PHILOPENA.
One evening Ilse had placed the last remaining dainties of the holiday season on the table; Laura was rattling an uncracked almond, and asked the Doctor whence arose the time-honored custom of Philopena. The Doctor doubted the antiquity of the custom and could not explain its origin at the moment, but he was evidently perplexed at his uncertainty in the matter. Thus, he neglected to request the mutual pledge of the double almond. Laura cracked the shell and carelessly laid two almonds between him and herself, saying: "There they are."
"Shall we share them?" cried the Doctor, gaily.
"If you like," replied Laura, "giving and taking, as is usually done. But it must be only in joke," she added, thinking of her father; "and no presents."
Both ate the almonds with the laudable intention of losing the game. The consequence was that the affair did not advance. Laura, in the course of the following week, handed books, tea-cups, and plates of meat to the Doctor. He was dumb as a stick, and never said, "I am thinking of it." Had he forgotten the agreement, or was it his usual chivalry? But Laura could not remind him of his forgetfulness, otherwise she would win the philopena. She again became very angry with him.
"The learned gentleman does not hand anything to me," she said, to Ilse; "he treats me as if I were a stick."
"It must be unintentional," replied Ilse; "he has forgotten it long ago."
"Of course," cried Laura; "he has no memory for a pretty joke with such an insignificant person as I am."
"Make an end of it," advised Ilse; "just remind him of it."
It so happened that the Doctor, on one occasion, could not avoid picking up a pair of scissors, and handing them to her.
"I am thinking of it," said Laura; and added, pertly, "that's more than you do."
After that she offered the Doctor the sugar-bowl; the Doctor took a piece of sugar out civilly, but was silent.
"Good morning, philopena," she cried, contemptuously.
The Doctor laughed, and declared himself vanquished.
"It is not very nice of you," continued Laura, eagerly, "to have cared so little about your philopena. I will never eat one with you again; there is no honor in winning from gentlemen who are so absentminded."
Shortly after, the Doctor handed her a small printed book in beautiful binding. On the first page there was written, "For Miss Laura," and on the second, "The Origin of Philopena; a Tale." It was the history of the beautiful daughter of a king, who liked to crack and eat nuts, but would not marry; she accordingly invented the following stratagem. She presented to every prince who sought her hand--and they were countless--the half of a double almond, and she ate the other half. Then she said; "If now your Highness can compel me to take something out of your hand without saying the words, 'I am thinking of it,' I shall consent to marry you; but if I can induce your Highness to take something from my hand without saying these words, your Highness shall have your princely head shaven and forthwith leave my country." But there was a trick in the fulfillment of this contract; for according to the customs of the court no one could put anything into the beautiful Princess's own hand on pain of death, but he must give it to the lady-in-waiting and she would hand it to the Princess. But if the Princess herself chose to take or hand something, who could prevent her? Thus it became a bitter pleasure for the wooers. For however much they might endeavor to induce the Princess to take something out of their hands without the intervention of the lady-in-waiting, the latter always interposed and spoilt their best-laid plans. But when the Princess wished to get rid of a suitor, she was so gracious to him for a whole day that he was quite enchanted; and when he sat next to her, and was already intoxicated with joy, she took, as if by accident, something that was near her,--a pomegranate, or an egg,--and said, softly, "Keep this in remembrance of me." As soon as the Prince took the thing in his hand, and perhaps was preparing to say the saving words, the thing burst asunder, and a frog, a hornet, or a bat, flew out towards his hair, so that he drew back frightened, and, in his fear, forgot the words; whereat he was shaven on the spot, and sent about his business.
Thus years had passed, and in all the kingdoms roundabout, the princes wore wigs,--these have since become fashionable. Then it happened that the son of a foreign king, while traveling upon some business of his own, by accident saw the almond-queen. He thought her beautiful, and at the same he took note of the artifice that had ruined the hopes of her former suitors. Now a little grey dwarf in whose favor he stood, had given him an apple, at which he might smell once every year, and then a clever idea would occur to him. He had, therefore, become very famous amongst all kings on account of his clever ideas. Now the time of the apple had come; he smelt, and at once this bright thought came to him: "If you would win the game of giving and taking, you must under no conditions either give anything to her or take anything from her." And so he had his hands firmly bound in his girdle, went with his Marshal to court, and said he also would be glad to eat an almond. The Princess was much pleased with him, and had the almond handed to him. His Marshal took it and put it in his mouth. Then the Princess inquired what that meant, and why he always carried his hands in his girdle. He answered that his Court customs were even stricter than hers; and he must not take or give anything with his hands, but only with his feet or head. The Princess laughed, and said:
"In this way we can never manage our game!"
He shrugged his shoulders and answered:
"Only in case you will condescend to take things from my boots."
"That can never be," cried the Court in chorus.
"Then why did you come here?" exclaimed the Princess, vexed, "if you have such stupid customs?"
"Because you are so beautiful," returned the Prince; "and if I cannot win you I can yet look upon you."
"I can say nothing against that," answered the Princess.
So the Prince remained at Court, and came to please her more and more. But as she too was of a mischievous disposition, she endeavored in every way to mislead him and persuade him to draw his hand out of his girdle and take something from her. She conversed much with him, and made him presents of flowers, bonbons, and smelling-bottles, and at last even of her bracelet. Many times his hands twitched, but he felt the pressure of the belt and recollected himself, nodded to the Marshal who collected the things, and said:
"We think of it."
Now the Princess became impatient, and so one day she began after this fashion:
"My handkerchief has fallen down; could your Highness pick it up for me?"
The Prince took the handkerchief by the ends of his toes and waved it; the Princess bent down, took the handkerchief from his feet, and cried out, angrily:
"I am thinking of it."
A year had passed thus, and the Princess said to herself, "It cannot continue so; an end must be made of the affair, in one way or the other." So she began thus to the Prince:
"I have the loveliest garden in the world, which I will show your Highness to-morrow."
The Prince smelt at his apple again. When they came to the garden the Prince began:
"It is wonderfully beautiful here; that we may be able to walk together in peace, and not be disturbed by our game, I beg, my dear Princess, that you will adopt my Court custom, if only for an hour, and allow your hands to be bound. Then we shall be sure of each other, and nothing vexatious can happen to us."
