Читать книгу The Lost Manuscript: A Novel - Gustav Freytag - Страница 7

The friends on awakening heard the clock in the courtyard striking, the wagons rolling before the window, and the bells of the herds tinkling. For a moment they looked bewildered at the walls of the strange room, and through the window out on the sunny garden. While the Doctor wrote his memoranda and packed up his bundle, the Professor walked out. The daily work had long begun; the men with their teams were gone to the field; the Inspector hastened busily about the open barns; encircled by the dogs, the bleating sheep thronged before the stable.

The landscape shone in the light of a cloudless sky. The mist hovered over the earth, subduing the clear light of the morning sun, blending it with a delicate grey. The houses and trees still cast long shadows, the coolness of the dewy night still lingered in shady places, and the soft, light breeze fanned the cheeks of the Scholar, now with the warmth of the early daylight, now with the refreshing breath of night.

He walked about the buildings and the farmyard in order to acquaint himself with the place, of which henceforth he was to have mingled recollections in his soul. The persons who dwelt here had with some hesitation disclosed their life to him, and much in their simple pastoral existence appeared to him pleasing and attractive. The influences that here produced activity and energy could everywhere be seen. The tasks for each one and the duties for each day grew in the soil of the farm and the surrounding country. Their views of life and of the world were all in accordance with their surroundings. He felt keenly how worthily and happily men could live whose life was so firmly interwoven with nature and the primitive necessities of man. But for himself his life was regulated by other influences, was actuated by the thousand impressions of ancient and modern times, and not unfrequently by the forms and circumstances of the distant past. For a man's doings in life are more to him than the passing labor of the day, and all that he has done continues to work within him as a living principle. The naturalist, whose desire for rare plants impels him to the towering mountain-top, whence return is impossible; the soldier, whose recollection of the excitement of old battles impels him into new combats-these are both led by the power of thoughts which their past lives have made a part of their being. Man, it is true, is not the slave of what he has done, if he has not stooped to a lower level; his will is free, he chooses as he likes, and casts off what he does not care to preserve; but the forms and ideas that have entered into his soul work on and guide him unceasingly; he has often to guard himself against their mastery, but in a thousand cases he joyfully follows their gentle guidance. All that was and all that is continues far beyond his mere earthly existence in every new being into which it penetrates. It may influence millions, for ages-ennobling, elevating, or degrading individuals and nations. Thus the spirits of the past, the forces of nature, even our own actions and thoughts become an inalienable, component part of the soul, influencing our lives. The learned man smiled as he thus thought how the strange, old reminiscences of thousands of years had brought him among these country people, and how differently the different activity and occupation of the man who ruled here, had shaped his mind and judgment.

Amid these thoughts the lowing of the cattle sounded softly from the stalls. Looking up, he saw a number of maids carrying full milk-pails to the dairy. Behind them went Ilse, in a simple morning dress; her fair hair shone in the sun like spun gold, and her step was brisk and vigorous like the early morn. The Professor felt shy about approaching her; his eyes followed her thoughtfully; she also was one of the forms that henceforth was to live within him, the ideal of his dreams-perhaps of his wishes. For how long? and how powerfully? He did not realize that his Roman emperors were to aid in answering this question within the next hour.

