"Poor Fritz!" said Laura; "and yet poorer me! Why must he give up all hope because he studies Sanscrit? It is not courage that is wanting to these learned men, as father says, but passion. Like the old gods about whom you write, you have no human substance, and no blood in your veins. A few sparks are occasionally kindled up in your life and one hopes they may light up into a mighty flame; but immediately it is all smothered and extinguished by prudent consideration." She rose suddenly. "Ah! if one could but lay hold of Fritz by the hair and cast him into the wildest tumult, through which he would have to fight his way bloodily, defy my father, and hazard a great deal, in order to win what he in his gentle way says he desires for himself! Away with this quiet, learned atmosphere: it makes those who breathe it contemptible! Their strongest excitement is a sorrowful shrug of the shoulders over other mortals or themselves."
Thus did the passionate Laura chafe in her attic-room, and again was her paper moistened by bitter tears, as she sought consolation in heroic verses, and called upon the foreign gods of the Doctor to take the field against the pranks of Spitehahn.
Glorious Indra and all ye divinities shining; in heaven,
That have so often conferred blessings on races of men,
Haste in rescue to us, for great misfortune doth threaten.
Ominous shadows of night darken our peaceable home,
Banish the child from the father; while flat on the door-step outsprawling,
Growleth with vengeful intent fiercely th' insidious cur.
The peace was disturbed not only for the neighbors of the Park street, but also for the young Prince, at whose fête the trouble had begun.
The Prince was detained some weeks from the city. After his return, he lived in the quiet retirement that the duties of mourning imposed upon him. Lectures in his room were again resumed, but his place at Ilse's tea-table remained empty.
On the day when the University prizes were distributed, the students made a great torchlight procession to their Rector's house. The flaming lights waved in the old streets; the fanfares resounded, in the midst of which the lusty voices of the singing students might be heard; gables and balconies were lighted in colored splendor; the marshals swung their weapons gaily, and the torch-bearers scattered the sparks among the thronging crowds of spectators. The procession turned into the street towards the valley; it stopped before the house of Mr. Hummel. Again there was music and singing; a deputation solemnly crossed the threshold. Hummel looked proudly on the long stream of red lights which flickered about and lighted up his house. The whole honor was intended for his house alone, though he could not prevent the glare and smoke from illuminating the enemies' roof, also.
Upstairs some of the rector's most intimate friends were assembled; he received the leaders of the students in his room, and there were speeches and replies. While those assembled were crowding nearer to listen to the speech-making, the door of Ilse's room gently opened, and the Prince entered. Ilse hastened to meet him, but he began, without greeting:
"I have come to-day to bid you farewell. What I foresaw has happened. I have received orders to return to my father. To-morrow I and my attendant will take formal leave of the Rector and yourself, but I wished first to see you for a moment; and, now that I stand before you, I cannot express the feelings that prompted me to come. I thank you for all your kindness. I beg of you not to forget me. It is you who have made the city so dear to me. It is you who make it hard for me to go away."
He spoke these words so softly that it seemed only as if a breath had passed into Ilse's ear; and he did not await her answer, but left the room as quickly as he came into it.
Outside, in the open place by the common, the students threw their torches in a great heap; the red flame rose high in the air, and the gray smoke encircled the tops of the trees; it rolled over the houses and crept through the open windows, and stifled the breath. The flame became lower, and a thin smoke ascended from the dying embers. It had been a rapid, brilliant glow, a fleeting fire, now extinguished, and only smoke and ashes remained. But Ilse was still standing by her window, and looking sorrowfully out upon the empty place.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE DRAMA
"He was a tyrant," exclaimed Laura, "and she was right not to obey him."
"He did his duty harshly, and she also," replied Ilse.
"He was a cross-grained, narrow-minded fellow, who was at last humbled; but she was a noble heroine, who cast from her all that was most dear on earth in order to fulfill her highest obligations," said Laura.
"He acted under the impulse of his nature, as she did according to hers. Hers was the stronger character, and she went victoriously to death. The burden of his deed crushed him during life," rejoined Ilse.
