The Lost Manuscript Part 30

"Purple and rough was the coat of the cunning and n.o.ble Ulysses."

And when she sat opposite to him during her hour of instruction and he came to a pause, these words of admiration broke from her lips:

"Thus thou cleverly thinkest, and wisely speakest thou always."

And when she wished to praise herself, she murmured to the singing of the boiling kettle:

"Even in me lives wit, to discover the good from the evil, Formerly though I was but a child."

Even the estate of her dear father now seemed to her illuminated with the golden splendor of the h.e.l.lenic sun.

"I do not understand," said her father one evening to Clara, "how it is possible that Ilse should so quickly have forgotten our farming customs. In her letters she speaks of the time when the cattle shall again wander in the wide plains; she means, I suppose, the fallow fields; for we feed our cattle in the stalls."

The north wind howled round the two neighboring houses, and covered the window panes with ice flowers; but within doors one day followed the other with varied coloring and full of light, and each evening, more enjoyable than the other, pa.s.sed over the heads of the happy couple, whether they were alone or whether the friends of the husband, the instructors of the people, sat with them at the tea-table where a simple meal was spread.

For the friends of the husband and their clever conversations are pleasant to the lady of the house. The lamp throws a festive light in Ilse's chamber, the curtains are drawn, the table well-furnished, and a decanter of wine is placed on it when the gentlemen enter. Frequently the conversation begins with trifles; the friends wish to show their esteem for the Professor's wife--one talks a little about concerts and another recommends a new picture or book. But sometimes they come out from the study in eager conversation; their discourse is not always quite within her comprehension, nor always very attractive, but on the whole it gives her pleasure and refreshes her mind. Then Ilse sits quietly there, her hands, which have been active in her work, fall into her lap, and she listens reverently. No one who is not a professor's wife can have any idea how charmingly the conversation of the learned flows. All can speak well, all are eager, and all have a composed manner that becomes them well. Discussion arises and they begin to argue on weighty points, their opinions clash, they contradict each other, one says that something is black, another that it is white; the first shows that he is in the right and the second refutes him and drives him into a corner. Now his wife thinks, how will he get out of this; but she need have no anxiety, he is not at a loss--by a sudden sally he gains the advantage; then the other comes with new reasons and carries the matter still further, and the others join in, they become eager and their voices are raised, and whether at last they convince one another or each remains of his own opinion--which is frequently the case--it is always a pleasure to see light thrown on difficult questions from all sides. If one of them has said something really important and arrived at the heart of the matter, it puts them all into an elevated mood; it seems as if a supernatural light had burst in on them. But the cleverest of all, and he whose opinion is listened to with the greatest respect, is always the dear husband of the lady of the house.

Ilse, however, remarked that all the learned gentlemen had not the same amiable character. Some could not bear opposition and seemed in weak moments to consider their own importance more than the advancement of truth. Again, one would only speak and would not listen, and narrowed the conversation by always returning to the point which the others had already surmounted. She discovered that even an unlearned woman could, from the discourse of the wise men, discern something of their character; and when the guests were gone she ventured to express a modest judgment upon the learning and character of individuals, and she was proud when Felix allowed that she had judged rightly.

In such conversations the wife of the scholar learned much that to other women remained incomprehensible. Thus, for instance, there were the Roman plebeians. Few women understand what they were. The old plebeians never gave tea-parties, never played on grand pianos, never wore hoop skirts and never read French novels. This cla.s.s is a very odious inst.i.tution which has been buried in the ruins of antiquity. But the wife of a philologist is informed concerning all this. It would be impossible to recount all that Ilse heard about plebeians and patricians. Silently she sympathized with the plebeians. She entirely repudiated the idea that they consisted of insignificant people and a wanton rabble, and considered them to be st.u.r.dy farmers and fearless politicians who, in unison, valiantly fought against the unjust patricians to the very end. In connection with this she thought of her father, and at times wondered whether some of her acquaintances would not have been plebeians had they been Romans.

The gentlemen were very friendly to her and almost all had one quality which made their intercourse very pleasant--they were always willing to explain. At first Ilse did not like to admit that she knew nothing of many subjects; but one evening she seated herself by her husband and began: "I have come to one conclusion. Hitherto I have been afraid to ask questions, not because I was ashamed of my ignorance, why should I be? but on your account, that people might not remark what a silly wife you have. But if you approve of it I will now do quite otherwise, for I observe that they take pleasure in talking and will be willing to favor me with a 'winged word,' as Homer says."

"Just so," said the husband; "they will like you the better the more interest you take in them."

