The Lost Manuscript: A Novel

CHAPTER XIII.

THE FIRST GREETINGS OF THE CITY.

The leaves were falling in the woods around the city. Ilse stood at the window thinking of her home. The wreaths over the door were faded, the linen and clothes were stowed away in the presses, her own life glided on so quietly, while all around her was noise and bustle. Her husband was sitting in the next room over his work; no sound but the rustling of the leaves as he turned them penetrated through the door and at times the clattering of plates in the kitchen which was close by. Her dwelling was very pretty, but hedged in on all sides; at one side the narrow street; behind was the neighboring house, with many windows for curious eyes; toward the wood, also, the horizon was shut in by grey trunks and towering branches. From the distance, the hum and cries of the busy town sounded in her ear from morning till night; above were to be heard the tones of a pianoforte, and on the pavement the unceasing tread of the passers-by, wagons rolling and loud voices quarreling. However long she looked out of the window, there were always new people and unknown faces, many beautiful equipages and, on the other hand, many poor people. Ilse thought that every passer-by who wore fashionable attire must be a person of distinction, and when she saw a shabby dress she thought how heavily life pressed upon the poor here. But all were strangers to her; even those who dwelt near, and could watch her proceedings on all sides, had little intercourse with her, and if she inquired concerning individuals, the inmates of her house could give but scanty account of them. All was strange and cold and all was an endless tumult. Ilse felt in her dwelling as if she were on a small island in a stormy sea, and the strange life caused her much anxiety.

But, however gigantic and noisy the town seemed to Ilse, it was at bottom a friendly monster. Nay, it fostered perhaps, rather than otherwise, a secret inclination to poetic feelings and to private courtesy. It was true that the stern burgomasters had given up the custom of welcoming distinguished strangers with wine and fish, but still they sent their first morning greeting through their winged protégés, which had already delighted Ilse's father. The pigeons flew round Ilse's window, crowded against the panes and picked at the wood till Ilse strewed some food for them. When Gabriel removed the breakfast, he could not refrain from taking some credit for this to himself:

"I have for some weeks past scattered food before the window, thinking it would be agreeable to you to see the pigeons."

And when Ilse looked at him gratefully, he continued ingenuously:

"For I also came from the country, and when I first went to the barracks I shared my rations with a strange poodle."

But the town took care that other birds should become intimate with the lady from the country. On the very first day that Ilse went out alone (it was an unpleasant walk, for she could scarcely resist stopping before the showy shop-windows, and she colored when people looked boldly in her face), she had found some poor children in front of a confectioner's, who looked longingly through the windows at the pastry; this longing look bad touched her and she entered and distributed cakes among them. Since then, it happened that every noon there was a slight ringing at Ilse's door, and little children, in tattered clothes, produced empty cans, which were filled and carried home, to the great vexation of Mr. Hummel, who could not approve of such encouragement to rogues.

When Ilse, on the evening of her arrival, was taken by her husband into her room, she found a beautiful cover spread over her table, a masterpiece of fancy work, and on it a card, with the word Welcome. Gabriel stated that Miss Laura had brought this present. The first visit, therefore, on the following morning was made to those who occupied the lower story. When Ilse entered the sitting-room of the Hummel family, Laura sprang up blushing, and stood embarrassed before the Professor's wife; her whole soul went out to the stranger, but there was something in Ilse's demeanor that inspired her with awe. Ah! the much longed-for one was undoubtedly noble and dignified, even more so than Laura had expected; and she felt herself so very insignificant and awkward that she shyly received Ilse's warm thanks and drew back some steps, leaving it to her mother to do the talking. But she did not weary of gazing at the beautiful woman and, in imagination, adorning her figure with the finest costumes of the tragic stage.

Laura declared to her mother that she would like to make the return visit alone, and on the first suitable day stole upstairs in the twilight hour with beating heart,--yet determined to have a good talk. But, as accident would have it, immediately after her arrival the Doctor entered, much to the disturbance of the general peace, and consequently there was nothing but a fragmentary conversation, and hackneyed commonplaces which were very unsatisfactory. She took leave, angry with the Doctor and dissatisfied with herself because she had found nothing better to say.

Since then the new lodger upstairs became an object of incessant and secret adoration to Laura. After dinner she placed herself at the window, watching for the hour when Ilse went out with her husband. Then she watched her from behind the curtains with admiration. She would often flit across the hallway and about the door of the lodgers. But when Ilse appeared in the distance she would hide, or if she met her she would make a deep courtesy and, on the spur of the moment, could only think of ordinary things to say. She was much troubled lest her pianoforte playing might disturb her, and inquired at what hours it would be least annoying to her; and, one day when that nuisance of a red dog had snarled at Ilse and had maliciously bitten at her dress, she was so angry that she took her parasol and drove the monster downstairs.

In her mother's name--for she could not venture upon it in her own--she began a campaign of small attentions against the tenants of the upper floor. When venders offered their tempting wares for the kitchen, Laura would frequently disappoint Mr. Hummel's epicurean tastes; for she regularly sent the young geese and fat hens upstairs, till at last the servant, Susan, became so bitter at this preference of the lodgers that she besought the aid of Mrs. Hummel. One day Laura learnt from Gabriel that the Professor's wife had asked for a certain kind of apple; Laura hastened to the market and searched till she found a little basket of them and brought them home; and this time she compelled even Mr. Hummel himself to send up the basket with many compliments. Ilse was pleased with these household courtesies, but did not guess the secret source.

