The Lost Manuscript: A Novel. Gustav Freytag

which shepherds and shepherdesses were sitting side by side. There she passed her pleasantest hours with her pen and paper, writing her diary in secret.

      She also partook of the aversion of her parents for the neighboring family. Even as a little child she had passed poutingly before the door of that house; never had her foot crossed its threshold, and when good Mrs. Hahn once asked her to shake hands, it was long before she could make up her mind to take her hand out of her apron pocket. Of the inhabitants of the neighboring house the one most annoying to her was young Fritz Hahn. She seldom associated with him, but unfortunately she was always in some embarrassment which enabled Fritz Hahn to act the part of her protector. Before she went to school, the eldest son of Mrs. Knips, already quite a big fellow, who painted fine pictures and birthday cards, and sold them to people in the neighborhood, wished to compel her to give the money she held in her hand for a devil's head which he had painted, and which no one in the street would have; he treated her so roughly and so ill, that contrary to her wont, she became frightened and gave him her pennies, and weeping, held the horrible picture in her hand. Fritz Hahn happened to come that way, inquired what had taken place, and when she complained to him of Knips's violent conduct, he grew so indignant that she became frightened about him. He set upon the lad, who was his school-fellow and in a class above him, and began to thrash him on the spot, while the younger Knips looked on laughing, with his hands in his pocket. Fritz pushed the naughty boy against the wall and compelled him to give up the money and take back his devil. But this meeting did not help to make her like Fritz any the better. She could not bear him, because already as an undergraduate he wore spectacles, and always looked so serious. And when she came from school, and he went with his portfolio to the lecture, she always endeavored to avoid him.

      On another occasion they happened to meet. She was among the first girls in the Institute; the oldest Knips was already Magister, and the younger apprentice in her father's business, and Fritz Hahn had just become a doctor. She had rowed herself between the trees in the park till the boat struck a snag and her oar fell into the water. As she was bending down to recover it, she also lost her hat and parasol. Laura, in her embarrassment, looked to the shore for help. Again it so happened that Fritz Hahn was passing, lost in thought. He heard the faint cry which had escaped her, jumped into the muddy water, fished up the hat and parasol, and drew the boat to the shore. Here he offered Laura his hand and helped her on to dry ground. Laura undoubtedly owed him thanks, and he had also treated her with respect and called her Miss. But then he looked very ridiculous, he bowed so awkwardly, and he stared at her so fixedly through his glasses. And when she afterwards learned that he had caught a terrible cold from his jump into the swamp, she became indignant, both at herself and at him, because she had screamed when there was no danger, and he had rushed to her aid with such useless chivalry. She could have helped herself, and now the Hahns would think she owed them no end of thanks.

      On this point she might have been at ease, for Fritz had quietly changed his clothes and dried them in his room.

      But indeed it was quite natural that the two hostile children should avoid each other, for Fritz was of quite a different nature. He also was an only child, and had been brought up tenderly by a kind-hearted father and a too anxious mother. He was, from his earliest childhood, quiet and self-possessed, unassuming and studious. In his home he had created for himself a little world of his own where he indulged in out-of-the-way studies. Whilst around him was the merry hum of life, he pored over Sanskrit characters, and investigated the relations between the wild spirits that hovered over the Teutoburger battle, and the gods of the Veda, who floated over palm-woods and bamboos in the hot valley of the Ganges. He also was the pride and joy of his family; his mother never failed to bring him his cup of coffee every morning; then she seated herself opposite him with her bunch of keys, and looked silently at him while he ate his breakfast, scolded him gently for working so late the previous night, and told him that she could not sleep quietly till she heard him push back his chair and place his boots before the door to be cleaned. After breakfast, Fritz went to his father to bid him good morning, and he knew that it gave his father pleasure when he walked with him for a few minutes in the garden, observing the growth of his favorite flowers, and when, above all, he approved of his garden projects. This was the only point on which Mr. Hahn was sometimes at variance with his son; and, as he could not refute his son's arguments, nor restrain his own strong aesthetic inclinations, he adopted methods which are often resorted to by greater politicians-he secretly prepared his projects, and surprised his son with the execution of them.

      Amidst this tranquil life, intercourse with the Professor was the greatest pleasure of the day to our young scholar; it elevated him and made him happy. He had, while yet a student, heard the first course of lectures given by Felix Werner at the University. A friendship had gradually arisen, such as is perhaps only possible among highly-cultivated, sound men of learning. Fritz became the devoted confidant of the inexhaustible activity of his friend. Every investigation of the Professor, with its results, was imparted to him, even to the most minute details, and the pleasure of every new discovery was shared by the neighbors. Thus the best portion of their life was passed together. Fritz, indeed, as the younger, was more a receiver than giver; but it was just this that made the relation so firm and deep. This intercourse was not without occasional differences, as is natural with scholars; for both were hasty in judgment; both were very exacting in the requirements which they made on themselves and others, and both were easily excited. But such differences were soon settled, and only served to increase the loving consideration with which they treated each other.

      Through this friendship the bitter relations between the two houses were somewhat mitigated. Even Mr. Hummel could not help showing some respect for the Doctor, as his highly-honored tenant paid such striking marks of distinction to the son of the enemy. For Mr. Hummel's respect for his tenant was unbounded. He heard that the Professor was quite celebrated in his specialty, and he was inclined to value earthly fame when, as in this case, there was profit in it. Besides, the Professor was a most excellent tenant. He never protested against any rule which Mr. Hummel, as chief magistrate of the house, prescribed. He had once asked the advice of Mr. Hummel concerning the investment of some capital. He possessed neither dog nor cat, gave no parties, and did not sing with his window open, nor play bravura pieces on the piano. But the main point was, that he showed to Mrs. Hummel and Laura, whenever he met them, the most chivalrous politeness, which well became the learned gentleman. Mrs. Hummel was enchanted with her tenant; and Mr. Hummel always deemed it expedient not to mention his intention of raising the rent to his family, because he foresaw a general remonstrance from the ladies.

      Now the hobgoblin who ran to and fro between both houses, throwing stones in the way, and making sport of men, had tried also to excite these two noble souls against each other. But his attempt was a miserable failure; these worthy men were not disposed to dance to his discordant pipes.

      Early the following morning, Gabriel took a letter from his master to the Doctor. As he passed the hostile threshold, Dorchen, the servant of the Hahn family, hastily came toward him with a letter from her young master to the Professor. The messengers exchanged letters, and the two friends read them at the same moment.

      The Professor wrote: -

      "My dear friend-Do not be angry with me because I have again been vehement; the cause of it was as absurd as possible. I must honestly tell you that what put me out was your having so unconditionally refused to edit with me a Latin text. For the possibility of finding the lost manuscript, which we in our pleasant dreams assumed for some minutes, was the more enticing to me, because it opened the prospect of an employment in common to us both. And if I wish to draw you within the narrow circle of my studies, you may take for granted that it is not only from personal feeling, but far more from the wish of my heart to avail myself of your ability for the branch of learning to which I confine myself."

      Fritz, on the other hand, wrote: -

      "My very dear friend-I feel most painfully that my irritability yesterday spoilt for us both a charming evening. But do not think that I mean to dispute your right to reproach me for the prolixity and want of system in my labors. It was just because what you said touched a cord, the secret dissonance of which I have myself sometimes felt, that I for a moment lost my equanimity. You are certainly right in much that you said, only I beg you to believe that my refusal to undertake a great work in conjunction with you was neither selfishness nor want of friendship. I am convinced