The comedian, through fright, got a crumb of bread in his wind-pipe, and burst out in the most violent fit of coughing that had ever seized him, but the mother, in excuse of their pleasant visitor, replied:
"You have sometimes felt yourself, that the conduct of the Doctor was not quite the thing."
"If I have said anything of the kind in foolish ill temper," cried Laura, "it was an injustice, and I am very sorry for it; I have only the excuse that I never meant it ill-naturedly. But from others I will hear no slanderous talk about our neighbor." She rose from table and left the room. The actor vindicated himself to the mother, but Mr. Hummel grasped his wine-glass and, peering after his daughter, said:
"On a gloomy day she is scarcely to be distinguished from me."
The Doctor was little troubled about his own misdeeds. He had paid a visit to his partner after the ball, the occasion on which he had been seen at the window. One of his school friends, now second tenor at the theatre, had come and arranged with the actress to have a little picnic on her approaching birthday, and Fritz had been invited to take part in it. It was a merry gathering, and the Doctor had found much entertainment among the light-winged birds of the stage, and had rejoiced with the benevolence of a wise man at the good tact which was visible amidst the easy style of their intercourse. There had also been much intelligent conversation in the course of the evening, and he went home with the impression that even for a person like himself it was good to be for once associated with these lively artists. He had endeavored that same evening, by a stratagem, to ascertain his unknown correspondent. When they were singing songs, and with lively grace reciting comic verses, he had produced the May-bug song and had begun to sing it:
"The May-bug sat on the hedge, brum, brum;
The fly sat beneath him, hum, hum hum."
Some had joined in it; the lady in the mantle did not know the song, however, but only a similar one from an old rôle; and when the bass took up the melody from the Doctor, and in the following verses portrayed each of the birds as they entered by gestures and comic changes of the melody, the hostess laughed, and without any embarrassment undertook to learn the song, so that the Doctor again became very doubtful, and on returning home remained standing on the threshold and looked significantly at the house of Mr. Hummel. If any one had accurately investigated why, after this May-bug song, the Doctor became noisy and gay like the others, he would perhaps have discovered that the unembarrassed air of the actress had lifted a load from his heart.
But this helped him little with respect to the "brum" and "hum" of the neighbors. All Park Street had latterly accorded to their Fritz Hahn the highest respect; his picture had been placed among the serious men of learning in their albums, whom they daily contemplated and spoke of. Now strange features had appeared in the well-known face, and the street could not bear that one of their children should appear otherwise than he had been wont to do. Therefore there was much whispering and shaking of heads, and this came to the knowledge of Mr. and Mrs. Hahn, and, finally, to the Doctor. He laughed, but he did not feel quite at ease about it.
"Tannhäuser, noble knight and man,
In Venus' wiles thou liest ensnared,
While I, a wicked Pope Urban,
To cause you shame and sorrow dared."
Thus did Laura lament in her room, but she concealed her heavy sorrow, and did not speak a word concerning the danger of the Doctor, even to Ilse; and when the latter once slightly alluded to the new intimacy of their friend, Laura broke the thread of her embroidery, and said, while the blood rushed to her heart:
"Why should not the Doctor visit there? He is a young man for whom it is good to see different people; he stays too much in his room and with his parents. If I had been a man like him, I should long ago have tied up my bundle and gone out into the world, for our narrow field of active life weakens the energies and dwarfs the mind."
At the tea-table one of the company present turned the conversation on the actress, and shrugged his shoulders over her free manners. Laura felt what must be the Doctor's embarrassment; there sat poor Fritz, obliged to listen to the derogatory criticisms-his intimate acquaintances were silent, and looked significantly at him; his position was terrible, for every fool made use of the lady's unprotected position to show himself a Cato.
"I wonder," she said, "that gentlemen should so severely criticise the little freaks of an actress. A lady of that profession should be treated with great consideration, for she is deprived of all the protection and all the pleasure which we have in our families. I am convinced that she is a worthy and sensitive girl."
The Doctor looked thankfully at her and confirmed her opinion. He did not observe it, but it had happened as in his fairy-tale; Laura had bent down to his feet and picked up the pocket-handkerchief.
