ANGELA.
CHAPTER VII.
POISONOUS FOOD.
"Herr Frank has not been here for four days," said Siegwart as he returned one day from the field. "He will not come to-day, for it is already nine o'clock. I hope the young man is not ill."
Angela started.
"Ill? May God forbid!"
"At least, I know no other reason that could prevent him from coming. He has become a necessity to me; I seem to miss something."
Angela concealed her uneasiness in true womanly fashion. She busied herself about the room, dusted the furniture, arranged the vases and trimmed the flowers; but one could see that her mind was not in the work.
"Would it not be well, father, to send and inquire after his health?"
"It would if we were certain that he was ill. I only made a conjecture. However, if he does not come to-morrow, I will send Henry over. We owe him this attention; he is sensible, modest, and very intelligent. We find at present in the cities and first families few young men of so little assumption and so much goodness and manliness."
Angela pricked her finger. She had incautiously wandered into the thicket, as if she did not know that roses have thorns.
"Many things tell of his kind-heartedness," she replied, with averted face. "He sends five dollars every week to the old blind woman in Salingen; he often takes the money himself, and comforts the unfortunate creature. The blind woman is full of enthusiasm about him. He bought the cooper a full set of tools, that he might be able to support his mother and seven little sisters."
"Very praiseworthy," said the father.
As Siegwart came home in the evening, Angela met him in the yard. She carried a basket and was about to go into the garden.
"Herr Frank is not unwell," said he; "I saw him in the field and went through the vineyard to meet him; but when he discovered my intention, he turned about and hastened toward the house. That surprises me."
Angela went into the garden. She stood on the bed and gazed at the lettuce. The empty basket awaited its contents, and in it lay the knife whose bright blade glistened before the idle dreamer. She stood thus meditating, lost in thought for a long time, which was certainly not her custom.
Herr Frank had returned from the city, and was roughly received by the doctor.
"Have you spoken to your son?" said he sharply.
"No! I have just alighted from the carriage," answered Frank in astonishment.
The doctor walked up and down the room, and Frank saw his face growing darker.
"You disturb me, good friend. How is Richard?"
"Bad, very bad! And it is all your fault. You gave Richard those materialistic books which I threw out of the window. He has read the trash—not read, but studied it; and now we have the consequences."
"Pardon me, doctor. I did not give my son those books. He was passing the window when you threw them out, and took them to his room."
"You knew that! Why did you leave him the miserable trash?"
"I had no idea of the danger of these writings. Explain yourself further, I entreat."
"You must first see your son. But I bind it on your conscience to use the greatest precaution. Do not show the least surprise. We have to deal with a dangerous disorder. Do not say a word about his changed appearance. Then come back to me again."
Greatly disturbed, the father passed to the room of his son. Richard sat on the sofa gazing at the floor. His cheeks had lost their bloom, his face was emaciated, and his eyes deeply sunken. Vogt's Physiological Letters lay open near him. He did not rise quickly and joyfully to kiss his father, as was his custom. He remained sitting, and smiled languidly at him. Herr Frank, grieved and perplexed, sat down near him, and took occasion to pick up the book.
"How are you, Richard?"
"Very well, as you see."
"You are industrious. What book is this?"
"A rare book, father—a remarkable book. One learns there to know what man is and what he is not. Until now, I did not know that cats, dogs, monkeys, and all animals were of our race. Now I know; for it is clearly demonstrated in that book."
"You certainly do not believe such absurdities?"
"Believe? I believe nothing at all. Faith ends where proof begins."
Herr Frank read the open page.
"All this sounds very silly," said he. "Vogt asserts that man has no soul, and proves it from the fact that men become idiotic. If the functions of the brain are disturbed, the soul ceases, says Vogt. He therefore concludes that the spirit consists in the brain. The man must have been crazy when he wrote that. I am no scholar; but I see at the first glance how false and groundless are Vogt's inferences. Every reasonable man knows that the brain is the instrument of the mind, which enables it to participate in the world of sense; now, when the instrument is destroyed, the participation of the mind with the outward world must cease. Although a man may be an expert on the violin, he cannot play if the strings are broken or out of tune. But the player, his ideas, the art, still remain. In like manner the spirit remains, although it can no longer play on the injured or discordant fibres of the brain."
"You must read the whole book, father, and then those others there."
"But, Richard, you must not read books that rob man of all dignity."