"There is one class of people of whom I am much afraid," said Ilse to her husband; "and that is the students. When I was scarcely grown up and on a visit to an aunt, I saw a whole company of them march through the gates with their great swords, hats with plumes, and velvet coats. They were so wild that I did not venture into the streets all that day. As I am now to associate with these fierce fellows, I shall not exactly be afraid of them, but still they make me uneasy."

"They are not at all so bad," said the Professor, consolingly; "you will soon get accustomed to them."

Notwithstanding this, Ilse awaited the first visit of the students with much anxiety.

It happened that one morning the bell rang just when the Professor was detained at the University library, and Gabriel and the maid had been sent out. Ilse opened the door herself. A young man whose colored cap and black map under his arm proclaimed him a student, started back in surprise. He looked quite different from what she expected, being without ostrich feather or sword, and his face was pale and thin; yet Ilse felt respect for the learned young man, at the same time dreading that the rude nature of his class might suddenly break out. She was, however, a brave woman and took a practical view of the visit. As long as the misfortune has come I must be courteous. "You wish to speak to my husband; he is not at home at present. Will you have the kindness to walk in?"

The student, a poor philologist who was a candidate for a scholarship, was thrown into great alarm at the majestic being who stood before him. He made many bows and did not venture to refuse. Ilse took him into the parlor, motioned him to an arm-chair and asked whether she could be of any service to him. The poor fellow became still more embarrassed and Ilse was also infected by his discomfiture. She made an effort, however, to begin a conversation, and inquired whether he belonged to the city. This was not the case. From what country did he come? she also was a stranger. He proved to be from her own province--not indeed close to her home, but within ten miles of it; he had, therefore, from his earliest youth looked on the same mountains and knew the dialect of her country and the songs of the birds. Now she moved nearer to him and made him converse, till at last they chatted together like old friends. At length Ilse said: "My husband will probably not be home for some time; I should not like to deprive him of the pleasure of seeing you. May we have the pleasure of your company at dinner next Sunday?"

Surprised and with expressions of thanks the student arose to take leave and was accompanied to the door by Ilse. But he had been so confused by the adventure that he had forgotten his portfolio. Again he rang the bell diffidently. Again he stood embarrassed at the door and with many excuses asked for his portfolio.

Ilse was pleased with this meeting and with having so well overcome her first difficulty. She called out joyfully to her husband when he came to the door, "Felix, the first student has been here."

"Indeed," answered the husband, in no wise disturbed by the announcement; "what is his name?"

"I do not know his name, but he wore a red cap and said he was not a freshman. I was not at all afraid and I asked him to dinner for Sunday."

"Well," replied the Professor, "if you do that to everyone our house will soon be full."

"Was it not right?" asked Ilse, troubled. "I saw that he was not one of the principal ones, but I wished, on your account, to do too much rather than too little."

"Never mind," said the Professor; "we will not forget that he was the first one to look into your dear face."

Sunday came, and with it, at the hour of noon, the student, who had on this occasion paid exceptional attention to his toilet. But Ilse, observing the demeanor of her husband toward the student, maintained a quiet, motherly dignity. In accordance with this she gave him a second helping of the roast and provided him with quantities of vegetables. This kindly treatment and several glasses of wine, the last of which was poured out by Ilse, strengthened the heart of the student and raised him above the petty things of earthly life. After dinner the Professor conversed with the Doctor on some learned subjects. But Ilse kindly kept up a conversation with the young gentleman and put him so much at his ease that he began to speak of his family affairs. Then the student became confiding and pathetic and began some very sorrowful disclosures. In the first place, naturally, that he had no money; then he ventured to add the painful confession of a tender attachment for the daughter of a lawyer who lived in the same house with him, and whom he had secretly worshiped for a whole year and expressed it in poetry. But at last the father interposed; he, with a tyranny peculiar to magistrates, forbade the acceptance of the poems by his daughter and contrived to remove the student from the house. Since that time the heart of the student had been an abyss of despair; no longer did any poem--they were sonnets--penetrate to the secluded beloved one. Nay, he even had grounds to believe that she too despised him; for she attended balls, and only the previous evening he had seen her with flowers in her hair alighting from her father's carriage at a brilliantly lighted house. Sorrowfully he had stood at the door of the house among the spectators; but she had glided past him smiling and beaming. Now he wandered about in despair and alone, weary of his life and full of dismal thoughts, concerning which he gave gloomy intimations. Finally, he asked Ilse's permission to send her these poems which expressed the condition of his heart. Ilse, of course, consented, with expressions of sincere compassion.

The student took his leave and the next morning Ilse received a package with a very respectful letter, by post, in which he excused himself for not sending her all the poetical pieces which would place his misfortune in the right light, as he had not copies of them ready. Enclosed with them was a sonnet to Ilse herself, very tender and full of reverence, in which it was clearly the secret intention of the student to make Ilse the mistress of his dreams in the place of his unfaithful love.

Ilse, somewhat embarrassed, laid this enclosure on the writing-table of her husband.

"If I have done wrong, Felix, tell me."

The Professor laughed.

"I will send him back his poem myself; that will cool his ardor. You know now that it is dangerous to receive the confidence of a student. The poems, by the way, are poorer than need be."

"Thus I have had a lesson," said Ilse, "which I have brought upon myself; for the future I will be more cautious."

But she could not so easily banish the recollection of the student.