The characters which the ladies were discussing were Antigone and Creon.
The Professor had one autumn evening laid the tragedies of Sophocles on his wife's table. "It is time that you should learn to appreciate the greatest poets of antiquity in their works." He read them aloud and explained them. The lofty forms of the Attic stage hovered in the peaceful atmosphere of the German home. Ilse heard around her curses and heart-breaking lamentations, she saw a dark fatality impending over men of the noblest feeling and iron will; she felt the storm of passion raging in powerful souls, and heard, amidst the cry of revenge and despair, the soft chords of soul-stirring pathos, sounding with irresistible magic.
The time had indeed come when Ilse could comprehend and enter into the feelings and fate of others than herself.
The bright rays of the midday sun do not always shine upon the paths of man. Not with the eye alone does he seek his way amid the shadows of night, but he hearkens, too, to the secret voices within his breast. From the battle of clashing duties, from the irresistible impulse of passion, it is not with most men a careful thought or a wise adage that saves or ruins; it is the quick resolve which breaks forth from within like an uncontrollable impulse of nature and which is yet produced by the compulsion of their whole past lives-by all that man knows and believes, by all that he has suffered and done. What forces us to the good or the bad in the sombre hours of trial, people call character, and the changing steps of the wayfarer through life as he seeks his way amid difficulty and danger, the spectator at the play calls dramatic movement.
He only who has wandered amid the flitting shadows of night, and has seriously listened to the secret admonitions of his inmost soul, can fully understand the spirit of others who, in a similar position, have sought to extricate themselves from an intricate labyrinth, and have found safety or met destruction.
Ilse, too, had experienced hours of fleeting terrors; she also had trembled as to whether she had pursued the right path.
The seventh tragedy of the Greek poet had been read; the boldest representation of bitter passion and bloody revenge. Ilse sat mute and horrified at the outbreak of fearful hatred from the heart of Electra. Then her husband, in order to recall her to less anxious thoughts, began: "Now you have heard all that remains to us of the art and power of a wonderful poetical mind, and you must tell me which of his characters has most attracted you."
"If you mean that in which the power of his poetry has most impressed me, it is always the newest form which has appeared to me the greatest, and today it is the monstrous conception of Electra. But if you ask which has pleased me most-"
"The gentle Ismene?" interrupted the Professor, laughing.
Ilse shook her head. "No, it is the valiant son of Achilles. At first he was tempted to yield to the cunning counsel of his confederate, and do violence to an unfortunate fellow-creature; but after a long struggle his noble nature conquers: he sees that it will be wrong, and he asserts his manhood by refusing."
The Professor closed the book, and looked with astonishment at his wife.
"There is," continued Ilse, "in the greatest characters of your Greek poet a stern rigidity that frightens me. Something is wanting in all to make them like us; they do not doubt as we do, nor struggle; even when they do right, their greatness consists in their immovable determination to do something fearful, or rigid persistence in stemming a terrible fate. But while we expect that the strong man shall act powerfully, according to his nature, either for good or evil, he does not gain our full human sympathy, unless we have the certainty that he experiences an inward struggle such as we may ourselves feel."
"Such as we may ourselves feel?" asked the Professor, seriously, laying aside the book. "How do you come by this experience? Have you, Ilse, some secret from your husband?"
Ilse rose and looked at him with dismay.
