The Lost Manuscript: A Novel

A couple of daws flew round the battlements of the tower, they cawed and screamed, and told one another that underneath there stood a sportsman who was seeking his game. The Sovereign suddenly arose.

"There must be an end to the screaming of these birds."

He beckoned to the forester. The man approached, and placed a weapon in his hands. The Sovereign placed the but-end on the ground and turned to the Professor, while the Princess, disquieted by the last words of the Scholar, stood aside with her suite, struggling for composure.

"The Princess has told me," began the Sovereign, "that you have some hesitation as to fulfilling a wish that we have all much at heart. I hope that the hindrances may not be insurmountable."

"It becomes me," replied the Professor, delighted by the kind words of the Sovereign, "to weigh calmly so honorable a proposal. But I have other things to take into account besides the cause of learning."

"What others?" asked the Sovereign.

"The wish of a loved wife," said the Professor. A sudden convulsion shook the limbs of the Sovereign.

"And how do you consider your relations to me?" asked the Sovereign, in a hoarse voice.

The Scholar looked at the man, from whose eyes darted a look of deadly hatred and malignity. He saw the muzzle of the weapon directed toward his breast, and the raised foot of the Sovereign feeling for the trigger. The flash of lightning impended, there was no room for flight, no time for movement; the thought of the last moment passed through his mind. He saw before him the distorted countenance of the Emperor Tiberius, and he said, in a low voice:

"I stand on the verge of death."

"The Sovereign is sinking," called out the High Steward.

He threw himself with outstretched arms towards his master, and seized his hands. The Sovereign tottered, the weapon fell to the ground, he himself was received in the arms of those who hastened toward him. The Princess flew up to them, and looked inquiringly into the pale face of the Scholar.

"The Sovereign has been attacked by a sudden dizziness," answered the latter calmly.

"My master is losing consciousness," cried the High Steward. "How are you, Mr. Werner?"

The hands of the old man trembled. The Sovereign lay senseless in the arms of his attendants, and was carried to the castle.

The by-standers expressed with much concern their terror at the event and the Princess hastened after the stricken Sovereign. Before the High Steward followed, he said to the Professor, whilst giving him a searching look:

"It is not the first time that the Sovereign has been taken ill in such a manner. Was that a surprise to you? You did not know that the Sovereign was suffering in this way?"

"I know it to-day," replied the Scholar, coldly.

A few minutes afterwards the High Steward entered the room of the Professor, who was preparing for his journey.

"I come to beg your indulgence," began the High Steward; "for I must trouble you with an acknowledgment which is painful to me. You have talked much lately in my presence to the Sovereign of the Cæsarian madness of the Roman emperors. What you then said was very instructive to me."

"I now find," replied the Professor, gloomily, "that the place was ill chosen."

"More than you assume," replied the courtier, drily. "To me it was peculiarly instructive, but not so much what you said as that you said it. I should not have thought it possible that any one would so acutely reason upon the past, and so completely give up all judgment of that which was around him. You then told a sick man the story of his own disease."

"I have just discovered that," replied the Scholar.

"The Sovereign is diseased in mind. It is now necessary that you should know it. I have a second confession to make to you. I discover that I have misjudged you."

"I shall be glad if your present opinion is more favorable to me than the former one," replied the Professor, with dignity.

"In your point of view, yes," continued the High Steward. "I have for a long time regarded you in your relations here as a cautious man, who was cleverly following out his objects. I have learnt that you are not that, but something different."

"An honorable man, your Excellency," replied the Professor.

"We have nothing to reproach one another with," rejoined the courtier, bowing; "as you misjudged the Sovereign, so did I misunderstand you; but my mistake is the greater, for I am an older man, and I have not the excuse of a specially intellectual mind, which sometimes makes it difficult for a man to judge correctly of other natures. But we have both one excuse. It is seldom easy to form a just estimate of those who have grown up in other circles, and show a different combination of virtues and weaknesses. We are all liable to be confused in our judgment, according as our self-respect is satisfied or wounded. Where genial tendencies find no response, displeasure erects a barrier; and where powerful tones echo sympathetically to one's breast, there is the danger of too rapid intimacy. Thus I have put too low a value on your honorable openness and candor. I now pay the penalty, for I have to confide to you a secret that I have no doubt you will accept with proper regard."