Every afternoon, when the weather was favorable. Ilse went at the same hour with her husband to the adjacent wood. The happy couple sought out lonely by-paths, where the branches were more thickly intertwined and the green carpet beneath contrasted gaily with the yellow leaves. Then Ilse thought of the trees on her father's estate; and the conversation with her husband always reverted to her father, brothers, and sisters, and to the latest news she had had from home. In the meadow which extended from the last buildings of the town to the wood there stood a bench under a large bush; from there could be seen the hostile houses in the foreground and behind them the gables and towers of the city. When Ilse came upon the place the first time, she was pleased at the sight of her own windows and the surrounding gloomy towers, and it led her to think of the seat in the cave, from which she had so often looked on her father's house; she sat down on the bench, drew out the letters which she had just received from her brothers and sisters, and read to her husband the simple sentences in which they reported the latest events on the farm. From that time forth this became her favorite resting-place, as she and her husband bent their steps homeward.

The day after the reception of the student's package, on arriving at the bench, she saw a small nosegay lying on it; she picked it up with curiosity; a delicately folded note of rose-colored paper was appended to it, with this inscription: "A greeting from B." After this as many stars as there were letters in the name of her father's country-place. Surprised, she handed the note to the Professor. He opened it and read these unpretentious lines:--

"That is meant for you," he said, in astonishment.

"How delightful!" exclaimed Ilse.

"The 'dwarf' must certainly be a joke of the Doctor," decided the Professor; "truly, he has well disguised his handwriting."

Ilse, delighted, pinned on the nosegay.

"When the Doctor comes this evening he shall not find out that we have discovered him."

The Professor dilated upon the droll idea of his friend and Ilse, who before had looked upon the Doctor with secret distrust, heartily agreed.

But when, in the evening, the Doctor feigned the greatest nonchalance, he was jestingly scolded for his art of dissimulation and loaded with thanks. When, however, he firmly declared that the nosegay and verse did not come from him, fruitless discussion arose as to the author, and the Professor began to look very serious.

A few days later the offering in the wood was repeated; another nosegay lay on the bench with the same address and a verse. Again did Ilse endeavor gently to maintain, that there had been collusion on the part of the Doctor, but the Professor rejected that and put the rose-colored note in his pocket. Ilse took the nosegay with her, but this time did not place it in her girdle. When the Doctor came the adventure was again discussed.

"It can be no one but the little student," said Ilse, much distressed.

"That I fear, also," said the Professor, and related to the Doctor Ilse's annoyance at the confidential package from the devotee of the muses. "Harmless as the thing appears in itself, it still has a serious aspect. These addresses imply close watching, which is anything but agreeable, and such activity and assiduity may lead the adorer to still greater daring. He must be checked. I will endeavor to-morrow to convince him of his error."

"And if he should deny the act," interposed the Doctor. "You should at least make this impossible. As the nosegay has escaped the observation of others passing by, it has probably been laid there the last moment before your appearance, which would not be difficult to do, as you always pass at the same hour. We must endeavor to surprise the daring man."

"I will go alone to-morrow," said the Professor.

"You ought not to watch a student in the wood," said the Doctor, decidedly. "Besides, if your wife remains at home the nosegay will probably not lie on the bench. Leave the affair to me. Go out as usual to-morrow and the following days and I shall watch the place from some other point."

This being settled, the Professor took both the small nosegays from the glass and threw them out of the window.

On the following day, a quarter of an hour before his friends started, the Doctor went to the wood, disguised in a grey coat and dark hat, in order to fall upon the presumptuous versifier from his hiding-place; he undertook to chastise the offender so that the Professor would be spared any personal interference. He found a good place just opposite the bench, where the dense beech foliage would conceal the hunter from his game. There he placed himself in a good position, drew a large opera-glass from his pocket and fixed his eyes attentively on the bench in question. The bench was still empty; the few pedestrians passed it by with indifference; the time seemed long; the Doctor looked for half an hour through the glasses, until his eyes began to ache, but he persevered. His place was well chosen; the offender could not escape. Suddenly, just as his eyes accidentally glanced toward Mr. Hummel's house, he saw the garden gate open; something dark passed out between the trees and came toward the bench out of the thicket, looked cautiously round, passed by the bench and disappeared again among the trees and through the hostile garden gate. An expression of infinite astonishment was depicted on the countenance of the Doctor; he closed his opera glass and laughed quietly to himself; then adjusted the glasses again, and peered after the vanished figure. He shook his head and fell into deep thought. He listened and heard the quiet steps of two promenaders. The Professor and Ilse came out of the wood. They stopped a few steps from the bench and looked at the fatal nosegay which lay there so innocently. The Doctor burst out from the copse, laughing, took up the nosegay, and, offering it to Ilse, said:

"It is not the student."

"Who then?" asked the Professor, uneasily.

"That I cannot tell," replied the Doctor; "but the affair is harmless--the nosegay is from a lady."

"Seriously?" asked the Professor.

"You may depend upon it," replied Fritz, convincingly. "It is from some one whom we both know and your wife need not hesitate to accept the greetings. It is given with the best intentions."

"Have the townspeople so many verses and secrets?" asked Ilse, curiously, taking the flowers with a light heart.

Again there was guessing: they could not find any one on whom they could fix it.

"I am glad that the mystery is thus solved," said the Professor; "but tell your poetess that such missives might easily fall into bad hands."

"I have no influence over her," replied the Doctor; "but whatever may have put it into her head to do this, it will not always remain a secret."

