THE PROGRESSIVE PROFESSOR

When Frank returned from the walk, he found a visitor at Frankenhoehe.

The visitor was an elegantly dressed young man, with a free, self-important air about him.

He spoke fluently, and his words sounded as decisive as though they came from the lips of infallibility. At times this self-importance was of such a boastful and arrogant character as to affect the observer disagreeably.

“It is now vacation, and I do not know how to enjoy it better than by a visit to you,” said he.

“Very flattering to me,” answered Frank. “I hope you will be pleased with Frankenhoehe.”

“Pleased?” returned the visitor, as he looked through the open window at the beautiful landscape. “I would like to dream away here the whole of May and June. How charming it is! An empire of flowers and vernal delights.”

“I am surprised, Carl, that you have preserved such a love for nature. I thought you considered the professor’s chair the culminating point of attraction.”

Carl bowed his head proudly, and stood with folded arms before the smiling Frank.

“That is evidently intended for flattery,” said he. “The professor’s chair is my vocation. He who does not hold his vocation as the acme of all attraction is indeed a perfect man. Besides, it will appear to you, who consider everything in the world, not excepting even the fair sex, with blank stoicism it will appear even to you that the rostrum is destined to accomplish great things. Ripe knowledge in mighty pulsations goes forth from the rostrum, and permeates society. The rostrum governs and educates the rising young men who are destined to assume leading positions in the state. The rostrum overthrows antiquated forms of religious delusion, ennobles rational thought, exact science, and deep investigation. The rostrum governs even the throne; for we have princes in Germany who esteem liberty of thought and progress of knowledge more than the art of governing their people in a spirit of stupidity.”

Frank smiled.

“The glory of the rostrum I leave undisputed,” said he. “But I beg of you to conceal from the doctor your scientific rule of faith. You may get into trouble with the doctor.”

“I am very desirous of becoming acquainted with this paragon of learning you have told me so much about him; and I confess it was partly to see him that I made this visit. Get into trouble? I do not fear the old syllogism-chopper in the least. A good disputation with him is even desirable.”

“Well, you are forewarned. If you go home with a lacerated back, it will not be my fault.”

“A lacerated back?” said the professor quietly. “Does the doctor like to use striking arguments?”

“Oh! no; but his sarcasm is as cutting as the slash of a sword, and his logical vehemence is like the stroke of a club.”

“We will fight him with the same weapons,” answered Carl, throwing back his head. “Shall I pay him my respects immediately?”

“The doctor admits no one. In his studio he is as inaccessible as a Turkish sultan in his harem. I will introduce you in the dining-room, as it is now just dinner-time.”

They betook themselves to the dining-room, and soon after they heard the sound of a bell.

“He is just now called to table,” said Richard. “He does not allow the servant to enter his room, and for that reason a bell has been hung there.”

“How particular he is!” said the professor.

A door of the ante-room was opened, quick steps were heard, and Klingenberg hastily entered and placed himself at the table, as at a work that must be done quickly, and then observed the stranger.

“Doctor Lutz, professor of history in our university,” said Frank, introducing him.

“Doctor Lutz professor of history,” said Klingenberg musingly. “Your name is familiar to me, if I am not mistaken; are you not a collaborator on Sybel’s historical publication?”

“I have that honor,” answered the professor, with much dignity.

They began to eat.

“You read Sybel’s periodical?” asked the professor.

“We must not remain entirely ignorant of literary productions, particularly the more excellent.”

Lutz felt much flattered by this declaration.

“Sybel’s periodical is an unavoidable necessity at present,” said the professor. “Historical research was in a bad way; it threatened to succumb entirely to the ultramontane cause and the clerical party.”

“Now Sybel and his co-laborers will avert that danger,” said the doctor. “These men will do honor to historical research. The ultramontanists have a great respect for Sybel. When he taught in Munich, they did not rest till he turned his back on Isar-Athen. In my opinion, Sybel should not have gone to Munich. The stupid Bavarians will not allow themselves to be enlightened. So let them sit in darkness, the stupid barbarians who have no appreciation for the progress of science.”