The proprietor came across the farm-yard and, greeting the Professor, invited him to take a short walk into the fields. As the two walked together-both able men, and yet so different in face and figure, in mind and manners-many would have noted the contrast with deep interest, and Ilse not last among them. But no one that did not have the eyes of a treasure-seeker or exorcist could perceive how different were the invisible retinues of tiny spirits that flitted round the temples and shoulders of each, – comparable to swarms of countless birds or bees. The spirits that attended the farmer were in homely working garb, blue blouses and fluttering bandanas, among them a few forms in the misty robes of Faith, Hope, and Charity. On the other hand, round the Professor swarmed an invisible throng of foreign phantoms with togas, and antique helmets, in purple robes and Greek chlamys, athletes also-some with bundles of rods and winged hats. The little retinue of the Proprietor flew incessantly over the fields and back again; the swarm round the Professor remained steadily by him. At last the proprietor stopped at one particular field; he looked at it with great delight, and mentioned that he had here succeeded by deep ploughing in growing green lupines, then newly introduced into cultivation. The Professor seemed surprised; among his spirit-retinue there arose a confused stir; one of the small antique spirits flew to the nearest clod of earth and fastened thereto a delicate web which it had spun from the head of the Professor. Whereupon the Professor told his companion how deep ploughing for green lupines had been the custom of the Romans, and how rejoiced he was that now after more than a thousand years this old discovery had been brought to light again in our farming. They then spoke of the change in agriculture, and the Professor mentioned how striking it was that three hundred years after the beginning of our era, the corn exchanges at the harbors of the Black Sea and Asia Minor were so similar to those of Hamburg and London in modern days, while at present other agricultural produce was principally cultivated in the East. Finally, he told him of a grain tariff that was imposed by a Roman emperor, and that unfortunately the price of wheat and barley, the two products on which then depended other prices and duties, were effaced from the stone tablet that had been preserved. And he explained why this loss was so much to be lamented. Then the heart of the host began to expand, and he assured the Professor that the fact need not be lamented, for the lost value might be fixed from the price of the remaining products bearing straw and husk, because the prices of all agricultural produce taken as a whole bore a firm and ancient ratio among each other. He gave this relation of their productive value in figures, and the Professor discovered with joyful astonishment that they agreed with the tariff of his old Emperor Diocletian.

While the men were carrying on this desultory conversation, a mischievous wide-awake spirit, probably the Emperor Diocletian himself, flew from the Professor, made his way through the peasant spirits of the proprietor, placed himself in his purple robe on the head of the master, stamped with his little feet on his skull; and impressed the farmer with the belief that the Professor was a sensible and worthy man, who might give him further information on the value and price of agricultural produce. It also pleased the Proprietor much that he could give the learned gentleman instruction in his own department.

When, at the end of an hour, the two strollers returned to the house, the Proprietor stopped at the door and said with some solemnity to the Professor, "When I brought you here yesterday, I little knew whom I had with me. It grieves me that I greeted so inhospitably a man like you. Your acquaintance has become a pleasure to me; it is rare to meet with a person with whom one can speak about everything as one can with you. As you are traveling for recreation, pray be pleased to pass some time with us simple folk-the longer the better. It is indeed not a season when a country host can make the house agreeable to his guests, so you must be content. If you wish to work, and require books, you may have them brought here; and pray observe whether the Romans had winter barley which was lighter than ours. Do me the honor of accepting my invitation." So saying, he cordially extended his hand to his guest. The Professor's countenance beamed with delight; he eagerly clasped the hand of his friendly host. "If you are willing to keep me and my friend a few days longer, I accept your invitation with all my heart. I must tell you that the insight into a new circle of human interests is most valuable to me, but still more so the kindness with which you have treated us."

"Settled!" exclaimed the Proprietor, cheerfully; "now we will call your friend."

The Doctor opened his door. When the Proprietor warmly repeated the invitation to him, he looked for a moment earnestly at his friend, and when the latter gave him a friendly nod, he also accepted for the few days which were still free before the promised visit to his relatives. Thus it happened that the Emperor Diocletian, fifteen hundred years after he had unvoluntarily left the world, exercised his tyrannical power over the Professor and Proprietor. Whether there were other ancient powers actively working in secret, is not ascertained.

Ilse listened silently to her father's information that the gentlemen would be his guests some time longer, but her look fell so bright and warm on the strangers that they rejoiced in being welcomed by her also.

From this hour they were introduced into the household as old acquaintances, and both, though they had never lived in the country, felt it indispensable, and as if they had returned to a home in which years before they had once bustled about. It was a busy life there, and yet, even when work was most pressing and earnest, there was a cheerful repose about it. Without much ado they all worked in unison. The daylight was the supreme patron, who, at its rise, called to work, and when extinguished, gave rest to weary limbs; the laborers looked up to the sky to measure their hours of work, and the sun and the clouds influenced their frame of mind, sometimes inducing comfort and sometimes anxiety. Slowly and gently, as nature draws the blossoms out of the earth and matures the fruits, did the feelings of these men grow into blossoms and fruits. In peaceful relations the workers passed their lives. Small impressions, such as a few kind words or a friendly look, sufficed to entwine a firm bond round these various natures-a bond woven with invisible threads; but which attained a strength sufficient to last through a whole life.

