CHAPTER XXXIX.
A VISIT TO THE DIAL.
An early hour next day found the Bishop at the studio. “I have come to see how the Horologe progresses,” he said; and then spent such an unconscionable time about the place, that he fidgeted Otto. “What did he want coming prying here for? what do bishops know about clocks, I should like to know?” he grumbled afterwards to Hackernagel.
“Some folks,” said Tobias, “imagine they possess an aptitude for everything under the sun.”
“Well, but I don’t like it you know. I can always stand anything but interference. And then the number of questions he kept asking! It’s disgusting!”
Undeniably the Bishop had done that. In his own mind he had determined to judge Otto fairly and impartially; and, for the moment, setting aside all remembrance of Dasipodius’ unjust treatment, he gave himself to ascertaining as far as his own powers permitted, how far Otto von Steinbach was competent for the task he had undertaken. The result of his investigations simply confirmed his forgone conclusion that the Horologe was in the worst possible plight. It was not only Otto’s inexperience and superficial acquaintance which rendered him unfit to rule, but also his unstable temperament. Had all the old hands remained on, Otto might have blundered through; but the best among them had left, and in their place were untried workers, who were only paid by the piece, and cared no more for the Horologe than they did for Archimedes.
“I miss Isaac Habrecht,” was almost the Bishop’s first observation, when his glance had traversed the unfamiliar group; but Otto’s attention was absorbed in something going on down in the street.
“I miss Isaac Habrecht,” reiterated his visitor.
“Oh, yes—you know, I mean—that is, my lord, Isaac Habrecht doesn’t work here now.”
“Why not?”
“Well, Isaac was a difficult fellow to deal with; and I don’t see why one is to put up with another fellow’s airs because he happens to be able to turn a piece of brass into a wheel rather better than another; do you, my lord?”
“I’m not so sure,” replied the Bishop, bending over the shoulder of Isaac’s successor. “Have you got that even, friend?” he asked, looking at the wheel the man was filing.
“Near enough, my lord,” was the half surly, half patronizing, and wholly confident rejoinder.
“And Kaspar?” said the Bishop, turning again to Otto, “wouldn’t he work with you either?”
“I’d rather have his room than his company. One could have done nothing with a head crammed so full of favour and pre——”
“But the carvings?”
“Ah! here they are. Ready as you see,” said Otto, who did not hold it necessary to explain that Kaspar’s work had been on the stroke of completion before he left Strassburg; and that nothing was lacking of it but an insignificant strip or two of beading. This however had now been added to the rest.
“Kaspar’s fingers were thumbs when he did this,” said the Bishop, examining the strips.
“Very likely,” said Otto with a shrug. “He was always full of fits and fancies as an egg’s full of meat. I do so hate your geniuses. I don’t pretend to be one myself; and such sort of people about me are simply a worry.”
And Bishop John, as he scanned the Master Horologist’s countenance, wondered whether unknowingly he had, after all, surrounded himself with geniuses; for it was, he thought, many a day since he had seen a man look more miserable and worried than did Otto von Steinbach.
“And that set of fine steel springs Dasipodius had in hand himself,” said the Bishop. “I remember how exquisite their finish was. You are over them I suppose?”
“Oh dear no, I have quite enough to do looking after other people: I never find time for a stroke of work myself.”
“Dasipodius did,” said the Bishop.
“Oh—yes; but it wouldn’t be right you know, my lord, to—to compare—my modus operandi——”
“With his. No, I suppose not. And now, tell me by how long shall you anticipate the Horologe’s completion?”
Otto stared vacuously.
“When will the Horologe be finished?” explained Bishop John.
“Oh, well, perhaps towards the end of Autumn.”
“What!” exclaimed the Bishop, “don’t you know it is to be ready by Saint Laurence’s day? and that is August, the beginning of August, man, isn’t it? or have you turned Anabaptist, and forgotten your saint’s days.”
“Oh, that’s only what was said.”
“It is promised down in the contract, in black and white.”
“Ah, very likely; but they’ll have to whistle for it.”
“They’ll be more likely to cudgel your brains out if you don’t hold to the agreement,” said the Bishop with kindling eyes; “you know Strassburg’s not to be played with.”