This did not please the Princess, but he entreated and she could not refuse him this trifle. Thus they walked together, with their hands bound in their girdles. The birds sang, the sun shone warm, and from the branches the red cherries hung down almost touching their cheeks. The Princess looked up at the cherries, and exclaimed:
"What a pity it is that your Highness cannot pluck some of them for me."
The Prince answered, "Necessity is the mother of invention;" and seizing a cherry with his mouth he offered it to the Princess. Nothing remains for her but to put her mouth to his in order to take the cherry, and when she had the fruit between her lips, and a kiss from him in addition, she could not at the moment say, "I am thinking of it."
Then he exclaimed, aloud, "Good morning, Philopena," drew his hands out of his girdle and embraced her; they were of course married and if they have not since died, they still live together in peace and happiness.
This story the Doctor had written and caused to be printed especially for Laura, so that no one else could have the book.
Laura carried the book to her private room, looked with pride on her name in print, and repeatedly read the foolish little story. She walked to and fro reflecting; and when she thus considered her relations with Fritz Hahn, she could not feel easy in her conscience. From her childhood she had been under obligations to him; he had always been good and kind to her; and she, and still more her father, had always caused him vexation. She thought penitently of all the past, up to the cat's paws; the indefinite feeling she had concerning the "Philopena" was now clear to her; she could not be as unembarrassed as she ought to be, nor as indifferent as she would wish, because she was always under the heavy burden of obligation. "I must come to an understanding with him. Ah! but there is a barrier between him and me,--my father's commands." She revolved in her mind how, without acting against his commands, she could give the Doctor some pleasure. She had ventured something of the kind with the orange-tree; if she could devise anything that would remain unknown to those over the way there would be no danger; no tender relations and no friendship would arise from it, which her father might wish to avoid. She hastened down to Ilse, saying, "My obligations to the Doctor oppress me more than I can express; it is insupportable to feel myself always in his debt. Now I have bethought me of something which will bring this state of things to a conclusion."
"Take good care," replied Ilse, "that the affair is really brought to a conclusion that will stand in the future."
Laura went at once to the Professor, whom she found in his study, and asked in a merry voice if he could not aid her in playing a joke upon her kindhearted, yet unmanageable, neighbor. "He collects all sorts of antiquities," she said, "and I should like to get him something rare that he would like. But nobody must know that I have anything to do with it, himself least of all."
The Professor promised to think of something.
Some time afterwards he placed in Laura's hands a small torn volume, that looked reduced to a pitiful state. "They are single copies of old popular songs," said he, "that at some time or other have been bound together. I hit upon them by a lucky accident. The little book is valuable; to the amateur its worth is beyond proportion greater than the price. Do not be disturbed at its bad appearance. Fritz Will take out the separate songs, and arrange them in order in his collection. I am convinced you could not make him a present that would please him better."
"He shall have it," said Laura, contented, "but he shall suffer for it nevertheless."
It was a fine collection: there were some very rare pieces among them, an entirely unknown edition of the ballad of the unfortunate Knight Tanhäuser, the ballad of the Robber Toss Bowl, and a great many other charming selections. Laura carried the book upstairs, and carefully cut the thread of the bound sheets, which held them loosely together. She then sat down to her writing-table, and commenced an anonymous correspondence, which was made necessary by her father's tyranny, writing the following in a disguised hand: "Dear Doctor, an unknown person sends you this song for your collection; he has thirty more like these, which are intended for you, but only on certain conditions. First, you are to preserve towards every one, whoever it may be, inviolate secrecy in the matter. Secondly, you are to send for every poem another written by yourself, on any subject, addressed to O. W., at the Post-office. Thirdly, if you are willing to agree to this compact, walk past No. 10 Park street, with a flower in your button-hole, about three o'clock in the afternoon on one of the next three days. The sender will be exceedingly gratified if you will enter into this pleasantry. Truly Yours N. N." The song of Robber Toss Bowl was enclosed with this letter.
It was five minutes after nine by the Doctor's watch, which was confirmed by later investigations, when this letter was brought into his room; the barometer was rising; light, feathery clouds fleeted across the sky, and the moon's pale crescent shone forth from among them. The Doctor opened the letter, the green-tinted paper of which contrasted with the old printed sheet, yellow with age, that accompanied it. He unfolded the yellow sheet hastily, and read:
"Stortebecker und Godecke Michael,
De rowten alle beede."
"Godecke Michael and Toks Bowl, Knight,
They fought all day and they fought all night."
There was no doubt it was the original low German text of the famous ballad, which had hitherto been lost to the world, that lay bodily before him. He was as pleased as a child with a Christmas-box. Then he read the letter, and when he came to the end, he read it again. He laughed. It was clearly all a roguish jest. But from whom? His thoughts turned first to Laura, but she had only the evening before treated him with cold contempt. Ilse was not to be thought of, and such playful mischief was very unlike the Professor. What did the house No. 10 mean? The young actress who lived there was said to be a very charming and enterprising young lady. Was it possible she could have any knowledge of folk-songs, and, the Doctor could not help thinking, a tender feeling for himself? The good Fritz chanced to step before the mirror for a moment, and he at once uttered an inward protest against the possibility of such an idea, and, laughing, he went back to his writing-table and to his popular song. He could not enter into the pleasantry, that was clear, but it was a pity. He laid the Robber Toss Bowl aside, and returned to his work. After a time, however, he took it up again. This valuable contribution had been sent to him, at all events, without any humiliating condition; perhaps he might be allowed to keep it. He opened a portfolio of old folk-songs, and placed it in its order as if it had been his own. Having laid the treasure in its proper place, he restored the portfolio to the bookshelf, and thought, it is a matter of indifference where the sheet lies.
