"He shall have it," said Laura, contented, "but he shall suffer for it nevertheless."
It was a fine collection: there were some very rare pieces among them, an entirely unknown edition of the ballad of the unfortunate Knight Tanhäuser, the ballad of the Robber Toss Bowl, and a great many other charming selections. Laura carried the book upstairs, and carefully cut the thread of the bound sheets, which held them loosely together. She then sat down to her writing-table, and commenced an anonymous correspondence, which was made necessary by her father's tyranny, writing the following in a disguised hand: "Dear Doctor, an unknown person sends you this song for your collection; he has thirty more like these, which are intended for you, but only on certain conditions. First, you are to preserve towards every one, whoever it may be, inviolate secrecy in the matter. Secondly, you are to send for every poem another written by yourself, on any subject, addressed to O. W., at the Post-office. Thirdly, if you are willing to agree to this compact, walk past No. 10 Park street, with a flower in your button-hole, about three o'clock in the afternoon on one of the next three days. The sender will be exceedingly gratified if you will enter into this pleasantry. Truly Yours N. N." The song of Robber Toss Bowl was enclosed with this letter.
It was five minutes after nine by the Doctor's watch, which was confirmed by later investigations, when this letter was brought into his room; the barometer was rising; light, feathery clouds fleeted across the sky, and the moon's pale crescent shone forth from among them. The Doctor opened the letter, the green-tinted paper of which contrasted with the old printed sheet, yellow with age, that accompanied it. He unfolded the yellow sheet hastily, and read:
"Stortebecker und Godecke Michael,
De rowten alle beede."
"Godecke Michael and Toks Bowl, Knight,
They fought all day and they fought all night."
There was no doubt it was the original low German text of the famous ballad, which had hitherto been lost to the world, that lay bodily before him. He was as pleased as a child with a Christmas-box. Then he read the letter, and when he came to the end, he read it again. He laughed. It was clearly all a roguish jest. But from whom? His thoughts turned first to Laura, but she had only the evening before treated him with cold contempt. Ilse was not to be thought of, and such playful mischief was very unlike the Professor. What did the house No. 10 mean? The young actress who lived there was said to be a very charming and enterprising young lady. Was it possible she could have any knowledge of folk-songs, and, the Doctor could not help thinking, a tender feeling for himself? The good Fritz chanced to step before the mirror for a moment, and he at once uttered an inward protest against the possibility of such an idea, and, laughing, he went back to his writing-table and to his popular song. He could not enter into the pleasantry, that was clear, but it was a pity. He laid the Robber Toss Bowl aside, and returned to his work. After a time, however, he took it up again. This valuable contribution had been sent to him, at all events, without any humiliating condition; perhaps he might be allowed to keep it. He opened a portfolio of old folk-songs, and placed it in its order as if it had been his own. Having laid the treasure in its proper place, he restored the portfolio to the bookshelf, and thought, it is a matter of indifference where the sheet lies.
In this way the Doctor argued with himself till after dinner. Shortly before three o'clock he came to a decision. If it was only the joke of an intimate acquaintance, he would not spoil it; and if there had been some other motive, it must soon come to light. Meanwhile, he might keep the document, but he would not treat it as his own possession till the right of the sender and his object was clear. He must, in the first place, communicate this view of the case to his unknown friend. After he had made the necessary compromise between his conscience and his love of collecting, he fetched a flower out of his father's conservatory, placed it in his button-hole, and walked out into the street. He looked suspiciously at the windows of the hostile house, but Laura was not to be seen, for she had hid behind the curtains, and snapped her fingers at the success of her jest when she saw the flower in his buttonhole. The Doctor was embarrassed when he came in front of the house appointed. The situation was humiliating, and he repented of his covetousness. He looked at the window of the lower story, and behold! the young actress was standing close to it. He looked at her intelligent countenance and attractive features, took off his hat courteously, and was weak enough to blush; the young lady returned the civility tendered by the well-known son of the neighboring house. The Doctor continued his walk some distance beyond; there appeared to him something strange in this adventure. The presence and greeting of the actress at the window certainly did not appear to be accidental. He could not get rid of his perplexity; only one thing was quite clear to him, he was for the present in possession of the ballad of the Robber Toss Bowl.