The friends also felt the influence of the peace, daily activity, and small events of the country. Only when they looked toward the old house and thought of the hope which had led them hither, did something of the disquiet come over them which children feel when expecting a Christmas-box; and the quiet work of their fancy threw a brilliant light over all that belonged to the house, even down to the barking Nero, who, as early as the second day, expressed by the vehement wagging of his tail, his wish to be taken into their fellowship at table.

The Doctor did not fail to remark how strongly his friend was attracted by this quiet life, and with what tact he adapted himself to the inhabitants of the house. The Proprietor, before he rode to the distant part of the farm, brought him some agricultural books, and spoke to him of the different varieties of grain, and the Professor answered him modestly, as became a young gentleman in top-boots, and immersed himself forthwith in these new interests. Also between Ilse and the Professor there was an evident understanding, the cause of which occasioned the Doctor some disquiet. When the Professor spoke to her, it was with deep respect, both in voice and look, and Ilse always turned by preference to him, and was quietly but incessantly endeavoring to give him pleasure. When at table he picked up her handkerchief, he handed it to her with a respectful bow as to a princess. When she handed him his cup he looked as happy as if he had discovered the secret meaning of some difficult passage in an author. Then in the evening, when he sat with the father in the garden and Ilse came behind them from the house, his countenance brightened up, though he had not yet seen her. When she distributed to the children their supper, and was obliged to scold little Franz for being naughty, the Professor suddenly looked as dismal as if he himself were a boy whom the displeasure of his sister was to improve. These observations set the Doctor a-thinking.

Furthermore, when, shortly after study-time Hans proposed to the Doctor to play a friendly game of blind-man's-buff, Fritz assumed, as a matter of course, that the Professor would in the meantime converse with the father in the arbor, and he never dreamed of asking anything so extravagant of his learned friend as to join in the game. How astonished then was he when Ilse, having folded the handkerchief, approached the Professor, requested him to be blinded first, and he, the Professor, looked quite happy at the idea, offered his head gently-like a lamb to the sacrifice-to be covered, and allowed himself to be led by Ilse into the midst of the circle of little rompers. Noisily did the swarm circle round the Professor; the impudent children pulled him by the flaps of his coat, even Ilse contrived to lay hold of a button and draw him gently by it. This put him in a state of excitement; he felt about with his hands, and minded no attacks of the assaulting children, only seeking to seize the fair offender; and when he did not succeed, he kept poking about with his sticks and groping like the blind singer Demodokus to catch a Phæacian. Now, at last, he hit exactly upon Ilse, but she passed the end of the stick to her sister, and Clara whistled on it, but he exclaimed, "Fräulein Ilse!" She was delighted that he had guessed wrong, and he looked much puzzled.

Other games followed, in all of which the Professor showed such dexterity that the children were quite enchanted, though Franz called out indignantly that he did not strike Ilse hard enough when he had the knotted handkerchief. Ilse, however, took the handkerchief, and, much to the Scholar's astonishment and delight, struck him heartily over the shoulders.

The Doctor joined in the sports, and looked with pleasure at the movements of the wild maidens in the games; and when Ilse stood by a tree and laid hold of a branch with her hand in order to support herself, her glowing face wreathed by the leaves of the nut-tree, she looked so lovely and happy that the Doctor was also enchanted.