“I can’t do impossibilities,” said Otto sulkily.
“Then we must see who can. Good day,” and the Bishop went away.
“Ex nihilo, nihil fit,” soliloquized he, as he slowly returned to the palace; “and that will be the Horologe’s fate, or worse, if it remains at this scatterbrain’s mercies. I must see Bruno Wolkenberg at once; he is a man to be depended on. And I may be able to sift to the truth of this strange business from him.”
For to Bishop John the truth seemed at the bottom of a well indeed. Astounding stories, as remarkable for their diversity as for their wildness, had already reached his ears on the subject. Some said Dasipodius had turned out to be a were-wolf, and wandered abroad o’ nights in bloodthirsty search of little stray children; because Mother Barepenny had said that stray children, a whole stray baby especially, eaten at one meal, was an infallible remedy for blindness. Inasmuch, however, as stray babies were not to be come upon every day, he had had to content himself for the nonce with turning, by the same wise woman’s assistance, into a spider; for your spider is able to creep in where your were-wolf might meet with obstruction. Under this faint disguise, Dasipodius had, it appeared, succeeded in sucking enough infant blood to keep his eyes open, and so making believe he could see. But others said that was all nonsense; what, forsooth, did he want of such second-rate sort of backings up as were-wolves and vampires could give, when there were in the city hundreds ready to affirm that many and many a night they, with their own eyes, had distinctly seen the shadow of a huge pair of horns on the casement blind of the mathematician’s turret chamber?
While the Bishop might have sought more lucid details of Dasipodius’ resignation, or setting aside, or whatever it might be, from Radegund von Steinbach, he had not failed to mark her reserve, amounting almost to taciturnity, when he had spoken with her about it; and he came to the wise conclusion that after all, Bruno Wolkenberg, from his intimate friendship with Dasipodius, and by virtue of his professional knowledge of his affliction, was the really proper person from whom to obtain the information he desired. Accordingly he turned and made his way without further delay to the surgeon’s house, where Trudel, in answer to his enquiry whether her master was within and alone, nearly let slip her assurance that he was lone as the church weathercock; but remembering just in time that she was holding parley with a Bishop, and a prince of the empire, contrived by a superhuman effort to set a seal upon her lips, and with the plain unvarnished intimation that her Master was within, ushered his august visitor into the laboratory.
The surgeon was standing in the embrasure of the window, busily engaged in separating and arranging the petals and leaves of some medicinal herbs he had brought from Schaffhausen, whence he had but the previous day returned. The full sunlight fell upon his golden hair, and there was a glow of colour and a healthful tan embrowning his handsome face.
“The country air seems to have done you good service, Dr. Wolkenberg,” said the Bishop, seating himself in the chair Bruno placed for him.
“Well—yes, my lord,” answered Bruno; “such elixir as the air of the Schwarzwald, I fear all the alchemists in Christendom will never be able to distil. It would almost bring new life to the dead.”
“And sight to the blind?—Can it do that?”
“Even that perhaps, sometimes.”
The Bishop looked with eager, earnest eyes at the surgeon.
“You believe it may do something for Dasipodius?”
“No, my lord,” answered Wolkenberg, “I did not mean that. Dasipodius’ case is hopeless. Nothing would bring his eyesight back, short of a miracle.”
“But one that you can work, Dr. Wolkenberg? Yes?” said the Bishop in pleading tones; “so much depends on it.”
“I spoke literally, my lord,” answered the surgeon with grave calmness. “It is beyond the skill of the greatest of us. Certain of the eye nerves are totally destroyed.”
“And what then,” asked the Bishop, “is the nature of this blindness?”
“It is of the sort called Amaurosis.”
“But they tell me his eyes are not merely open, but as brilliant as when I went away a couple of months since.”
Bruno nodded assent. “Just the same, my lord. He was blind then.”
“Is it of that kind,” demanded the Bishop, “which one reads of the Arabs calling ‘Gutta Serena’?”
“Yes.”
“It is rare, is it not?”
“Comparatively, my lord, yes. This special form of it.”
“To me it is incredible.”
Bruno sighed.
“Incomprehensible. His eyes seemed to me full of expression and brilliancy. I could not have guessed at such a calamity.”