"Of course not. I should do as the ostrich. When he is in danger, he sticks his head into the bushes not to see the danger. A prudent plan. But I cannot close my eyes to the light, even if that light should destroy my human respect."
Greatly afflicted, Herr Frank returned to the doctor.
"Great God! in what a condition is my poor Richard!" said the oppressed father.
"He will, I hope, be rescued. My stay at Frankenhöhe was to end with the month of May; but I cannot forsake a young man whom I love, in this helpless state of mental delirium."
"I do not understand the condition of my son; and your words give me great anxiety. Have the goodness to tell me what is the matter with Richard, and how it came about."
"It would be very difficult to make your son's condition clear to you. In you there is only business, lucrative undertakings, speculative combinations. The bustle of the money market is your world. You have no idea of the power of an intellectual struggle. You know the thoughtful, intellectual nature of your son; and here I begin. In the first place, I will remind you that Richard wishes to be governed by the power of deduction. With him fantasies and passions retreat before this force, although usually in men of his years, and even in men with gray hair, clearness of mind and keen penetration are often swept away by the current of stormy passions. Richard's aversion to women is the result of cool reflection and inevitable inference, and therefore on this question I do not dispute his views. I know it would be useless, and I know that the study of a pure feminine nature would overcome this prejudice. The same force of logical inferences places Richard in this unhappy condition. He read the writings of the materialist. There he found the physiological proofs that man is a beast. From these proofs Richard drew all the terrible consequences contained in those destructive doctrines. As the intellectual life predominates in him, and as he has a strong repugnance to materialistic madness, his nature must be stirred in its profoundest depths. If Richard succumbs, he will act in his habitual consistent manner. All moral basis lost, morality would be foolishness to him, since it is useless for beasts to curb the passions by moral laws. As with immortality disappears man's eternal destiny, it would be foolish to "fight the giant fight of duty." If he is convinced that man is a beast, he will live like a beast—although he might cloak his conduct with the varnish of decency—and thus suddenly would the sensible Richard stand before his astonished father a ruined man. This is one view; there is still another," said the doctor hesitatingly. "I remember in the course of my practice a suicide who wrote on a slip of paper, 'What do I here? Eat, drink, sleep, worry, and fret; much suffering, little joy; therefore—' and the man sent a bullet through his head. This suicide thought logically. This earthly life is insupportable; it is foolishness to a man who thinks and is at the same time a materialist."
"What prospects—horrible!" cried Herr Frank, wringing his hands. "Accursed be those books; and I am the cause of this misfortune!"
"The involuntary cause," said Klingenberg consolingly. "You now have a firm conviction of the devastating effects of those bad books. But how many are there who consider every warning in this connection an exhibition of prejudice or narrow-mindedness! How few readers are so modest as to admit that they want the scientific culture to refute a bad book, to separate the poison from the honey of sweet phrases and winning style! How few can see that they cannot read those bad books without detriment! No one would sit on a cask of powder and touch it off for amusement; and yet those hellish books are more dangerous than a cask full of powder. To me this is incomprehensible. Poisonous food is always injurious; yet thousands and millions drink greedily from this poisonous stream of bad reading which deluges all grades of society."
"I will do immediately what must be done," said Herr Frank as he hastily rose.
"What will you do?"
"Take from my son those execrable books."
"By no means," said Klingenberg. "This would be a psychological mistake. Richard would buy the same books again at the book-shop, and read them secretly. A man who has the resolution of your son must be won by honorable combat. Authority would here be badly applied. Therefore I forbid you to interfere. You know nothing of the matter. Treat him kindly, and have forbearance with his sensitiveness. That is what I must require of you."
Greatly afflicted, Herr Frank left the doctor. Overwhelming himself with reproaches, he wandered restlessly about the house and garden. He saw Richard standing at the open window with folded arms, dreamy and pale, his hair in disorder like a storm-beaten wheat-field—truly a painful sight for the father. He went up to his room, where the small library stood in its beautiful binding. A servant stood near him with a basket. The works of Eugene Sue, Gutzkow, and like spirits fell into the basket.
"All to the fire!" commanded Herr Frank.
