The Lost Manuscript: A Novel. Gustav Freytag
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about it, and I have already explained to her why I cannot dispose of them. Now, I cannot do to please you, what I have refused your mother; that would be contrary to all family regulations. Respect your mother, little girl."
"You are a hard-hearted father," replied the daughter, pouting; "and more than that, you are unjust in this affair."
"Oh, oh!" cried the father, "is that the way you approach me?"
"What harm does the ringing of bells over there do to us? The little summer-house is pretty, and when we sit in the garden in the evening, and there is a breeze, and the bells tinkle gently, it sounds just lovely-it is like Mozart's Magic Flute."
"Our street is not an opera-house," the father retorted sharply, "but a public thoroughfare; and when my pet dogs bark you can equally well pursue your theatrical ideas, and imagine that you are in the Wolf's Den, in the Freischütz."
"No, my father," answered the daughter, eagerly, "you are unjust towards these people; for you wish to spite them, and that vexes me to my heart's core. It is not worthy of my father."
"Yet you must bear it," he replied, doggedly, "for this is a quarrel between men. Police regulations settle such affairs, and your verses are altogether out of place. As regards the names, it is possible that other words like Adolar, Ingomar, and Marquis Posa, might sound better to you women-folk. But this is no reason for me; my names are practical. In the matter of flowers and books, I will do much to please you but in the matter of dogs I cannot take poetry into consideration." So saying, he turned his back upon his daughter, to avoid protracting the dispute.
Laura, however, hastened to her mother's room, and the ladies took counsel together.
"The noise was bad enough," complained Laura, "but the names are terrible. I cannot say those words for my life, and you ought not to allow our servant to do so, either."
"Dear child," answered the experienced mother, "one has to pass through much in this world which is unpleasant, but what grieves me most is the wanton attacks upon the dignity of women in their own houses. I shall say no more on the subject. I agree with you, that both the names by which the dogs are called are an insult to our neighbor. But if your father were to discover that behind his back we called them Phœbus and Azor, it would make matters worse."
"No one at least must utter those other names who cares for my friendship," said Laura, decidedly, and entered into the court-yard.
Gabriel was employing his leisure in making observations on the new comers. He was frequently attracted to the dogs' kennel in order to establish the certainty of the earthly nature of the strangers.
"What is your opinion?" asked Laura, approaching him.
"I have my opinion," answered the servant, peering into the interior of the shed, "namely, that there is something mysterious about them. Did you remark the song of those ravens the other night? No real dog barks like that; they whine and moan and occasionally groan and speak like little children. They eat like other dogs, but their mode of life is unusual. See, how they cower down, as if they had been struck on the mouth, because the sun shines on them. And then, dear young lady, the names!"
Laura looked with curiosity at the beasts.
"We will alter the names secretly, Gabriel; this one shall be called Ruddy."
"That would certainly be better; it would at least not be an insult to Mr. Hahn, but only to the tenant of the basement."
"What do you mean by that?"
"The porter who lives over there is called Ruddy."
"Then," decided Laura, "the red monster shall from henceforth be named The Other; our people shall call him Andres.2 Tell this to the workmen in the factory."
"Andres!" replied Gabriel. "The name will just suit him. The neighbors would dignify him with the name of Andreas if it were not too much honor to him."
Thus were kind hearts occupied in thwarting the bad signification of the name. But in vain, for, as Laura had correctly noted in her diary, when the ball of mischief has been thrown amongst men, it mercilessly hits the good as well as the bad. The dog was supplied with the most inoffensive name that ever was given; but through a wonderful complication of circumstances, which bid defiance to all human sagacity, it happened that Mr. Hahn himself bore the name of Andreas. Thus the double name of the animal became a double affront to the neighboring house, and bad and good intentions mingled together in a thick, black soup of hatred.
Early in the morning Mr. Hummel appeared at the door, and defiantly, like Ajax, called the two dogs by their hostile names. The porter, Ruddy, heard the call in the cellar, hastened to his master's room, and informed him of this horrible affront. Mrs. Hahn endeavored not to believe it, and maintained that they should, at least, wait for some confirmation. This confirmation did not fail to come; for at noonday Gabriel opened the door of the place where the dogs were confined, and made the creatures come out for a quarter of an hour's sunning in the garden. Laura, who was sitting among her flowers, and was just looking out for her secret ideal-a famous singer, who, with his glossy black hair and military gait was just passing by-determined, like a courageous maiden, not to peer after her favorite through the foliage of the vine arbor, and turned toward the dogs. In order to accustom the red one to his new name, she enticed him with a bit of cake, and called him several times by the unfortunate name, "Andres." At the same moment, Dorchen rushed to Mrs. Hahn, saying: "It is true; now even Miss Laura calls the dog by the Christian name of our master."
Mrs. Hahn stepped to the window much shocked, and herself heard the name of her dear husband. She retreated quickly, for this insult from her neighbors brought tears into her eyes, and she sought for her pocket-handkerchief to wipe them away unperceived by her maid. Mrs. Hahn was a good woman, calm and agreeable, with a tendency to plumpness and an inclination quietly to do anything for the sake of peace. But this heartlessness of the daughter roused her anger. She instantly fetched her cloak from the closet, and went with the utmost determination across the street to the garden of the hostile neighbors.
Laura looked up astonished from the hideous dogs to the unexpected visitor, who came toward her with dignified steps.
"I come to complain, young lady!" began Mrs. Hahn, without further greeting. "The insults that have been heaped upon my husband from this house are insupportable. For your father's conduct you are not responsible; but I think it shocking that a young girl like you should also join in these outrages!"
"What do you mean, Mrs. Hahn?" asked Laura, excitedly.
"I mean the affront of giving a man's name to dogs. You call your dogs by all my husband's names."
"That I have never done," replied Laura.
"Do not deny it," cried out Mrs. Hahn.
"I never speak an untruth," said the girl proudly.
"My husband's name is Andreas Hahn, and what you call this beast is heard by the whole neighborhood."
Laura's pride was roused. "This is a misunderstanding, and the dog is not so called. What you say is unjust."
"How is it unjust?" returned Mrs. Hahn. "In the morning the father, and in the afternoon the daughter call him so."
A heavy weight fell on Laura's heart; she felt herself dragged down into an abyss of injustice and injury. Her father's conduct paralyzed her energies, and tears burst from her eyes.
"I see that you at least feel the wrong you are committing," continued Mrs. Hahn, more calmly. "Do not do it again. Believe me, it is easy to pain others, but it is a sorry business, and my poor husband and I have not deserved it from you. We have seen you grow up before our eyes; and even though we have had no intercourse with your parents, we have always been pleased with you, and no-one in our house has ever wished you ill. You do not know what a good man Mr. Hahn is, but still you ought not to have behaved so. Since we have dwelt here we have experienced many vexations from this house; but that you should share your father's views pains me most."
Laura endeavored in vain to dry her tears. "I repeat to you that you do me injustice; more I cannot say in self-justification, nor will I. You have grieved me more than you know, and I am satisfied that I