"I should like to know everything about the whole world, in order to become like you. But I feel that I sadly lack the ability to comprehend it all."

The new plan turned out admirably. Ilse soon learnt that it was easier to persuade her friends to talk than to desist from it. For they explained to her conscientiously and at great length what she wished to learn; but they sometimes forgot that the capacity of a woman who is receiving new impressions is not so fully developed as their own art of teaching.

They seemed to her to hover like G.o.ds over the earth. But they partook of the lot of the ambrosial society, for the pure peace which they infused into the hearts of mortals did not always prevail among themselves. It was Ilse's fate that soon after her arrival, when she was beginning to feel at home, a vehement feud broke out among the immortals of Olympus.

On a dark winter's day the stormy wind beat heavily against the window, concealing the adjacent wood behind clouds of driving snow. Ilse heard in her husband' s room the sharp tones of Professor Struvelius amid a weighty flow of eloquence, and at intervals the long and earnest talk of her husband. She could not distinguish the words, but the sound of the two voices was similar to the whir of bird's wings or the rival singing of the thrush and the ill-omened crow. The conversation continued a long time and Ilse wondered that Struvelius should speak at such length. When at last he was gone, Felix entered her room at an unusual hour and paced silently up and down for some time, occupied in deep thought. At last he began abruptly:

"I am placed in a position that obliges me to communicate with my colleagues regarding our ma.n.u.script."

Ilse looked up at him inquiringly. Since her marriage there had been no talk about Tacitus.

"I thought it was your intention not to speak again of it to strangers."

"I have unwillingly broken my silence. I had no choice but to be frank with my a.s.sociate. The province of Science is extensive and it does not often happen that a.s.sociates in the same university pitch upon the same work. Nay, for obvious reasons, they avoid compet.i.tion. If, therefore, by accident such a coincidence occurs, the most delicate consideration should be mutually shown by members of the same inst.i.tution. To-day Struvelius told me that he knew I had been occupied with Tacitus and he requested some particulars of me. He asked me about the ma.n.u.scripts that I had seen and collated years ago in other countries and about the fac-simile of the characters I had made for myself."

"Then you imparted to him what you knew?" inquired Ilse.

"I gave him what I possessed, as a matter of course," replied the Professor. "For whatever he may do with it is sure to be a gain to learning."

"Then he will make use of your labors for the advancement of his own!

Now he will appear before the world in your plumes," lamented Ilse.

"Whether he will make proper use of what has been given him, or misuse it, is his affair; it is my duty to have confidence in the honor of a respectable colleague. That I did not for a moment doubt; but, indeed, another idea occurred to me. He was not quite open with me: he acknowledged that he was occupied with a criticism of certain pa.s.sages of Tacitus; but I feel sure that he concealed the most important particulars from me. Nothing then remained to me but to tell him plainly that I had long had a warm interest in that author, and that since last summer I had been the more attracted to him by the possibility of a new discovery. So I showed him the account which first brought me into your neighborhood. He is a philologist, like myself, and knows now of what great importance this author is to me."

"My only consolation is," said Ilse, "that if Struvelius wishes to disinter the ma.n.u.script in our place, a hard fate awaits him at the hands of my sensible father."

The thought of the defiance of his stem father-in-law was consoling to the Professor, and he laughed.

"On this point I am safe; but what can he want with Tacitus?--his department was formerly not concerned with the historians. It can scarcely be imagined. But the most improbable things happen! Has, perhaps, the lost ma.n.u.script, by any accident, been found and got into his hands? But it is folly to worry about that."

He strode vehemently up and down, and, shaking his wife's hand with great emotion, exclaimed at last:

"It is so vexatious to find oneself mastered by selfish feelings."

He again went to his work and when Ilse gently opened the door she saw him busy writing. Toward evening, however, when she looked after his lamp and announced the arrival of the Doctor, he was sitting leaning his head on his hand in moody thought. She stroked his hair gently but he scarcely noticed it.

The Doctor did not take the affair so much to heart; but was very angry, both at the secret dealings of the other and at the magnanimity of his friend, and a lively discussion ensued.

"May you never regret this frank action on your part!" exclaimed the Doctor. "The man will coin money from your silver. Believe me, he will play you a trick."

"After all," concluded the Professor thoughtfully, "it is not worth while to excite myself about it. Should he, by any improbable and unforeseen accident, really have come into possession of something new, he has a right to all the materials at hand--both to what I have collected and to my a.s.sistance, so far as it is in my power to give it.

If he is only exercising his critical ac.u.men on the existing text, all he may be able to accomplish will be insignificant as compared with our childlike expectations."

