Читать книгу The Lost Manuscript - Gustav Freytag - Страница 40

"If you like, we will go where you can obtain the best view of our house," said Ilse, to the Professor.

Surrounded by the children they walked along the road that led to the church. A winding footpath ran down to the bottom, where a strip of meadow bordered the bubbling brook. From this deep dell they ascended some hundred steps. Before them rose from the copse a huge rock; they passed round it and stood by a stone grotto. The rock formed the portal and walls of a cave which penetrated about ten paces into the hill. The ground was level, covered with white sand; bramble-bushes and wild roses hung down over the entrance; in the midst of them grew a large bush of willow-rose; it hung with its thick blossoms like a plume of red feathers over the rocky arch of the grotto. The trace of an old wall on the side showed that the cave had once been a refuge either for the oppressed or the lawless; at the entrance lay a stone, the upper surface of which had been smoothed for a seat; in the obscure light of the background stood a stone bench.

"There is our house," said Ilse, pointing over the valley to the height where the gables rose behind the fruit trees of the garden. "It is so near that a loud call would be heard here."

The friends looked from the twilight of the cave into the bright light of day, on the stone house and the trees which stood below it.

"All is quiet in the wood," continued Ilse; "even the voice of the birds has ceased; they have left their nests for the harvest fields, where they congregate in flocks."

"I hear a gentle murmur, like the gurgling of water," said the Professor.

"A stream runs over the stones below," explained Ilse. "Now it is scanty, but in the spring much water collects from the hills. Then the sound of the rushing water becomes loud, and the brook courses wildly over the stones; it covers the meadows below, fills the whole valley, and rises up to the copse-wood. But in warm weather this is a pleasant resting-place for us all. When my father bought the estate the cave was overgrown, the entrance choked up with stones and earth, and it was the abode of owls. He had it opened and cleared."

The Professor examined the cave with curiosity, and struck the red rock with his cane. Ilse standing apart watched him with troubled look. "Now he is beginning his search," she thought.

"It is all old stone," she exclaimed.

The Doctor had been clambering outside the cave with the children. He now freed himself from Hans, who had just confided to him that among the thick alder bushes there was the empty nest of a mountain titmouse.

"This must be a wonderful place for the legends of the country," he exclaimed, with delight; "there cannot be a more charming home for the spirits of the valley."

"People talk absurd stuff about it," rejoined Ilse, with a tone of disapprobation. "They say that little dwarfs dwell here, and that their footsteps can be perceived in the sand, yet the sand was first brought here by my father. Nevertheless, the people are frightened, and when evening comes the women and children of the laborers do not like to pass it. But they conceal this from us, as my father cannot bear superstition."

"The dwarfs are evidently not in favor with you," answered the Doctor.

"As there are none, we ought not to believe in them," replied Ilse, eagerly. "Men ought to believe what the Bible teaches; not in wild beings that, as they say in the village, fly through the wood in the night. Lately an old woman was ill in a neighboring village, no one would bring her any food, and they disgracefully rejoiced in her sickness because they thought the poor woman could change herself into a black cat and injure the cattle. When we first heard of it, the woman was in danger of dying of starvation. This idle talk is therefore wicked."

The Doctor had meanwhile noted down the dwarfs in his note-book; but he looked dissatisfied at Ilse, who, speaking from the dusk in the rear of the cave, resembled a legendary figure.

"She does not object to sly Jacob, who deceived his blind father by putting kid skins on his arms; but our fairy-lore is distasteful to her."

He put his note-book up again and went with Hans after the titmouse.

The Professor had, with amusement, observed the secret vexation of his friend; but Ilse turned to him, saying:

"I am surprised that your friend takes note of such stories; it is not right, such things should be forgotten."

"You know that he himself does not believe in them," answered the Professor, in mitigation. "What he searches for are only the traditions of the people. For these legends originated in a time when our whole nation believed in these spirits, as they do now the teachings of the Bible. He collects these reminiscences in order to ascertain what was the faith and poetry of our ancestors."

