On his way home, Ottmar remembered that he had appointed this very hour
for a tender meeting, and gradually the solemn impression made by the
last few moments faded before the charming picture which now obtained
the mastery over his soul. When he returned home his old valet, who had
served him from childhood, met him with a pale, sleepy face, and slowly
lighted the candles.
"Has not the little girl come yet?" asked _Henri_.
"Who?"
"Who should it be? Roeschen," he added.
"Roeschen, Marten the beadle's daughter, do you expect her?"
"Of course I do; I persuaded her to meet me in the garden. Keep watch
at the window, and when she comes take her into the pavilion," he said,
absently, throwing himself into a chair.
"Permit me to warn you, Herr Baron," said the old man with sorrowful
earnestness. "Roeschen is an innocent maiden, the only daughter of an
honest, poor man, whose sole joy is in this child. Have you considered
this?"
"Don't bore me with your reproaches, man!" cried _Henri_. "Don't grudge
me this little pleasure; life with these frivolous, coquettish women is
already gradually becoming so shallow that it is no longer endurable. I
must have something pure and simple, which can refresh my mind and
interrupt the everlasting sameness; and she is really a charming
creature!" he murmured, admiringly.
"Herr Baron," said the old man, with deep emotion, "I promised your
dying mother to watch over you as far and as long as it was in my
power. In former days my influence often prevailed; but since your
severe illness and residence in France you have become a different
person; still, I did all that was possible in my limited sphere to keep
you from evil of every kind. Of late I have feared more for the safety
of your soul than your bodily welfare. I have had occasion to perform
services of which I have been ashamed. To carry letters and attend
light-minded ladies home is not the business of a respectable man; yet
I did it out of affection for you, and because no innocent person
suffered. You gave me no thanks for my obedience, but took it as a
proof that I shared your views, and probably secretly despised me for
it. I bore all patiently and did my duty. But today, Herr Baron, it is
time to hold you back from the path on which you have entered. To ruin
an innocent girl is a crime of which I would not have believed you
capable, and to which I will lend no aid."
"Old fool!" muttered _Henri_, looking at the clock, "if you were not so
useful I would have dismissed you to some quiet place long ago. Don't
pretend to be more silly than you are, Anton. I've already heard so
much morality to-day that I was on the point of doing a very foolish
thing. Do you suppose I shall begin again with my valet? Go, and let me
alone!"
"Herr Baron," replied Anton, firmly, "I am sorry to be obliged to tell
you that I must leave your service if you insist upon seeing the girl,
and beg you to discharge me to-night."
"Anton," cried _Henri_, in a furious passion, "I have borne with you
for a long time! You were faithful to me, even resisted the temptations
of the Jesuits, and always attended to my welfare. All this I have
recognized and rewarded; but I can no longer keep a servant who wishes
to set himself up as a judge of my conduct, were he ever so
indispensable to me; so remember your place better, or go!"
At that moment the door-bell rang gently. "Ah, she is coming!"
exclaimed _Henri_, exultantly; and forgetting everything else, he
turned to Anton, calling, "Lights!"
The old servant did not move, but stood with clasped hands praying,
under his breath, "Dear God, save this young soul!"
_Henri_ rushed down the staircase on which the moonlight lay in broad
bars; his hands trembled with joyful impatience. "Wait, my Roeschen! my
little pink rose! I will admit you, my darling!" he whispered, as he
turned the key and threw open the heavy door, half bending forward to
embrace his angel; but a tall figure, on which the moon cast a ghostly
light, entered and fixed a pair of dark, searching eyes upon the
astonished _Henri_.
"Oh, Christ! what is this?" he exclaimed, staggering back as if
overwhelmed with terror and disappointed expectation against the door,
which he closed again.
"It is not Christ, but one who comes in his name," replied the
stranger's deep voice in the purest Italian.
"By all good angels, Father Severinus!" murmured _Henri_, recoiling a
step. A low knock sounded from without; the young man's blood mounted
to his brow, and he hesitated a moment in the greatest embarrassment.