Thus imperceptibly and harmlessly did this cloud arise on the academical horizon.

A month had pa.s.sed, and the Professor had often met his colleague. It could not be deemed strange that Struvelius never let the name of Tacitus pa.s.s his silent lips; nevertheless, the Professor watched the conduct of his colleague with concern, for he thought he noticed that the other avoided him.

One quiet evening Felix Werner was sitting with Ilse and the Doctor at the tea-table, when Gabriel entered and laid a small pamphlet, wrapped in a common newspaper, before the Professor. The Professor tore off the cover, glanced at the t.i.tle, and silently handed the pamphlet to the Doctor. The Latin t.i.tle of the book, translated, was this: "A Fragment of Tacitus; Being a Trace of a Lost Ma.n.u.script. Communicated by Dr.

Friedobald Struvelius, etc." Without saying a word the friends rose and carried the treatise into the Professor's study. Ilse remained behind, startled. She heard her husband reading the Latin text aloud and perceived that he was compelling himself to master his excitement by slow and firm reading. The story of this fatal writing must not be withheld from the reader.

Older contemporaries of the period in which tobacco was smoked in pipes, know the value of the twisted paper-lighter, an invention which was commonly called a _fidibus_; they know the normal length and breadth of such a strip of paper which our fathers formerly used to make out of musty old records. Such a strip, certainly not of paper, but cut from a sheet of parchment, had fallen into the hands of the author. But the strip had previously undergone a hard fate. Two hundred years before it had been glued by a bookbinder on the back of a thick volume, to strengthen the binding, and he had for this object covered it thickly with glue. On the removal of the glue there appeared characters of an old monk's writing. The word Amen and some holy names made it certain that what was written had served to promote Christian piety. But under this monk's writing other and larger Latin characters were visible, very faded, indeed almost entirely defaced, from which one could, with some difficulty, distinguish the Roman name Piso. Now, Professor Struvelius had, by perseverance, and by the employment of certain chemicals, made it possible to read this under-writing, and from the form of the characters he saw that it was a work of antiquity.

But as the parchment fidibus was only a piece cut from an entire sheet, it naturally did not contain complete sentences, only single words, which fell on the soul of the reader like the lost notes of distant music borne by the wind to the ear: no melody could be made from it. It was that which had attracted the author. He had ascertained and filled in the disjointed words and guessed at the whole of the remaining leaf.

By the wonderful application of great learning, he had, from a few shadowy spots of the fidibus, restored the whole page of a parchment writing, as it might have read twelve hundred years ago. It was an astonis.h.i.+ng work.

The most distinctly written of the characters on this strip of parchment, though scarcely legible to the common eye, was the name of _Pontifex Piso_--literally translated. Peas the Bridgemaker. The parchment strip appeared very much concerned about Peas, for the name occurred several times. But the editor had shown from this name, and from fragments of destroyed words, that the strip of parchment was the last remains of a ma.n.u.script of Tacitus, and that the words belonged to a lost portion of the Annals; and he had at last proved from the character of the shadowy letters that the strip of parchment did not belong to any extant ma.n.u.script of the Roman, but that it was a part of one quite unknown, which had been destroyed.

After reading the treatise the friends sat gloomy and thoughtful. At last the Doctor exclaimed:

"How unfriendly to conceal this from you, and yet to call upon you for a.s.sistance."

"That signifies little," replied the Professor. "But I cannot approve of the work itself; hypercritical acuteness is applied to an uncertain matter, and objections might be made against much that he has restored and supposed. But why do you not say openly what interests us both much more than the mistakes of a whimsical man? We are on the track of a ma.n.u.script of Tacitus, and here we find a fragment of such a ma.n.u.script, which has been cut up by a bookbinder after the Thirty Years' War. The gain which might accrue to our knowledge from this little fragment is so insignificant that it would not pay for the energy expended on it, being a matter of indifference to all the world except to us. For, my friend, if a ma.n.u.script of Tacitus has really been cut into such strips, it is in all probability the same which we have been in search of. What is the result?" he added, bitterly. "We free ourselves from a dreamy vision which has perhaps too long made fools of us."

"How can this parchment be a part of the ma.n.u.script of our friend Bachhuber?" asked the Doctor; "many prayers have been written here over the old text."

"Who can a.s.sure us that the monks of Rossau have not written their spiritual aspirations over at least some faded sheets? It is not usual, but nevertheless possible."

"Above all, you must see Struvelius's parchment strip yourself," said the Doctor, decidedly. "An accurate examination may explain much."

"It is not agreeable to me to speak to him about it, yet I shall do so to-morrow."