As his qualms of conscience did not cease, he debated with himself for two days whether he should enter upon any further interchange of letters; on the third he silenced his remaining scruples. Thirty ballads, very old editions-the temptation was overpowering! He looked up his own attempts in rhyme, – effusions of his own lyrical period, – examined and cast them aside. At last he found an innocent romance which in no manner exposed him; he copied it, and accompanied it by a few lines in which he made it a condition that he should consider himself only the guardian of the songs.
Some days afterwards he received a second packet; it was a priceless monastery ditty, in which the virtues of roast Martinmas goose were celebrated. It was accompanied by a note which contained the encouraging words: "Not bad; keep on."
Again Laura's figure rose before his eyes, and he laughed right heartily at the Martinmas goose. This also was an old edition of which there was no record. This time he selected an ode to Spring from his poems and addressed it, as directed, to O. W.
The Professor was astonished that the Doctor kept silence about the book of ballads, and expressed this to Ilse, who was partly in the secret.
"He is bound not to speak," she said; "she treats him badly. But as it is he, there is no danger in the joke for the bold girl."
But Laura was happy in her game of chess with masked moves. She put the Doctor's poem carefully into her private album, and she thought that the Hahn poetry was not so bad after all; nay, it was admirable. But even more gratifying to her sportiveness than the correspondence, was the thought that the Doctor was to be forced into a little affair of sentiment with the actress. When she met him again at Ilse's, and one of those present was extolling the talent of the young lady, she spoke without embarrassment, and without turning to the Doctor, of the curious whims of the actress, that once, when an admirer, whom she did not like, had proposed to serenade her, she had placed her little dog at the window with a night-cap on, and that she had a decided preference for the company of strolling apprentices, and could converse with them in the most masterly way in the dialect of her province.
The unsuspecting Doctor began to reflect. Was it then really the actress who, without his knowing it, was in correspondence with him?
This gave Fritz a certain tacit respect for the lady.
Once when Laura was sitting with her mother at the play watching the actress, she perceived Fritz Hahn in the box opposite. She observed that he was looking fixedly through his opera-glass at the stage, and sometimes broke out in loud applause. She had evidently succeeded in putting him upon the wrong track.
Meanwhile he discovered that the unknown correspondent knew more than how to write addresses. Laura had looked through the songs and studied the text of the old poem of the Knight Tanhäuser, who had lingered with Venus in the mountain, and she sent the ballad with the following lines: -
"While reading through this song I was overcome with emotion and horror at the meaning of the old poetry. What, in the opinion of the poet, became of the soul of poor Tanhäuser? He had broken away from Venus, and had returned penitent to the Christian faith; and when the stern Pope said to him, 'It is as little possible for you to be saved as for the staff that I hold in my hand to turn green,' he returned to Venus and her mountain in proud despair. But afterwards the staff in the hands of the Pope did turn green, and it was in vain that he sent his messengers to fetch the knight back. What was the singer's view of Tanhäuser's return to evil? Would the 'Eternal love and mercy' still forgive the poor man, although he had for the second time surrendered himself up to the temptress? Was the old poet so liberal-minded that he considered the return to the heathen woman as pardonable? Or is Tanhäuser now, in his eyes, eternally lost? and was the green staff only to show that the Pope was to bear the blame? I should be glad to hear your explanation of this. I think the poem very beautiful and touching, and, when one thoroughly enters into its spirit, there is powerful poetry in the simple words. But I feel much disturbed about the fate of Tanhäuser. Your N. N."