The doctor had compared bad literature to poisonous food. The comparison was not inapt; at least, it gave Richard the appearance of a man in whose body destructive poison was working. He was listless and exhausted; in walking, his hands hung heavily by his side. His eyes were directed to the ground, as if he were seeking something. If he saw a snail, he stopped to examine the crawling creature. He sought to know why the snail crawls about, and, to his astonishment, found that the snail always followed an object; which is not always the case with man, animal of the moment, who goes about without an object. If a caterpillar accidentally got under his foot, he pushed it carefully aside and examined if it had been hurt. It seemed to him logical that creeping and flying things had the same claims to forbearance and proper treatment as man, since according to Vogt and Büchner's striking proofs, all creeping and flying things are not essentially different from man.
He paid particular attention to the spiders. If he came to a place where their web was stretched, he examined attentively the artistic texture; he saw the firmly fastened knot on the twig which held the web apart, the circular meshes, the cunning arrangement to catch the wandering fly. He was convinced that such a spider would be a thousand times more intelligent than Herr Vogt and Herr Büchner, with half as big a head as those wise naturalists. The enterprising spirit of the ants excited not less his admiration. He always found them busy and in a bustle, to which a market-day could not be compared. Even London and Paris were solitary in comparison to the throng in an ant-hill. They dragged about large pieces of wood, as also leaves and fibres, to construct their house, which was laid out with design and finished with much care. If he pushed his cane into the hill, there forthwith arose a great revolution. The inhabitants rushed out upon him, nipped him with their pincers, and showed the greatest rage against the invader of their kingdom, while others with great celerity placed the eggs in safety. He observed that the ants gave no quarter, and considered every one a mortal enemy who disturbed their state.
The young man sat on a stone and examined a snail that crawled slowly from the wet grass. It carried a gray house on its back, and beslimed the way as it went, and stretched out its horns to discover the best direction. Its delicate touch astonished Frank. When obstacles came in its way which it did not see nor touch, it would perceive them by means of a wonderful sensibility.
How stupid did Richard appear to himself, beside a horned, blind snail. How many men only discover obstacles in their way when they have run their heads against them, and how many wish to run their heads through walls without any reason! He arose and looked toward Angela's home. He was dejected, and heaved a sigh.
"All is of no avail. The activity of the animal world affords no diversion, the benumbing strokes of materialism lose their effect. The rare becomes common, and does not attract attention. There walks an angel in the splendor of superior excellence, and I endeavor in vain to distract my mind from her by studying the animals. I follow willingly the professors' exact investigations, into the labyrinth of their studied arguments to make it appear that I am only an animal, that all our sentiment is only imagination and fallacy. It is all in vain. Can these gentlemen teach me how we can cease to have admiration for the noble and exalted? Here man forcibly breaks through. Here self, irresistible and disgusted with error, brings the nobility of human nature to consciousness, and all the wisdom of boasted materialism becomes idle nonsense."
"Thank God! I see you again, my dear neighbor," said Siegwart cordially. "Where have you kept yourself this last week? Why do you no longer visit us? My whole house is excited about you. Henry is angry because he cannot show you the horses he bought lately. My wife bothers her head with all kinds of forebodings, and Angela urged me to send and see if you were ill."
A new life permeated Frank's whole being at these last words; his cheeks flushed and his languid eyes brightened up.
"I know no good reason as an apology, dear friend. Be assured, however, that the apparent neglect does not arise from any coolness toward you and your esteemed family." And he drew marks in the sand with his cane.
"Perhaps your father took offence at your visits to us?"
"Oh! no. No; I alone am to blame."
Siegwart gave a searching glance at the pale face of the young man who, broken-spirited, stood before him, and whose mental condition he did not understand, although he had a vague idea of it.
"I will not press you further," said he cheerfully. "But, as a punishment, you must now come with me. I received yesterday a fresh supply of genuine Havanas, and you must try them."
He took Richard by the arm, and the latter yielded to the friendly compulsion. They went through the vineyard. Frank broke from a twig a folded leaf.
"Do you know the cause of this?"
"Oh! yes; it is the work of the vine-weevil," answered Siegwart. "These mischief-makers sometimes cause great damage to the vineyards. Some years I have their nests gathered and the eggs destroyed to prevent their doing damage."
"You consider every thing with the eyes of an economist. But I admire the art, the foresight, and the intelligence of these insects."
"Intelligence—foresight of an insect!" repeated Siegwart, astonished. "I see in the whole affair neither intelligence nor foresight."