At last came the long-wished-for hour in which Laura was to have a private meeting with the distinguished stranger, as Ilse up to this day was designated in the private memoirs. Her mother had gone out when Ilse entered the sitting-room to ask a household question. Laura gave the information, gained courage and at last ventured to request Ilse to go with her into the garden. There they sat together under the last rays of an October sun and interchanged opinions concerning the boat, the Chinese temple and the passers-by. Finally, Laura respectfully took Ilse's hand and drew her into a corner of the garden to show her a great rarity--the abandoned nest of a hedge-sparrow. The birds had long flown away and the remains of the nest still hung on the half bare branches.

"Here they were," cried Laura, impressively; "charming little creatures; there were five speckled eggs there and they reared their little ones successfully. I was in mortal terror all the time on account of the cats that prowl about here."

"You have never lived in the country," said Ilse. "People here in the city are delighted if they can only keep one poor little sparrow in their garden. At home they chirruped, sang and flew about in all the trees; and unless there was something unusual about them, one took no particular notice of them. Here each little creature is valued and cared for, even the sparrows. The first morning I was here I was shocked at the sight of these poor creatures; they are not to be compared to their brothers in the country, their feathers are bristly and uneven, and their whole bodies are black and sooty, like charcoal-burners. I would gladly have taken a sponge to wash the whole lot."

"It would be of no use; they would become black again," said Laura, despondingly. "It is caused by the soot in the gutters."

"Does one become, so dusty and is one so roughly handled in the city? That is sad. It is certainly much more beautiful in the country." As Ilse softly acknowledged this, her eyes moistened involuntarily with the thought of the distant woody hills. "I am only a stranger here," she added more cheerfully. "The city would be very pleasant if there were not so many people: they annoy me with their staring, whenever I go out alone."

"I will accompany you if you like," said Laura, delighted; "I shall always be ready."

This was a kind offer and was thankfully accepted. Laura, in her great joy, ventured to ask Ilse to go with her into her private room. They ascended to the upper story. There the little sofa, the ivy screen, the shepherd and shepherdess, were duly admired, and finally the new piano.

"Will you play something for me?" asked Ilse. "I cannot play at all. We had an old piano but I learnt only a few tunes from my dear, mother for the children to dance to."

Laura took a piece of music, the first leaf of which was beautifully ornamented with gilded elves and lilies, and played the "Elfin Waltz," secretly trembling, but with great execution; and she explained, laughingly, with a shake of her black locks, the passages where the spirits came fluttering in and mysteriously chattered together. Ilse was highly delighted.

"How quickly your little fingers fly," she said, regarding Laura's delicate hand with admiration. "See how large my hand is in comparison and how hard the skin--that comes from doing housework."

Laura looked entreatingly at her. "If I might only hear you sing."

"I can sing nothing but hymns and some old country songs."

"Oh, do sing them," begged Laura. "I will endeavor to accompany you."

Ilse began an old melody and Laura tried a modest accompaniment and listened with transport to the rich sound of Ilse's voice; she felt her heart tremble under the swelling tones and ventured to join in the last verse.

After this she searched for a song which was known to both, and, when they succeeded tolerably in singing together, Laura clapped her hands enthusiastically, and they determined to practice some easy songs to surprise the Professor.

In the course of conversation Ilse confessed that she had seldom heard a concert, and occasionally when visiting in the neighborhood, had seen a play, but only one opera.

"The piece was called the Freischütz," said Ilse; "the heroine was the forester's daughter, and she had a friend just as merry, with beautiful locks and frank eyes like yours; and the man whom she loved lost his faith in the gracious protection of heaven, and in order to obtain the girl he denied God and surrendered himself to the Evil One. That was fearful; her heart became heavy and a foreboding came over her; but she did not lose her strength of mind, nor her trust in help from above; and her faith saved her lover, over whom the Evil One had already stretched out his hand."

Then she accurately described the whole dramatic course of the action.

"It was enchanting," she said. "I was very young, and when I came back to our hotel I could not compose myself and my father was obliged to scold me."

Laura listened, sitting on a footstool at Ilse's feet; she held her hand fast and heard her account as a child listens to a tale she already knows.

"How well you describe it; 'tis as if one was reading a poem."

"Ah, no," exclaimed Ilse, shaking her head; "this compliment is just what I do not in the least deserve. I have never in my life made a verse and I am so prosaic that I do not know how my unpolished nature will adapt itself to the town, for here they write verses; they hum about in the air like flies in summer."

"What do you mean?" asked Laura, hanging her head.

"Only think, even I, a stranger, have received verses!"

"That is quite natural," said Laura, folding her handkerchief to conceal her confusion.

"I have found little nosegays on the bench in the park, with dear little poems, and the name of my home given by a letter and stars. See, first a large B, and then----"

Laura, in her delight at this account, looked up, from her handkerchief. Her cheeks were suffused with color. There was a roguish smile in her eyes.

Ilse looked at the beaming countenance and, as she spoke, guessed that she was the giver.

Laura bent down to kiss her hand, but Ilse raised the curly head, threatening her with her finger and kissing her.

"You are not angry with me," said Laura, "for being so bold?"

"It was very sweet and kind of you, but you must know that it caused us a great deal of uneasiness. The Doctor discovered you, but he did not tell us your name."

"The Doctor?" exclaimed Laura, starting up. "Must that man always interfere where I am concerned!"

"He kept your secret faithfully. Now I may tell my husband all about it, may I not? but, between ourselves, he was very much displeased for a time."

This was a triumph for Laura. Again she seated herself at Ilse's feet and archly begged her to relate what the Professor had said.

"That would not be right," answered Ilse, gravely; "that is his secret."