But the Professor continued, cheerfully: "I will first tell you why I ask, and what I would like to know from you. When I brought you from your country-home you were, in spite of your deep German feeling, in many respects just such as we like to picture to ourselves Nausicaa and Penelope. You freely received impressions from the world around you; you stood sure and strong in a firmly-bound sphere of right and duty; with childlike trust you gathered from the moral habits of your circle, and from Holy Scripture, your standard of judgment and conduct. Your love for me, and contact with other souls, and the insight into a new sphere of knowledge, awakened in your heart passionate vibrations; uncertainty came, and then doubt; new thoughts struggled against old impressions, the demands of your new life against the tenor of your maiden years. You were for months more unhappy than I had any idea of. But now, when I have been rejoicing in your cheerful repose of mind, I find you have acquired a knowledge of human nature that astonishes me. I have often lately seen, with secret pleasure, how warmly you have sympathized with, and how mildly you have judged, the characters of the drama. I had expected that their hard and monstrous fate would have been repulsive to you, and that you would have felt rapid transitions from tenderness to aversion. But you have sympathy with the dark forms as well as with the bright, as if your soul had begun to anticipate that in one's own life, good and evil, blessing and curse, might be associated, and as if you had yourself experienced that man has not to follow an outward moral law alone, however exalted its origin, but that he may at some period be compelled to seek for some other law in the depths of his own soul. But such an insight men can only attain when they themselves experience danger and trouble. It is improbable that this should have been the case with you, unless you have gone through some experience to which I have been a stranger. I do not wish to urge your confidence; I know what trust I can repose in you; but if you think fit, I would gladly know what has given rise to this sensitive feeling for the secret struggles of men who are hurried along by a tragic fate."
Ilse seized him by the hand and drew him into her room. "It was on this spot," she exclaimed, "a stranger asked me whether he should expose himself to the danger of death for the sake of his honor, or whether he should expose another in his place. I had given him a right to ask such a question, for I had before spoken to him of his life with greater frankness than was prudent for a careful woman. I stood and struggled against the question that he put to me, but I could not refuse to answer; and, Felix, to tell you the truth, I did not wish to do so. I gave him counsel which might have brought him to a bloody end. I gave him that advice secretly, and I became entangled in a fatal web from which I could not extricate myself. I thought of you, but I did not dare to tell you, as you must either have been unfaithful to the duties of your office, or you must for ever have wounded the honorable feelings of another. I questioned our holy teachings: they told me only that my advice was sinful. I was unhappy, Felix, that I had come into this position, but still more unhappy that neither you nor the teachings of my faith could help me out of it. It was no merit of mine that things turned out better than I feared they would. Since that I have known, Felix, what struggles of conscience are; now you know the only secret that I have ever had from you. If I did wrong, judge me mildly, for by all that is sacred I could not have done otherwise."
"And the Prince?" asked her husband, softly.
"He is a good and gentle soul, an immature man, while I was your wife. With him there was no doubt and no struggle."
"I know enough, you earnest, high-minded woman," said the Professor, "I see that, as against your knowledge of life, I can now pack up my books. For of what value is the teaching of books, however good they may be, in comparison to that of life. A foolish student's duel, in which you were the invisible adviser, has done more, perhaps to form your mind, than my prudent words would have done in the course of years. Be of good courage. Lady Ilse of Bielstein; whatever fate may still await us, I know now that you are fitted for inward struggles, and we need not be solicitous about dangers from without. For, however much we human beings may be troubled and agitated here on earth, he who has once learnt to know himself so well that he is able to read the secret writing of other souls, is well protected against the temptations of the world."
What the German scholar said as he now so warmly clasped his wife in his arms was not amiss, only it is a pity that we have no certainty of reading the secrets of other souls; and it is a pity that the greatest knowledge of the secret writing in the souls of others cannot serve us in warding off the storms of our own passions.
The Chamberlain, who now acted as marshal to the Hereditary Prince, was holding a conference with his father upon the concerns of his office. Among other things there was also the question of promoting Krüger, of butter-machine fame, to higher honors and, what was of no less importance, to the full salary due the valet of an Hereditary Prince. Contrary to expectations the Sovereign was ready to agree to his proposals, and the Chamberlain, pleased at the gracious humor of his master, was about to take leave, when the Sovereign stopped him by the kind remark, "Your sister Malwine, looks ill; does she dance too much? You should take care of her delicate health; nothing would be more injurious to such a constitution than an early marriage. I hope to see her pleasant countenance at Court for a long time yet."