"Here are my companions," said the Italian. "Allow me to open the
door." He threw it back, and two figures, clad in the same dress as his
own, entered, accompanied by one of the Jesuits who had spoken to
_Henri_ that night at the ball. They greeted him respectfully, and he
was man of the world enough to instantly accommodate himself to his
painful situation as well as the torturing disappointment of the
moment.
"You are welcome, reverend sirs," he said, smiling, and led the way
up-stairs.
Old Anton stood upon the landing with a light, and one of the priests
saluted him with his "Praised be Jesus Christ."
"Forever, amen!" replied the old man, with a deep sigh, as he placed
chairs for the strangers and left the room, casting a sorrowful glance
at his master.
"We have been looking for you at the ball, my son," Father Severinus
began; "because I only arrived from Rome this evening, and must set out
again early tomorrow morning. I am taking a journey through Germany,
and thought it my duty to see you, my favorite pupil, and look after
the welfare of your soul. But, unfortunately, I was compelled to learn
that the soil which so readily received our lessons was a mere
sand-heap, whose best harvest is blown away by the wind."
_Heinrich_, who had taken _Henri's_ place, quietly listened to the
priest's words with his usual satirical smile. "Reverend sir, I must
first observe that I am no longer in the mood to allow myself to be
treated like a schoolboy. There are times when a peculiar fatality
seems to pursue us; to-day appears to have been set apart for giving me
moral lectures, and I assure you the more of them I hear the less
successful they are; so you perceive you will not be able to accomplish
much in this way, especially with a man who has returned at one o'clock
in the morning, weary and heated, from a ball."
"Perhaps Princess Ottilie also belongs to the number of those whose
'moral lectures' have been so unsuccessful," sneeringly remarked
Ottmar's ball-room companion, Geheimrath Schwelling.
"What do you know about that?" exclaimed _Heinrich_.
"Enough, I should think; the noble lady did not speak so low that any
one in the adjoining window corner could not hear everything, and it is
really a duty to inform her how useless her admonitions are, that she
may not trouble herself vainly in future."
_Heinrich_ cast a glance of inexpressible contempt at the sleek, fat
face and restless eyes of the speaker. "Princess Ottilie is the noblest
woman I know," he exclaimed, with deep emotion, "and is too lofty to
lend her ear to such vulgar insinuations. If, however, you succeed in
betraying me to her, remember that you will do me no harm, but only
inflict useless pain upon a noble heart."
"Or heal it," replied the Geheimrath, contemptuously.
"Cease this aimless conversation, gentlemen," said Severinus. "I am
astonished, Herr Geheimrath, to hear what language you employ towards a
man whose great talents, even as an enemy, should command your respect.
Surely these are not the means worthy of so great an end; and if our
affairs in Germany are managed thus, I can understand why the word
'Jesuit' is here used as a bugbear to frighten children. _In majorem
Dei gloriam_, never forget that. Unfortunately, I see you men of the
world must be reminded of it more frequently than our dead General has
done. It was time a more powerful hand should seize the reins; I
perceive that more and more at every step I take upon this soil."
He had risen from his seat as he uttered these words, and there was
something so menacing and imperious in his bearing that the Geheimrath
exclaimed, with mingled fear and anger, "By what authority do you use
this language towards me, Father Severinus?"
"By the authority the General, who sends me, gave me over every worldly
coadjutor who enjoys the advantages of our alliance without showing
himself worthy of them."
The word General and Severinus's majestic bearing utterly crushed the
Geheimrath, who sank into a chair in silence, passing his hand over a
brow bedewed with cold perspiration.
"Take me to a room where I can speak to you in private, my son," said
the priest in a very different tone, turning to Ottmar. "We alone have
understood each other, and we shall come to an understanding again."
"As you please," said _Heinrich_, hesitatingly, and was about to take
one of the candlesticks from the table.
"Nay," observed Severinus, checking him. "You know my habits; do not
refuse me the favor of being allowed to speak to you in darkness as in
former days. The soul can collect its powers better when external
objects are concealed."