In this way the Doctor argued with himself till after dinner. Shortly before three o'clock he came to a decision. If it was only the joke of an intimate acquaintance, he would not spoil it; and if there had been some other motive, it must soon come to light. Meanwhile, he might keep the document, but he would not treat it as his own possession till the right of the sender and his object was clear. He must, in the first place, communicate this view of the case to his unknown friend. After he had made the necessary compromise between his conscience and his love of collecting, he fetched a flower out of his father's conservatory, placed it in his button-hole, and walked out into the street. He looked suspiciously at the windows of the hostile house, but Laura was not to be seen, for she had hid behind the curtains, and snapped her fingers at the success of her jest when she saw the flower in his buttonhole. The Doctor was embarrassed when he came in front of the house appointed. The situation was humiliating, and he repented of his covetousness. He looked at the window of the lower story, and behold! the young actress was standing close to it. He looked at her intelligent countenance and attractive features, took off his hat courteously, and was weak enough to blush; the young lady returned the civility tendered by the well-known son of the neighboring house. The Doctor continued his walk some distance beyond; there appeared to him something strange in this adventure. The presence and greeting of the actress at the window certainly did not appear to be accidental. He could not get rid of his perplexity; only one thing was quite clear to him, he was for the present in possession of the ballad of the Robber Toss Bowl.
As his qualms of conscience did not cease, he debated with himself for two days whether he should enter upon any further interchange of letters; on the third he silenced his remaining scruples. Thirty ballads, very old editions--the temptation was overpowering! He looked up his own attempts in rhyme,--effusions of his own lyrical period,--examined and cast them aside. At last he found an innocent romance which in no manner exposed him; he copied it, and accompanied it by a few lines in which he made it a condition that he should consider himself only the guardian of the songs.
Some days afterwards he received a second packet; it was a priceless monastery ditty, in which the virtues of roast Martinmas goose were celebrated. It was accompanied by a note which contained the encouraging words: "Not bad; keep on."
Again Laura's figure rose before his eyes, and he laughed right heartily at the Martinmas goose. This also was an old edition of which there was no record. This time he selected an ode to Spring from his poems and addressed it, as directed, to O. W.
The Professor was astonished that the Doctor kept silence about the book of ballads, and expressed this to Ilse, who was partly in the secret.
"He is bound not to speak," she said; "she treats him badly. But as it is he, there is no danger in the joke for the bold girl."
But Laura was happy in her game of chess with masked moves. She put the Doctor's poem carefully into her private album, and she thought that the Hahn poetry was not so bad after all; nay, it was admirable. But even more gratifying to her sportiveness than the correspondence, was the thought that the Doctor was to be forced into a little affair of sentiment with the actress. When she met him again at Ilse's, and one of those present was extolling the talent of the young lady, she spoke without embarrassment, and without turning to the Doctor, of the curious whims of the actress, that once, when an admirer, whom she did not like, had proposed to serenade her, she had placed her little dog at the window with a night-cap on, and that she had a decided preference for the company of strolling apprentices, and could converse with them in the most masterly way in the dialect of her province.
The unsuspecting Doctor began to reflect. Was it then really the actress who, without his knowing it, was in correspondence with him?
This gave Fritz a certain tacit respect for the lady.
Once when Laura was sitting with her mother at the play watching the actress, she perceived Fritz Hahn in the box opposite. She observed that he was looking fixedly through his opera-glass at the stage, and sometimes broke out in loud applause. She had evidently succeeded in putting him upon the wrong track.
Meanwhile he discovered that the unknown correspondent knew more than how to write addresses. Laura had looked through the songs and studied the text of the old poem of the Knight Tanhäuser, who had lingered with Venus in the mountain, and she sent the ballad with the following lines:--
"While reading through this song I was overcome with emotion and horror at the meaning of the old poetry. What, in the opinion of the poet, became of the soul of poor Tanhäuser? He had broken away from Venus, and had returned penitent to the Christian faith; and when the stern Pope said to him, 'It is as little possible for you to be saved as for the staff that I hold in my hand to turn green,' he returned to Venus and her mountain in proud despair. But afterwards the staff in the hands of the Pope did turn green, and it was in vain that he sent his messengers to fetch the knight back. What was the singer's view of Tanhäuser's return to evil? Would the 'Eternal love and mercy' still forgive the poor man, although he had for the second time surrendered himself up to the temptress? Was the old poet so liberal-minded that he considered the return to the heathen woman as pardonable? Or is Tanhäuser now, in his eyes, eternally lost? and was the green staff only to show that the Pope was to bear the blame? I should be glad to hear your explanation of this. I think the poem very beautiful and touching, and, when one thoroughly enters into its spirit, there is powerful poetry in the simple words. But I feel much disturbed about the fate of Tanhäuser. Your N. N."
The Doctor answered immediately:
"It is sometimes difficult, from the deep feeling and terse expressions of olden poetry, to understand the fundamental idea of the poet; and most difficult of all in a poem which has been handed down for centuries by popular tradition, and in which changes in the words and meaning must certainly have taken place. The first idea of the song, that mortals dwell in the mountains with the old heathen gods rests on a notion which originated in ancient times. The idea that the God of Christians is more merciful than his representative on earth has been rooted in Germany since the time of the Hohenstaufens. One may refer the origin of the poem to that period. It probably attained the form in which it is now handed down to us, about the middle of the fifteenth century, when the opposition to the hierarchy in Germany was general, both among high and low. The grand idea of this opposition was that the priests cannot forgive sins, and that only repentance, atonement, and elevation of the heart to God can avail. The copy which you have so kindly sent me, is of the early period of Luther, but we know that the song is older, and we possess various texts, in some of which it is more prominently set forth that Tanhäuser after his second fall might still trust in the divine mercy. But undoubtedly in the text you have sent me the singer considers poor Tanhäuser as lost if he did not liberate himself from the power of Venus, but that he might be saved if he did. According to popular tradition he remained with her. The great and elevating thought that man may shake off the trammels of past sin may be discovered in this poem, the poetical value of which I place as high as you do."