Thus an hour passed in pleasant talk till the clock struck, and Ilse rose hastily. "My husband will wonder where I have disappeared to," said she. "You are a dear girl. If you like we will become good friends."

Ah! that pleased Laura very much. She accompanied her visitor to the staircase, and on the step it occurred to her that she had forgotten the principal thing she wanted to say; her room was directly above that of the Professor's wife, and when Ilse opened the window she could communicate quickly with her by signals. Just as Ilse was about to close her door, Laura ran down once more in order to express her joy that Ilse had granted her this hour.

Laura returned to her room, paced up and down with rapid steps, and snapped her fingers like one who has won the great prize in a lottery. She confided to her journal her account of the consecrated hour, and of every word that Ilse had spoken, and concluded with verses:

Then she seated herself at the piano and played with impassioned expression the melody which Ilse had sung to her. And Ilse below heard this heartfelt outburst of thanks for her visit.

CHAPTER XIV.

A DAY OF VISITS.

A carriage drove up to the door. Ilse entered her husband's study, attired for her first visit. "Look at me," she said; "do I look all right?"

"Very well," cried the Professor, joyfully, scanning his wife. But it was well that everything was as it should be without his help, for in matter of the toilet the critical eye of the Professor was of doubtful value.

"Now I begin a new game," continued Ilse, "such as the children used to play at home. I am to knock at your friends' doors and call out, Halloa, halloa! and when the ladies ask. Who is there? I shall answer, as in the game:

"Well, so far as the kisses are concerned that I am to dispense to the wives of my colleagues," replied the Professor, putting on his gloves, "I should, on the whole, be obliged to you if you would take that business upon yourself."

"Ah, you men are very strict," said Ilse; "my little Franz also always refuses to play the game, because he would not kiss the stupid girls. I only hope that I'll not disgrace you."

They drove through the streets. On the way the Professor gave his wife an account of the persons and the particular branch of learning of each of his colleagues to whom he was taking her.

"Let us visit pleasant people first," he said. "Yonder lives Professor Raschke, our professor of philosophy, and a dear friend of mine. I hope his wife will please you."

"Is he very famous," asked Ilse, laying her hand on her beating heart.

The carriage stopped before a low dwelling at the further end of the suburb. Gabriel hastened into the house to announce the visitors; finding the kitchen empty, he knocked at the parlor-door, and, finally, being experienced in the customs of the family, opened the entrance into the court yard. "Professor Raschke and his wife are in the garden."

The visitors passed through a narrow yard into a kitchen-garden, which the owner of the house had given his lodger permission to walk in, to get the benefit of the air. The couple were walking along the path under the noon-sun of an autumn day. The lady carried a little child on her arm; the husband held a book in his hand, from which he was reading to his companion. In order, however, to do as much family duty as possible, the Professor had fastened the pole of a baby carriage to his belt and thus drew a second child after him. The backs of the couple were turned to the guests and they moved slowly forward, listening and reading aloud.

"An encounter in the narrow path is not desirable," said Felix; "we must wait until they turn round the square and face us."

It was some time before the procession overcame the hindrances of the journey, for the Professor in the eagerness of reading, sometimes stopped to explain, as might be seen from the motion of his hands. Ilse examined the appearance of the strange pedestrians with curiosity. The wife was pale and delicate; one could perceive that she had recently left a sick bed. The man had a nobly formed, intellectual face, about which hung long dark hair with a sprinkling of gray upon it. They had come close to the guests, when the wife turned her eyes from her husband and perceived the visitors.

"What a pleasure!" cried the Philosopher, dropping his book into the great pocket of his coat. "Good morning, my dear colleague. Ha! that is our dear Professor's wife. Unhitch me from the carriage, Aurelia; the family bonds hamper me."

The unhitching took some time, as the hands of the mistress of the house were not free, and Professor Raschke by no means kept still, but struggled forward, and had already seized with both hands those of his colleague and wife.

"Come into the house, my dear guests," he exclaimed, striding forward with long steps, while Felix introduced his wife to the lady. Professor Raschke forgot his baby carriage, which Ilse lifted over the threshold and rolled into the hall. There she took up the neglected child from its seat and both ladies entered the room with a diminutive chip of philosophy in their arms, exchanging their first friendly greetings, while the little one in Ilse's arms lustily swung his rattle, and the youngest child on the arm of its mother began to scream. Meanwhile colleague Raschke went about clearing the room, removed books and papers from the sofa, shook faded sofa-cushions into form, which emitted clouds of dust, and cordially invited his guests to be seated.

At length the confusion subsided. Ilse played with the child on her lap, while Mrs. Raschke after a disappearance for a moment came back without the screaming infant. She sat shyly by Ilse, but asked her friendly questions in a gentle voice. The lively Philosopher, however, was always interrupting the conversation of the ladies; he stroked the hand of the Professor, while he nodded in the direction of his wife. "This is quite right; I rejoice that you accustom yourself to our mode of life while still so young, for our wives have not an easy time of it--their outer life is limited and they have many demands made upon them at home. We are often wearisome companions, difficult to deal with, peevish, morose, and perverse." He shook his head disapprovingly over the character of the world of learning, but his face smiled with genuine pleasure.

The end of the visit was hastened by the baby, who began to cry piteously in the next room.

"Are you going already?" said the Philosopher to Ilse; "this cannot be counted as a visit. You please me much, and you have true eyes; and I see that you have a kind disposition, and that is everything. All we want is, in the face a good mirror through which the images of life are reflected fully and purely, and in the heart an enduring flame which will communicate its warmth to others. Whoever has that will do well, even if it is her fate to be the wife as you are, of a sedentary student, and as is this poor mother of five screaming young ones."