“You did not see with professional eyes, my lord. I have foreboded it these two years, and warned him of it.”
“How did it come about?”
“Over-study.”
“Oh,” said the Bishop. “Many a man studies as hard as he does, and yet preserves his sight.”
“Pardon me, my lord, not many. For these years past he has but laid down his book to take up his pen, and then only laid that aside to fashion piece by piece what he has thought out and planned; and not one pair of eyes in ten thousand could withstand such ceaseless wear and tear. A real master of Horology, my lord, must have a mind and an intellect as many-sided as a prism; and he needs above all, perhaps, to be a practical genius.”
“A rara avis indeed,” smiled the Bishop.
“It is much the same, I take it, as if one should speak of two men rolled into one.”
The Bishop was silent, and sat with his eyes meditatively fixed on the ground; presently, however, he looked up. “But he is to blame in this surely,” he said in ex-cathedra tones. “He has abused one of Heaven’s best gifts.”
“It was in a good cause at least,” answered the surgeon. “Prometheus stole fire from Heaven, and did his fellow-men a noble turn.”
“All the same,” said the Bishop regretfully, “your man has left his work incomplete.”
“That is no fault of his, my lord,” bluntly replied Bruno.
“Ah! I cannot believe that story,” said the Bishop, closely shaking his head. “For a blind man is a man bereft of his noblest sense.”
“Bereft? No, my lord, no, in such men as Dasipodius, it has but gone to lend its help to the other senses, and bring them closer to perfection.”
“I wish I could believe that, Dr. Wolkenberg.”
“You would do well to believe it. It is only such men as Tobias Hackernagel, and others of his complexion, who having no souls to compass the greatness of Conrad’s, take refuge in attributing its power to supernatural influences.”
“And they may be right,” smiled the Bishop. “You admit that, Dr. Bruno?”
“I do,” said the surgeon, with a responsive light in his eyes, “with this difference, that the base motives of these wretches have led them to attribute his power to Hell, when it is Heaven’s own. It is not the first time, my lord, in the world’s history that this has been so.”
The bishop bent his head reverently. “You are right, Dr. Wolkenberg; and your assurance of Dasipodius’ fitness to have carried on his work is only too welcome to me. I believed it might be possible. But tell me, did they really and absolutely try to fix on him the charge of sorcery.”
“Syndic Hackernagel did his best; but it fell through.”
“But why?” insisted the Bishop. “What good could it do Syndic Hackernagel?”
“Nay, little enough, as far as I know; but Hackernagel would burn Strassburg if it could win him half-an-hour’s notoriety.”
“For shame, Dr. Bruno. You want charity.”
“I think not, my lord. Charity for such creatures is worse waste than pearls thrown to swine. Ought I—ought you, my lord—ought anything that breathes, have—oh Heaven! have it! Seem to have it, I mean,” and Bruno’s face kindled, “for a creature who, if he could, would have brought Conrad Dasipodius to the stake, and felt his joy complete indeed if he had got the chance of firing the first faggot himself! I see,” added Bruno, “you do not, cannot credit this.”
“Nay,” said the Bishop. “Sin lies deep, and Tobias Hackernagel is—is—Anabaptism is Master Hackernagel’s own particular form of heterodoxy I believe, Dr. Bruno?”
“An Anabaptist he is, I think, my lord.”
“And so the plot fell through?”
“Thank Heaven, yes, so far it did. There was little fear as it seemed for Conrad’s life, his breathing animal life; but that other—the only life which is life to him, is all blighted. Not killed mark you, my lord, but cruelly, cruelly marred. Dasipodius is much changed since you saw him.”
“And he did not defend himself, Mistress Radegund von Steinbach tells me?”
“There he was wrong.”
“Forgive me, my lord, I think had you been there you would have reversed that judgment. It would have been worse than useless. The clack and clatter of Hackernagel’s sophistries drowned Dasipodius’ simple assurance. The people’s ears itched too much for some new thing to rest content with the good they had.”
“Alas!” sighed the Bishop, “that is true, but still——”
“And so Dasipodius left them to themselves. I think no man’s pride would let him stoop to stay where he was not welcome; and these flowers,” said Bruno, touching tenderly a posy of harebells in a little jar beside him, “are not more sensitive to foul air than Dasipodius is to falseness and treachery.”