Now Fräulein Malwine was secretly betrothed to one of the Sovereign's officers; it was known at Court and in the city, but the betrothed were poor, and the consent of the Sovereign was necessary for their union. In order to obtain this it was advisable to await a favorable opportunity. Therefore the Chamberlain was alarmed at his master's words; he perceived a secret threat in them, and while he thanked him for his gracious sympathy, his face betrayed his dismay.
After the Sovereign, by this short turn of the peg, had tuned the strings of his instrument, he continued, with indifference: "If you have a quarter of an hour to spare, I wish you to accompany me into the cabinet of antiquities."
They passed through corridors and halls into a distant part of the castle, where, on an upper floor, a large collection of old coins, carved stones, and other minor relics of Greek and Roman times, were arranged. Many generations of rulers had contributed to it, but the greatest part had been brought by the Sovereign himself when returning from his travels. He had, in former years, taken great interest in the arrangement of these things, and spent large sums in purchasing others; but gradually this fancy had passed off, and for years the feather brush of the curator had only removed the dust for occasional strangers who had happened accidentally to hear of this almost unknown collection, and had honored it with a visit.
The Chamberlain, therefore accompanied his master with the feeling that this unusual idea signified something; and he felt a gloomy anticipation that what was impending boded no good. The Sovereign returned with a nod the low obeisance of the dilapidated curator; he passed in review the long rows of rooms, had some cases opened for him, took in his hand the written catalogue, and examined carefully the gold coins of Alexander the Great and his successors, and inspected a collection of old glass vessels and vases, in which the artistic work of the ancient glass-cutters was particularly striking. Then he asked for the strangers' book, in which the names of the visitors were recorded. After he had sent the man away with a commission, he began, to his attendant: "The collection is less seen that it deserves; I have long thought of having it made better known and more useful to men of learning, by a better arrangement and a good catalogue. It has been one of the little pleasures of my life; I have learnt much by it, and it has at times banished annoyances from my mind. Do you know of any one who would be fitted to undertake the management of a work so important and exacting?"
The Chamberlain bethought himself, but no one occurred to him.
"I should prefer a stranger," continued the Sovereign. "That will give rise to a passing and unembarrassed connection. He must of course be learned and have good guarantees of character."
The Chamberlain named several connoiseurs from other capitals. The Sovereign looked at him keenly, and shook his head. "Think it over," he repeated; "perhaps some one will occur to you."
The examination continued. An antique vase interested the Sovereign by reminding him of how he had obtained it. A Roman woman, of great beauty and commanding figure, had suddenly confronted him and offered it to him with such a distinguished manner, that he, as he laughingly expressed it, was so surprised by the unusual demeanor of the woman, and her sonorous voice, that he paid her more than she asked.
No one yet occurred to the Chamberlain.
On his way back to his apartments the Sovereign remained standing in one of the spacious but lonely halls and asked the Chamberlain, "Has it not occurred to you that Scarletti dresses badly?"
The Chamberlain dissented, for the actress mentioned was supposed to be in favor.
"Yesterday evening she carried an immense bouquet. To which of our young men is this ungraceful attention to be ascribed?"
Again the Chamberlain was astounded.
"As you are disposed to know nothing to-day," continued the Sovereign, in a sharp tone, "I must tell you that I should be sorry to see the Hereditary Prince having any intercourse whatever with the ladies of the theatre. He is not old enough to carry on such connections with the necessary reserve; and the vanity of these ladies will bring every favor to public notice."
The Chamberlain affirmed, upon his honor, that he knew nothing of these civilities of the Hereditary Prince, and that, even if the assumption of his gracious master was well founded, it could only have been a passing idea of the Prince that had occasioned this gift. "Your Highness will be convinced that I would not lend a hand to anything of this kind."
"But I do not choose that you should close your eyes to it," continued the Sovereign, bitterly; "you stood in the box behind the Hereditary Prince, and you must have seen the coquettish look of admiration which she cast upon him. The present was probably sent by the new valet; let him know that in my service one does not carry two faces under one hood. But I require of you," he continued, more calmly, "that you should redouble your vigilance. What occupies him now?"
