the adjacent woods," answered Raschke; "there have been numerous ladybirds this year; see, there is one flying about the medicine bottle; I fear it has used me as a stage-coach to come in to visit you. The trees stand like brooms, and the poultry are so fat that all prejudices concerning the enjoyment of these fellow-creatures are quite set aside. I count the days until the happy moment arrives when my friend will follow me to give evidence of my improvement."
It was a slow recovery, but accompanied by abundant feelings of comfort; for fate grants to convalescents, as a compensation for danger and suffering, to see all around them, free from the dust of the work-a-day world, in pure outlines and fresh brilliancy. Ilse now felt this mild poetry of the sick-bed, when she held out her hand to the honest Gabriel, which he kissed, holding his handkerchief to his eyes, whilst the Professor extolled his devoted service. She felt this pleasure also when going down into the garden, supported by Laura's arm. Mr. Hummel advanced to her respectfully, in his best coat, with his hair brushed down and his defiant eyes softened almost into a mild expression, and behind him followed slowly his dog Spitehahn, his head also bent in unwilling respect. When Mr. Hummel had offered his homage, he said, sympathisingly: "If you should ever wish for a little quiet exercise, I beg of you to make use of my boat at your pleasure." This was the greatest favor that Mr. Hummel could show, for he did not credit the inhabitants of the neighborhood in which he lived with any of the qualifications which are necessary to make aquatic excursions. He was undoubtedly right when he called a voyage in his boat a quiet amusement; for this season the boat had mostly rested upon bottom on account of the shallowness of the water and the greatest amusement that it could offer was to stretch out the hands to both banks, and tear up a tuft of grass with each.
When Ilse could sit in her room again, it often happened that the door opened gently, her husband entered, kissed her, and then returned with a light heart to his books. When she saw his tender anxiety, and his happiness in her recovery, and in again having her near him, she no longer doubted his love, and felt that she ought no longer to be anxious about what he thought of the life and passing away of individuals and of nations.
CHAPTER XX.
A COURT MATTER
Among the inquiries after the Professor's wife during her illness, there was one made by a stranger. Gabriel excited a little astonishment in the household when he mentioned: "Once, as I was running to the apothecary, a man of refined appearance was standing in the street talking with Dorchen. Dorchen called to me, and the man made inquiries concerning everything, and your illness seemed very inopportune to him."
"Did you ask his name?"
"He would not give it. He was from your part of the country, and had only made inquiries through the town."
"Perhaps it was some one from Rossau," said Ilse, annoyed. "I hope he has not made father anxious by his talk."
Gabriel shook his head. "He meant something by it; he tried to find out everything about the house, and asked impudent questions that I would not answer. As he had a crafty look, I followed him to the nearest inn, and the waiter told me that he was the chamberlain of a Prince." Gabriel mentioned the name.
"That is our Prince!" cried Ilse; "what can make him take such interest in me?"
"The man wished to take some news home," replied her husband. "He was among the retinue on the hunting expedition last year; and it was kindly meant."
This answer quieted Gabriel, and Ilse, much pleased, said: "It is so nice when one's Prince takes such interest in his children who are in trouble far from home."
But there was some foundation withal for Gabriel's shaking his head; the inquiries did signify something.
Behind the buildings of a country farm-house, a young lady could be seen, tying up the wild flowers of the meadow in a large bouquet; a ball of blue yarn rolled in her lap whenever she added a fresh handful of flowers. A youth was running about in the deep grass before her, busily engaged in collecting flowers, placing them in order and arranging them according to color for the nosegay-maker. It was evident that the youth and young lady were brother and sister from the marked family likeness of both countenances, and the rich walking-dress left no doubt that they had not blossomed amidst the clover and camomile of the soil, even though the horses' heads and the galoon-trimmed hats of their attendants had not been visible through a gap between the barns.
"You will never finish your bouquet, Siddy," said the young man, incredulously, to the lady, as she awkwardly tried to knot the broken thread.
"If the thread were only stronger!" cried the busy maiden; "do knot it for me!" But it turned out that the young gentleman was not more expert himself.
"Look, Benno, how beautiful the bouquet will be, – that was my idea."
"It is all much too loose," retorted the young man.
"It is good enough for the first time," replied Siddy; "there, see my hands, how sweet they smell." She showed the blue points of her little fingers, holding them up to his face; and as he good-humoredly sniffed at them, she playfully rapped him on the nose. "I have enough of the red flowers," she continued, again occupied with the nosegay; "now I must have one more circle of white."
"What kind of white?"
"If I did but know their names," replied Siddy, thoughtfully; "I mean Marguerites. What do you call these white flowers?" she asked, looking back to a countrywoman who stood in a respectful attitude some steps behind the busy pair, looking on at their proceedings with a pleased smile.