Again he strode rapidly about, fetched an old hat from the corner and handed it to the wife of his colleague. Ilse laughed.

"Oh, I see. It is a gentleman's hat," said Professor Raschke; "perhaps it belongs to your husband."

"I also am provided with one," said the Professor.

"Then it must be my own after all," said Raschke; and jamming the hat on his head, he accompanied his guests to the carriage.

For some time Ilse sat in the carriage dumb with astonishment. "Now I have regained my courage, Felix; the professors are still less alarming than the students."

"All will not receive you so warmly," answered the Professor. "He who comes next is my colleague Struvelius; he teaches Greek and Latin, as I do; he is not one of my intimate acquaintances, but is a thorough scholar."

This time it was a house in the city; the apartments were a little more ancient than in Ilse's new dwelling. This professor's wife wore a black silk dress, and was sitting before a writing-table covered with books and papers; a delicate lady, of middle age, with a small but clever face and an extraordinary coiffure; for her short hair was combed behind her ears in one large roll of curl, which gave her a certain resemblance to Sappho or Corinne, so far as a comparison is allowable with ladies of antiquity, the growth of whose hair is by no means satisfactorily ascertained.

Mrs. Struvelius arose slowly and greeted the visitors with haughty demeanor; she expressed her pleasure to Ilse and then turned to the Professor. "I have to-day commenced reading the work of colleague Raschke and I admire the deep thought of the man."

"His writings are delightful," replied the Professor, "because in all of them we discover a thorough and pure-minded man."

"I agree with your premise and consequent conclusion in this particular instance, but with regard to the general proposition you assert, allow me to say that many works that form an epoch in literature would have no great excellence, if it were necessary to be a perfect man in order to write a good book."

Ilse looked timidly at the learned lady who had ventured to oppose her husband.

"Yet we will come to an agreement," continued the Professor's wife, fluently, as if she were reading from a book. "It is not requisite for every valuable work that its author should be a man of character, but he who truly has this noble qualification, would be unlikely to produce anything which would have an unfavorable influence on his branch of learning; undoubtedly the weaknesses of a learned work originate more frequently than one supposes in the author's weakness of character."

The Professor nodded assentingly.

"For," she continued, "the position which a scholar assumes with respect to the great questions of the day, affecting his branch of learning--nay, with respect even to the advantages and deficiencies of his method--may generally be explained from his character. You have always lived in the country," she said, turning to Ilse. "It would be instructive to me to learn what impression you have received of the mutual relations of people in the town."

"I have met but few as yet," rejoined Ilse, timidly.

"Of course," said Mrs. Struvelius. "But I mean that you will observe with surprise that near neighborhood does not always imply intimate intercourse. But Struvelius must be told you are here."

She rose, opened the door of the next room, and standing bolt upright by the door, called out:

"Professor and Mrs. Werner!"

A slight murmur and the hasty rustling of leaves of a book were heard in the adjoining room. The wife closed the door and continued:

"For after all we live among many and associate with few. In the city we choose from among many individuals with a certain arbitrariness. One might have more acquaintance than one has, but even this feeling gives you confidence, and such confidence is more easily acquired in town than in the country."

The side door opened. Professor Struvelius entered with an absent-minded manner. He had a sharp nose, thin lips and wore an unusual style of head dress. For his hair stood so peculiarly after its own fashion, that one was justified in assuming that the head gear was hereditary and had suggested the name of the family. He bowed slightly, pushed a chair forward and seated himself in it silently--probably his thoughts were still occupied with his Greek historian. Ilse suffered from the conviction that the visit was an inopportune interruption and that it was a great condescension on the part of his wife to speak to her at all.

"Are you musical?" said Mrs. Struvelius, inquisitively.

"I can hardly say so," answered Ilse.

"I am glad of it," said the hostess, moving opposite to her and examining her with her sharp eyes. "From my estimate of you, I should think you could not be musical. The art of music makes us weak and leads too frequently to an imperfect state of existence."

Felix endeavored, with little success, to make the Professor take part in the conversation; and the visitors soon rose. On taking leave, Mrs. Struvelius stretched the lower part of her arm in a rectangular line toward Ilse and said, with a solemn pressure of the hand:

"Pray feel yourself at home with us." And the words of her husband, bidding them adieu, were cut short by the closing of the door.

"What do you say now?" said the Professor, as they drove away.

"Ah, Felix, I feel very insignificant; my courage has left me, I would rather return home."

"Be composed," said the husband, consolingly; "you are going about to-day as if you were at a fair, looking over the contents of the tables. What does not please you, you need not buy. The next visit is to our historian, a worthy man, who is one of the good genii of our University. His daughter also is an amiable young lady."

A servant opened the door and conducted them into the reception-room. There were some good landscapes on the wall; a pianoforte, a pretty flower stand, with rare plants, well arranged and taken care of. The daughter entered hastily; she had a delicate face with beautiful dark eyes. A stately old gentleman with a distinguished air followed her. He looked something like a high official, only his lively way of speaking showed him to be a man of learning. Ilse was warmly and heartily welcomed. The old gentleman seated himself near her and began an easy conversation, and Ilse soon felt herself as comfortable as with an intimate acquaintance. She was also reminded of her home, for he asked:

"Are any of the remains of the old monastery at Rossau still preserved?"