"But just look here," said Richard, carefully unfolding the leaf. "What a degree of considerate management is necessary to fix the leaf in such order. The ribs of this leaf are stronger than the force of the beetle. Yet he wished to fold the eggs in it. What does he do? He first pierces the stem with his pincers; in consequence of this, the leaf curls up and becomes soft and pliable to the frail feet of the insect. This is the first act of reflection. The piercing of the stem had evidently as its object to cause the leaf to roll up. Then he begins to work with a perfection that would do honor to human skill. The leaf is rolled up in order to put the eggs in the folds. Here is the first egg; he rolls further—here is the second egg, some distance from the first, in order to have sufficient food for the young worm—again an act of reflection; lastly, he finishes the roll with a carefully worked point, to prevent the leaf from unfolding—again an act of reflection."
Siegwart heard all this with indifference. What Richard told him he had known for years. His employment in the fields revealed to his observing mind wonderful facts in nature and in the animal world. The wisdom of the vine-weevil gave him no difficulty. He looked again in Frank's deep-sunken eyes and noticed a peculiar expression, and in his countenance great anxiety.
He concluded that the work of the vine-weevil must have some connection with the young man's condition.
"You see actions of reflection and design where I see only unconscious instinct."
Frank became nervous.
"The common evasion of superficial examination!" cried he. "Man must be just even to the animals. Their works are artistic, intelligent, and considerate. Why then deny to animals those powers which operate with intelligence and reflection?"
"I do not for a moment dispute this power of the animals," replied the proprietor quickly.
"You find mind in the animals?" interrupted Frank hastily. "This conviction once reached, have you considered the consequences that follow?"—and he became more excited. "Have you considered that with this admission the whole world becomes a fabulous structure, without any higher object? If the spider is equal to man, then its torn web that flutters in the wind is worth as much as the crumbling fragments of art which remain from classic antiquity. Virtue, the careful restraining of the passions, is stark madness. The disgusting ape, lustful and brutish, is as good as the purest virgin who performs severe penances for her idle dreams. It is with justice that the criminal scoffs at the good as bedlamites who, with fanatical delusion, strive for castles in the air. Every outcast from society, sunk and saturated in the basest vices, is precisely as good as the purest soul and the noblest heart; for all distinction between right and wrong, good and evil, is destroyed."
Angela's father gazed with solicitude into the perplexed look and distorted countenance of the young man.
"You deduce consequences, Herr Frank, that could not be drawn from my admissions," said he mildly. "There is no conscious power in animals—no reflecting soul. The animal works with the power that is in it, as light and heat in the fire, as in the lightning the destructive force, as the exciting and purifying effects in the storm. The animal does not act freely, like man; but from necessity—according to instinct and laws which the Almighty has imposed upon it."
"A gratuitous assumption! A shallow artifice," exclaimed Frank. "The animal shows understanding, design, and will; we must not deny him these faculties."
"If the lightning strikes my house and discovers with infallible certainty all the metal in the walls, even where the sharpest eye could not detect it, must you recognize mental faculties in the lightning in discovering the metal?"
Frank hemmed and was silent.
"What a botcher is the most learned chemist compared with the root-fibres of the smallest plant," continued Siegwart. "Every plant has its own peculiar life; this I observe every day. All plants do not flourish alike in the same soil. They only flourish where they find the necessary conditions for their peculiar life; where they find in the air and earth the conditions necessary for their existence. Set ten different kinds of plants together in a small plat of ground. The different fibres will always seek and absorb only that material in the earth which is proper to their kind; they will pass by the useless and injurious substances. Now, where is the chemist who with such certainty, such power of discrimination, and knowledge of substances, can select from the inert clod the proper material? A chemist with such knowledge does not exist. Now, must you admit that the fibres possess as keen an understanding and as deep a knowledge of chemistry as the man who is versed in chemistry?"
"That would be manifest folly."
"Well," concluded Siegwart quietly, "if the vine-weevil weaves its wrapper, the spider its web, the bird builds its nest, and the beaver his house, they all do it in their way, as the root-fibres in theirs."
Richard remained silent, and they passed into the house.
Angela and her mother looked with astonishment and sympathy on their friend.