The maiden was silent. Then after a time she said:

"This also, then, is connected with your labors."

"It is," replied the Professor.

"It is good to listen to you," continued Ilse, "for your mode of speech is different from ours. Formerly when it was said of any one, he speaks like a book, I thought it was a reproach; but there is no doubt that this is the correct expression, and it gives one pleasure to listen."

Thus saying, with her large open eyes she looked from the interior of the grotto at the Scholar, who stood in the entrance leaning against the stone, brightly lighted up by the rays of the sun.

"There are, however, many books that talk badly," answered the Professor, smiling; "and nothing tires one so much as lengthy book-wisdom from living mouths."

"Yes, yes," acquiesced Ilse. "We have an acquaintance, a learned woman, Mrs. Rollmaus. When she visits us on Sundays, she places herself on the sofa, and begins a discourse with my father. He cannot escape her, turn which way he will, she knows how to pin him down by talking about the English and Circassians, comets and poets. But the children discovered she had a cyclopedia for conversation, from which she gathers it all; and when anything happens in the country, or the newspapers make a noise about anything, she reads in the cyclopedia what bears upon it. We have procured the same book, and when her visit is impending, we think over what subject is then uppermost. Then the children look out and read this beforehand, Saturday evenings; and our father also listens and himself looks at the book, and the next day the children are delighted that father vanquishes the lady by means of her own book; for our book is a newer edition, and has new events in it of which she knows little."

"So Sunday is the time when we can win honors here," said the Professor.

"In winter we meet often during the week," continued Ilse. "But there is not much intercourse in the neighborhood; and if we sometimes chance to have a visitor who leaves some pleasant thoughts behind, we are grateful and preserve them faithfully."

"Yet the best thoughts are those which come to men through their own exertions," said the Professor, kindly. "The little that I have seen on the estate here tells me how beautifully life can thrive, even when far removed from the noisy bustle of the world."

"That was a kindly speech," exclaimed Ilse. "But we are not lonely here; and we do interest ourselves about our countrymen, and about the great world. When the neighboring proprietors come to visit, not a word is said about the farm, and amusing subjects are talked of. Then there is our dear Pastor, who tells us about things in foreign parts, and reads the newspapers that are taken by my father with us. And when there are applications in them for contributions to serve a good object, the children are liberal, and each gives his mite from his savings, but our father gives abundantly. And Hans, as the eldest, collects, and has the right to pack up the money, and in the accompanying letter he sets down the initial of the name of each that has contributed. Then afterwards there comes a printed receipt, when each looks for his own initial. Often a wrong one has been printed, and this vexes the children."

From the distance they heard the cries and laughter of the children, who were returning with the Doctor from their excursion. The girl rose, the Professor approached her, and said with much feeling:

"Whenever my thoughts revert to this day, it will be with a feeling of heartfelt gratitude for the manner in which you have so honestly spoken of your happy life to a stranger."

Ilse looked at him with innocent confidence.

"You are not a stranger to me; for I saw you at the child's grave."

The joyous troop surrounded them both, and they proceeded further into the valley.

It was evening when they returned to the house where the proprietor was already awaiting them. After supper the elders passed another hour together. The strangers gave an account of their tour, and told the last news from the world; and then there was conversation on politics, and Ilse rejoiced that her father and the strangers agreed so well on the subject. When the cuckoo on the house dock proclaimed that it was ten, they separated with a friendly good-night.

The housemaid lighted the strangers to their bedroom. Ilse sat on a chair with her hands folded on her lap, looking silently before her. After a short time the proprietor came from his room and took the bedroom candle from the table.

"What! Still up, Ilse? How do the strangers please you?"

"Very much, father," said the maiden, gently.