Felix looked up with curiosity, and Ilse answered: "Only the walls; the interior is rebuilt."

"It was one of the oldest ecclesiastical foundations of your region, and has stood many centuries, and undoubtedly exercised influence over a wide district. It is remarkable that the records of the monastery are almost all wanting, and all other accounts or notices, so far as I know, are very scanty. One may suppose that much still lies in concealment there."

Ilse observed how the countenance of her husband lighted up; but he replied, quietly:

"In the place itself, my inquiries were in vain."

"That is possible," agreed the Historian. "Perhaps the documents have been taken to the seat of government, and lie there unused."

Thus passed one visit after another. Next came the Rector, a Professor of Medicine, an agreeable man of the world, who kept up an elegant establishment. His wife was a plump, active lady, with restless, inquiring eyes. Then came the Secretary of the theological Consistory, a tall, thin gentleman with a sweet smile; his wife, too, was over-proportioned in everything,--in nose, mouth, and hospitality. The last was the Mineralogist, a clever young man with a very pretty wife; they had only been married a few months. While the young women, seated on the sofa, were rapidly becoming acquainted. Ilse was for the second time surprised by a question from the Professor:

"Your home is not without interest for my department. Is there not a cave in the neighborhood?"

Ilse colored and looked again at her husband.

"It is on my father's estate."

"Indeed! I am just now at work on a new discovery that has been made on your estate," exclaimed the Mineralogist.

He produced a stone of remarkably radiated structure.

"This is a very rare mineral that has been discovered in the neighborhood of the cave; it was sent me by an apothecary of the province."

He told her the name of the mineral, and spoke of the stone of which the cave was formed, and the rock on which her father's house stood, just as if he had been there himself, and made Ilse describe the lines of the hills and the quarries of the neighborhood. He listened attentively to her clear answers, and thought the geological structure of the estate very remarkable.

Ilse was delighted and exclaimed:

"We imagined that no one in the world cared about us; but I see the learned gentlemen know more about our country than we ourselves do."

"We know, at least, how to find something more precious than fragments of rock there," replied the Professor courteously.

After their return home, Ilse entered her husband's room, where he had already sat down to his work.

"Let me remain with you to-day, Felix? My head is confused with all the persons to whom you have taken me; I have seen so much within one day, and have had so much friendliness shown me by clever and distinguished men. The learned lady frightened me most; and, Felix, it is perhaps wrong in me to say so, for she is much more clever and refined, but I found a resemblance in her to a good old acquaintance of ours."

"Mrs. Rollmaus," assented the Professor. "But this lady is in reality very clever," he added.

"Heaven grant," said Ilse, "that she may be equally true-hearted! But I feel terrified at her learning. I like the other ladies, and the husbands still better. There is something noble about almost all of them, they converse wonderfully well, they are unconstrained and seem to have real inward happiness and gladness of heart; and naturally so, for they hover over the earth like your gods of old, and, therefore, they may well be cheerful. Ah! and there was the patched smoking jacket which dear Professor Raschke wore--moth and rust will never eat that! When I think that all these clever people have treated me with kindness and regard, solely on my husband's account, I do not know how I can thank you sufficiently. And now that I have been received into this new society, I can only ask that my entrance into it may be blessed."

"The husband stretched out his hand and drew her toward him; she clasped his head with her hands and bent over him.

"What are you working at now?" she asked, softly.

"Nothing very important; merely a treatise that I have to prepare every year for the University."

He then told her something of the contents of the work.

"And when that is finished, what then?"

"Then I must set about other tasks."

"And thus it goes on always from morning to evening, every year, till the eyes fail and the strength breaks," said Ilse piteously. "I have a great favor to ask of you to-day, Felix. Will you show me the books which you have written--all of them?"

"All that I still possess," said the Professor, and he collected books and treatises here and there from every corner.

Ilse opened one work after another, and she found that she already knew the Latin titles of some of them by heart. The Professor became interested in this occupation, and was always finding more little treatises which he had forgotten. Ilse laid them all before her in a heap and began solemnly:

"A great crisis has now come for me. I wish to learn from you the contents of each writing as far as you are able to explain it to your wife. When I was already secretly in love with you, the children found your name in the encyclopedia; we endeavored to read the strange titles of your books, and Mrs. Rollmaus made conjectures in her way as to the contents. Then I felt sorry that I could understand nothing of what you had done for mankind. Since that, I have always hoped the day would come when I could ask you what it was that you knew better than others, and by reason of which I should be proud of belonging to you. The hour is now come; for to-day you have introduced me to your friends as your wife, and I want to be your wife there too where your treasure and your heart are--as far as I can."

"Dear Ilse," exclaimed the Professor, carried away by her frank dignity.

"But do not forget," continued Ilse, with emphasis, "that I understand very little, and pray have patience with me. I have arranged how I wish to have it done. Write down for me, in a note-book that I have bought for the purpose, the titles, as they are in the foreign language and also in German, first of your earliest works and then the last. Together with this, note down what value you place on the work, and what is its importance for mankind. Underneath every work I will set down what I understand from your explanation, that I may well remember them."

She produced a note-book; the Professor searched again for some more treatises, arranged them according to date, and wrote each title on one page of the book. Then he gave his wife some explanation of the contents of each work, and helped her to write her remarks in the note-book.

"Those in German I will endeavor to read myself," said Ilse.