"He attends regularly the small evening parties of the Princess."
"And in the day?" added the Sovereign, continuing the examination.
"As your Highness knows, he is fond of music; he plays duets with the music-master."
"What does he read?"
The Chamberlain named some French books. "May I be allowed humbly to make a proposal? It would, in every point of view, be useful to his Highness if he had the pleasure of devising or arranging something-perhaps the laying out of a park, or the management of a farm. I venture to suggest that a similar occupation has been found advantageous to young princes at other courts. Perhaps one of your Highness's castles could be adapted for such a purpose."
"And the Hereditary Prince and Mr. von Weidegg would keep their own court, and remain many months in the year far from ours, at their villa," replied the Sovereign.
"I assure your Highness that I never thought of such a thing," answered the Chamberlain, offended.
"I do not blame you," replied the Sovereign, with cutting courtesy. "Consideration for my coffers forbids my assenting to your proposal; but I shall think of it. It is a disappointment to me that the Prince has not learned to take an interest in anything during his stay at the University. Has he had no personal relations during that time that may have given some zest to his life?"
"He took great pleasure in the circle of Professor Werner," replied the good Chamberlain, hesitatingly.
"I hope he preserves a grateful recollection of his teacher."
"He speaks with great interest of him and his family," rejoined the Chamberlain.
"It is well," concluded the Sovereign. "I will take into consideration the question of agricultural occupation; and do not forget to think a little concerning my collection."
This new demand could no longer be withstood by the Chamberlain; he was silent for some minutes, inwardly struggling, while the Sovereign moved on with his head turned towards him, like one who waits for something decisive.
"I do not know that I can propose any one better for the purpose than Professor Werner himself," said the Chamberlain, at last.
The Sovereign again stopped. "You consider him fitted for the work?"
"With respect to his scientific capabilities I naturally can form no judgment," replied the Chamberlain, cautiously.
Irritated by this cowardly attempt to draw back, the Sovereign asked with emphasis, "Would he undertake such a charge?"
"He has a very distinguished position at the University, and is happily married; and he would, undoubtedly, not like to leave his present position for any length of time."
"Perhaps that may be arranged," rejoined the Sovereign. "Werner, then, is the man. At a short interview I accidentally had with him he made a good impression on me. Do not forget to remind me this evening that the archives at Bielstein are to be searched."
Thus did a father exert himself for the benefit of his son.
The Chamberlain reminded his lord that evening that there had been a question of an investigation in the archives of Bielstein, and the sovereign thanked him for it. The following morning orders were given through the Council to the keepers of the records and members of other branches of the Court and State administration, to seek out and send all records of a certain age that had reference to the castle of Bielstein and monastery of Rossau. This order occasioned a great raising of dust, and five large leather sacks were filled with records and old papers. The collection was sent to the Professor; and in a letter the Sovereign expressed his thanks for the attentions which the Professor had shown the Hereditary Prince. He added that, remembering a former conversation, he sent for his inspection all that, in a cursory search, could be found concerning a place in which he took an interest.
This letter gave cause for serious consideration to two inquiring minds. When the dubious report of the student concerning an existing chest had disturbed the peace of the house, the friends had again turned their attention to the inventory of the deceased Bachhuber, and had once more pondered over every word of it: "In a hollow and dry place, LOCO CAVO ET SICCO." The word place, locus, occasioned much thought; but they could come to no certainty about it. "Of the house of Bielstein, domus Bielsteyn!" – here the expression house, domus, was very remarkable. Did it mean that the manuscript lay concealed in the dwelling house itself, or was the word house used in the obsolete meaning of estate or property? The Doctor contended for the dwelling-house, the Professor for the estate. Much depended upon this; for if domus signified estate, the manuscript might be concealed in any part of the property. "I have deposited it all, hæc omnia deposui!" The word all, omnia, was very comforting; for it gave the certainty that the deceased Bachhüber had not left the manuscript behind. But the depositing was a matter of some doubt. Did the word betoken that the manuscript was deposited only in Bielstein, and thus given over and entrusted, so to speak, to the inhabitants? – or had the writer chosen the expression because he wished to signify the interring and blocking it up in some deep place? To us laymen in the Latin tongue, it appears clear indeed that Bachhuber was very glad to have a Latin vocabulary in which to signify the concealment of his treasure; however, the feeling of the learned men was otherwise. Finally, the friends agreed in taking the view, that, in spite of this account, the walls of the house were worthy of future attention. The hollow places which the Doctor had registered might be examined; the cupboard in the wall in Ilse's bedroom appeared a place not to be despised. The Professor, therefore, determined to obtain some certainty on that point during the next vacation. The business of the Rector had only allowed a short visit to the castle this time; but the Professor would be aided by his position in the family, which opened Ilse's room and cupboard to him.