In such a bacchanalian mood it was not to be wondered at that the Professor at last called upon Hans to run a race twice around the square. Amidst the shouts of the children Hans lost the race, because he had as he sturdily maintained the inner side of the square, but the others scouted at any such excuse. As the runners dashed up to the arbor. Ilse handed to the Professor his great coat, which she had meanwhile fetched from the coat-rack in the hall. "It is late, you must not take cold while with us." It was not at all late, but he put on the coat at once, buttoned it up from top to bottom, and, with a look of satisfaction, shook his opponent Hans by the shoulder. Afterwards they all sat down again in the arbor, in order to cool themselves. Here, at the vociferous demands of the little ones, a thaler was passed round while a song was sung, and the more observant part of the family loudly declared that the thaler had twice fallen to the ground between Ilse and the Professor, because they had not passed it firmly enough into each other's hands. By this game the love of song was awakened among the young people, and great and small sang together as loud as they could, such songs as had become familiar to them-"On the Cool Banks of the Saal," "Song of the Cloak," and the catch of "The Bells of Capernaum," After that Ilse and Clara, at the request of the Doctor, sang a folk-song, very simple and unadorned, and perhaps on that account the melancholy style touched the heart, so that after the song all were quiet, and the strangers appeared much moved till the Proprietor called upon the guests to contribute their share. The Professor, recovering from his emotion, began immediately to sing, in a rich-toned bass, "In a deep, damp cellar I sat," so that the boys in their enthusiasm drank up the remains of their glasses of milk and clinked them on the table. Again the company broke out into a chorus; they began the dear old song, "What is the German Fatherland," so far as they knew the verses, and in conclusion they attempted "Lützow's Wild Charge." The Doctor, as an experienced chorus-singer, carried the melody beautifully through the most difficult passages, and the refrain sounded wonderfully in the calm evening air; the tones passed along the vine arbor and wall, and over the top of the fruit trees up to the thicket of the nearest hill, and came back from thence as an echo.

After this masterpiece the children's party broke up, and they were unwillingly taken by Ilse to the house, but the men continued in conversation a little longer; they had laughed and sung together, and became confidential. The Proprietor spoke of his early days, how he had tried his luck here and there, and at last had established himself firmly in this place. The struggle of daily life had been weary and toilsome; he gladly called it to mind at this hour, and spoke of it with the good sense of an energetic man.

Thus passed the second day on the estate-beneath sun and stars, amongst the sheaves and the herds.

The following morning the Professor was awaked by the loud noise of the feathered farmyard denizens; the cock flew upon a stone beneath the window of the visitor's room, and sounded his morning clarion imperiously; the hens and young chickens stood in a circle round him, and endeavored to practice the same art; in between the sparrows chirruped loud, then the doves flew up and cooed their song, at last there came an army of ducks who began quacking a second chorus. The Professor found it necessary to rise, and the Doctor called out querulously from his bed: "That comes from yesterday's singing; now we hear the effect it had on all the associated farmyard musicians." But in this he was in error, the little flock of the farmyard sang only from official zeal to announce that a stormy day might be expected.

When the Professor went into the open air, the morning light still glowed like fire in the heavens, and the first rays of light shimmered over the fields in broken and trembling waves. The ground was dry, no dewdrops hung on leaf or turf. The air also was sultry, and the heads of the flowers drooped languidly on their stalks. Had a second sun appeared in the night? But the clear piping of the yellow thrush sounded from the top of an old cherry tree incessantly. The old gardener, Jacob, looked at the tree, shaking his head: "I thought that the rogue had gone away, he has made too much havoc among the cherries, and now he is giving us information before he leaves; something is brewing to-day."

Ilse, as she came from the dairy, said: "The cows are unquiet, they low and push against one another."

The sun rose red out of heavy vapor-the laborers in the field felt a weariness in their limbs, and continually stopped in their work to dry their faces. The shepherd was to-day discontented with his flock; the wethers were bent upon gamboling instead of eating, they bucked one another, and the young ones frisked and danced about as if they were set on wires. Disorder and willfulness could not be restrained. The dog circled round the excited animals incessantly; but his tail hung between his legs, and when he tugged at a sheep, the animal long felt the ungentle bite.

The sun rose higher in the cloudless heavens-the day became hotter-a light vapor rose from the earth which made the distance indistinct; the sparrows flew restlessly about the tops of the trees, the swallows skimmed along the ground and circled round the men. The friends went to their room; here also they felt the exhausting sultriness; the Doctor, who was sketching a plan of the house, laid down his pencil. The Professor was reading about agriculture and the rearing of cattle, but he often looked up from his book to the sky, opened the window and closed it again. The dinner was quieter than usual, the host looked serious, and his staff hardly allowed themselves time to empty their plates.

"We shall have trouble to-day," said the master of the house to his daughter, on rising. "I will ride to the outskirts; if I am not back before the storm, look after the house and farm."

Again men and horses went to the field, but to-day they went unwillingly. The heat became unbearable, the afternoon sun fell scorchingly on their heads; rock and walls glowed with heat; a white cloud curtained the heavens, which visibly thickened and massed itself together. The ploughboys eagerly took the horses to the stables, the laborers hastened to unload the sheaves, and drove the wagons at a quicker pace in order to shelter one more load under a roof before the storm arose.

The friends stood before the farm-gate and looked at the heavy clouds which were gathering upon the horizon. The yellow light of the sun struggled for a short time against the dark shadows; finally the last glare of light disappeared, and the earth lay darkened and mournful. Ilse approached them: "The time is come; about four o'clock the storm will rise. It seldom comes over the level land from the east, but when it does it is always severe with us, for people say it is because it cannot break over the hilltops which you see from the garden; then it hangs long over our fields, and they say the thunder here is more violent than elsewhere."

The first burst of the wind howled over the house. "I must go through the farmyard to see that all is right," exclaimed Ilse, as she wrapped a handkerchief quickly round her head and hurried on, accompanied by the men, through the storm to the farm-building in which the fire-engine stood; she looked to see whether the door was open and whether there was water in the barrels; then she hastened forward to the stables while the straw whirled round her; she warned the servants once more with a cheerful call, rapidly spoke a few words to the officials and returned to the house. She looked into the kitchen and opened the door of the children's room to see whether all of her brothers and sisters were with the tutor. Lastly, she let in the dog, who was barking piteously at the gate of the farmyard, and then returned to the friends, who, from the window of the sitting-room, were watching the fury of the elements. "The house is secured, as far as it is possible for human beings; but we place our trust in a stronger Protector," said Ilse.

The storm slowly approached, one dark mass rolling on after another, and under them, like a monstrous curtain, a pale veil of mist rose higher and higher; the thunder rolled at shorter intervals, and grew more wildly ominous; the storm howled round the house; thick clouds of dust chased angrily about the walls; leaves and blades of straw flew about in wild dance.

"The lion is roaring," said Ilse, folding her hands. She bent her head for some moments, then looked silently out of the window. "Father is at the outlying farm under shelter," she began again, anticipating a question of the Professor.

It was, indeed, a violent storm that raged about the old house. Those who listened for the first time in this place, on the open height, alongside the ridge of hills, from which the rolling, tumultuous crash of the thunder resounded, felt that they had never experienced such power in nature before. While the thunder roared, the room suddenly became dark as night, and ever and anon the dismal twilight was pierced by the flash of fiery serpents that swept over the farm.

There was noise in the children's room; the crying of the little ones could be heard. Ilse went to the door and opened it. "Come to me," she called out. The children ran in terrified, and pressed round their sister; the youngest clung to her dress. Ilse took the little child and placed it under the charge of the Professor, who was standing by her side. "Be quiet, and say your prayer softly," she said; "this is no time for weeping and complaining."

Suddenly came a light so blinding that it caused them to close their eyes-and a sharp concussion, ending in a discordant crash. When the Professor opened his eyes, by the light of another flash he saw Ilse standing by his side, her head turned toward him with a radiant look. He exclaimed, anxiously: "That has struck."

"Not in the farmyard," replied the maiden, unmoved.

Again a clap, and again a flash, and a clap, wilder, shorter, sharper. "It is just above us," said Ilse, calmly, pressing the head of her little brother to her as if to protect him.

The Professor could not turn his eyes from the group in the middle of the room. The noble figure of the woman before him, erect, motionless, surrounded by the frightened brothers and sisters, the countenance raised, and a proud smile playing about the mouth. And she, in a moment of uncontrollable feeling, had confided to his care one of the lives that were so dear to her; he stood in the hour of danger near her as one of hers. He firmly held the child, which clasped him in terror. They were short moments, these; but between flash and thunder-clap the spark that glowed in him had blazed out into a bright flame. She who stood near him in the lightning, suffused with the blinding light, she it was who had become necessary to his life.

Still longer did the thunder roar; the heavy rain beat against the window; it clattered and dashed round the house; the windows trembled under the raging outburst of the storm.

"It is over," said Ilse, gently. The children separated and ran to the window. "Up-stairs, Hans!" cried the sister, and hastened with her brother out of the room to see whether the water had made its way in anywhere. The Professor looked thoughtfully toward the door through which she had disappeared; but the Doctor, who meanwhile had been seated quietly on a chair, with his hands on his knees, shaking his head, began: "These freaks of nature are against us. Since lightning conductors have come into discredit, one has not the poor comfort of thinking that the old manuscript has even their protection against the attacks of the weather. This is a bad habitation for our poor old manuscript, and it is verily a Christian duty to rescue the book as quickly as possible from such a dangerous thunder-trap. Shall we be able in the future, with any tranquillity of mind, to look upon a cloud in the heavens? It will remind us of the disasters that may befall this place."

"The house has held out hitherto," answered the Professor, laughing. "Let us leave the manuscript meanwhile to the good Power in whom the people here so firmly trust. The sun's rays are already breaking through the mist."

Half an hour later it was all over; the dark clouds still hovered above the hills, and from the distance resounded the harmless thunder. Life began to stir again in the empty farmyard. First, the ducks came forth with joyous haste from their hiding-place, cleaned their feathers, examined the puddles of water, and quacked along the ruts made by the wheels; then came the cock with his hens, cautiously treading, and picking the soaked seeds; the doves flew on to the projections of the window, wished each other good fortune with friendly nods and spread their feathers in the fresh sunlight. Nero bounded boldly out of the house, trotted through the farmyard, and barked in the air by way of challenge to frighten away the hostile clouds. The maids and laborers again stepped actively about the place, breathing the refreshing balsam of the moist air. The Inspector came and reported that the lightning had struck twice on the neighboring hill. The Proprietor, thoroughly wet through, rode rapidly in, anxious to see whether his house and farm-buildings were undamaged. He sprang gaily from his horse, and exclaimed: "The rain penetrated everything out there. But, God be praised, it has passed over. We have not had such a storm here for years." The people listened also for awhile as the head ploughman related that he had seen a pillar of water, which hung like a great sack from heaven to earth, and that it had hailed violently on the other side of the border. Then they entered the stable with great equanimity, and enjoyed the hour of rest that the bad weather had brought them. While the Proprietor was talking to his staff, the Doctor prepared to descend, with the boys and the tutor, into the valley, there to see the overflowing brook.

But the Professor and Ilse remained in the orchard, and the former was astonished at the number of snails that now came out everywhere, trailing slowly over the path; and he took one after the other and placed them carefully out of the way, but the senseless creatures always returned again to the firm gravel, expecting that the foot-passengers were to get out of their way. They both examined the fruit trees to see how they had borne the storm. They were much broken, and their branches bent down. Much unripe fruit lay scattered on the grass. The Professor cautiously shook the branches, bending under the weight of the rain, in order to free them from their burden; he fetched some poles to support an old apple tree which was in danger of breaking under the weight, and both laughed heartily when, in the course of his work, the water from the leaves ran in small streams down his hair and coat.

Ilse clasped her hands together, lamenting over the fall of so much fruit; but there was still much on the trees, and they might yet hope for a rich harvest. The Professor sympathized with her and advised her to dry the fallen fruit, and Ilse laughed again at this because most of it was unripe. The Professor confided to her that he as a boy had helped his dear mother when she used to arrange the fruit on the drying-board; for his parents had owned a large garden in the town in which his father was an official. Ilse listened with eager interest when he related further how he had lost his father as a boy, and how lovingly and wisely his mother had cared for him, how confidential his relations with her had been, and that her loss had been the greatest sorrow of his life. Then they walked up and down along the gravel walk, and in both of them an echo of the sorrow of past days intermingled with the cheerful mood of the present; just as in nature the movement of a violent storm leaves after it a gentle trembling, and the pure light of day sparkles on bower and blade like countless glittering precious stones.

Ilse opened a gate which led from the lower part of the orchard into the open country, and standing still, said, hesitatingly: "I propose a walk into the village to see how our Pastor has stood the storm; would you like to make the acquaintance of our dear friend?"

"I shall be delighted to do so," answered the Professor.

They walked along a damp footpath that wound its way through the length of the valley by the side of the churchyard. Near it lay a little village of closely-packed houses, in which dwelt most of the laborers of the estate. The first building below the church was the Pastor's house, with a wooden roof and small windows, differing little from the dwellings of the country people. Ilse opened the door, and an old maid-servant hastened toward her with a familiar greeting.

"Ah, Miss," she exclaimed, "we had bad weather to-day. I thought the day of judgment had surely come. Master stood constantly at the chamber window looking up to the manor and raising his hands in prayer for you. He is at present in the garden."

The guests passed out through the rear door into a small space between the gables and barns of the neighboring farmyards. A few low fruit trees stood along the edges of the flower-beds. The old gentleman, in a dark dressing-gown, stood by an espalier, working industriously.

"My dear child," he cried, looking up, and a smile of pleasure lighted up the kind face under his white hair, "I knew that you would come to-day."

He bowed to the stranger, and, after a few words of greeting, turned again to Ilse.

"Only think what a misfortune-the storm has broken our peach tree, the espalier is torn up and the branches are shattered; the damage is irreparable."

He bent over the disabled tree, which he had just bound up with a bandage of tree-gum and matting.

"It is the only peach tree here," he said, lamentingly, to the Professor; "they have none on the whole estate, nor any in the town. But I must not worry you with my little troubles," he continued, more cheerfully; "I pray you come with me into the house."

Ilse entered the side door of an extension, near the house proper. "How is Flavia?" she inquired of the maid, who stood at the threshold, anticipating the visit.

"Doing very well," answered Susannah, "and the little one also."

"It is the dun cow and her young calf," explained the Pastor to the Professor, as Ilse returned into the narrow courtyard with the maid. "I do not like people to call animals by Christian names, so I have recourse to our Latin vocabulary."

Ilse returned. "It is time that the calf should be taken away; it is a wasteful feeder."

"That is what I said too," interposed Susannah, "but his Reverence the Pastor will not consent."

"You are right, my dear child," answered the Pastor; "following the demands of worldly wisdom it would be best to deliver the little calf to the butcher. But the calf sees the thing in quite another light; and it is a merry little creature."

"But when one asks it why, one receives no answer," said Ilse, "and therefore, it must be pleased with what we choose. Your Reverence must allow me to settle this with Susannah, behind your back; meanwhile you shall have milk from our house."

The Pastor conducted them into his room; it was very small, whitewashed, and scantily furnished. There was an old writing-table, a black painted book-shelf with a small number of old books, a sofa and some chairs covered with colored chintz. "This has been my Tusculum for forty years," said the Pastor, with satisfaction, to the Professor, who looked with surprise at the scanty furniture. "It would have been larger if the addition had been made; there were fine plans arranged, and my worthy neighbor took much pains about it, but since my wife was carried out there" – he looked toward the churchyard on the height-"I will not hear of it any more."

The Professor looked out of the window. Forty years in this narrow building, in the little valley between the churchyard, the huts, and the wood! He felt oppressed in spirit. "The community appears to be poor; there is but little space for cultivation between the hills. But how is it pray, in winter?"

"Well, even then I am still able to get about," answered the clergyman; "I visit my old friends then, and am only troubled sometimes by the snow. Once we were quite snowed up, and had to be dug out." He laughed pleasantly at the recollection. "It is never lonely when one has lived many years in a place. One has known the grandfathers, trained the fathers, taught the children, and here and there a grandchild even, and one sees how men rise from the earth and sink down into it again like the leaves that fall from a tree. One observes that all is vanity and a short preparation for eternity. Dear child," he said to Ilse, who now entered, "pray be seated with us; I have not seen your dear face for three days, and I would not go up because I heard you had visitors. I have something here for you," taking a paper out of his desk; "it is poetry."

"You see the song of the Muses does not fail us," he continued, speaking to the Professor. "It is, to be sure, humble, and bucolic in style. But believe me, as one who knows his village, there are few new things under the sun; there is everything here in a small way that there is on a large scale in the rest of the world; the blacksmith is a zealous politician, and the justice would gladly be a Dionysius of Syracuse. We have also the rich man of Scripture, and truly many a Lazarus-to which number the poet whose verses I here hold belongs; and our plasterer is a musician in winter-he does not play badly on the zither. But they are all too ambitious and not in harmony. Sometimes it is difficult to preserve good fellowship among them."

"Our poet wishes to have his green wall again, as I interpret it," said Ilse, looking up from the paper.

"For seven years he has been lying in his room half palsied with severe and incurable ills," explained the Pastor to his guest; "and he looks through a little hole of a window into the world at the clay-wall opposite and the men who can be seen passing; the wall belongs to a neighbor, and my dear child trained a wild vine over it. But this year our neighbor-our rich man-has built upon it and torn away the foliage. This vexes the invalid, and it is difficult to help him, for now is not the time to plant a fresh one."