Thus they both sat bending eagerly over the books, and the Professor's heart beat with pleasure at the earnestness with which his wife endeavored to understand his occupations. For it is the lot of the scholar that few look with sympathy upon his trouble, his struggles, and the worth of his work. The world regards him as a common laborer. What he has formed, with enduring strength, henceforth becomes a building-stone in the immeasurable house of learning on which all the races of the earth have been laboring for thousands of years. Hundreds of others make a foundation of it to advance their own work; thousands of new blocks are piled upon it, and there are few to inquire who has chiseled the separate columns, and still more seldom does a stranger grasp the hand of the workman. The light works of the poet are long greeted by those in whom he has raised a cheerful smile or an exalted feeling. But the scholar seldom makes a valuable confidant or friend of his reader by his individual works. He does not paint enchanting pictures for the imagination; he does not flatter the yearning soul; he demands the utmost seriousness and the closest attention from his readers, the benefit of which redounds to himself in every criticism that is made. Even where he inspires respect he remains a stranger.

And yet he is not a mere stonemason who cuts formless blocks according to prescribed measures. He works independently and contributes his own life-blood, sometimes suffering great depression, sometimes full of joy and happiness. The fruits that he proffers his age have grown from the deepest roots of his life. Therefore the honest mind that enters heartily into the labor of the learned, and not only inquires for the ultimate result of learning, but takes an interest in the inward struggle of the workman, is to him a valuable treasure, a rare happiness.--Felix now looked with emotion at his wife, who was striving to occupy this position, and tender emotions swelled the heart of the strong-minded man while he explained to her the subjects of his labors,--while he told her about the Roman tribus and the duties of the senate.

When all was noted down, Ilse laid her hands on the books and exclaimed:

"Here I have all. What a small space they occupy, yet they employed many laborious days and nights, and the best portion of your noble life. This has often given you flushed cheeks as you have to-day. For this you have studied till your poor brain has been on fire, and for this you have always sat in a confined room. I have hitherto looked upon books with indifference; now for the first time I perceive what a book is, a quiet endless labor."

"That is not to be said of all," replied the Professor; "but the superior ones are more even than a labor."

He gazed lovingly on the walls along which the high book-shelves reached up to the very ceiling, so that the room looked as if papered with the backs of books.

"The great number of them quite frightens me," said Ilse, helping him to make room for his own books in a dark corner, which was now cleared for them as their resting-place. "They look so calm and composed, and yet many of them may have been written with such impassioned feeling, and have excited their readers, too."

"Yes," said her husband, "they are the great treasure-wards of the human race. They preserve all that is most valuable of what has ever been thought or discovered, from one century to another; and they proclaim what existed once, and once only, upon the earth. Here is what was produced full a thousand years before our era, and close beside them those that have come into the world but a few weeks ago."

"Yet, from the coats that they wear, they look almost like each other," said Ilse. "I should have difficulty in distinguishing them."

The Professor explained their arrangement and led her from one book shelf to another, pointing out those works which were his special favorites.

"And you use them all?"

"Yes, and many more at times. These that you see here are only an infinitely small portion of the books that have been printed; for since the invention of books, almost all that we know and call learning is to be found in them. But that is not all," he continued; "few know that a book is something more than simply a product of the creative mind, which its author sends forth as a cabinet-maker does a chair that has been ordered. There remains, indeed, attached to every human work something of the soul of the man who has produced it. But a book contains between its covers the actual soul of the man. The real value of a man to others--the best portion of his life--remains in this form for the generations that follow, and perhaps for the farthermost future. Moreover, not only those who write a good book, but those whose lives and actions are portrayed in it, continue in fact living among us. We converse with them as with friends and opponents; we admire or contend with, love or hate them, not less than if they dwelt bodily among us. The human soul that is enclosed in such a cover becomes imperishable on earth, and, therefore, we may say that the soul-life of the individual becomes enduring in books, and only the soul which is encased in a book has certain duration on earth."

"But error persists also," said Ilse, "and so do liars and impure spirits when they are put in books."

"They undoubtedly do, but are refuted by better souls. Very different, certainly, is the value and import of these imperishable records. Few maintain their beauty and importance for all periods; many are only valuable at a later time, because we ascertain from them the character and life of men in their days, while others are quite useless and ephemeral. But all books that have ever been written from the earliest to the latest, have a mysterious connection. For, observe, no one who has written a book has of himself become what he is; every one stands on the shoulders of his predecessor; all that was produced before his time has helped to form his life and soul. Again, what he has produced, has in some sort formed other men, and thus his soul has passed to later times. In this way the contents of books form one great soul-empire on earth, and all who now write, live and nourish themselves on the souls of the past generations. From this point of view the soul of mankind is an immeasurable unity, which comprises every one who ever thus lived and worked, as well as those who breathe and produce new works at present. The soul, which past generations felt as their own, has been and is daily transmigrating into others. What is written today may to-morrow become the possession of thousands of strangers. Those who have long ago ceased to exist in the body continue to live in new forms here on earth, and daily revive in thousands of others."

"Stop," cried Ilse, entreatingly, "I am bewildered."

"I tell you this now, because I too feel myself a modest worker in this earthly soul-empire. This feeling gives me a pleasure in life which is indestructible, and it also gives me both freedom and modesty. For whoever works with this feeling, whether his powers be great or small, does so not for his own honor, but for all. He does not live for himself but for all, as all who have before existed continue to live for him."

He spoke earnestly, sitting surrounded by his books, with the setting sun casting its friendly rays on his head and on the home of his spirit--the book-shelves. And Ilse, leaning on his shoulder, said humbly: "I am yours. Teach me, form me, and make me understand what you understand."