"I assume that your Excellency does not make this communication to me without a specific cause."

"There is a plan for keeping you in our city," interposed the High Steward.

"Proposals of this nature have been made to me since yesterday."

The High Steward continued: "It is not necessary for me to be anxious about your answer. You have learnt the meaning which is concealed under a veil of civility. Do you know why the Sovereign made you the proposal?"

"No; up to this morning I have not doubted that a certain personal feeling of kindness, and the view that I might be useful here, were the motives."

"You are mistaken," replied the High Steward. "It is not a wish to keep you here merely for passing private interests. The real motive is, as appears to me, the freak of a diseased mind, which sees in you an opponent, and fears a sharp-sightedness that will remorselessly disclose to the world a diseased spirit. You were to be fettered here; you were to be cajoled, watched, and persecuted. You are an object of interest, of fear, and of aversion."

The Professor rose.

"What I have experienced and what you tell me compel me to leave this place instantly."

"I do not wish," said the High Steward, "that you shall depart from here with displeasure, if this can be avoided; both on your own account and for the sake of many of us."

The Professor went to the table, on which lay the parchment leaves.

"I beg your indulgence if I do not regain my composure immediately. The situation in which we are placed is like that of a distant century; it stands in fearful contrast to the cheerful security with which we are wont to consider our own lives and the souls of our contemporaries."

"Cheerful security?" asked the High Steward, sorrowfully. "In courts, at least, you must not seek this, nor under any circumstances in which the individual passes out of private life. Cheerful security! I must ask whether we have it in this century? It would be difficult to find a time in which there is so much that is insecure; in which the old is so decayed, and the new so weak."

The Professor raised his head, astonished at the bitter complaints of the old man. The High Steward continued, indignantly:

"I hear everywhere of the hopes that one has in the nation, and I see an abundance of young student-like confidence. There is not much mature power, and I do not blame a sanguine man if he places his hopes on it; nay, I even admit that this youthful spirit is in fact the best hope that we have. But I am an old man; I cannot among these novelties find anything that commands my respect, where they affect the interests of private life. I feel the decay of vital power in the air which surrounds me. My youth belonged to a time when the best culture of the nation was to be found at Court. My own ancestors have for six centuries taken an eager part in the follies and crimes, and also in the pride, of their times; and I have grown to be a man in the conception that princes and nobles were the born leaders of the nation. I see with sorrow that they have for long, perhaps for ever, lost this lead. Much of what you lately said exactly coincides with the last decades that I have passed through. It has been a sorrowful time; the hollow weakness in the life of the people has in a great measure deteriorated the higher classes. But there has not been altogether a deficiency of honorable and powerful men. What time has been entirely without them? But what should be the noblest blossom of the national strength is just what in this empty shallow time is most deeply diseased."

The Professor interposed:

"It is a cause for sorrow; but where, perhaps, the individual loses, the whole gains?"

"Undoubtedly not," replied the courtier; "if only the gain to the whole was certain. But I see with astonishment that the greatest concerns of the nation are carried on, on all sides, with school-boyish pettiness. Much that is valuable is lost; nothing better is gained. The delicacy of feeling which formerly expressed itself beneficially in all forms of intercourse, and the discreet management of important affairs, become rare. If these advantages did not suffice to form the character, as is perhaps needed in the present, they made life pleasing and beautiful. A secure feeling of superiority, and a gracious rule over others, was general at courts and in business; of this we are deprived. Diplomacy has ceased to be distinguished. One sets bluntly to work; not only nobleness of feeling, but even the pleasing show of it is wanting; an uncertain pettiness, a grumbling, irritable, reserved character has gained the upper hand at courts, and in diplomacy ill-bred frivolity, without knowledge and without manly will. Our princes rattle about like accoutred idlers; the old court discipline is lost, and one feels oneself incessantly on the defensive, and seeks for safety in senseless attacks. It is impossible not to feel that by these acts one is irretrievably going downward."