When Laura received this answer,--Gabriel was again her confidential messenger,--she jumped up with joy from her writing-table. She had with Ilse grieved over poor Tanhäuser, and given her friend a copy of the poem; now she ran down to her with the Doctor's letter, proud that, by means of a childish joke, at which Ilse had shaken her head, she had entered into a learned discussion. From this day the secret correspondence attained an importance for both Laura and Fritz which they had little thought of in the beginning; for Laura now ventured, when she could not satisfy herself on any subject, or took a secret interest in anything, to impart to her neighbor thoughts which hitherto had been confined to her writing-table, and the Doctor discovered with astonishment and pleasure a female mind of strong and original cast, which sought to obtain clear views from him, and unfolded itself to him with unusual confidence. These feelings might be discovered in his poems, which were no longer taken out of the portfolio, but assumed a more personal character. Laura's eyes moistened as she read the pages in which he expressed in verse his anxiety and impatience to become acquainted with his unknown correspondent. The feeling evinced in his lines was so pure, and one saw in them the good and refined character of the man so clearly that one could not fail to place full confidence in him. The old popular songs, in the first instance the main object, became gradually only the accompaniments of the secret correspondence, and the wings of Laura's enthusiastic soul soared over golden clouds, whilst Mr. Hummel growled below and Mr. Hahn suspiciously awaited fresh attacks from the enemy.
But this poetical relation with the neighbor's son, which had been established by Laura's enterprising spirit, was exposed to the same danger that threatens all poetic moods--of being at any moment destroyed by rude reality. The Doctor was never to know that she was his correspondent,--the daughter of the enemy whom he daily met, the childish girl who quarreled with him in Ilse's room about bread and butter and almonds. When they met, he was always as before the Doctor with the spectacles, and she the little snappish Hummel, who had more of her father's ill manners than Gabriel would admit. The sulking and teasing between them went on every day as formerly. Nevertheless, it was inevitable that a warm feeling should sometimes beam in Laura's eyes, and that the friendly disposition with which she really regarded the Doctor should sometimes be betrayed in a passing word. Fritz, therefore, labored under an uncertainty over which he secretly laughed, but which, nevertheless, tormented him. When he received the well-disguised handwriting he always saw Laura before him; but when he met his neighbor at his friend's she succeeded, by mocking remarks and shy reserve, in perplexing him again. Necessity compelled her to this coquetry, but it acted upon him each time like a cold blast; and then it struck him, it can not be Laura,--is it the actress?
There was general astonishment at the tea-table when the Doctor once hinted that he had been invited to a masked ball, and was not averse to attending the noisy gathering. The ball was given by a large circle of distinguished citizens, to which Mr. Hummel belonged. The peculiarity of this party was that the chief actors of the city were admitted as welcome guests. As the Doctor had hitherto never shown any inclination for this kind of social entertainment, the Professor was astonished. Laura alone guessed the cause, but all received the announcement of this unusual intended dissipation with silent pleasure.
Mr. Hummel was not of the opinion that a masked ball was the place where the worth of a German citizen was shown to greatest advantage. He had unwillingly yielded to the coaxing of the ladies in his family, and was now seen standing among the masks in the ball-room. He had thrown the little black domino carelessly about his back like a priest's mantle; his hat was pressed down over his eyes; the silk fringe of the mask overshadowed his face on all sides, which was as unmistakable as a full moon behind thin clouds. He looked mockingly on the throng of masks that streamed past him, somewhat less comfortable and more silent than they would have been without masks and colored coats. Obnoxious to him more than all were the harlequins scattered about, who, at the beginning of the festival, affected an extravagance of conduct which was not natural to them. Mr. Hummel had good eyes, but it happened to him, as to others, that he was not able to recognize every one who was masked. All the world knew him, however. Some one tugged at his clothes.
"How is your dog Spitehahn?" asked a gentleman in rococo dress, bowing to him.
Hummel bowed in return. "Thanks for your kind inquiry. I would have brought him for a bite of the calves of your legs if you had been provided with that article."
"Does this kind of a Hummel-bee sting?" asked a green domino, in a falsetto voice.
"Spare your remarks," replied Hummel, angrily; "your voice is fast changing into a woman's. I quite pity your family."
He moved on.
"Will you buy a pack of hareskins, brother Hummel?" asked a wandering pedlar.
"I thank you, brother," replied Hummel, fiercely; "you may let me have the ass's skin that your wife tore from your face in your last quarrel."
"There's the rough felt of our city," cried, pertly, a little clown, as he gave Mr. Hummel a blow upon the stomach with his wand.
This was too much for Mr. Hummel: he seized the diminutive clown by the collar, took his wand away from him, and held the refractory little fellow on his knee. "Wait, my son," he cried; "you'll wish you had a rough felt in another place than on your head."
But a burly Turk caught him by the arm. "Sir, how can you dare to lay hold of my son in this manner?"
"Is this chattel yours?" returned Hummel, furiously; "your blotting-paper physiognomy is unknown to me. If you, as Turk, devote yourself to the rearing of ill-mannered buffoons, you must expect to see Turkish bamboo on their backs, that is a principle of international law. If you do not understand this you may come to me to-morrow morning at my office; I will make the thing clear to you, and hand over to you a bill for the watch-crystal that this creature from your harem has broken for me."
Thereupon he threw the clown into the arms of the Turk, and the wand on the ground, and clumsily made his way through the masks who surrounded him.
"There is not a human soul among them," he growled; "one feels like Robinson Crusoe among the savages." He moved about the ball-room utterly regardless of the white shoulders and bright eyes that danced about him, and again disappeared. At last he caught sight of two grey bats whom he thought he knew, for it appeared to him that the masks were his wife and daughter. He went up to them, but they avoided him and mixed in the throng. They were undoubtedly of his party, but they intended to remain unknown, and they knew that would be impossible if Mr. Hummel was with them. The forsaken man turned and went into the next room, seated himself in solitude at an empty table, took his mask off, ordered a bottle of wine, asked for the daily paper, and lighted a cigar.
"Pardon me, Mr. Hummel," said a little waiter; "no smoking here!"
"You too," replied Mr. Hummel, gloomily. "You see there is smoking here. This is my way of masquerading. Matters are becoming wearisome. Every vestige of humanity and all consideration for others is being trodden under foot to-day; and that is what they call a bal masqué."