But she had still more to bear. The month of March began his theatrical pranks in the world; first from his grey clouds he had cast a veil of snow over the landscape; icicles hung from the roofs and white crystals from the trees, and the wild storm howled all around. Suddenly all was transformed. A mild south wind blew, the buds of the trees swelled, and the fresh green made its appearance in the meadow; the children ran about in the woods and carried home large bunches of spring flowers, and people, rejoicing in the change, passed in unceasing pilgrimage through the Park Street out into the sunshine.
Even Mr. Hummel felt the presage of spring. He gave expression to this annually by mixing the colors for his boat, and taking a pleasure walk on a well-chosen afternoon with his wife and daughter to a distant coffee-garden. This festive journey was but an indifferent pleasure for Laura, for Mr. Hummel walked with sturdy step in front of the ladies; he secretly rejoiced in the renewal of old nature, and only occasionally favored his ladies with a remark over his shoulder when he was annoyed at a change in the vegetation. But Laura knew that her father thought much of this March pleasure, and this year, too, she went with her mother behind him to a solitary village, where Mr. Hummel smoked his pipe, fed the hens, scolded the waiter, and talked with the landlord about the crops and gave the sun an opportunity of rejoicing in the healthy appearance of his old friend, Mr. Hummel. Mr. Hummel, who was usually by no means averse to society, loved now to be alone with nature, and hated the place of resort of the citizens in the country, where the aroma of new cakes and fritters destroyed the perfume of nature.
When he entered the coffee-garden with his ladies, he saw with dissatisfaction that other guests were already there. He threw an indignant glance on the gay society which had taken possession of his usual place, and noticed among them the young actress, as well as other members of the theatre, and with them the son of his adversary. Then he turned to his daughter and said, blinking his eyes:
"To-day you will be well satisfied; here you have, besides the enjoyments of nature, those of art."
It was a terribly hard trial to which Laura's courage was subjected; but she raised her head proudly, and passed with her parents to another corner of the garden. There she placed herself with her back to the strangers. Nevertheless, she learnt more of their proceedings than was good for her composure. She heard the sounds of laughter, and the merry hum of the May-bug party; the less she saw of them the more painful was the noise, and every sound was audible in the deep stillness, and her mother's ears and eyes also were intent on the other party. After a time the loud conversation of the artists ceased, and she heard her name spoken in low terms. Immediately afterwards the gravel crunched behind her, and she felt that the Doctor was behind her.
He approached the table, greeted the father silently, made some friendly remarks to the mother about the weather, and was just on the point of turning to Laura with a forced composure that did not escape her, when Mr. Hummel, who had till then silently borne the intrusion of the enemy, took his pipe from his mouth, and began, with gentle voice:
"Is what I hear of you possible, Doctor? – that you wish to change your mode of life?"
Laura plunged her parasol vehemently into the gravel.
"I know nothing of it," replied the Doctor, coolly.
"It is reported," continued Mr. Hummel, "that you intend to say farewell to your books and become a professional actor. If this should be the case, I beg of you to think kindly of my little business. I have every kind of artistic head-gear: for lovers fine beaver, with galoon for lackeys, and if ever you act the punchinello, a white felt hat. But you would rather be called clown, perhaps. That is now the fashionable rôle; buffoons are out of style; one shall address you as Sir Clown."
"I have no intention of going on the stage," replied the Doctor; "but if ever the idea should occur to me, I would not come to you for the artistic work of your manufactory, but for instruction in what you consider good manners. I should then at least know what, in my profession, was not befitting men of breeding."
He bowed to the ladies, and went away.
"Always Humboldt," said Mr. Hummel, looking after him.
Laura did not move, but her dark eyebrows were knit so threateningly that Mr. Hummel could not help perceiving it.
"I am quite of your opinion," he said, pleasantly, to his daughter. "It is a great pity that he is spoilt by belonging to these straw-hat people, but now there is no hope for him."
He then took a bit of cake and offered it to a little poodle that was sitting on its hind legs, begging and moving its paws.
"Billy!" cried a lady's voice through the garden.