The Professor smiled at the sorrow of the old lord.

"I do not blame you," continued the High Steward, "if you do not feel the misfortune of this change as deeply as I do. It is only a pity that it should always be the highest earthly interests which are thus trifled with."

"But is this misfortune so general?" replied the Professor.

"Some splendid exceptions have not been wanting," said the High Steward; "some were granted us at a time when we played the greatest tragedy before the world, as if here and there to preserve a bright romance. They have scarcely been wanting in a country which possesses the five qualities which are necessary to form a good court: an upright sovereign, an amiable princess, a high-minded statesman, some intellectual court ladies, and a superior spirit among the cavaliers. But these requisites are seldom found."

"Were they ever frequent?"

"They were the pride of our nation at the time from which my earliest recollections date," replied the High Steward.

"Just at this time we gained something else of which we may still be proud," rejoined the Scholar. "There was a short period during which the Court became the home of the most liberal culture of the time, and it was only through the rare political circumstances of our nation that this leadership was possible. Now it has passed into other circles, and we have exchanged the increased capacity of many for the distinguished culture of individuals."

"In this also there is a loss," returned the High Steward; "distinguished men have become rare. I am ready to acknowledge the advance which the citizen classes have made in the last fifty years. But the capacity which a people develop in trade and commerce is seldom united with secure self-respect, nay, seldom also with that firmly-established position which is necessary to political strength. Too frequently we find a wavering between discontented insolence and over-great subserviency; covetousness abounds, and self-sacrifice is small. Wealth increases everywhere; who can deny that? But not in the same degree a comprehension of the highest interests of the nation."

"Time will improve," rejoined the Scholar, "and our sons will become firmer and freer; here too our future belongs to those who work laboriously."

"Much may be lost," said the High Steward, "before the improvement which you expect becomes great enough to secure to those who are struggling onward a salutary and active participation in the affairs of government. I am too old to nourish myself with hopes, and therefore cannot adopt your sanguine conception of our situation. I wish for the good of our nation, in whatever way it may come. I know it has passed through crises more critical than its present swaying between a decaying and a rising culture. But I feel that the air in which I live is growing more sultry; the tense excitement of contrast more dangerous. When I look back on a long life, I sometimes feel horror at the moral pestilence that I have contemplated. It was not a time of gigantic vices like your Imperial era, but it was a time in which, after short poetic dreams, the weakness of petty souls ruled and brought distraction. The figures which in this lamentable time have passed away will appear to posterity, not fearful, but grotesque and contemptible. You, Professor, live in a new epoch in which a younger generation awkwardly endeavors to rise. I have no sympathy for the new style. I have not the courage to hope, for I have no power to promote the culture of the younger generation."

He had risen. The old man and the young, vigorous man, the diplomat and the scholar, stood opposite to each other; the one an advocate for the world which was tending downwards; the other a proclaimer of a teaching which was unceasingly to renew the old world; secret sorrow lay on the calm countenance of the old man, and feeling, vigorous feeling, worked in the animated features of the younger: a high mind and a refined spirit were visible in the open countenance of both.

"What we had to say to one another," continued the High Steward, "is said. I have endeavored to make amends for my mistake in regard to you. May the gossiping openness with which I have exposed myself to your judgment be some small compensation for my having been so long silent. It is the best satisfaction that I can give to a man of your sort. As respects the diseased state of mind of others, which was the subject of our conversation, there need be no further words between us; both of us will endeavor to do what is our duty concerning the men that are entrusted to our care, to preserve them from danger and to guard ourselves. Mr. Werner, farewell. May the occupation which you have chosen preserve your joyful confidence in your time and your generation for as many years as I bear on my head. This highest happiness of man, I, an insignificant individual, have painfully felt the want of, as did your great Roman."

"Allow me, your Excellency, to express one request to you," replied the Scholar, with warm feeling. "Often may the unpractical activity of the new apostles evoke a bitter smile from you, and the unfinished work which we pioneers of learning throw off will not always satisfy the demands which you make upon us; but when you are compelled to blame us, remember, with forbearance, that our nation can only bear within it the guaranty of renewing youth so long as it does not lose respect for intellectual aspiration, and retains its simple honesty, in love and hate. So long as the nation renews itself, it may inspire its princes and leaders with new life; for we are not Romans, but staunch and warm-hearted Germans."

"Nero no longer ventures to burn the apostles of a new doctrine," replied the High Steward, with a sad smile. "May I say something kindly from you to the Sovereign, as far as is compatible with your dignity?"

"I beg you to do so," replied the Professor.

The Professor hastened to take leave of the Princess. She received him in the presence of her ladies and the Marshal. Few words were exchanged. Upon expressing the hope of seeing him soon again at the capital, speech almost forsook her. When he had left the room, she flew up to her library and looked down on the carriage into which the chest was being put. She plucked some flowers which the gardener had placed in her room, and fastened them together with a ribbon.

"His eye looked upon you, and his voice sounded in the narrow halls in which you are passing your life. It was a short dream! No, not a dream, a beautiful picture from a new world."

"As the womanly heart submits, in loving devotion, to the stronger mind of a life-companion, her eye fixed upon his, such is the happiness of which I have had a presage. Only once has my hand touched his, but I feel as if I had lain on his heart, invisible, bodiless. No one knows it, not even himself, I alone felt the happiness. Light, airy bond, woven of the tenderest threads that ever were drawn from one human soul to another, thou must be torn and blown away! Only the consciousness remains that the inclination which drew two strangers together has been forever a blessing to one of them.

"You, earnest man, go on your path, and I on mine; and if accident should bring us together, then we shall bow civilly to each other, and greet one another with courtly speeches. Farewell, my scholar. When I meet with one of your associates, I shall henceforth know that he belongs to the silent community, in whose porch I have humbly bowed my head."

From the tops of the trees on which the princely child was looking down the birds were singing. The carriage rolled away; she bent down, and held the nosegay with outstretched hand; then with a powerful swing she threw the flowers on to the top of a tree; they hung among the leaves; a little bird flew out, but the next moment he again perched by the nosegay, and continued his song. But the Princess leaned her head against the wall of the tower.

The Scholar drove to the city with the chest he had found beside him. More rapid and stormy than on his coming were the thoughts that flitted through his soul; he hastened the coachman, and an indefinite anxiety fixed his looks on the rising towers of the capital. But amidst all, he ever saw the figure of the High Steward before him, and heard the sorrowful words of his soft voice.

"Immeasurably great is the difference between the narrow relations of this Court and the mighty greatness of Imperial Rome; immeasurably great also the difference between the troubled Court lord and the gloomy power of a Roman senator. And yet there is something in the structure of the soul that has this day displayed itself to me which reminds me of a figure from a time long past; and what he said sounds in my soul like a feeble tone from the heart of the man whose work I seek in vain. For just as we endeavor to explain the present from the past, so do we interpret circumstances and figures of a past time in the light of the men that live around us. The past unceasingly sends its spirit into our souls, and we unceasingly adapt the past to conform to the needs of our hearts."

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE MAGISTER'S EXIT

Professor Raschke was sitting on the floor of his room. The bright colors of his Turkish dressing-gown were faded; constant perseverance in scientific service had given it a tinge of pale grey, but it still continued worthily to cover the limbs of its master. The Professor had seated himself by the side of his eldest son Marcus, in order to facilitate the latter's study of the first book of A, B, C. While the little one, tired of the pictures, was resting, his father made use of the pause to draw a small copy of Aristotle out of his pocket. He read, and made remarks with a pencil, not observing that his son Marcus had long thrown away the picture book, and with the other children danced round their father.