“Over much surely,” said the Bishop.
“Maybe so, my lord, maybe not. It is his nature,” said Bruno conclusively; “and so now they—may whistle for their clock,” and he turned and absently flicked away a speck or two of dust from his specimens.
“And Radegund von Steinbach, did she suffer all this quietly? I gave her credit for more love of——”
“Of whom?” burst forth the surgeon, turning sharply on the Bishop. “Of whom?”
“Of whom? Of the Horologe, man, of the Horologe. I say I fancied she cared for it too well to let these tricks be played with it.”
“I know nothing about that,” returned Wolkenberg coldly. “She rarely mentions Dasipodius’ name. No doubt she would have aided him, if it had been in her power, but she is after all only a woman.”
“And such a one whose will might turn an empire’s fate as she listed. Why, men are threads to be wound about her little finger. Ah, Dr. Wolkenberg, do you sigh so deep as that? Your lofty wisdom bows then to her power. Nay, but don’t frown and bite your lip like some guilty thief taken in flagrante delicto—believe me, I have guessed this tender secret long ago. Come now tell me, is the marriage day to be—when? Give me due notice, for it is I myself who must tie that knot. No answer? Well, had you chosen to plead guilty, Master Balder here,” and the Bishop gently stroked the ears of the dog, who had for sometime been patiently awaiting that small attention from the visitor, “who, I will answer for it, knows all about it, could not keep the secret more faithfully than I would do. I am no gossip—but, I ask your pardon, I have no right to intrude myself upon your confidence.”
“My lord, you mistake. I fear such honour and such happiness can never be for me,” and Bruno turned abruptly away.
“Tut, tut, man,” said the Bishop, whose heart had always been set on the union of these two. He had watched their acquaintance with interest; and to this kind father of his spiritual children it seemed that for the dark-eyed magnificent woman and the golden-haired man, beautiful as a Norse god, to become husband and wife, would be a Heaven-planned marriage. He knew all the grandeur and nobility of Radegund’s nature, her scorn of things mean and base, her generosity and power of self-sacrifice; but he also knew how diamonds, valuable above all other precious stones, are more than all others subject to flaws. He knew that extremes meet, and judged Radegund to be capable of all that is best and worst; while in Bruno Wolkenberg’s warm heart and single mindedness combined with his no ordinary talent and pure enthusiasm, which some, but not Bishop John, might even have called quixotic, he saw one precisely fitted to nurture and cherish the luxuriance of the artist’s nature, while it would restrain it from squandering its generous strength.
“Patience, Dr. Wolkenberg,” he said, rising and laying his worn blue-veined hand on Bruno’s shoulder. “Patience, it is all but just as it should be. A woman is the more worth seeking who is not easily won.”
“It is three years,” groaningly began Bruno.
“Three years! Nay,” began the Bishop. “By Our Lady, that is a little long indeed!”
“An eternity.”
“And there is no other?”
“I do not understand you, my lord.”
“She has no other admirer?”
“She has a score,” returned Bruno, casting his despairing eyes upward.
“Ah! How absolute you are,” said the Bishop with a testy smile. “No other favoured one?”
“I have but my eyes to tell me.”
“And if my old ones can help me to see she has a great respect for you, Dr. Wolkenberg, what should your own not do? Besides she has told me many a time how much she esteems you.”
“Esteem is not love, my lord.”
“Come, come. You are in an oracular mood, and that is so seldom a happy one. Yet I must not quarrel with my oracle, since I have gathered from it brighter auguries for our poor Horologe than I had dared to hope. And so fare you well, Dr. Wolkenberg, and keep a good heart.”
And with a lighter step Bishop John returned to the palace, soliloquising, after his wont, on what he had heard, and strange, as he confessed to himself, though the story of the blind mathematician might be, one thing was stranger still—the mind of a woman. What could be its component qualities, that it always found such pleasure in worrying what it so loved? “For of course she does love him,” said the Bishop half aloud to himself, as he entered his vast silent hall. “Why should she not?”
And the cold stone walls faintly echoed, “Why not?”