"They are not such simpletons as they look," said the host, pacing to and fro. "What he said of the great fire was right," he repeated, "and that about our little governments was also right. The younger would have made a good schoolmaster; and as for the tall one, by heaven it is a shame that he has not worn jack-boots these four years; he would be a clever inspector. Good-night, Ilse."

"Good-night, father." The daughter rose and followed her father to the door. "Do the strangers remain here to-morrow, father?"

"Hum," said the host, meditating. "They will remain for dinner at all events; I will show them over the farm. See that you have something nice for dinner."

"Father, the Professor has never in his life eaten roast pig," said the daughter.

"Ilse, what are you thinking of? My pig for the sake of Tacitus!" exclaimed the Proprietor. "No, I cannot stand that; be content with your poultry. Stop! Just hand me the volume of the encyclopedia lettered T, I want to read up about that fellow."

"Here, father; I know where it is."

"See! See!" said the father, "just like Mrs. Rollmaus. Good-night."

The Doctor looked through the window into the dark court. Sleep and peace lay over the wide space; from a distance sounded the tread of the watchman who went his rounds through the homestead, and then the suppressed howl of the farm dog.

"Here we are," he said, at last, "two genuine adventurers in the enemy's fortress. Whether we shall carry anything away from it, is very doubtful," he continued, looking significantly at his friend, with a smile.

"It is doubtful," said the Professor, measuring the room with long strides.

"What is the matter with you, Felix?" asked Fritz, anxiously, after a pause; "you are very absentminded, which is not usually your way."

The Professor stood still.

"I have nothing to tell you. I have strong but confused feelings, which I am trying to control. I fear I have this day received an impression against which a sensible man should guard himself. Ask me nothing further, Fritz," he continued, pressing his hand vehemently. "I do not feel unhappy."

Fritz, deeply troubled, placed himself on his bed, and looked for a boot-jack.

"How does our host please you?" he asked, in a low tone, and, in order to appear unconcerned, tapping with his foot on the floor.

"A worthy man," answered the Professor, again stopping, "but his manner is different from what we are accustomed to."

"He is of old Saxon origin," the Doctor proceeded, "broad shoulders, giant height, open countenance, solidity in every movement. The children also are of the same type," he continued; "the daughter is somewhat of a Thusnelda."

"The similitude does not apply," rejoined the Professor, roughly, continuing his walk.

Fritz drew off the second boot in a slightly discordant mood.

"How does the eldest boy please you? He has the bright hair of his sister."

"No comparison," said the Professor, again laconically.

Fritz placed both boots before the bed, and himself upon it, and said with decision:

"I am ready to respect your humor, even when I cannot quite understand it; but I beg you to take into consideration that we have forced ourselves on the hospitality of these people, and that we ought not to take advantage of it beyond to morrow morning."

"Fritz," cried the Professor, with deep feeling, "you are my dear, true friend; have patience with me to-day!" So saying, he turned round, and breaking off the conversation, approached the window.

Fritz was almost beside himself with anxiety. This noble man, so confident in all he wrote, so full of deliberation, and so firm in decision, even with regard to the obscurest passages--and now some emotion was working in him which shook his whole being. How could this man be so disturbed? He could look back with majestic clearness on a past of many thousand years, and now he was standing at a window looking at a cow-stable, and something like a sigh sounded through the room. And what was to come of it? These thoughts occupied incessantly the Doctor's mind.

Long did the Professor pace up and down the room; Fritz feigned to sleep, but kept peeping from under the bedclothes at his excited friend. At last the Professor extinguished the light and threw himself on his bed. Soon his deep breathing showed that beneficent nature had softened the pulses of that beating heart. But the Doctor's anxiety held its ground more pertinaciously. From time to time he raised his head from his pillow, searched for his spectacles on the nearest chair, without which he could not see the Professor, and spied through them at the other bed, again took off his spectacles, and lay down on the pillow with a gentle sigh. This act of friendship he repeated many times, till at last he fell into a deep sleep, shortly before the sparrows sang their morning song in the vine-arbor beneath.