"We call them daisies," said the woman.
"Ah, that's it?" cried Siddy; "cut long stalks, Benno."
"They haven't got long stalks," said Benno, plaintively, carrying her what he could pick near at hand. "I will tell you what astonishes me," he began, sitting down by his sister on the grass. "This meadow is full of flowers; when it is mowed the grass becomes hay, and one doesn't see a thing of all the flowers in the hay."
"Really?" replied Siddy, tieing another thread. "They are probably dried up."
Benno shook his head. "Only look at a bundle of hay; you will see few of them in it. I think the people gather them beforehand, and sell them in the city."
Siddy laughed, and pointing over the green fields, said, "Look around you; they are countless, and people only buy the more lasting garden flowers; yet these are far prettier. How lovely is the star in the flower of our Lady Marguerite." She held the nosegay up to her brother, and looked lovingly at her work of art.
"You have completed it after all," said the young man, admiringly; "you were always a clever girl, Siddy, and I am so sorry that you are going away from us," he added, feelingly.
His sister gazed earnestly at him. "Are you, really? And will you always think kindly of me, my brother? You are the only one here from whom I find it hard to part, Benno. We are like two orphan children sitting in the snow of a cold winter's night."
She who thus spoke was Princess Sidonie, and the sun was shining warm on the blooming meadow before her.
"How do you like my bridegroom?" she asked, after a pause, busily winding the blue thread around the finished nosegay.
"He is a handsome man, and was very kind to me," said Benno, thoughtfully. "But is he clever?"
Siddy nodded. "I think he is. He writes nice letters. If you like, you shall read one."
"I shall be glad to do so," said Benno.
"Do you know," continued Siddy, mysteriously, "that I write to him every day! For I think a woman ought to confide everything to her husband, great and small, and I wish to accustom him and myself to that. To make sure, I write to him under a false address, and my maid takes the letters to the post, for I fear my stupid words might otherwise be read before they go." She said this with apparent indifference, examining her bouquet all the while. "He will hear every little detail of this visit to Lady Marguerite, and that it has given you pleasure. Now the bouquet is ready," she exclaimed, gaily. "I will fasten a handkerchief round it; we will take it in the carriage, and I will set it on my writing-table."
Benno laughed: "It looks like a club. You can lend it this evening to the savages in the ballet."
"It is better than the flat things which one can't even put in water," replied the sister, jumping up; "come along, we will carry it to the pump."
They hastened to the farmyard, followed by the peasant woman. Benno took a bucket and carried it to the pump.
"Let me pump," cried Siddy. She seized the handle and tried to move it, but did not succeed; only a few drops ran into the pitcher.
Benno objected. "You are too clumsy," he said, "let me try it." He now took hold of the wooden handle, and Siddy held the bucket. He pumped vigorously, and the water spurted out over the bucket, upon the hands and dress of the Princess. She made a slight exclamation, let the bucket drop, and then both burst out laughing.
"You have made a nice mess of me, you naughty wretch," cried Siddy. "Oh, it makes no difference, mother," she added, to console the woman, who ran up terrified, clasping her hands. "Now, Benno, an idea has occurred to me: I will put on a gown of our dame Marguerite, and you a smock-frock of her husband, and when our cousin comes he will not know us, and we will surprise him."
"If all only turns out well," rejoined Benno, doubtfully.
"No one sees us," urged Siddy. "Good mother," she said, coaxingly, to the country-woman, "come into your room, and help us to dress."
The young Prince and Princess took the woman by the hand and led her into the house. Benno laid his coat down in the hall, and looked doubtfully at the smock-frock, which was brought to him by a stout maid, who assisted him in putting it on. The elegant peasant lad seated himself patiently on a bench, while waiting for his companion, and employed his leisure in turning a grinding-stone and inquisitively holding the tips of his fingers close to it. Whilst he was making this experiment, he received a slight blow on his back, and with astonishment beheld, standing behind him, a little peasant maid, in blue petticoat and black jacket, and the usual cap of the country on her head.
"How do you like my appearance?" asked Siddy, crossing her arms.
"Charming," exclaimed Benno. "I had no idea that I had such a pretty sister."
Siddy made a rustic curtsy. "Where have you kept your eyes, you foolish boy? Now we must help in the household. What work can you give your new servants, Mother Marguerite?"
The woman simpered. "There is the fodder for the cows to be steeped in hot water," she said.
"No more water, we have had enough of that. Come, Benno, we will set the table in the garden under the fruit-trees, and then carry out the curds and cream."
