The Progressionists, and Angela. Part 51

It reached its completion and perfection by the coming of the Lord, who said, 'I am the truth;' and this knowledge of the truth remains in the church through the guidance of the Spirit of truth, till the latest generation. This is only my ultramontane conviction," said Siegwart, smiling; "but it affords peace and certainty."

Angela had gone out, and now returned with a basket, in which lay a little dog, of a few days old, asleep. She set the basket carefully down before Frank, so as not to awaken the sleeper.

"As you appreciate the full worth of striking proofs, I am glad to be able to place one before you, in the shape of this little dog," said she, appearing desirous of cheering her dejected friend. But Frank did not receive from her cheerful countenance either strength or encouragement, for he did not look up.

"This little dog is only eight days old," she continued; "its eyes are not yet open; it can neither walk nor bark; it can only growl a little; and it does nothing but sleep and dream. I have noticed its dreams since the first day of its birth. You can convince yourself of its dreaming." She stooped over the basket and her soft hair disturbed the sleeper.

For a moment Frank saw and heard nothing.

"See," she continued, "how its little feet move, and how its body jerks. Hear the low growl, and see the hairs round the mouth how they twitch, how the nose shrinks and expands--all the same as in Hector.

The little thing knows nothing at all of the world--no more than a child eight days old. We certainly, therefore, will not deceive ourselves in a.s.suming that all these movements are only muscular twitchings; that neither the pup nor Hector dreams like a man."

Frank first looked at the dog in great surprise, and then gazed admiringly on Angela.

"O fraulein! how I thank you."

She appeared most lovely in his eyes. He suddenly turned toward her father.

"Your house is a great blessing to me. It appears that the pure atmosphere of religious conviction which you breathe victoriously combats all dark doubts, as light dissipates darkness."

Angela stood in her room. She knew that the spirit of unbelief pervaded the world, taking possession of thousands and destroying all life and effort. She saw Richard threatened by this spirit, and feared for his soul. She became very anxious, and sank on her knees before the crucifix and cried to heaven for succor.

Night was upon all things. The black clouds, lowering deep and heavy, shut out all light from heaven. The wind swept the mountains, the forest moaned, and thunder muttered in the distance. Klingenberg sat before his folios. A fitful light glimmered from the room of Richard's father. Richard himself came home late, took his supper, and retired to his chamber; there he walked back and forth, thinking, contending with himself, and speaking aloud. Before his door stood a dark figure--immovable and listening.

It knocked at the door of the elder Frank. Jacob, a servant who had grown gray in the service of the house, entered. Frank received him with surprise, and awaited expectantly what he had to say.

"We are all wrong," said Jacob. "My poor young master has now spoken out clearly. He is not sick because of the foolish trash in the books.

He is in love, terribly in love."

"Ah! in love?" said Herr Frank.

"You should just have heard how he complains and laments that he is not worthy of her. 'O Angela, Angela!' he cried at least a hundred times, 'could I only raise myself to your level, and make myself worthy! But your soul, so pure, your character, so immaculate and good, thrusts me away. I look up to you with admiration and longing, as the troubled pilgrim on earth looks up to the peace and grandeur of heaven.' This is the way he talked. He is to be pitied, sir."

"So--so--in love, and with Siegwart's daughter," said Frank sadly. "The tragedy will change into comedy. Even if they were not so unapproachably high, but like other people on earth, my son should never take an ultramontane wife."

"But if he loves her so deeply, sir?"

"Be still; you know nothing about it. Has he lain down?"

"Yes; or, at least, he is quiet."

"Continue to watch him. I must immediately make known to the doctor this love affair. He will be surprised to find the philosopher changed into a love-sick visionary."

CHAPTER VIII.

AVOWALS.

In the same deep valley where the brook rippled over the pebbles in its bed, where the mountain sides rose up abruptly, where the moss hung from the old oaks, where Klingenberg plucked the tender beard of the young professor of history, took place the meditated attack of the doctor on the poison of materialism which was destroying the body and soul of Richard.

Slowly and carefully the doctor advanced, as against an enemy who will defend his position to the last. But how was he astonished, when, being attacked, Frank showed no disposition to defend that most highly vaunted doctrine of modern science--materialism! This was almost as puzzling to the doctor as the eternity of matter. Tired of skirmis.h.i.+ng, the doctor set to work to close with the enemy, and strike him down.

"I have looked only cursorily at the writings of the materialists: you have studied them carefully; and you will oblige me much if you would give me the foundation on which the whole structure of materialism rests."

"The materialistic system is very simple," answered Frank.

"Materialists reject all existence that is not sensibly perceptible.

They deny the existence of invisible and supersensible things. There is no spirit in man or anywhere else. Matter alone exists, because matter alone manifests its existence."

"I understand. The materialist will only be convinced by seeing and feeling. As a spirit is neither spiritual nor tangible, then there is none. Is it not so, friend Richard?"

"You have included in one sentence the whole of materialism," said Frank coolly.

"I cannot understand," said Klingenberg hesitatingly, "how the materialists can make a.s.sertions which are untenable to the commonest understandings. Why, thought can neither be seen nor felt; yet it is an existence."

"Thought is a function of the brain."

"Then, it is incomprehensible how the sensible can beget the supersensible. How matter--the brain--can produce the immaterial, the spiritual."

Richard was silent.

"At every step in materialism I meet insurmountable difficulties,"

continued the doctor. "I know perfectly the organization of the human body, as well as the function and purpose of each part. The physician knows the purpose of the lungs, heart, kidneys, and stomach, and all the n.o.ble and ign.o.ble parts of the body. But no physician knows the origin of the activity of the organism. The blood stops, the pulse no longer beats, the lungs, kidneys, nerves, and all the rest cease their functions. The man is dead. Why? Because the activity, the movement, the force is gone. What, then, is this vivifying force? In what does it consist? What color, what taste, what form has it? No physician knows.

The vivifying principle is invisible, intangible perfectly immaterial.

Yet it exists. Therefore the fundamental dogma of materialism is false.

There are existences which can neither be felt, tasted, nor seen."

"The vivifying principle is also in animals," said Richard.

"Certainly; and in them also intangible and mysterious. Materialism cannot even stand before animal life; for even there the vivifying principle is an immaterial existence."

"The materialist stumbles at the existence of human spirit, because he cannot get a conception of it."

"How could this be possible?" cried the doctor. "The conception is a picture in the mind, an apprehension of the senses. Spiritual being is as unapproachable by the senses as the vivifying principle, of which also man can form no conception. To deny existence because you cannot have a conception of it, is foolish. The blind would have the same right to deny the existence of colors, or the deaf that of music. And who can have a conception of good, of eternity, of justice, of virtue?

No one. These are existences that do not fall under the senses. To be logical, the materialist must conclude that there is nothing good, nothing n.o.ble, no justice; for we have not yet seen nor felt nor smelt these things. Virtuous actions we can, of course, see; but these actions are not the cause but the consequence, not the thing working but the thing wrought. As these actions will convince every thinking man of the existence of virtue and justice, so must the workings of the spirit prove its existence."

"Precisely," replied Frank. "Materialism only surprises and captivates one like a dream of the night. It vanishes the moment it is seen. I read the works of Vogt and Buchner only for diversion; my object was perfectly gained."

"You read for diversion! What did you wish to forget?"

"Dark clouds that lowered over my mind."

"Have you secrets that I, your old friend and well-meaning adviser, should not know?"

Frank was confused; but his great respect for the doctor forced him to be candid.