The dog Billy, however, did not attend, but continued to show his devotion to Mr. Hummel, who, having a greater tenderness for dogs than for men, was feeding him.
The actress came up hastily.
"I beg of you not to give the naughty animal any cake, – there are almonds in it," said the actress, pushing the dog away.
"A pretty dog," replied Mr. Hummel, sitting down.
"If you only knew how clever he was," said the lady; "he knows all kinds of tricks. Show the gentleman what you have learnt, Billy."
She held her parasol out: Billy sprang lightly over it, and bounded into the lap of Mr. Hummel, where he wagged his tail and attempted to lick the friendly gentleman's face.
"He wants to kiss you," said the actress. "You should be proud of that, for he does not do it to everyone."
"It is not every one who would like it," replied Mr. Hummel, stroking the little fellow.
"Do not be troublesome to the gentleman, Billy," said the lady, reprovingly.
Mr. Hummel arose and presented the dog to her, which would not desist from his attempts to kiss and lick the face of the worthy citizen.
"He is a simple-hearted creature," said Mr. Hummel, "and is the same color as my dog Spitehahn."
The actress fondled the dog in her arms.
"The rogue is very much spoilt; he creeps into my muff when I go to the theatre, and I am obliged to take him with me. I was lately frightened to death on his account; for once, while I was lamenting as Clara among the citizens, Billy had run out of the green-room and, standing between the curtains, began to wag his tail and caper about on his hind legs."
"That must have been very pathetic," said Mrs. Hummel.
"I moved about more than usual," replied the actress, "and at every turn in the scene I had to call out, 'Lie down, Billy.'"
"Excellent," nodded Mr. Hummel; "always presence of mind."
"To-day I am thankful to the naughty little creature, though," continued the actress, "for he has afforded me the opportunity of making the acquaintance of my neighbors. Mr. Hummel, I believe?"
Mr. Hummel bowed awkwardly. The actress turned to the ladies with a bow, and the latter answered her greeting silently.
There was much in the lady that pleased Mr. Hummel. She was pretty, had a gay and cheerful countenance, and wore something on her bonnet with which he was personally acquainted. He therefore moved a chair towards her and said, with another bow:
"Will you not have the kindness to take a seat?"
The actress bowed in accepting it, and, turning to Laura, said:
"I rejoice to be able to approach you at last. You are no stranger to me, and you have often given me great pleasure, and I am glad to be able to-day to thank you for it."
"Where was it?" asked Laura, embarrassed.
"Where you would certainly never have thought of it," replied the other. "I have keen eyes, and over the footlights I observe the face of every spectator. You cannot imagine how painful that is to me sometimes. As you are always in the same seat, it has often been a great pleasure to me to rest my eyes on your features and observe their interested expression; and more than once, without your knowing it, I have acted for you alone."
"Ha!" thought Laura, "it is Venus." But she felt a chord had been struck which gave out a pure tone. She told the actress how unwillingly she missed any of the plays in which she acted, and that in their house the first question, when they received the new bill of the play, was whether the lady was going to act.
This gave the mother an opportunity of entering into the conversation. The actress spoke warmly of the kindness with which she had everywhere been received. "For the greatest charm of our art is the secret friends that we gain by our acting-people whom otherwise one perhaps never sees, whose names one does not know, yet who take an interest in our life. Then, if by accident one becomes acquainted with these kindly strangers, it is a rich compensation for all the sufferings of our vocation, among which the intrusive homage of common persons is perhaps the greatest."
It was clear she could not reckon the homage of the Doctor among these sufferings.
While the ladies were thus talking together, and Mr. Hummel listened with approbation, some gentlemen approached the table. Mrs. Hummel politely greeted the second tenor, who had once sung for her at the godmother's house, and the worthy father of the stage, who knew Mr. Hummel at the club, began a conversation with him concerning the building of a new theatre. On this subject Mr. Hummel had, as a citizen, a very decided opinion, in which the worthy father quite agreed.