Soon in the mild countenance of Madam Siegwart there appeared nearly the same expression as in the first days after the death of Eliza—so much did the painful appearance of the young man afflict her. Angela turned pale, her eyes filled, and she strove to hide her emotion. Frank only looked at her furtively. Whatever he had to say to her, he said with averted eyes. Siegwart expended all his powers of amusement; but he did not succeed in cheering the young man. He continued depressed, embarrassed, and sad, and constantly avoided looking at Angela. When she spoke he listened to the sound of her voice, but avoided her look. Presently a low barking was heard in the room and Hector, who had growlingly received Frank at his first visit, but who in time had become an acquaintance of his, lay stretched at full length dreaming. Scarcely did Richard notice the dreaming animal when he exclaimed,
"The dog dreams! See how his feet move in the chase, how he opens his nostrils, how he barks, how his limbs reach for the game! The dog dreams he is in the chase."
"I have often observed Hector's dreams," said Siegwart coolly.
Frank continued,
"Have you considered the consequences that follow from the dreams of the dog? Dreams show a thinking faculty," said he hastily. "Animals, then, think like men; thoughts are the children of the mind; therefore, animals have minds. Animals and men are alike."
Angela started at these words. Her mother shook her head.
"You conclude too hastily, my dear friend," said Siegwart coolly. "You must first know that animals dream like men. Men think, reflect, and speak in dreams. The dreams of animals are very different from those mental acts."
"How will you explain it?" said Richard excitedly.
"Very easily. Hector is now in the chase. The dog's sense of smell is remarkable. By means of the fragrant wind Hector smells the partridges miles away. He acts then just as in the dream; feet, nose, and limbs come into activity. Suppose that in the surrounding fields there is a covey of partridges. The air would indicate them to Hector's smelling organs; these organs act, as in the waking state, on the brain of the animal; the brain acts on the other organs. Where is there thought? Have we not a purely material effect? The cough, the appetite, the sneezing, the aversion—what have all these to do with mind or thought? Nothing at all. The dream of the dog is an entirely muscular process, the mere co-working of the muscular organs; as with us, digestion, the flowing of the blood, the twitching of the muscles—facts with which the mind has nothing to do."
"Your assertion is based on the assumption that partridges are near," said Richard; "and I will be obliged to you if, with Hector's assistance, you convince me of this fact."
"That is unnecessary, my dear friend. Suppose there are no partridges in the neighborhood. The same affection of the brain which would be produced by the smell of the partridges could be produced by accident. If it is accidental, it will have the same effect in the sleeping condition of the dog.[111] Affections accidentally arise in man the causes of which are not known. We are uneasy, we know not why; we are discouraged without any knowledge of the cause. We are joyful without being able to give any reason for it. The mind can rise above all these dispositions, affections, and humors; can govern, cast out, and disperse them. Proof enough that a king lives in man—the breath of God, which is not taken from the earth, and to which all matter must yield if that power so wills."
The dog stretched his strong legs without any idea of the important question to which he had given occasion.
"Herr Frank," began Madam Siegwart earnestly, "I have learned to respect you, and have often wished that my son, at your years, would be like you. I see now with painful astonishment that you defend opinions which contradict your former expressions, and the sentiments we must expect from a Christian. Will you not be so good as to tell me how you have so suddenly changed your views?"
"Esteemed madam," answered Frank, with emotion, "I thank you for this undeserved motherly sympathy; but I beg of you not to believe that the opinions I expressed are my firm convictions. No, I have not yet fallen so deep that for me there is no difference between man and beast. I can yet continue to believe that materialism is a crime against mankind. On the other hand, I freely acknowledge that my mind is in great trouble; that every firm position beneath my feet totters; that I have been tempted to hold doctrines degrading to the individual and destructive to society. I have been brought into this difficulty by reading books whose seductive proofs I am not able to refute. Oh! I am miserable, very miserable; my appearance must have shown you that already."
He looked involuntarily at Angela; he saw tears in her eyes; he bowed his head and was silent.
"I see your difficulties," said the proprietor. "They enter early or late into the mind of every man. It is good, in such uncertainties and doubts, to lean on the authority of truth. This authority can only be God, who is truth itself, who came down from heaven and brought light into the darkness. We can prove, inquire, and speculate; but the keenest human intellect is not always free from delusion. As there is in man a spiritual tendency which raises him far above the visible and material, God has been pleased to lead and direct that tendency by revelation, that man may not err. I consider divine revelation a necessity which God willed when he created the mind. As the mind has an instinctive thirst after truth, God must, by the revelation of truth, satisfy this thirst. Therefore is revelation as old as the human race. 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 assuming 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."
TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN.