He held the manuscript searchingly towards the light; he poured a drop of water on the corner of the parchment and wiped it with a towel; the next moment he flung towel and parchment to the ground, and clasped his hands over his face. Raschke seized the leaves, and looked at the damaged corner.
"It is true," he exclaimed, sorrowfully; "a writing that had been on the parchment six hundred years would leave other traces on the material."
He paced hastily up and down, his hands in his coat pocket, rubbed his face with the towel, and, perceiving his mistake, threw it away from him.
"I only know of one word for this," he exclaimed-"a word that men unwillingly allow to pass their lips-and that word is villainy!"
"It was a piece of vile and rascally knavery," exclaimed Werner, in a strong voice.
"Here let us stop, friend," begged Raschke; "we know that a deception has been intended; we know that the attempt has been made lately; and when we compare the place of the discovery and your presence here, we may assume as a fact, without doing injustice to any one, that the trick was intended to deceive you. Of the person who has practiced it we have only suspicion, well-grounded suspicion, but no certainty."
"We will make it certainty," explained Werner, "before the day becomes many hours older."
"Undoubtedly," replied Raschke, "this certainty must be obtained, for suspicion ought not to continue in the hearts of men; it destroys all ideas and thoughts. But the ultimate question remains: For what object was the deceit practiced? Was it the willfulness of a knave? If so, the wickedness of it is not, to an honorable mind, thereby lessened; yet it is not the worst kind of turpitude. But if it was deliberate malice with intent to injure you, then it deserves the severest condemnation. On what terms are you with the Magister?"
"It was deliberate malice to injure a man, body and soul," replied the Professor, with solemn earnestness; "but the doer was only the tool-the idea was that of another."
"Hold," cried Raschke, again, "no further; this also is only suspicion."
"It is only suspicion," repeated the Professor; "therefore I seek for certainty. When I wished to go to the country castle I was detained from day to day under trivial pretexts; the Magister was absent not long ago for a day from the work which was entrusted to him; he excused himself on the score of illness, and as he was profuse in his excuses I was struck by a shyness in his manner. There was a wish to keep me here for reasons which you, in your sphere of feelings, can scarcely understand. It was hoped to attain this object by exciting the fanatical zeal with which I was afflicted, without entirely contenting it. Such is my suspicion, friend; and I feel myself miserable, more miserable than I have ever been in my life."
He threw himself on the sofa, and again concealed his face.
Raschke approached him, and said, softly:
"Does it distress you so much, Werner, that you have been deceived?"
"I have confided, and deceived confidence gives pain; but in my sorrow I feel not only for myself, but for the destruction of another who belongs to us."
Raschke nodded his head. He again paced vehemently about the room, and looked angrily at the chest. Werner rose and rang the bell.
"I wish to speak to Magister Knips," he said, to Gabriel, who entered. "I must beg him to take the trouble of coming here as soon as possible."
"How will you speak to him?" asked Raschke, stepping anxiously before his friend.
"I need so much consideration myself," replied Werner, "that you need not fear my violence. I also have been laboring under a disease, and I know that I have to speak to one who is more diseased than I."
"You are not diseased," exclaimed Raschke, "only shocked, as I am. You will say what is necessary to him, for the rest you will leave him to his own conscience."
"I will only say what is necessary," repeated the Professor, mechanically.
Gabriel returned, and reported that the Magister would call when he left the Museum in the evening.
"How did the Magister take the message?" asked Raschke.
"He appeared alarmed when I told him that the Professor was stopping at the inn."
The Professor had ensconced himself in a corner, but the philosopher left him no rest; he kept talking to him about the occurrences at the University, and compelled him to take part by frequent questions. At last he expressed a wish to take a walk, to which the Professor unwillingly consented.
Werner led him through the gate of the city; as they walked along he briefly answered the lively talk of his friend. When they came to the inn from which Ilse had got into the carriage of the Crown Inspector, the Scholar began, with hoarse voice:
"This is the road along which my wife escaped from the city. I came early this morning along this same road, and at every step I felt what is the deepest humiliation to man."
"Before her was light, and behind her darkness," exclaimed Raschke.
He talked of Ilse, and now thought of the commission which his children had given to their aunt.
Thus the afternoon passed. Werner again sat brooding in his room, when Gabriel announced the arrival of the Magister. Before Raschke hastened into the next room, he once more pressed the hand of the other, and, looking imploringly at him, said:
"Be calm, friend."
"I am calm," replied he.
Magister Knips had profited by the refining influence of the Court. His black suit had been made by a tailor who had the princely coat of arms above his workshop; his hair was free from feathers, and his vocabulary had been replenished with new expressions of respect. He now looked furtively and defiantly around him.
Werner measured the man as he entered with a steady look; if, before, he had had a doubt of the guilt of the Magister, he now recognized it. He turned away for a moment in order to struggle with his aversion.
"Examine this," he said, pointing with his finger to the parchment leaves.
Knips took a leaf in his hand, and the parchment trembled as he cast a shy glance upon it.
"It is another forgery," said the Professor; "the reading of the first Florentine manuscript, and even the peculiarities of its orthography, are copied with a careful accuracy which would have been impossible to any old transcriber. The writing, too, betrays itself to be recent."
The Magister laid the sheet down, and answered, with hesitation:
"It appears undoubtedly to be an imitation of an old script, as the Professor has already discovered."
"I found this work," continued the Scholar, "in the tower of the castle in the country, inserted in that torn missal, laid in that chest, and concealed among old furniture. And you, Magister, have prepared this leaf, and you have concealed it in this place. That is not all. Long before, in order to put me on a false track, you placed the register of a chest in the old records; you invented the figures 1 and 2 for the chests, and further, you yourself wrote the register in order to deceive me."
The Magister stood with lowered head, seeking for an answer. He did not know on what confession of others these deliberate assertions were grounded. Had the Castellan betrayed him? Had the Sovereign himself exposed him? Terror came over him, but he replied, doggedly:
"I did not do it."
"In vain do you seek to deceive me anew," continued the Scholar. "If I had not already sufficient ground to say to your face that you did this, your demeanor in the presence of this sheet would be ample evidence. No sound of astonishment, no word of horror at such an attempt at forgery escaped you. What true scholar would look upon such a thing and remain silent, if his own conscience did not close his mouth? What have I done to you, Magister, that you should inflict upon me this bitter anguish? Give me some excuse for your action. Have I ever injured you? Have I ever aroused in you secret ill-will against me? Any reason that will make this abomination comprehensible will be welcome to me; for I look with dismay on this depravation of a human soul."
"The Professor has never given me any ground for complaint," replied Knips, submissively.
"Nevertheless," said the Professor, "in cold blood, with indifference, with malicious levity, you have done your worst to me: it was wrong, very wrong, Magister."
"Perhaps it was only a jest," sighed the Magister; "perhaps it was only put in that way to him who prepared the writing. He only perhaps acted by the command of another, not by free choice, and not of his own will."
"What power on earth could command you to practice towards another so deliberate a piece of knavery?" asked the Professor, sorrowfully. "You yourself know right well what consequences this deception may have for myself and others."
Magister Knips was silent.
"I have done with you," continued the Scholar. "I shall say nothing of the plan which this falsehood was to serve nor make any further reproaches concerning the injury that you have practiced towards a man who trusted in your honor."
He threw the parchment under the table. Knips seized his hat silently to leave the room.
"Stop!" exclaimed the Professor; "do not move from the spot. I must be silent as to what you have endeavored to do personally against me. It is not so much on account of this manuscript that I have sent for you. But the man whom I see before me, on whom I look with an abhorrence that I have never yet felt, is something more than an unscrupulous tool in the service of a stranger; he is an unfaithful philologist, a traitor to learning, a forger, and deceiver in that in which only honorable men have a right to live, a cursed man, for whom there is no repentance and no mercy."
The Magister's hat fell to the ground.
"You wrote the parchment strip of Struvelius; the trader has informed against you in your native city. Your writings are confiscated and are in the hands of the police."
The Magister still remained silent. He fumbled for his pocket-handkerchief and wiped the cold sweat from his brow.
"Now, at least, speak out," cried Werner. "Give me an explanation of the fearful riddle, how any one who belonged to us could willfully destroy all that made his life noble. How could a man of your attainments become untrue to science in so despicable a way?"
"I was poor and my life full of trouble," replied Knips, in a low voice.