The professor looked astonished. He could not understand how an admirer of Sybel’s could be so prejudiced. Frank was alarmed lest the professor might perceive the doctor’s keen sarcasm which he delivered with a serious countenance and feel offended. He changed the conversation to another subject, in which Klingenberg did not take part.

“You have represented the doctor incorrectly,” said the professor, after the meal. “He understands Sybel and praises his efforts the best sign of a clear mind.”

“Klingenberg is always just,” returned Frank.

On the following afternoon, Lutz joined in the accustomed walk. As they were passing through the chestnut grove, a servant of Siegwart’s came up breathless, with a letter in his hand, which he gave to Frank.

“Gentlemen,” said Frank after reading the letter, “I am urgently requested to visit Herr Siegwart immediately. With your permission I will go.”

“Of course, go,” said Klingenberg. “I know,” he added with a roguish expression, “that you would as lief visit that excellent man as walk with us.”

Richard went off in such haste that the question occurred to him why he fulfilled with such zeal the wishes of a man with whom he had been so short a time acquainted; but with the question Angela came before his mind as an answer. He rejected this answer, even against his feelings, and declared to himself that Siegwart’s honorable character and neighborly feeling made his haste natural and even obligatory. The proprietor may have been waiting his arrival, for he came out to meet him. Frank observed a dark cloud over the countenance of the man and great anxiety in his features.

“I beg your forgiveness a thousand times, Herr Frank. I know you go walking with Herr Klingenberg at this hour, and I have deprived you of that pleasure.”

“No excuse, neighbor. It is a question which would give me greater pleasure, to serve you or to walk with Klingenberg.”

Richard smiled while saying these words; but the smile died away, for he saw how pale and suddenly anxious Siegwart had become. They had entered a room, and he desired to know the cause of Siegwart’s changed manner.

“A great and afflicting misfortune threatens us,” began the proprietor. “My Eliza has been suddenly taken ill, and I have great fears for her young life. Oh! if you knew how that child has grown into my heart.” He paused for a moment and suppressed his grief, but he could not hide from Frank the tears that filled his eyes. Richard saw these tears, and this paternal grief increased his respect for Siegwart.

“The delicate life of a young child does not allow of protracted medical treatment, of consultation or investigation into the disease or the best remedies. The disease must be known immediately and efficient remedies applied. There are physicians at my command, but I do not dare to trust Eliza to them.”

“I presume, Herr Siegwart, that you wish for Klingenberg.”

“Yes and through your mediation. You know that he only treats the sick poor; but resolutely refuses his services to the wealthy.”

“Do not be uneasy about that. I hope to be able to induce Klingenberg to correspond with your wishes. But is Eliza really so sick, or does your apprehension increase your anxiety?”

“I will show you the child, and then you can judge for yourself.” They went up-stairs and quietly entered the sick-room. Angela sat on the little bed of the child, reading. The child was asleep, but the noise of their entrance awoke her. She reached out her little round arms to her father, and said in a scarcely audible whisper,

“Papa papa!”

This whispered “papa” seemed to pierce the soul of Siegwart like a knife. He drew near and leant over the child.

“You will be well to-morrow, my sweet pet. Do you see, Herr Frank has come to see you?”

“Mamma!” whispered the child.

“Your mother will come to-morrow, my Eliza. She will bring you something pretty. My wife has been for the last two weeks at her sister’s, who lives a few miles from here,” said Siegwart, turning to Frank. “I sent a messenger for her early this morning.”

While the father sat on the bed and held Eliza’s hand in his, Frank observed Angela, who scarcely turned her eyes from the sick child. Her whole soul seemed taken up with her suffering sister. Only once had she looked inquiringly at Frank, to read in his face his opinion of the condition of Eliza. She stood immovable at the foot of the bed, as mild, as pure, and as beautiful as the guardian angel of the child.

Both men left the room.

“I will immediately seek the doctor, who is now on his walk,” said Frank.

“Shall I send my servant for him?”

“That is unnecessary,” returned Frank. “And even if your servant should find the doctor, he would probably not be inclined to shorten his walk. Our gardener, who works in the chestnut grove, will show me the way the doctor took. In an hour and a half at furthest I will be back.”

The young man pressed the outstretched hand of Siegwart, and hastened away.

In the mean time the doctor and the professor had reached a narrow, wooded ravine, on both sides of which the rocks rose almost perpendicularly. The path on which they talked passed near a little brook, that flowed rippling over the pebbles in its bed. The branches of the young beeches formed a green roof over the path, and only here and there were a few openings through which the sun shot its sloping beams across the cool, dusky way, and in the sunbeams floated and danced dust-colored insects and buzzing flies.

The learned saunterers continued their amusement without altercation until the professor’s presumption offended the doctor and led to a vehement dispute.

Klingenberg did not appear on the stage of publicity. He left boasting and self-praise to others, far inferior to him in knowledge. He despised that tendency which pursues knowledge only to command, which cries down any inquiry that clashes with their theories. The doctor published no learned work, nor did he write for the periodicals, to defend his views. But if he happened to meet a scientific opponent, he fought him with sharp, cutting weapons.

“I do not doubt of the final victory of true science over the falsifying party spirit of the ultramontanes,” said the professor. “Sybel’s periodical destroys, year by year, more and more the crumbling edifice which the clerical zealots build on the untenable foundation of falsified facts.”

Klingenberg tore his cap from his head and swung it about vehemently, and made such long strides that the other with difficulty kept up with him. Suddenly he stopped, turned about, and looked the professor sharply in the eyes.

“You praise Sybel’s publication unjustly,” said he excitedly. “It is true Sybel has founded a historical school, and has won many imitators; but his is a school destructive of morality and of history a school of scientific radicalism, a school of falsehood and deceitfulness. Sybel and his followers undertake to mould and distort history to their purposes. They slur over every thing that contradicts their theories. To them the ultramontanes are partial, prejudiced men or perhaps asses and dunces; you are unfortunately right when you say Sybel’s school wins ground; for Sybel and his fellows have brought lying and falsification to perfection. They have in Germany perplexed minds, and have brought their historical falsifications to market as true ware.”

The professor could scarcely believe his own ears.

“I have given you freely and openly my judgment, which need not offend you, as it refers to principles, not persons.”

“Not in the least,” answered Lutz derisively. “I admit with pleasure that Sybel’s school is anti-church, and even anti-Christian, if you will. There is no honor in denying this. The denial would be of no use; for this spirit speaks too loudly and clearly in that school. Sybel and his associates keep up with the enlightenment and liberalism of our times. But I must contradict you when you say this free tendency is injurious to society; the seed of free inquiry and human enlightenment can bring forth only good fruits.”

“Oh! we know this fruit of the new heathenism,” cried the doctor. “There is no deed so dark, no crime so great, that it may not be defended according to the anti-Christian principles of vicious enlightenment and corrupt civilization. Sybel’s school proves this with striking clearness. Tyrants are praised and honored. Noble men are defamed and covered with dirt.”

“This you assert, doctor; it is impossible to prove such a declaration.”

“Impossible! Not at all. Sybel’s periodical exalts to the seventh heaven the tyrant Henry VIII. of England. You extol him as a conscientious man who was compelled by scruples of conscience to separate from his wife. You commend him for having but one mistress. You say that the sensualities of princes are only of ’anecdotal interest.’ Naturally,” added the doctor contemptuously, “a school that cuts loose from Christian principles cannot consistently condemn adultery. Fie! fie! Debauchees and men of gross sensuality might sit in Sybel’s enlightened school. Progress overthrows the cross, and erects the crescent. We may yet live to see every wealthy man of the new enlightenment have his harem. Whether society can withstand the detestable consequences of this teaching of licentiousness and contempt for Christian morality, is a consideration on which these progressive gentlemen do not reflect.”

“I admit, doctor,” said Lutz, “that the clear light of free, impartial science must needs hurt the eyes of a pious believer. According to the opinions of the ultramontanes, Henry VIII. was a terrible tyrant and bloodhound. Sybel’s periodical deserves the credit of having done justice to that great king.”

“Do you say so?” cried the doctor, with flaming eyes. “You, a professor of history in the university! You, who are appointed to teach our young men the truth! Shame on you! What you say is nothing but stark hypocrisy. I appeal to the heathen. You may consider religion from the stand-point of an ape, for what I care; your cynicism, which is not ashamed to equalize itself with the brute, may also pass. But this hypocrisy, this fallacious representation of historical facts and persons, this hypocrisy before my eyes this I cannot stand; this must be corrected.”

The doctor actually doubled up his fists. Lutz saw it and saw also the wild fire in the eyes of his opponent, and was filled with apprehension and anxiety.

Erect and silent, fiery indignation in his flushed countenance, stood Klingenberg before the frightened professor. As Lutz still held his tongue, the doctor continued,

“You call Henry VIII. a ‘great king,’ you extol and defend this ’great king’ in Sybel’s periodical. I say Henry VIII. was a great scoundrel, a blackguard without a conscience, and a bloodthirsty tyrant. I prove my assertion. Henry VIII. caused to be executed two queens who were his wives two cardinals, twelve dukes and marquises, eighteen barons and knights, seventy-seven abbots and priors, and over sixty thousand Catholics. Why did he have them executed? Because they were criminals? No; because they remained true to their consciences and to the religion of their fathers. All these fell victims to the cruelty of Henry VIII., whom you style a ‘great king.’ You glorify a man who for blood-thirstiness and cruelty can be placed by the side of Nero and Diocletian. That is my retort to your hypocrisy and historical mendacity.”

The stern doctor having emptied his vials of wrath, now walked on quietly; Lutz with drooping head followed in silence.

“Sybel does not even stop with Henry VIII.,” again began the doctor. “These enlightened gentlemen undertake to glorify even Tiberius, that inhuman monster. They might as well have the impudence to glorify cruelty itself. On the other hand, truly great men, such as Tilly, are abandoned to the hatred of the ignorant.”

“This is unjust,” said the professor hastily. “Sybel’s periodical in the second volume says that Tilly was often calumniated by party spirit; that the destruction of Magdeburg belongs to the class of unproved and improbable events. The periodical proves that Tilly’s conduct in North Germany was mild and humane, that he signalized himself by his simplicity, unselfishness, and conscientiousness.

“Does Sybel’s periodical say all this?”

“Word for word, and much more in praise of that magnanimous man,” said Lutz. “From this you may know that science is just even to pious heroes.”

Klingenberg smiled characteristically, and in his smile was an expression of ineffable contempt.

He stopped before the professor.

“You have just quoted what impartial historical research informs us of Tilly, in the second and third volumes. It is so. I remember perfectly having read that favorable account. Now let me quote what the same periodical says of the same Tilly in the seventeenth volume. There we read that Tilly was a hypocrite and a blood-hound, whose name cannot be mentioned without a shudder; furthermore, we are told that Tilly burned Magdeburg, that he waged a ravaging war against men, women, children, and property. You see, then, in the second and third volumes that Tilly was a conscientious, mild man and pious hero; in the seventeenth volume, that he was a tyrant and blood-hound. It appears from this with striking clearness that the enlightened progressionists do not stick at contradiction, mendacity, and defamation.”

The professor lowered his eyes and stood embarrassed.

“I leave you, ‘Herr Professor,’ to give a name to such a procedure. Besides, I must also observe that the strictly scientific method, as it labels itself at present, does not stop at personal defamation. As every holy delusion and religious superstition must be destroyed in the hearts of the students, this lying and defamation extends to the historical truths of faith. It is taught from the professors’ chairs, and confirmed by the journals, that confession is an invention of the middle ages; while you must know from thorough research that confession has existed up to the time of the apostles. You teach and write that Innocent III. introduced the doctrine of transubstantiation in the thirteenth century; while every one having the least knowledge of history knows that at the council of 1215 it was only made a duty to receive the holy communion at Easter, that the fathers of the first ages speak of transubstantiation that it has its foundation in Scripture. You know as well as I do that indulgences were imparted even in the first century; but this does not prevent you from teaching that the popes of the middle ages invented indulgences from love of money, and sold them from avarice. Thus the progressive science lies and defames, yet is not ashamed to raise high the banner of enlightenment; thus you lead people into error, and destroy youth! Fie! fie!”

The doctor turned and was about to proceed when he heard his name called. Frank hastened to him, the perspiration running from his forehead, and his breast heaving from rapid breathing. In a few words he made known Eliza’s illness, and Siegwart’s request.

“You know,” said Klingenberg, “that I treat only the poor, who cannot easily get a physician.”

“Make an exception in this case, doctor, I beg of you most earnestly! You respect Siegwart yourself for his integrity, and I also of late have learned to esteem the excellent man, whose heart at present is rent with anxiety and distress. Save this child, doctor; I beg of you save it.”

Klingenberg saw the young man’s anxiety and goodness, and benevolence beamed on his still angry face.

“I see,” said he, “that no refusal is to be thought of. Well, we will go.” And he immediately set off with long strides on his way back. Richard cast a glance at the professor, who followed, gloomy and spiteful. He saw the angry look he now and then turned on the hastening doctor, and knew that a sharp contest must have taken place. But his solicitude for Siegwart’s child excluded all other sympathy. On the way he exchanged only a few words with Lutz, who moved on morosely, and was glad when Klingenberg and Richard separated from him in the vicinity of Frankenhoehe.

Ten minutes later they entered the house of Siegwart. The doctor stood for a moment observing the child without touching it. The little one opened her eyes, and appeared to be frightened at the strange man with the sharp features. Siegwart and Angela read anxiously in the doctor’s immovable countenance. As Eliza said “Papa,” in a peculiar, feverish tone, Klingenberg moved away from the bed. He cast a quick glance at the father, went to the window and drummed with his fingers on the glass. Frank read in that quick glance that Eliza must die. Angela must also have guessed the doctor’s opinion, for she was very much affected; her head sank on her breast and tears burst from her eyes.

Klingenberg took out his notebook, wrote something on a small slip of paper, and ordered the recipe to be taken immediately to the apothecary. He then took his departure.

“What do you think of the child?” said Siegwart, as they passed over the yard.

“The child is very sick; send for me in the morning if it be necessary.”

Frank and the doctor went some distance in silence. The young man thought of the misery the death of Eliza would bring on that happy family, and the pale, suffering Angela in particular stood before him.

“Is recovery not possible?”

“No. The child will surely die to-night. I prescribed only a soothing remedy. I am sorry for Siegwart; he is one of the few fathers who hang with boundless love on their children particularly when they are young. The man must call forth all his strength to bear up against it.”

When Frank entered his room, he found Lutz in a very bad humor.

“You have judged that old bear much too leniently,” began the professor. “The man is a model of coarseness and intolerable bigotry.”

“I thought so,” said Frank. “I know you and I know the doctor; and I knew two such rugged antithèses must affect each other unpleasantly. What occasioned your dispute?”