They went into the room, and brought out a small bench placing it on the grass-plot, under an apple-tree; then they hurried back for the plates and spoons. The woman and the maid carried out the table with a large bowl of milk, and some rye bread. Siddy tripped about nimbly, laid the tablecloth, and carefully smoothing it out, placed the colored earthenware upon it.
"Look!" whispered Benno, pointing with a troubled air to the worn pewter spoons.
"We can wash them, and dry them with green leaves," advised his sister.
They ran with the spoons to the pump, and rubbed them hard with leaves, but they could not polish them.
"That's just their way," said Benno, consolingly; "it is part of a country picnic."
The table was laid, and Siddy brought forward some stools and wiped them with her cambric handkerchief.
"You are the Hereditary Prince," said Siddy, "so you must sit on the bench, and we others on each side of you. The rye bread must be crumbled, but every one can do that for themselves. There is no sugar, but that doesn't matter."
They sat waiting before the milk bowl, beating time with the spoons. A little green apple fell plump into the milk, and spattered it about. Both burst out laughing, jumped up, and collected the unripe apples and plums from the grass, peering across the hedge at a path which led through the woods to the town.
"There he comes," cried Benno; "hide yourself!"
A horseman rode up at a gallop. It was a young officer. He threw himself off his snorting horse, fastened it to a post, and leaped over the hedge. But he stopped amazed, for he was greeted with a crossfire of unripe apples and plums from each side of the hedge. He quickly collected some of the green shot, and defended himself as well as he could against the assault. The little peasants sprang forth, and Benno cried out, "You have kept us waiting a long time."
Siddy made him a curtsy, saying, "Prince, the butter-milk is served."
Prince Victor looked with evident admiration at the young peasant. "Ah!" he said, good-humoredly, "now one sees how small the feet are before which one does homage. All right, children. But first of all I must have satisfaction for the attack."
So saying, he knotted his pocket-handkerchief; the brother and sister laughed, and said, beseechingly, "Be good, cousin, we will not do it again." "Oh, dear Ogre, pardon and compassion!" implored Siddy, raising the corner of her apron to her eyes.
"Nothing of the kind," cried Victor; "I shall no doubt be arrested again on your account, and shall therefore punish you beforehand." He chased them round the table.
"This is disagreeable, cousin," cried Siddy; "let us leave off this nonsense, and come to the table. I will help you. There is the cream. Everything must be fairly distributed when Victor is present."
Victor examined the table. "It is all very nice, but there is no sugar."
"There was none to be had," cried the brother and sister, in chorus.
Victor put his hand into his pocket, and placed a silver box on the table. "What would become of you without me? Here is the sugar." He again dipped into his pocket, and brought out a leathern flask with a small drinking-glass. "Here is another important thing, the cognac."
"What for?" asked Siddy.
"To drink, most gracious cousin. If you will put this cold mess into your interior without cognac, I shall not venture to oppose you; but I advise you, Benno, as a man, to take care of your health."
Both held their spoons with an air of embarrassment.
"Is that necessary?" asked Benno, distrustfully.
"It is a pacifier, as our doctor says," declared Victor; "it calms and quells the rebel substances into quiet submission. If you refuse the cognac, it is just like on the way to hell. The path is easy at the beginning, but what follows is chaos. At all events, you would be spared the ballet to-day. Is that clear to you?"
"It is very clear," cried Siddy, "that you are as usual making sport of us. Give him a rap on his fingers, Benno."
Benno tapped his hand with the spoon. Victor sprang up and parried it, in fencing posture, with his spoon; and the brother and sister chased their cousin merrily about among the trees.
They were disturbed by a hasty tread, and a lackey made his appearance for a moment at the garden-gate. "His most Serene Highness is riding this way," he called out.
All three stood still; the spoons fell into the grass. "We are betrayed," cried Siddy, turning pale. "Away with you, Victor."
"I am an officer, and dare not run away," he replied, shrugging his shoulders. He seized his sword and hastily fastened it.
"You must take it all upon yourself," Benno, exclaimed the sister.
"I would willingly do it," replied he, timidly, "but I have never had any skill in invention."
The Prince dismounted in front of the farm-house, helped by his equerry. The lackey hastened forward to open the doors, and the Prince approached slowly like a threatening storm. He entered the garden, and his sharp eyes rested on the embarrassed Prince and Princess, who stiffy made their obeisances to him.
An ironical smile curled his lip when he saw the dishes on the table. "Who has arranged this country carnival?" he asked. All were silent. "Answer, Benno," he said, turning sharply to the young gentleman in the blue smock-frock.
"Siddy and I wished to have a little pastime in the meadow before she left our country. I spilled some water over my sister, and she was obliged to change her dress."
"Where is your lady in waiting, Sidonie?" he asked his daughter.