"Yes, you were poor. From your earliest youth you have worked from morning to night; even as a child you have denied yourself much that others thoughtlessly enjoy. You have in this way the secret consciousness of having obtained for yourself inward freedom, and a humble friendship with the great spirit of our life. Yes, you have grown up to be a man amidst countless sacrifices and self-denials which others fear. You have thus learnt and taught what is the highest possession of man. In every proof-sheet that you have read for the assistance of others, in every index of words that you have drawn up for a classical work, in every word that you have corrected, in every number that you have written, you have been obliged to be truthful. Your daily work was an unceasing, assiduous struggle against what was false and wrong. Yet more, and worse than that, you have been no thoughtless day-laborer; you have fully and entirely belonged to us; you were, in fact, a scholar, from whose learning many with higher pretensions have frequently taken counsel. You not only treasured in your mind a mass of rare knowledge, but you well comprehend the thoughts to which such knowledge gives rise. You were all this-and yet a forger. With true devotion and self-denial, you united malicious willfulness; you were a confidential and assiduous assistant, and at the same time a deceiver, bold and mocking like a devil."
"I was a tortured man," began Knips. "He who has lived otherwise does not know how difficult it is, in the service of science, to be ever following in the foot-steps of others. You have never worked for others who knew less than yourself. You do not understand the feeling that possesses one when others use haughtily, without acknowledgement and without thanks, what one has given them from one's own knowledge. I am not insensible to friendship. The Professor was the first who, in the last lines of the introduction of his maiden work, mentioned my name because I had been of use to him. And yet I have done less for you than any other of my old patrons. The copy which you then gave me I have put in the place of honor among my books. Whenever I have felt tired from my night's work I have read those lines; I have seldom experienced the like kindliness. But I have felt the torment of having more knowledge than I had credit for, and I have had no opportunity to work my way out of my narrow sphere. That has been the cause of all."
The Magister suddenly stopped.
"It was pride," said the Professor, sorrowfully, "it was envy, that burst forth from an oppressed life against more fortunate ones, who, perhaps, did not know more; it was the craving for superiority over others."
"It was that," continued Knips, plaintively. "First came the idea of mocking those who employed and despised me. I thought, if I chose, I had you in my power, my learned colleagues. Then it became a purpose and took fast hold on me. I have sat many nights working at it before I went so far, and frequently have I thrown away what I have done, Professor, and hid it under my books. But I was allured to go on, it became my pride to master the art. When at last I had done so, it was a pleasure to me to make use of it. It was less for the gain than for the superiority it gave me."
"It is easy," replied the Professor, "to deceive men of our sort where they are accustomed to place firm confidence. Where the acuteness that we acquire in our work is not brought into play, many of us are like children, and he who is colder and wishes to deceive may easily for a time play with us. It is a weak glory to exercise the art of Satan against the innocent."
"I knew that it was a devil with whom I was dealing; I knew it from the first day, Professor, but I could not guard myself from him. Thus it was," concluded Knips, seating himself exhausted on the chest.
"Thus it was, Magister," exclaimed Werner, raising himself up; "but thus it cannot remain. You were one of us, you can no longer be so. You have done an injury to the highest good which is granted to the race of man-the honor of learning. You yourself knew that he who endangers this honor is a mortal enemy to our souls. In our realm, where error daily threatens the limited powers of individuals, the determination to be true is a preliminary which none can be wanting in, without involving others in his own destruction."
"I was only an assistant," sighed Knips, "and few cared about me. If others had esteemed me as a scholar it would not have happened."
"You considered yourself so, and you had a right to do so," rejoined the Professor. "You felt the pride of your learning, and you well knew your high vocation. You well knew that you also, the humble Magister, had your share in the priestly office and in the princely office of our realm. No purple is nobler, no rule is more sovereign than ours. We lead the souls of our nation from one century to another; and ours is the duty of watching over its learning and over its thoughts. We are its champions against the lies and spirits of a past time which wander amongst us clothed with the semblance of life. What we consecrate, lives; and what we condemn, passes away. The old virtues of the Apostles are required of us-to esteem little what is earthly, and to proclaim the truth. You were in this sense consecrated, like every one of us; your life was pledged to God. On you, as on all of us, lay the responsibility for the souls of our nation. You have proved yourself unworthy of this office, and I grieve, I grieve, wretched man, that I must separate you from it."
The Magister jumped up, and looked imploringly at the Scholar.
The Professor spoke impressively:
"It is my duty both towards you and others to speak out. What you have done to my fellow professors, and what you have prepared for similar attempts, cannot remain secret. Honorable men must be warned against the art which you have been led by a demon to exercise. But in this last hour in which you stand before me, I feel that I have done too little to help you against temptation. Without intending to be unkind, I have perhaps sometimes undervalued you, in comparison with others, and have forgotten how hard was your daily life. If you have ever felt depressed and embittered by my severity, I now atone for it. For when I, short-sighted, erring man, advised you to accept a position which was to raise you out of external need, I participated in your guilt, by exposing you to new temptation here. That gives me bitter pain, Magister, and I feel the anguish of this hour."
Magister Knips sat exhausted and cowering on the chest: the Scholar stood over him, and his words sank like blows on the Magister's head.
"I cannot conceal the fact, Magister, that you are a forger; you can never again move in our circle; your career is closed by your transgression, you are lost to learning, lost to all who took an interest in your work. You have vanished from the place which you held amongst us; nothing remains but a black shadow. Human powers laboriously trained, a spirit of uncommon acuteness and fullness, are lost and dead to us; and I mourn over you as over a dead man."
The Scholar wept, and Knips covered his face with his hands. Werner hastened to his writing-table.
"If you require means to maintain your ruined life in some other neighborhood, here it is. Take what you require."
He threw some money on the table.
"Try to conceal yourself where no member of our community will meet you. May all the good become your portion, which is still possible for you to have on earth. But fly, Magister; avoid those places where one shall think of you with the sorrow and repugnance that the faithful workman feels towards one who is untrue."
Knips rose; his face was paler than usual, and he looked distractedly about him.
"I need no money," he said, with faint voice; "I have enough for my journey. I beg of the Professor to care for my mother."
The Scholar turned away, the strong man sobbed. Magister Knips went to the door; there he stopped.
"I have the Homer of 1488; tell my mother to give you the book. Though the thought of me be painful, yet keep the book. It was a treasure to me."
The Magister closed the door and went slowly out of the house. The wind drove through the streets; it blew against the back of the Magister, and hastened his steps.
"It drives," murmured Knips again; "it drives me onward."
At the open square he remained standing in the wind; looking towards the clouds, which were passing in hasty flight beneath the moon. Distorted figures hovered in the grey vapor and glided over his head. He thought of the last proof-sheets which he had read in his native town, and spoke some Greek words; they were verses from the Eumenides of Æschylus: -
"Rush on! rush on! rush on! ye messengers of vengeance!"
He went up to the castle, and remained standing before the lighted windows; the four black steeds which brought the Sovereign back from the tower castle to the city dashed past him, and he clenched his bony fist at the carriage. He then ran round the castle to the park side. There, against a tree, beneath the windows of the Sovereign's apartment, he cowered; looked up to the castle, and again raised his fist against the lord of it, and sighed. He looked up at the dark boughs that towered over him, gazed at the sky and the grey flitting shadows which coursed along under the moon, and desperate thoughts passed through his mind:
"When the moon vanishes that will be a token to me also."
He looked long at the moon. Amidst his wild thoughts a Latin sentence entered his confused brain: "'The moon and the earth are but as little points in the universe;' that is beautifully said by Ammianus Marcellinus. I have compared the manuscripts of this Roman; I have made conjectures on all sides with respect to his mutilated text; I have pored for years over him. If I do here, in order to vex this ignorant lord, what was done to Haman, all this preparation for my Roman would be lost."
He rushed from under the trees and ran to his dwelling. There he collected all his possessions, put his small copy of Ammianus into his pocket, and hastened with his bundle to the gate.
They say he went to the same country to which his brother had gone before him-far off in the West.
He passed away, he hid his head-an unfaithful servant, and at the same time a victim of science. All his life long he had pondered over written words; now the living words, which penetrated from another soul into his, drove him from his home. Day and night he had been surrounded with the letters of books and learned writings which had flowed from the pen on to the white sheets; but the blessing of living words which pass from the mouth to the ear, and echo from heart to heart, had failed him at the right time; for what is in common use with us is also our highest boon. Its power is as mysterious to us to-day as it was to our ancestors; the generation of our literary period, accustomed to contemplate tones in their imaginations, and to estimate the powers of nature by measure and weight, seldom think how powerfully the echoing word from the human heart rules within us; it is mistress and servant, it elevates and annihilates us, it produces disease and health. Happy the living being in whose ear it sounds full and pure, who incessantly receives the soft sound of love and the hearty call of friendship. He who is deprived of the blessing of the conversation which flows from warm hearts, wanders among others as a living being in whom the spirit is separated from the body, or like a book that one opens, makes use of, and puts away at pleasure. The Magister had sinned by the written word; a cry of agony uttered by a human voice had frightened him into the misty and silent distance.