The Doctor answered immediately:
"It is sometimes difficult, from the deep feeling and terse expressions of olden poetry, to understand the fundamental idea of the poet; and most difficult of all in a poem which has been handed down for centuries by popular tradition, and in which changes in the words and meaning must certainly have taken place. The first idea of the song, that mortals dwell in the mountains with the old heathen gods rests on a notion which originated in ancient times. The idea that the God of Christians is more merciful than his representative on earth has been rooted in Germany since the time of the Hohenstaufens. One may refer the origin of the poem to that period. It probably attained the form in which it is now handed down to us, about the middle of the fifteenth century, when the opposition to the hierarchy in Germany was general, both among high and low. The grand idea of this opposition was that the priests cannot forgive sins, and that only repentance, atonement, and elevation of the heart to God can avail. The copy which you have so kindly sent me, is of the early period of Luther, but we know that the song is older, and we possess various texts, in some of which it is more prominently set forth that Tanhäuser after his second fall might still trust in the divine mercy. But undoubtedly in the text you have sent me the singer considers poor Tanhäuser as lost if he did not liberate himself from the power of Venus, but that he might be saved if he did. According to popular tradition he remained with her. The great and elevating thought that man may shake off the trammels of past sin may be discovered in this poem, the poetical value of which I place as high as you do."
When Laura received this answer, – Gabriel was again her confidential messenger, – she jumped up with joy from her writing-table. She had with Ilse grieved over poor Tanhäuser, and given her friend a copy of the poem; now she ran down to her with the Doctor's letter, proud that, by means of a childish joke, at which Ilse had shaken her head, she had entered into a learned discussion. From this day the secret correspondence attained an importance for both Laura and Fritz which they had little thought of in the beginning; for Laura now ventured, when she could not satisfy herself on any subject, or took a secret interest in anything, to impart to her neighbor thoughts which hitherto had been confined to her writing-table, and the Doctor discovered with astonishment and pleasure a female mind of strong and original cast, which sought to obtain clear views from him, and unfolded itself to him with unusual confidence. These feelings might be discovered in his poems, which were no longer taken out of the portfolio, but assumed a more personal character. Laura's eyes moistened as she read the pages in which he expressed in verse his anxiety and impatience to become acquainted with his unknown correspondent. The feeling evinced in his lines was so pure, and one saw in them the good and refined character of the man so clearly that one could not fail to place full confidence in him. The old popular songs, in the first instance the main object, became gradually only the accompaniments of the secret correspondence, and the wings of Laura's enthusiastic soul soared over golden clouds, whilst Mr. Hummel growled below and Mr. Hahn suspiciously awaited fresh attacks from the enemy.
But this poetical relation with the neighbor's son, which had been established by Laura's enterprising spirit, was exposed to the same danger that threatens all poetic moods-of being at any moment destroyed by rude reality. The Doctor was never to know that she was his correspondent, – the daughter of the enemy whom he daily met, the childish girl who quarreled with him in Ilse's room about bread and butter and almonds. When they met, he was always as before the Doctor with the spectacles, and she the little snappish Hummel, who had more of her father's ill manners than Gabriel would admit. The sulking and teasing between them went on every day as formerly. Nevertheless, it was inevitable that a warm feeling should sometimes beam in Laura's eyes, and that the friendly disposition with which she really regarded the Doctor should sometimes be betrayed in a passing word. Fritz, therefore, labored under an uncertainty over which he secretly laughed, but which, nevertheless, tormented him. When he received the well-disguised handwriting he always saw Laura before him; but when he met his neighbor at his friend's she succeeded, by mocking remarks and shy reserve, in perplexing him again. Necessity compelled her to this coquetry, but it acted upon him each time like a cold blast; and then it struck him, it can not be Laura, – is it the actress?
There was general astonishment at the tea-table when the Doctor once hinted that he had been invited to a masked ball, and was not averse to attending the noisy gathering. The ball was given by a large circle of distinguished citizens, to which Mr. Hummel belonged. The peculiarity of this party was that the chief actors of the city were admitted as welcome guests. As the Doctor had hitherto never shown any inclination for this kind of social entertainment, the Professor was astonished. Laura alone guessed the cause, but all received the announcement of this unusual intended dissipation with silent pleasure.
Mr. Hummel was not of the opinion that a masked ball was the place where the worth of a German citizen was shown to greatest advantage. He had unwillingly yielded to the coaxing of the ladies in his family, and was now seen standing among the masks in the ball-room. He had thrown the little black domino carelessly about his back like a priest's mantle; his hat was pressed down over his eyes; the silk fringe of the mask overshadowed his face on all sides, which was as unmistakable as a full moon behind thin clouds. He looked mockingly on the throng of masks that streamed past him, somewhat less comfortable and more silent than they would have been without masks and colored coats. Obnoxious to him more than all were the harlequins scattered about, who, at the beginning of the festival, affected an extravagance of conduct which was not natural to them. Mr. Hummel had good eyes, but it happened to him, as to others, that he was not able to recognize every one who was masked. All the world knew him, however. Some one tugged at his clothes.
"How is your dog Spitehahn?" asked a gentleman in rococo dress, bowing to him.
Hummel bowed in return. "Thanks for your kind inquiry. I would have brought him for a bite of the calves of your legs if you had been provided with that article."
"Does this kind of a Hummel-bee sting?" asked a green domino, in a falsetto voice.
"Spare your remarks," replied Hummel, angrily; "your voice is fast changing into a woman's. I quite pity your family."
He moved on.
"Will you buy a pack of hareskins, brother Hummel?" asked a wandering pedlar.
"I thank you, brother," replied Hummel, fiercely; "you may let me have the ass's skin that your wife tore from your face in your last quarrel."
"There's the rough felt of our city," cried, pertly, a little clown, as he gave Mr. Hummel a blow upon the stomach with his wand.
This was too much for Mr. Hummel: he seized the diminutive clown by the collar, took his wand away from him, and held the refractory little fellow on his knee. "Wait, my son," he cried; "you'll wish you had a rough felt in another place than on your head."
But a burly Turk caught him by the arm. "Sir, how can you dare to lay hold of my son in this manner?"
"Is this chattel yours?" returned Hummel, furiously; "your blotting-paper physiognomy is unknown to me. If you, as Turk, devote yourself to the rearing of ill-mannered buffoons, you must expect to see Turkish bamboo on their backs, that is a principle of international law. If you do not understand this you may come to me to-morrow morning at my office; I will make the thing clear to you, and hand over to you a bill for the watch-crystal that this creature from your harem has broken for me."
Thereupon he threw the clown into the arms of the Turk, and the wand on the ground, and clumsily made his way through the masks who surrounded him.
"There is not a human soul among them," he growled; "one feels like Robinson Crusoe among the savages." He moved about the ball-room utterly regardless of the white shoulders and bright eyes that danced about him, and again disappeared. At last he caught sight of two grey bats whom he thought he knew, for it appeared to him that the masks were his wife and daughter. He went up to them, but they avoided him and mixed in the throng. They were undoubtedly of his party, but they intended to remain unknown, and they knew that would be impossible if Mr. Hummel was with them. The forsaken man turned and went into the next room, seated himself in solitude at an empty table, took his mask off, ordered a bottle of wine, asked for the daily paper, and lighted a cigar.
"Pardon me, Mr. Hummel," said a little waiter; "no smoking here!"
"You too," replied Mr. Hummel, gloomily. "You see there is smoking here. This is my way of masquerading. Matters are becoming wearisome. Every vestige of humanity and all consideration for others is being trodden under foot to-day; and that is what they call a bal masqué."
Meanwhile Laura slipped about among the masks, looking for the Doctor. Fritz Hahn could easily be discovered by sharp eyes, for he wore his spectacles over his mask. He was standing in a blue domino, near an elegant lady in a red mantle. Laura pressed up to him. Fritz was writing something in the hand of the lady, most likely her name, for she nodded carelessly; then he wrote again in her hand, pointing to himself. Probably it was his own name, for the lady nodded, and Laura thought that she could see under her veil that she was laughing. Laura heard the Doctor speaking to the lady of a rôle in which he had lately seen her on the stage, and he addressed her with the familiar "thou." That was, indeed, the privilege of a masquerade ball, but it was entirely unnecessary. The Doctor expressed his pleasure that in the balcony scene the lady had so well understood how to represent the glowing feeling of passion in such difficult metre. The red mantle became attentive, and, turning to the Doctor, began to speak of the rôle she had taken. The lady spoke for some time, and then Doctor Romeo would continue still longer. The actress stepped back some steps into the shadow of a pillar; the Doctor followed her, and Laura saw that the red mantle curtly answered some other male masks, and again turned to the Doctor. At last the actress seated herself quite behind the pillar, where she was little seen by strangers, and the Doctor stood near her, leaning against it, and continuing the conversation. Laura, who had also placed herself near the pillar, heard how animated it was. The subject was passion. Now it was not the passion which one felt for the other, but that of the stage; but even that was more than a friend of the Doctor could approve of.
Laura stepped hastily forward, placed herself near Fritz Hahn, and raised her finger warningly. The Doctor looked astonished at the bat, and shrugged his shoulders. Then she seized his hand, and wrote his name in it. The Doctor made a bow, upon which she held out her hand. How could he know her in that disfiguring disguise? He gave decided proof of his ignorance, and turned again to the lady in the red mantle. Laura stepped back, and colored up to her temples under the mask. It was in anger with herself, for she was the unfortunate one who had brought him into this danger: and moreover she had come in such a disguise that he could not recognize her.
She returned to her mother, who had at last been fortunate enough to find a companion in Laura's godmother, and had got into the corner of the room in order to exchange observations on the bodily development of the baptized little Fritz. Laura placed herself next her mother, and looked at the dancing masks with indifference. Suddenly she sprang up, for Fritz Hahn was dancing with the lady in the red mantle. Was it possible? He had long abjured dancing. More than once he had ridiculed Laura for her pleasure in it; even she herself had at times, when sitting before her private journal, thought how childish this monotonous whirling movement was, and how incompatible with a nobler conception of life; – now he was turning himself round like a top.
"What do I see?" cried her mother; "is not that – ? and the red one is – "
"It is immaterial with whom he dances," interrupted Laura, in order to avoid hearing the hated confirmation of it. But she knew Fritz Hahn, and she was aware there was some signification in this waltz. Juliet pleased him much, otherwise he would never have done it; he had never shown her this mark of distinction. The old comedian of the city theatre approached them as Pantaloon; he had at last found out the two influential ladies; he tripped up to them, made grotesque obeisances, and began to amuse her mamma with his gossip. One of his first remarks was, "It is said that young Hahn will go upon the stage; he is studying his rôle as lover with our prima-donna."
Laura turned with annoyance from the flat remark. Her last hope was the time of unmasking; she impatiently awaited the moment. At last there was a pause, and the masks were removed. She took her mother's arm to go through the room to greet their acquaintances. It seemed a long time before she got into the neighborhood of Fritz Hahn, and not once did he look at her. Laura made a movement with her hand to touch him gently; but she pressed her fingers firmly, and passed by fixing her eyes upon him. Now at last he recognized her, as he ought to have done long before. She saw the look of pleasure in his countenance, and her heart became lighter. She stopped while he exchanged some civil sentences with her mother, and she expected that he would acknowledge that she had already greeted him, but he did not mention a word of the occurrence. Had so many written in his hand that he could not bear in mind one poor little bat? When he turned to her he only praised the ball music. This was all the notice he thought her worthy of. His conversation with Juliet had been the free interchange of mind, but to her he only addressed a few indifferent sentences. Her countenance assumed the gloomy Hummel look, as she answered, "You used to have little sympathy for the jingling instrument to which the puppets dance."
The Doctor looked embarrassed, but laughed, and asked her for the next dance. This was bad tact. Laura answered bitterly, "When the grey bat was so bold as to flutter about Romeo, he had no dance free for her; now her eyes are blinded by the bright light." She bowed her head like a queen, took her mother's arm, and left him behind.
What followed was still more aggravating. The Doctor danced once more with the lady in the mantle. Laura observed how fascinatingly she smiled on him, and he danced with no one else. Of her he took no further notice, and she was glad when soon after Mr. Hummel came up to them and said: "It was difficult to find you. When I inquired of the people for the two ugliest disguises, you were pointed out to me. I shall be glad if to-morrow morning you awake without headache. We have had enough of pleasure today."
Laura was glad when the carriage arrived at home; she rushed up to her room, hastily took her book out of the drawer, and wrote rapidly:
"Cursed be my deed and cursed all sinful art;
My own true happiness is now at stake
A troup of enemies surrounds my heart,
Which bleeding from so deadly wounds will break."
she wiped away the tears which rolled upon her paper.
The bright light of the following morning exercised its tranquilizing influence on her fluttering thoughts. Over there Fritz Hahn was still lying in his bed. The good youth had tired himself yesterday. Many drops of water might still flow into the sea before friend Fritz would determine to unite his fate with an actress of tragedy. She brought out her supply of old ballads and selected one; it was a very jolly one: the May-Bug's Marriage-in which the may-bug on the hedge asks in marriage the young maiden fly. Many little birds occupy themselves seriously about the wedding, but at last it is put an end to by some disreputable conduct on the part of the bridegroom.
"Good," said Laura; "my May-Bug Fritz, before you marry the frivolous fly Juliet, other birds shall have their say about it."
She folded up the song, and added to it a little note: "You guess wrongly. The person who sends this to you never was Juliet." As she closed the letter she said to herself, with more composure: "If he does not now perceive that he was mistaken, one cannot think much of his judgment."
The Doctor was sitting a little stupefied over his books, when his eye fell upon the above letter. He cast a look upon the Marriage of the May-Bug; he had never yet come across an old copy of it, and in rapidly glancing over it he saw that many verses were quite different from our current text. Then he took the note, and endeavored to interpret the oracle. Now it was clear that the actress was the sender, for who else could know that he had accosted her as Juliet, and that they had conversed long about this rôle. But what could the words mean, "You guess wrongly?" But even on this point his eyes were blinded; he had maintained that the representation of passion could only be to a certain extent attained by an actor, if he had never in his life experienced a similar feeling. This the actress denied, and they had endeavored to come to an agreement about it; her words, therefore, clearly meant that she had impersonated Juliet without ever having previously felt a great passion. This was a confession that showed great confidence-nay, perhaps still more. The Doctor sat long looking at the note; but he now felt pretty sure who his correspondent was, and the discovery did not give him pleasure. For when he had reasoned the matter out upon rational grounds, it had always been Laura's eyes that beamed upon him from the paper, though undoubtedly quite another look from that which she had favored him with yesterday. He laid the May-Bug Marriage with the other songs, and again asked himself whether he ought to continue the correspondence. At last he sealed in answer one of the worthless trifles of his portfolio, and did not write anything in addition.
Some days after, when the Professor and Ilse were walking through the streets, they passed by the dwelling of the actress; both saw their friend standing at the window of the heroine, and he nodded to them from within.
"How has he made this acquaintance?" asked the Professor; "is not the young lady considered very fast?"
"I fear so," answered Ilse, troubled.
Now Mrs. Knips (who dwelt opposite to the actress) came running in to Madame Hummel one day with the linen still damp, and told her that on the previous evening a great basket of champagne had been taken to the actress's house, and that in the night the loud singing of a dissolute company had been heard over the whole street, and that young Doctor Hahn had been among them!
On Sunday the comedian had been invited to dinner at Mr. Hummel's, and one of his first anecdotes was concerning a jovial party which had taken place at the actress's. With the malice which is often to be found in fellow-artists towards each other, he added, "She has found a new admirer, the son of your neighbor over the way. Well! the father's money will at least come to the support of art." Mr. Hummel opened his eyes and shook his head, but only said, "So Fritz Hahn too has gone among the actors and become dissipated: he is the last one that I should have suspected of this."
Mrs. Hummel endeavored to bring to mind her recollections of the ball, and found in them a sorrowful confirmation of this, but Laura, who had been sitting very pale and silent, broke forth vehemently to the actor:
"I will not suffer you to speak of the Doctor in such a tone at our table. We are well enough acquainted with him to know that he is in conduct and principles a noble man. He is master of his own actions, and if he likes the lady and visits her at times, a third person has no right to say anything in the matter whatever. It is a malicious calumny to say that he goes there with any dishonorable intentions, and spends money that does not belong to him."