"Papa, take your legs away; we can't get round them," exclaimed Bertha, the eldest, from whom, indeed, one might have expected greater discretion.

Raschke drew in his legs, and as after that he found his seat uncomfortable, he desired the children to bring him a chair. They brought the chair, and he supported his back against it.

"We can't get around yet," cried the dancing children.

Raschke looked up. "Then I will sit upon the chair."

That was satisfactory to the children, and the noisy hubbub continued.

"Come here, Bertha," said Raschke; "you may act as my desk." He laid the book on her head whilst he read and wrote; and the little one stood as still as a mouse under the book, and scolded the others because they made a noise.

There was a knock; the Doctor entered.

"Ha, Fritz!" called out the Professor; "I hardly recognized you; I must try to recall your face. Is it right to set your friends aside in this way, when a friendly greeting might do you good? Laura has told me what has happened to your dear father. A heavy loss," he continued, sorrowfully: "if I am not mistaken, two hundred thousand."

"Just one cipher too much."

"It matters little," replied Raschke, "what the loss is, compared with the sorrow it occasions. I should have been with you, Fritz, at that time. I started immediately, but a circumstance interfered with my intention," he added, embarrassed. "I have long been accustomed to go to your street in the evening, and-well-I got to the wrong house, and with difficulty found my way back to the lecture."

"Do not pity me," replied the Doctor; "rejoice with me-I am a happy man. I have just now found, what I despaired of obtaining, Laura's heart and the consent of her father."

Raschke clapped the Doctor on the shoulder, and pressed first one hand, then the other. "The father's!" he exclaimed; "he was the hindrance. I know something of him, and I know his dog. If I may judge of the man by his dog," he continued, doubtingly, "he must be a character. Is it not so, my friend?"

The Doctor laughed. "There has been an old enmity brooding over our street. My poor soul has been unkindly treated by him, like the Psyche in the tale of Venus. He vents his anger upon me, and gives me insoluble tasks. But beneath all his insolence, I perceive that he is reconciled to my attachment. I anticipate happiness, for I am to-day to accompany Laura to Bielstein. On my friend's account alone have I wished to start earlier on this journey. I cannot rid myself of one anxiety. I am disturbed that the Magister is in the neighborhood of Werner."

Raschke passed his hand through his hair. "Indeed," he exclaimed.

"I have distinct reasons for this," continued the Doctor. "The dealer who was said, to have brought the forged parchment strip of Struvelius to the city was sent to me by the mother of the Magister. I dealt severely with him, as was natural; but he assured me that he knew nothing of such a parchment, and never had sold such a sheet to the Magister. The anger of the man at the false assertion of the Magister has made me very anxious. It confirms a suspicion that I have expressed in a letter with respect to the genuineness of another piece of writing which has been mentioned to me by Werner from the capital. I cannot help fearing that the Magister himself was the forger, and a terror comes over me at the thought that he is now exercising his art upon our friend."

"That is a very serious affair," exclaimed Raschke, pacing up and down, disquieted. "Werner trusted the Magister implicitly."

The Doctor also paced up and down. "Only think, if his noble confidence should make him the victim of a deceit. Fancy what a bitter sorrow that would be to him. He would long struggle sternly and self-tormentingly with a painful impression, which we should not be able to obliterate without great effort."

"You are quite right," said Raschke, again passing his hand through his hair. "It is not in him to be able to overcome moral delinquency without great excitement. You must warn him at once, and that face to face."

"Unfortunately I cannot do that for several days; meanwhile, I beg of you to make Professor Struvelius acquainted with the statement of the dealer."

The Doctor went away. Raschke forgot Aristotle, and meditated anxiously on the treachery of the Magister. Whilst so doing, there was a knock, and Struvelius, with Flaminia, stood at the open door.