Meanwhile Laura slipped about among the masks, looking for the Doctor. Fritz Hahn could easily be discovered by sharp eyes, for he wore his spectacles over his mask. He was standing in a blue domino, near an elegant lady in a red mantle. Laura pressed up to him. Fritz was writing something in the hand of the lady, most likely her name, for she nodded carelessly; then he wrote again in her hand, pointing to himself. Probably it was his own name, for the lady nodded, and Laura thought that she could see under her veil that she was laughing. Laura heard the Doctor speaking to the lady of a rôle in which he had lately seen her on the stage, and he addressed her with the familiar "thou." That was, indeed, the privilege of a masquerade ball, but it was entirely unnecessary. The Doctor expressed his pleasure that in the balcony scene the lady had so well understood how to represent the glowing feeling of passion in such difficult metre. The red mantle became attentive, and, turning to the Doctor, began to speak of the rôle she had taken. The lady spoke for some time, and then Doctor Romeo would continue still longer. The actress stepped back some steps into the shadow of a pillar; the Doctor followed her, and Laura saw that the red mantle curtly answered some other male masks, and again turned to the Doctor. At last the actress seated herself quite behind the pillar, where she was little seen by strangers, and the Doctor stood near her, leaning against it, and continuing the conversation. Laura, who had also placed herself near the pillar, heard how animated it was. The subject was passion. Now it was not the passion which one felt for the other, but that of the stage; but even that was more than a friend of the Doctor could approve of.
Laura stepped hastily forward, placed herself near Fritz Hahn, and raised her finger warningly. The Doctor looked astonished at the bat, and shrugged his shoulders. Then she seized his hand, and wrote his name in it. The Doctor made a bow, upon which she held out her hand. How could he know her in that disfiguring disguise? He gave decided proof of his ignorance, and turned again to the lady in the red mantle. Laura stepped back, and colored up to her temples under the mask. It was in anger with herself, for she was the unfortunate one who had brought him into this danger: and moreover she had come in such a disguise that he could not recognize her.
She returned to her mother, who had at last been fortunate enough to find a companion in Laura's godmother, and had got into the corner of the room in order to exchange observations on the bodily development of the baptized little Fritz. Laura placed herself next her mother, and looked at the dancing masks with indifference. Suddenly she sprang up, for Fritz Hahn was dancing with the lady in the red mantle. Was it possible? He had long abjured dancing. More than once he had ridiculed Laura for her pleasure in it; even she herself had at times, when sitting before her private journal, thought how childish this monotonous whirling movement was, and how incompatible with a nobler conception of life;--now he was turning himself round like a top.
"What do I see?" cried her mother; "is not that ----? and the red one is ----"
"It is immaterial with whom he dances," interrupted Laura, in order to avoid hearing the hated confirmation of it. But she knew Fritz Hahn, and she was aware there was some signification in this waltz. Juliet pleased him much, otherwise he would never have done it; he had never shown her this mark of distinction. The old comedian of the city theatre approached them as Pantaloon; he had at last found out the two influential ladies; he tripped up to them, made grotesque obeisances, and began to amuse her mamma with his gossip. One of his first remarks was, "It is said that young Hahn will go upon the stage; he is studying his rôle as lover with our prima-donna."
Laura turned with annoyance from the flat remark. Her last hope was the time of unmasking; she impatiently awaited the moment. At last there was a pause, and the masks were removed. She took her mother's arm to go through the room to greet their acquaintances. It seemed a long time before she got into the neighborhood of Fritz Hahn, and not once did he look at her. Laura made a movement with her hand to touch him gently; but she pressed her fingers firmly, and passed by fixing her eyes upon him. Now at last he recognized her, as he ought to have done long before. She saw the look of pleasure in his countenance, and her heart became lighter. She stopped while he exchanged some civil sentences with her mother, and she expected that he would acknowledge that she had already greeted him, but he did not mention a word of the occurrence. Had so many written in his hand that he could not bear in mind one poor little bat? When he turned to her he only praised the ball music. This was all the notice he thought her worthy of. His conversation with Juliet had been the free interchange of mind, but to her he only addressed a few indifferent sentences. Her countenance assumed the gloomy Hummel look, as she answered, "You used to have little sympathy for the jingling instrument to which the puppets dance."
The Doctor looked embarrassed, but laughed, and asked her for the next dance. This was bad tact. Laura answered bitterly, "When the grey bat was so bold as to flutter about Romeo, he had no dance free for her; now her eyes are blinded by the bright light." She bowed her head like a queen, took her mother's arm, and left him behind.
What followed was still more aggravating. The Doctor danced once more with the lady in the mantle. Laura observed how fascinatingly she smiled on him, and he danced with no one else. Of her he took no further notice, and she was glad when soon after Mr. Hummel came up to them and said: "It was difficult to find you. When I inquired of the people for the two ugliest disguises, you were pointed out to me. I shall be glad if to-morrow morning you awake without headache. We have had enough of pleasure today."
Laura was glad when the carriage arrived at home; she rushed up to her room, hastily took her book out of the drawer, and wrote rapidly:
"Cursed be my deed and cursed all sinful art;
My own true happiness is now at stake
A troup of enemies surrounds my heart,
Which bleeding from so deadly wounds will break."
she wiped away the tears which rolled upon her paper.
The bright light of the following morning exercised its tranquilizing influence on her fluttering thoughts. Over there Fritz Hahn was still lying in his bed. The good youth had tired himself yesterday. Many drops of water might still flow into the sea before friend Fritz would determine to unite his fate with an actress of tragedy. She brought out her supply of old ballads and selected one; it was a very jolly one: the May-Bug's Marriage--in which the may-bug on the hedge asks in marriage the young maiden fly. Many little birds occupy themselves seriously about the wedding, but at last it is put an end to by some disreputable conduct on the part of the bridegroom.
"Good," said Laura; "my May-Bug Fritz, before you marry the frivolous fly Juliet, other birds shall have their say about it."
She folded up the song, and added to it a little note: "You guess wrongly. The person who sends this to you never was Juliet." As she closed the letter she said to herself, with more composure: "If he does not now perceive that he was mistaken, one cannot think much of his judgment."