In this way the two parties mingled together, and the table of Mr. Hummel became a centre round which the children of Thalia thronged. While the actress was talking with Mrs. Hummel in a very creditable and domestic manner of the inconveniences of her dwelling, Laura glanced at the Doctor. He was standing some steps from the party, leaning against a tree, looking thoughtfully before him. Laura suddenly moved towards him, and began speaking rapidly: "My father has offended you. I beg your forgiveness."
The Doctor looked up. "It does not pain me," said he, kindly; "I know his way."
"I have talked to her," continued Laura, with trembling voice; "she is clever and amiable, and has an irresistible charm of manner."
"Who?" asked the Doctor; "the actress?"
"Do not attempt concealment with me," continued Laura; "that is unnecessary between us; there is no one on earth who wishes for your happiness more than I do. You need not trouble yourself about others shaking their heads; if you are sure of the love of the lady, all the rest is a secondary consideration."
The Doctor became more and more astonished. "But I do not wish to marry the lady."
"Do not deny it, Fritz Hahn; that ill becomes your truthful nature," rejoined Laura passionately; "I see how well the lady suits you. Since I have seen her, I feel convinced that she is capable of appreciating all that is good and great. Do not hesitate, but venture courageously to seek her heart. Yet I am so troubled about you, Fritz. Your feelings are warm and your judgment sound, but you cling too firmly to that which surrounds you. I tremble, therefore, lest you should make yourself unhappy by not deciding at the right moment upon a course which will appear strange to your family. I know you from my early childhood, and I am sure that your danger always has been to forget yourself for others. You might pass a self-sacrificing existence, which I cannot bear to think of. For I desire that all happiness should be your portion, as your upright heart deserves." Tears coursed down her cheeks, as she looked lovingly upon him.
Every word that she spoke sounded to the Doctor like the trilling of a lark and the chirrup of the cricket. He spoke softly to her: "I do not love the lady; I have never thought of uniting her future with mine."
Laura drew back, and a bright color suffused her face.
"It is a passing acquaintance, nothing more either for her or me; her life belongs to art, and can hardly adapt itself to quiet domestic habits. If I could venture to seek a heart for myself, it would not be hers, but that of another." He looked towards the table, from whence at that moment there came a loud laugh, evidently of Mr. Hummel, and spoke the last words so low that they scarcely reached Laura's ear, and he looked sorrowfully down on the buds of the elderbush in which the young blossoms still lay hidden.
Laura stood motionless, as if touched by the wand of a magician, but the tears still continued to flow down her cheeks. She came very near touching to her lips the cherry of her philopena legend.
Then the merry cockchafers hummed round her, the actress nodded smilingly to her, and her father called her: – the fairy tale was at an end. Laura heard the actress say triumphantly to the Doctor, "He offered me a chair, he is no growling bear after all. And he was so kind to Billy."
When Fritz returned home, he threw off his hat and overcoat, rushed to his writing-table, and took up the little letters in the unknown hand. "It is she," he cried, aloud, "fool that I was to doubt it for one moment." He read all the letters again, and nodded at each. It was his own high-minded, noble maiden who had before disguised herself, now she had shown herself to him as she really was. He waited impatiently for the hour when he should meet her at their friend's. She entered late, greeted him quietly, and was more silent and gentle than usual. When she turned to him she spoke seriously, as to a trusted friend. Her quiet composure became her well. Now she showed herself to him as she was, a refined mind full of true enthusiasm. Prudery and sportive moods had only been the shell that, had concealed the sweet kernel. The unassumed caution, too, with which she concealed her feelings among her friends, delighted him. When the next ballad should come, then she would speak to him as she felt, or she would give him permission to write openly to her. The next morning the Doctor counted the minutes till the arrival of the postman. He tore open the door and hastened to meet the man. Fritz received a letter, he broke the cover impatiently, there was not a line from his correspondent; he unfolded the old printed sheet, and read the words of a coarse bacchanalian ditty:
"On the spit with ox and pig,
Clear the green for reel and jig,
Wine and rhyme and wassail-shout,
Pass the flowing bowl about!"
So the honest, simple-minded Doctor asked again: Is it she? or is it possible that it is not?
CHAPTER XXIV.