“What! A thousand things,” answered his friend ill-humoredly. “The old rhinoceros has not the least appreciation of true knowledge. He carries haughtily the long wig of antiquated stupidity, and does not see the shallowness of the swamp in which he wallows. The genius of Christianity is to him the sublime. Where this stops, pernicious enlightenment which corrupts the people, turns churches into ball-rooms, and the Bible into a book of fables begins.”

“The doctor is not wrong there,” said Frank earnestly. “Are they not endeavoring with all their strength to deprive the Bible of its divine character? Does not one Schenkel in Heidelberg deny the divinity of Christ? Is not this Schenkel the director of a theological faculty? Do not some Catholic professors even begin to dogmatize and dispute the authority of the holy see?”

“We rejoice at the consoling fact that Catholic savants themselves break the fetters with which Rome’s infallibility has bound in adamantine chains the human mind!” cried Lutz with enthusiasm.

“It appears strange to me when young men scarcely escaped from the school, and boasting of all modern knowledge cast aside as old, worthless rubbish what great minds of past ages have deeply pondered. The see of Rome and its dogmas have ruled the world for eighteen hundred years. Rome’s dogmas overthrew the old world and created a new one. They have withstood and survived storms that have engulfed all else besides. Such strength excites wonder and admiration, but not contempt.”

“I let your eulogy on Rome pass,” said the professor. “But as Rome and her dogmas have overthrown heathenism, so will the irresistible progress of science overthrow Christianity. Coming generations will smile as complacently at the God of Christendom as we consider with astonishment the great and small gods of the heathen.”

“I do not desire the realization of your prophecy,” said Frank gloomily; “for it must be accompanied by convulsions that will transform the whole world, and therefore I do not like to see an anti-Christian tendency pervading science.”

“Tendency, tendency!” said Lutz, hesitating. “In science there is no tendency; there is but truth.”

“Easy, friend, easy! Be candid and just. You will not deny that the tendency of Sybel’s school is to war against the church?”

“Certainly, in so far as the church contends against truth and thorough investigation.”

“Good; and the friends of the church will contend against you in so far as you are inimical to the spirit of the church. And so, tendency on one side, tendency on the other. But it is you who make the more noise. As soon as a book opposed to you appears, ’Partial!’ you say with contemptuous mien; ‘Odious!’ ‘Ecclesiastical!’ ‘Unreadable!’ and it is forthwith condemned. But it appears to me natural that a man should labor and write in a cause which is to him the noblest cause.”

“I am astonished, Richard! You did not think formerly as you now do. But I should not be surprised if your intercourse with the doctor is not without its effects.” This the professor said in a cutting tone. Frank turned about and walked the room. The observation of his friend annoyed him, and he reflected whether his views had actually undergone any change.

“You deceive yourself. I am still the same,” said he. “You cannot mistrust me because I do not take part with you against the doctor.”

Carl sat for a time thinking.

“Is my presence at the table necessary?” said he. “I do not wish to meet the doctor again.”

“That would be little in you. You must not avoid the doctor. You must convince yourself that he does not bear any ill-will on account of that scientific dispute. With all his rough bluntness, Klingenberg is a noble man. Your non-appearance at table must offend him, and at the same time betray your annoyance.”

“I obey,” answered Lutz. “Tomorrow I will go for a few days to the mountains. On my return I will remain another day with you.”

Frank’s assurance was confirmed. The doctor met the guest as if nothing unpleasant had happened. In the cool of the evening he went with the young men into the garden, and spoke with such familiarity of Tacitus, Livy, and other historians of antiquity that the professor admired his erudition.

Frank wrote in his diary:

“May 20th. After mature reflection, I find that the views which I believed to be strongly founded begin to totter. What would the professor say if he knew that not the doctor, but a country family, and that, too, ultramontane, begin to shake the foundation of my views? Would he not call me weak?”

He laid down the pen and sat sullenly reflecting.

“All my impressions of the ultramontane family be herewith effaced,” he wrote further. “The only fact I admit is, that even ultramontanes also can be good people. But this fact shall in no wise destroy my former convictions.”