The Doctor was sitting a little stupefied over his books, when his eye fell upon the above letter. He cast a look upon the Marriage of the May-Bug; he had never yet come across an old copy of it, and in rapidly glancing over it he saw that many verses were quite different from our current text. Then he took the note, and endeavored to interpret the oracle. Now it was clear that the actress was the sender, for who else could know that he had accosted her as Juliet, and that they had conversed long about this rôle. But what could the words mean, "You guess wrongly?" But even on this point his eyes were blinded; he had maintained that the representation of passion could only be to a certain extent attained by an actor, if he had never in his life experienced a similar feeling. This the actress denied, and they had endeavored to come to an agreement about it; her words, therefore, clearly meant that she had impersonated Juliet without ever having previously felt a great passion. This was a confession that showed great confidence--nay, perhaps still more. The Doctor sat long looking at the note; but he now felt pretty sure who his correspondent was, and the discovery did not give him pleasure. For when he had reasoned the matter out upon rational grounds, it had always been Laura's eyes that beamed upon him from the paper, though undoubtedly quite another look from that which she had favored him with yesterday. He laid the May-Bug Marriage with the other songs, and again asked himself whether he ought to continue the correspondence. At last he sealed in answer one of the worthless trifles of his portfolio, and did not write anything in addition.
Some days after, when the Professor and Ilse were walking through the streets, they passed by the dwelling of the actress; both saw their friend standing at the window of the heroine, and he nodded to them from within.
"How has he made this acquaintance?" asked the Professor; "is not the young lady considered very fast?"
"I fear so," answered Ilse, troubled.
Now Mrs. Knips (who dwelt opposite to the actress) came running in to Madame Hummel one day with the linen still damp, and told her that on the previous evening a great basket of champagne had been taken to the actress's house, and that in the night the loud singing of a dissolute company had been heard over the whole street, and that young Doctor Hahn had been among them!
On Sunday the comedian had been invited to dinner at Mr. Hummel's, and one of his first anecdotes was concerning a jovial party which had taken place at the actress's. With the malice which is often to be found in fellow-artists towards each other, he added, "She has found a new admirer, the son of your neighbor over the way. Well! the father's money will at least come to the support of art." Mr. Hummel opened his eyes and shook his head, but only said, "So Fritz Hahn too has gone among the actors and become dissipated: he is the last one that I should have suspected of this."
Mrs. Hummel endeavored to bring to mind her recollections of the ball, and found in them a sorrowful confirmation of this, but Laura, who had been sitting very pale and silent, broke forth vehemently to the actor:
"I will not suffer you to speak of the Doctor in such a tone at our table. We are well enough acquainted with him to know that he is in conduct and principles a noble man. He is master of his own actions, and if he likes the lady and visits her at times, a third person has no right to say anything in the matter whatever. It is a malicious calumny to say that he goes there with any dishonorable intentions, and spends money that does not belong to him."
The comedian, through fright, got a crumb of bread in his wind-pipe, and burst out in the most violent fit of coughing that had ever seized him, but the mother, in excuse of their pleasant visitor, replied:
"You have sometimes felt yourself, that the conduct of the Doctor was not quite the thing."
"If I have said anything of the kind in foolish ill temper," cried Laura, "it was an injustice, and I am very sorry for it; I have only the excuse that I never meant it ill-naturedly. But from others I will hear no slanderous talk about our neighbor." She rose from table and left the room. The actor vindicated himself to the mother, but Mr. Hummel grasped his wine-glass and, peering after his daughter, said:
"On a gloomy day she is scarcely to be distinguished from me."
The Doctor was little troubled about his own misdeeds. He had paid a visit to his partner after the ball, the occasion on which he had been seen at the window. One of his school friends, now second tenor at the theatre, had come and arranged with the actress to have a little picnic on her approaching birthday, and Fritz had been invited to take part in it. It was a merry gathering, and the Doctor had found much entertainment among the light-winged birds of the stage, and had rejoiced with the benevolence of a wise man at the good tact which was visible amidst the easy style of their intercourse. There had also been much intelligent conversation in the course of the evening, and he went home with the impression that even for a person like himself it was good to be for once associated with these lively artists. He had endeavored that same evening, by a stratagem, to ascertain his unknown correspondent. When they were singing songs, and with lively grace reciting comic verses, he had produced the May-bug song and had begun to sing it:
"The May-bug sat on the hedge, brum, brum;
The fly sat beneath him, hum, hum hum."
Some had joined in it; the lady in the mantle did not know the song, however, but only a similar one from an old rôle; and when the bass took up the melody from the Doctor, and in the following verses portrayed each of the birds as they entered by gestures and comic changes of the melody, the hostess laughed, and without any embarrassment undertook to learn the song, so that the Doctor again became very doubtful, and on returning home remained standing on the threshold and looked significantly at the house of Mr. Hummel. If any one had accurately investigated why, after this May-bug song, the Doctor became noisy and gay like the others, he would perhaps have discovered that the unembarrassed air of the actress had lifted a load from his heart.
But this helped him little with respect to the "brum" and "hum" of the neighbors. All Park Street had latterly accorded to their Fritz Hahn the highest respect; his picture had been placed among the serious men of learning in their albums, whom they daily contemplated and spoke of. Now strange features had appeared in the well-known face, and the street could not bear that one of their children should appear otherwise than he had been wont to do. Therefore there was much whispering and shaking of heads, and this came to the knowledge of Mr. and Mrs. Hahn, and, finally, to the Doctor. He laughed, but he did not feel quite at ease about it.
"Tannhäuser, noble knight and man,
In Venus' wiles thou liest ensnared,
While I, a wicked Pope Urban,
To cause you shame and sorrow dared."
Thus did Laura lament in her room, but she concealed her heavy sorrow, and did not speak a word concerning the danger of the Doctor, even to Ilse; and when the latter once slightly alluded to the new intimacy of their friend, Laura broke the thread of her embroidery, and said, while the blood rushed to her heart:
"Why should not the Doctor visit there? He is a young man for whom it is good to see different people; he stays too much in his room and with his parents. If I had been a man like him, I should long ago have tied up my bundle and gone out into the world, for our narrow field of active life weakens the energies and dwarfs the mind."
At the tea-table one of the company present turned the conversation on the actress, and shrugged his shoulders over her free manners. Laura felt what must be the Doctor's embarrassment; there sat poor Fritz, obliged to listen to the derogatory criticisms--his intimate acquaintances were silent, and looked significantly at him; his position was terrible, for every fool made use of the lady's unprotected position to show himself a Cato.