AMONG THE STUDENTS
Any one who would know the Professor at his best should see him sitting surrounded by his students, the mature man amidst blossoming youth, the teacher among his admiring scholars. For the greatest privilege of the academical teacher is, that he not only exercises a personal influence on the present, but ennobles the souls of men in later generations by his knowledge. Out of the many who listen to lectures a chosen circle attaches itself to the learned man, the tie of personal intercourse connects the teacher and the scholar, lightly formed but lasting; for what attracts one to the other, and often makes the stranger after a few hours an intimate friend, is the pleasant consciousness that both value and appreciate the same thing.
This bond, so charming and profitable for both parties, is the noble poetry which learning grants to its votaries. Strangers and men of later generations judge the value of a man only by his books, but however valuable may be the products of a man's mind thus transmitted, it gives but an imperfect picture of it to later times; far different does the living source work in the souls of those who receive knowledge from the lips and eyes of the teacher. They are taught, not only by the substance of his instructions, but still more by his method of investigating and expounding, and, most of all, by his character and the original style of his discourse. For these warm the hearts of his hearers, charm their minds, and inspire them with respect. Such an impression of the human mind, which leaves its traces on many, is often more important in forming the character of young men than the subject-matter of the instruction they have received. The character of the teacher works in the scholars; new life is infused into them, and they imbibe not only his excellencies, but also, sometimes, his peculiarities and weaknesses. In each hearer the characteristics of the master assume a different aspect, yet in each the influence of his mind is apparent, even in minute particulars. The lessons which Felix gave to his wife were not the only ones given in his house. One evening of every week belonged to his students. There came, first, a few who wished to ask questions and obtain information about their work; afterwards, a greater number assembled. Ilse's room was also opened, and Gabriel brought tea and simple fare, and an hour passed in easy conversation, till, at last, the most intimate withdrew into the study of their teacher, and clustered around him in numbers almost too great for the narrow room. Here, also, the conversation was varied; sometimes a humorous account of what they had experienced, or discussions in which the Professor knew how to make his young friends take an active part, and, interspersed with these, rapid criticisms upon men and books, pointed remark and quick retort, such as are natural to those who can recognize long melodies by a few tones. At these receptions Felix disclosed his inmost soul with an openness that he never showed in the lecture-room. He spoke of himself and others without reserve, and entered pleasantly on what he had most at heart.
Ilse was no stranger at these gatherings. Those who assisted in them, whether serious men, old students, or young doctors, found pleasure in the presence of the distinguished lady of the house, who, in her simple way, took part in their intercourse. The year before she had shown her intimacy with the Odyssey, when she summoned the gentlemen to the enjoyment of a leg of wild boar, and expressed the benevolent wish that they would not disdain to partake of the meal. After that she was called Penelope in the circle, and she knew that this nickname spread among the students beyond the walls of her house.
Ilse had her favorites among the young men. Of this number was a worthy student, not the most distinguished, but one of the most industrious of the Professor's scholars. He was a countryman of hers and had been the first to show her that students had tender feelings in their breasts. This student had, during the last year, worked successfully in filling his intellectual vacuum with collegiate knowledge. His lyrics he had almost given up; for when the Professor sent him back his poems, he had felt remorse and humbly begged pardon. Since that, having obtained a good scholarship through Felix, he took a less misanthropic view of domestic affairs; he proved himself a faithful and attached companion, and now bore the honorable title of Doctorandus, which, according to our grammarians, signifies a man who is about to be a doctor; he had also attained a certain degree of recognition among the students; he filled a position of honor in the great Arminia corps, always wore their colors on his cap, and was ranked among the privileged seniors of the society who, on drinking evenings, were exempted from the heavier obligations of conviviality, and filled up by serious conversation the pauses in which the stormy youths took breath.
On one of these evenings the conversation took a learned turn even before the party had retreated from Ilse's apartment to the study. An interesting manuscript had been found in a distant library in South Germany. There was much talk about the discovery and the editor, and Felix recounted with satisfaction to some of his select circle all the similar discoveries which had been made during the last twenty years. Then our student, who had just received a cup of tea from Ilse, and was stirring it with his spoon, said, in evident ignorance of the storm that was lowering: "May there not be many things still undiscovered in the neighborhood? In my town there is an old chest, which contains books and papers from the monastery at Rossau. It is not impossible that there may be something valuable there."
Thus spoke the student, stirring his spoon, like a boy who applies a burning match to a bombshell.
The Professor started from his chair, and cast such a flaming glance at the student that in fright he quickly set down his cup of tea in order not to spill it "Where is the chest?" said the Professor.
"Where is it? I do not know," replied the student surprised. "I was told of it, some years ago, by a countryman of mine, who was born in the district of Rossau" – the student mentioned the name, and Ilse knew the family-"but it must be in our county, for he lived there as tutor in several places."
"Was he a philologist?" asked an older scholar, as eager as the Professor.
"He was a theologian," replied our student. A murmur of regret passed through the room.
"Then the account is still very uncertain," concluded the critic.
"Did the man see the chest himself?" asked the Professor.
"I am not certain of that, either," replied the student. "I did not then know the importance that attached to the communication. But, I think, he must have seen it himself, for I remember he said it was thickly plated with iron."
"Unfortunate man! You must do your utmost to procure us information about this chest," cried the Professor. He paced impatiently up and down the room, the students making way for him respectfully. "Your communication is of more importance than I can now tell you," began the Professor, stopping before the student. "Endeavor, in the first place, to recall what you have heard about it. Did your acquaintance ever see the chest open?"
"When I come to think of it," replied the student, "I believe that he saw some old monastic relics lying in it."
"Then it was no longer closed?" inquired the Professor. "And where is your friend, now?"
"He went to America last year with a brewer's daughter. I do not know where he now resides, but it may be ascertained from his relations."
Again a murmur of vexation passed through the room.
"Endeavor to discover the residence of the man; write to him, and ask for accurate information," exclaimed the Professor; "you can do me no greater service."
The student promised to do all in the power of man. When the party broke up Gabriel communicated to the student a secret invitation to dinner on the following day. Ilse knew that it would be agreeable to Felix to have the company of one who had even an acquaintance who had seen the chest that contained the books of Rossau, among which, it was possible, the manuscript of Tacitus might lie, provided it was not somewhere else.
She, however, did not hear with any satisfaction of the secret chest, for Ilse was, alas! incredulous in the matter of the manuscript. She had sometimes vexed her husband by her indifference on the subject, and, after the unfortunate Struvelius episode, avoided every mention of the lost treasure. She had, besides, special reasons for it. She knew how much every thought and discussion concerning it excited Felix. He always became agitated, and his eyes shone as in fever. It is true he controlled himself after a few minutes, and laughed at his own fervor; but these outbreaks of latent ardor were not agreeable to his wife, for she saw by these sudden flashings that the thought of the manuscript still fretted the soul of her dear husband, and suspected that in secret he often dreamt of it, and entertained secret designs against the walls of her father's house.
Our student had now aroused the storm. Later, the doctor was called in and there was a long discussion and dispute. Ilse was glad that the doctor did not attach much importance to the chest, and by sensible suggestions brought the Professor at last to make humorous remarks upon his own eagerness.
When, on the following day at dinner, the student produced the letter he had written in proof of his zeal, the Professor treated the matter with more composure. "It is an uncertain account," he said, "even if the relator tells the truth; he may be in error concerning the particulars, or even the name of the monastery." When, afterwards, information came from the house of the student that the theologian had settled somewhere in Wisconsin as an apothecary, and that the student's letter had been sent to an uncertain address in a distant country, the whirlpool which the mention of the chest had provoked had subsided to peaceful ripples.
The greatest advantage consequent upon this episode came to our student; for the Professor imparted the account to the Chamberlain, and pointed out to him that in this chest there might be things of very great value. The Chamberlain had several years before held the post of castellan, and was well acquainted with all the relics of his sovereign's castles, and was aware that there was nothing of that kind to be found in any of them; but as the student appeared to him to be a favorite of the family, he took kindly notice of the young man, and offered to present him as a fellow-countryman to the Hereditary Prince. This was done. The consequence of the introduction was that our student was invited one evening on which the Prince received other academical acquaintances.