It was a fine August day; the father was riding about in his fields, and Ilse sitting with Clara in household consultation, when an uproar was raised in the kitchen, and the housekeeper, quite beside herself, rushed into the sitting-room, exclaiming: "There are ghosts around again!" There was, in fact, a loud knocking in the house, and the maids congregated in the hall. The noise came from the upper story; so Ilse hastened upstairs, and, on opening the door to her room, found the Professor, in his shirt sleeves, working in the cupboard with various tools he had obtained from the carpenter. He received her, laughing, and called out, to tranquilize her, that he was nailing the cupboard boards tighter. This was right, but he had first broken through them. The manuscript was not there, and nothing was to be seen but an empty space and a few bits of mortar. There was, however, one inexplicable thing, which might be a trace of the manuscript-a small bit of blue cloth rag; how that had come into the wall was a riddle. On further examination, it appeared that it was not colored with indigo; therefore, probably, it had existed previous to the introduction of that color into civilization. Whether a mouse, in her motherly care, had deposited it there as an ornament to her bed, and at the same time for food in a desperate case of necessity, could not be ascertained, as at present these folk seem to have no traditions of the past, and the individual had probably been eaten some centuries ago by an ancestor of one of our cats.
This discovery might have given confidence to the friends, for there were now two places where the treasure was not. But there is much that is illogical in the nature of men. Even the Doctor inclined now to the Professor's opinion, that the manuscript was perhaps not concealed in the house; nay, that it might even be at a distance from the place.
Such was the state of the matter when the Sovereign's packet arrived. The friends were occupied many hours with the trunks, and examined the records carefully. They found much that would be valuable for the history of the district, but nothing that led to the manuscript. At last, the Professor raised from the bottom of one of the trunks a thick bundle of reports, on sheets sewed together, which had been sent by the officials of Bielstein to the Government. Among them was the writing of a deputy-bailiff of the last century, in which he notified that he was hastening, in those times of suspense and danger, commanded by high authority, to convey to the royal country residence, Solitude, the chestful of hunting implements and old books which had up to that time been in his custody.
The writer of the letter had undoubtedly not foreseen what an excitement his faded scroll would produce in a later generation.
"This is the student's chest," cried the Professor, the color rising to his cheeks, while he held out the document to his friend.
"Remarkable!" said the Doctor. "It is impossible that this coincidence can be accidental."
"The student's chest was no will o' the wisp," cried the Professor to his wife, in her room; "here is the confirmation."
"Where is the chest?" inquired Ilse, skeptically.
"That is just what we do not know," replied the Professor, laughing. "Here is a new scent, indistinct, and in a new direction; but it may lead shortly to the vanished parchment." The friends hastened back eagerly to the bundle of records. "Old books!" exclaimed the Doctor; "the house was a hunting castle; a generation before this letter was written, the estate came first into the possession of this princely family; it is not probable that they themselves, in their short hunting visits, should have collected books there."
"Old books!" exclaimed also the Professor; "it is possible that hunting journals and accounts may be meant; but it is not impossible that the chest may also contain some few things of the property of the monastery. Ilse, where is the old castle belonging to your Sovereign called Solitude?"
Ilse knew nothing of such a castle.