"I wonder," she said, "that gentlemen should so severely criticise the little freaks of an actress. A lady of that profession should be treated with great consideration, for she is deprived of all the protection and all the pleasure which we have in our families. I am convinced that she is a worthy and sensitive girl."
The Doctor looked thankfully at her and confirmed her opinion. He did not observe it, but it had happened as in his fairy-tale; Laura had bent down to his feet and picked up the pocket-handkerchief.
But she had still more to bear. The month of March began his theatrical pranks in the world; first from his grey clouds he had cast a veil of snow over the landscape; icicles hung from the roofs and white crystals from the trees, and the wild storm howled all around. Suddenly all was transformed. A mild south wind blew, the buds of the trees swelled, and the fresh green made its appearance in the meadow; the children ran about in the woods and carried home large bunches of spring flowers, and people, rejoicing in the change, passed in unceasing pilgrimage through the Park Street out into the sunshine.
Even Mr. Hummel felt the presage of spring. He gave expression to this annually by mixing the colors for his boat, and taking a pleasure walk on a well-chosen afternoon with his wife and daughter to a distant coffee-garden. This festive journey was but an indifferent pleasure for Laura, for Mr. Hummel walked with sturdy step in front of the ladies; he secretly rejoiced in the renewal of old nature, and only occasionally favored his ladies with a remark over his shoulder when he was annoyed at a change in the vegetation. But Laura knew that her father thought much of this March pleasure, and this year, too, she went with her mother behind him to a solitary village, where Mr. Hummel smoked his pipe, fed the hens, scolded the waiter, and talked with the landlord about the crops and gave the sun an opportunity of rejoicing in the healthy appearance of his old friend, Mr. Hummel. Mr. Hummel, who was usually by no means averse to society, loved now to be alone with nature, and hated the place of resort of the citizens in the country, where the aroma of new cakes and fritters destroyed the perfume of nature.
When he entered the coffee-garden with his ladies, he saw with dissatisfaction that other guests were already there. He threw an indignant glance on the gay society which had taken possession of his usual place, and noticed among them the young actress, as well as other members of the theatre, and with them the son of his adversary. Then he turned to his daughter and said, blinking his eyes:
"To-day you will be well satisfied; here you have, besides the enjoyments of nature, those of art."
It was a terribly hard trial to which Laura's courage was subjected; but she raised her head proudly, and passed with her parents to another corner of the garden. There she placed herself with her back to the strangers. Nevertheless, she learnt more of their proceedings than was good for her composure. She heard the sounds of laughter, and the merry hum of the May-bug party; the less she saw of them the more painful was the noise, and every sound was audible in the deep stillness, and her mother's ears and eyes also were intent on the other party. After a time the loud conversation of the artists ceased, and she heard her name spoken in low terms. Immediately afterwards the gravel crunched behind her, and she felt that the Doctor was behind her.
He approached the table, greeted the father silently, made some friendly remarks to the mother about the weather, and was just on the point of turning to Laura with a forced composure that did not escape her, when Mr. Hummel, who had till then silently borne the intrusion of the enemy, took his pipe from his mouth, and began, with gentle voice:
"Is what I hear of you possible, Doctor?--that you wish to change your mode of life?"
Laura plunged her parasol vehemently into the gravel.
"I know nothing of it," replied the Doctor, coolly.
"It is reported," continued Mr. Hummel, "that you intend to say farewell to your books and become a professional actor. If this should be the case, I beg of you to think kindly of my little business. I have every kind of artistic head-gear: for lovers fine beaver, with galoon for lackeys, and if ever you act the punchinello, a white felt hat. But you would rather be called clown, perhaps. That is now the fashionable rôle; buffoons are out of style; one shall address you as Sir Clown."
"I have no intention of going on the stage," replied the Doctor; "but if ever the idea should occur to me, I would not come to you for the artistic work of your manufactory, but for instruction in what you consider good manners. I should then at least know what, in my profession, was not befitting men of breeding."
He bowed to the ladies, and went away.
"Always Humboldt," said Mr. Hummel, looking after him.
Laura did not move, but her dark eyebrows were knit so threateningly that Mr. Hummel could not help perceiving it.
"I am quite of your opinion," he said, pleasantly, to his daughter. "It is a great pity that he is spoilt by belonging to these straw-hat people, but now there is no hope for him."
He then took a bit of cake and offered it to a little poodle that was sitting on its hind legs, begging and moving its paws.
"Billy!" cried a lady's voice through the garden.
The dog Billy, however, did not attend, but continued to show his devotion to Mr. Hummel, who, having a greater tenderness for dogs than for men, was feeding him.
The actress came up hastily.
"I beg of you not to give the naughty animal any cake,--there are almonds in it," said the actress, pushing the dog away.
"A pretty dog," replied Mr. Hummel, sitting down.
"If you only knew how clever he was," said the lady; "he knows all kinds of tricks. Show the gentleman what you have learnt, Billy."
She held her parasol out: Billy sprang lightly over it, and bounded into the lap of Mr. Hummel, where he wagged his tail and attempted to lick the friendly gentleman's face.
"He wants to kiss you," said the actress. "You should be proud of that, for he does not do it to everyone."
"It is not every one who would like it," replied Mr. Hummel, stroking the little fellow.
"Do not be troublesome to the gentleman, Billy," said the lady, reprovingly.
Mr. Hummel arose and presented the dog to her, which would not desist from his attempts to kiss and lick the face of the worthy citizen.
"He is a simple-hearted creature," said Mr. Hummel, "and is the same color as my dog Spitehahn."
The actress fondled the dog in her arms.
"The rogue is very much spoilt; he creeps into my muff when I go to the theatre, and I am obliged to take him with me. I was lately frightened to death on his account; for once, while I was lamenting as Clara among the citizens, Billy had run out of the green-room and, standing between the curtains, began to wag his tail and caper about on his hind legs."
"That must have been very pathetic," said Mrs. Hummel.
"I moved about more than usual," replied the actress, "and at every turn in the scene I had to call out, 'Lie down, Billy.'"
"Excellent," nodded Mr. Hummel; "always presence of mind."
"To-day I am thankful to the naughty little creature, though," continued the actress, "for he has afforded me the opportunity of making the acquaintance of my neighbors. Mr. Hummel, I believe?"