"But something must be thought of," interposed Ilse. "I will speak to him about it; excuse me, I will not be long."

She left the room. "If you wish," said the Pastor, addressing the guest mysteriously, "I will show you this wall; for I have thought much about the matter, but cannot devise anything." The Professor silently acquiesced. They walked along the village lane, and at the corner the Pastor took the arm of his companion. "Here lies the invalid," he began, in a low tone. "His weakness makes him rather deaf, but still we must tread gently, that he may not observe it, for that disturbs him."

The Professor saw a small sash-window open and Ilse standing before it, her back turned to them. While the Pastor was showing him the plastered wall and the height that was necessary for the trailing plant, he listened to the conversation at the window. Ilse spoke loudly and was answered from the bed by a shrill voice. He discovered with astonishment that they were not speaking of the vines.

"And the gentleman is of a good disposition?" asked the voice.

"He is a learned and good man," answered Ilse.

"And how long does he remain with you?"

"I know not," was Ilse's hesitating reply.

"He should remain altogether with you, for you like him," said the invalid.

"Ah, that we dare not hope, dear Benz. But this conversation will not help to find you a good prospect," continued Ilse. "I will speak to your neighbor; but nothing will grow between to-day and to-morrow. I have thought that the gardener might nail a shelf under the window, and we shall place some plants from my room upon it."

"That will obstruct the view," answered the voice, discontentedly. "I could no longer see the swallows as they fly past, and little of the heads of the people who go by."

"That is true," replied Ilse; "but we will put the board so low that only the flowers shall peep through the window."

"What kind of flowers are they?" asked Benz.

"A myrtle," said Ilse.

"That does not blossom," answered Benz, surlily.

"But there are two roses blowing and a plant of heliotrope."

"I do not know what that is," interposed the invalid.

"It smells very sweet," said Ilse.

"Then let it come," assented Benz. "But I must also have some sweet basil."

"We will see whether it can be had," answered Ilse; "and the gardener shall also train some ivy round the window."

"That will be too dark for me," retorted the dissatisfied Benz.

"Never mind," said Ilse, decidedly; "we will try, and if it does not suit you, it can be altered."

To this the invalid agreed.

"But the gardener must not make me wait," he exclaimed; "I should like to have it to-morrow."

"Very well," said Ilse; "early in the morning."

"And you will show my verses to no one, not even to the strange gentleman; they are only for you."

"Nobody shall see them," said Ilse. "Call your daughter Anna, dear Benz."

As she prepared to depart, the Pastor gently drew his guest back.

"When the invalid has had such a conversation," he explained, "he is contented for the whole of the next day, and to-morrow he will again compose some verses. Sometimes-between you and me-he writes a good deal of nonsense, but it is well meant, and for him it is the best pastime. The people in the village avoid passing under his window as much as possible. This is the hardest work in my office; for the people are obstinate in the superstition that illness and suffering originate from evil spirits, that they are inflicted from hatred, or as punishment for past wrong; and though I preach to them incessantly that all is only a trial for the other world, this teaching is too high for them, only the infirm believe it; but those who are hale and hearty stubbornly struggle against the truth and salvation."

The learned man turned his eyes up to the little window from which the invalid looked upon the plastered wall, and then again on the clerical gentleman who for forty years had preached the Holy Gospel in the valley. His heart was heavy and his eyes passed from the twilight of the deep vale to the hill-top, which still shone in the glad light of the evening sun. Then she returned to him, she who had descended to watch over the helpless and the poor; and when he ascended the height with her, it appeared to him as if they both emerged from gloomy earthly trouble into a lighter air; but the youthful figure and the beautiful, calm countenance near him, shining in the lingering evening light so wondrously, seemed to resemble one of those messengers whom Jehovah sent to the tent of his faithful servant. He rejoiced when she laughed at the joyous bounding of the dog, who came barking toward them.

Thus passed another day, lighted up by the sun, and overshadowed by the clouds, amidst small events of daily life and quiet existence. When recorded by the pen it seems insignificant, but when a man lives it, it sends his blood coursing energetically through his veins.