The Lost Manuscript: A Novel

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:

"I found thee, pure one! Now my dream will live.And tho' 'twixt joy and pain thy soul may pine,I touch thy garment's hem and homage give,And lovingly thee in my heart enshrine."

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:

"I am a poor, poor beggar-maid,And what I want is this:For me I want a piece of bread;For my husband I want a kiss."

"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.