Mr. Hummel bowed awkwardly. The actress turned to the ladies with a bow, and the latter answered her greeting silently.
There was much in the lady that pleased Mr. Hummel. She was pretty, had a gay and cheerful countenance, and wore something on her bonnet with which he was personally acquainted. He therefore moved a chair towards her and said, with another bow:
"Will you not have the kindness to take a seat?"
The actress bowed in accepting it, and, turning to Laura, said:
"I rejoice to be able to approach you at last. You are no stranger to me, and you have often given me great pleasure, and I am glad to be able to-day to thank you for it."
"Where was it?" asked Laura, embarrassed.
"Where you would certainly never have thought of it," replied the other. "I have keen eyes, and over the footlights I observe the face of every spectator. You cannot imagine how painful that is to me sometimes. As you are always in the same seat, it has often been a great pleasure to me to rest my eyes on your features and observe their interested expression; and more than once, without your knowing it, I have acted for you alone."
"Ha!" thought Laura, "it is Venus." But she felt a chord had been struck which gave out a pure tone. She told the actress how unwillingly she missed any of the plays in which she acted, and that in their house the first question, when they received the new bill of the play, was whether the lady was going to act.
This gave the mother an opportunity of entering into the conversation. The actress spoke warmly of the kindness with which she had everywhere been received. "For the greatest charm of our art is the secret friends that we gain by our acting--people whom otherwise one perhaps never sees, whose names one does not know, yet who take an interest in our life. Then, if by accident one becomes acquainted with these kindly strangers, it is a rich compensation for all the sufferings of our vocation, among which the intrusive homage of common persons is perhaps the greatest."
It was clear she could not reckon the homage of the Doctor among these sufferings.
While the ladies were thus talking together, and Mr. Hummel listened with approbation, some gentlemen approached the table. Mrs. Hummel politely greeted the second tenor, who had once sung for her at the godmother's house, and the worthy father of the stage, who knew Mr. Hummel at the club, began a conversation with him concerning the building of a new theatre. On this subject Mr. Hummel had, as a citizen, a very decided opinion, in which the worthy father quite agreed.
In this way the two parties mingled together, and the table of Mr. Hummel became a centre round which the children of Thalia thronged. While the actress was talking with Mrs. Hummel in a very creditable and domestic manner of the inconveniences of her dwelling, Laura glanced at the Doctor. He was standing some steps from the party, leaning against a tree, looking thoughtfully before him. Laura suddenly moved towards him, and began speaking rapidly: "My father has offended you. I beg your forgiveness."
The Doctor looked up. "It does not pain me," said he, kindly; "I know his way."
"I have talked to her," continued Laura, with trembling voice; "she is clever and amiable, and has an irresistible charm of manner."
"Who?" asked the Doctor; "the actress?"
"Do not attempt concealment with me," continued Laura; "that is unnecessary between us; there is no one on earth who wishes for your happiness more than I do. You need not trouble yourself about others shaking their heads; if you are sure of the love of the lady, all the rest is a secondary consideration."
The Doctor became more and more astonished. "But I do not wish to marry the lady."
"Do not deny it, Fritz Hahn; that ill becomes your truthful nature," rejoined Laura passionately; "I see how well the lady suits you. Since I have seen her, I feel convinced that she is capable of appreciating all that is good and great. Do not hesitate, but venture courageously to seek her heart. Yet I am so troubled about you, Fritz. Your feelings are warm and your judgment sound, but you cling too firmly to that which surrounds you. I tremble, therefore, lest you should make yourself unhappy by not deciding at the right moment upon a course which will appear strange to your family. I know you from my early childhood, and I am sure that your danger always has been to forget yourself for others. You might pass a self-sacrificing existence, which I cannot bear to think of. For I desire that all happiness should be your portion, as your upright heart deserves." Tears coursed down her cheeks, as she looked lovingly upon him.
Every word that she spoke sounded to the Doctor like the trilling of a lark and the chirrup of the cricket. He spoke softly to her: "I do not love the lady; I have never thought of uniting her future with mine."
Laura drew back, and a bright color suffused her face.
"It is a passing acquaintance, nothing more either for her or me; her life belongs to art, and can hardly adapt itself to quiet domestic habits. If I could venture to seek a heart for myself, it would not be hers, but that of another." He looked towards the table, from whence at that moment there came a loud laugh, evidently of Mr. Hummel, and spoke the last words so low that they scarcely reached Laura's ear, and he looked sorrowfully down on the buds of the elderbush in which the young blossoms still lay hidden.
Laura stood motionless, as if touched by the wand of a magician, but the tears still continued to flow down her cheeks. She came very near touching to her lips the cherry of her philopena legend.
Then the merry cockchafers hummed round her, the actress nodded smilingly to her, and her father called her:--the fairy tale was at an end. Laura heard the actress say triumphantly to the Doctor, "He offered me a chair, he is no growling bear after all. And he was so kind to Billy."
When Fritz returned home, he threw off his hat and overcoat, rushed to his writing-table, and took up the little letters in the unknown hand. "It is she," he cried, aloud, "fool that I was to doubt it for one moment." He read all the letters again, and nodded at each. It was his own high-minded, noble maiden who had before disguised herself, now she had shown herself to him as she really was. He waited impatiently for the hour when he should meet her at their friend's. She entered late, greeted him quietly, and was more silent and gentle than usual. When she turned to him she spoke seriously, as to a trusted friend. Her quiet composure became her well. Now she showed herself to him as she was, a refined mind full of true enthusiasm. Prudery and sportive moods had only been the shell that, had concealed the sweet kernel. The unassumed caution, too, with which she concealed her feelings among her friends, delighted him. When the next ballad should come, then she would speak to him as she felt, or she would give him permission to write openly to her. The next morning the Doctor counted the minutes till the arrival of the postman. He tore open the door and hastened to meet the man. Fritz received a letter, he broke the cover impatiently, there was not a line from his correspondent; he unfolded the old printed sheet, and read the words of a coarse bacchanalian ditty:
"On the spit with ox and pig,
Clear the green for reel and jig,
Wine and rhyme and wassail-shout,
Pass the flowing bowl about!"
So the honest, simple-minded Doctor asked again: Is it she? or is it possible that it is not?