"As you please," Ottmar repeated, while a faint smile played around his
lips.
He led the priest into the adjoining library; then left the room a
moment and said to Anton, in low tone, "Examine my study, remove the
papers lying around, and bolt the door leading into the dining-room. If
Roeschen comes, I also rely upon your faithfulness to take her into the
garden and shut her up in the pavilion."
Then he quietly returned to his guest. The library was dimly lighted by
the moonbeams. The books towered aloft in immense cases, and from the
most exhaustive works of the _intellect_, bound in these lifeless cases
to arise again in spirit, the eye wandered to the most perfect works of
_nature_ imperishably imprisoned in stone and colors to refresh the
weary thinker, and gently win him back from his dizzy heights to this
world and its lovely forms. Statues and pictures of every kind stood
and hung around.
If a moonbeam shone upon the gilt letters of the names of the greatest
poets and learned men, it also revealed the mute embrace of Cupid and
Psyche, and brought out in strong relief the marble shoulder of the
Venus de Medici. In a niche filled with palms and climbing plants, it
cast flickering shadows upon Schwanthaler's nymph, which seemed to be
lamenting that she was stone, and glittered upon a marble basin at her
feet. Then its pale gleam struggled with the vivid hues of the
exquisite copy of a Titian, or glided over a table filled with charts,
sketches, and plans, whose half-rolled sheets fluttered gently. The
room revealed a strange, mysterious life and nature. Ghosts seemed to
be gliding to and fro,--the tall, chastely-veiled ghosts of philosophy
and poetry,--the nude, caressing genii of love and pleasure. Now all
appeared to have gathered curiously around the dark, tall form of the
priest, who stood leaning thoughtfully against the pedestal of a Hebe.
"This study, or library, is characteristic of you, my son," began
Severinus, when Ottmar returned. "I see everywhere the results of the
two dominant powers of your nature,--intellect and sensuality,--but no
piety; a worship of the mind, a worship of nature: but where, where are
the traces of religion? Have you, then, utterly cast aside what you
adopted when with us?"
"Father Severinus," said _Heinrich_, advancing until he stood face to
face with him, "we are alone. Be frank; do you ask, _you_, that I shall
become a devotee?"
Severinus gazed at him bong and earnestly. "That you should become a
devotee? No! What I ask of you is consistency! When with us you
apparently became deeply imbued with religious feeling, and openly
displayed it an all occasions. Now you deny it; therefore you have
either _lost_--in which case you are to be pitied, or never _possessed_
it, when you deserve great blame for the deception you have practiced
in relation to the most sacred things and towards us."
_Heinrich_ was silent. He felt the justice of the priest's reproof, and
found no reply; at the same time he was stupefied by the dim,
flickering light and the excitement of the last hour, and could not
suppress a slight yawn. Father Severinus was also silent, and waited
patiently for a reply. At last _Heinrich_ said, impatiently: "Most
reverend father, you might spare a great deal of your pathos. I do not
deny the truth of your reproach; the only doubt is whether it specially
concerns me, for I must confess to you that it is a matter of
comparative indifference whether you have cause to be indignant or not.
I have released myself from your authority, and belong to another
party, so I have nothing more to expect or endure from you. True, you
have succeeded in making me suspected at this court; but I shall find
means to justify myself, and then we will see which of us has most
occasion to fear the other."
"I am deeply grieved to hear this language, which, by my faith in
Christ, I have not deserved," replied Severinus. "I am guiltless of the
measures the hasty, newly-appointed agent for Germany induced the
Father General to employ against you. Will you believe me?"
_Heinrich_ bowed. "I am well aware that you are too proud to adopt such
a course."
"Well then, for what wrong can you upbraid me, which justifies this
inconsiderate, heartless language?" He paused and looked at _Heinrich_,
who bit his lips and drummed on the arm of his chair. "What wrong has
the order done you that you take upon yourself the task of entering
upon a contest with it?" repeated Severinus. Another pause ensued.
"What could induce you to commit such a breach of faith?"
"I have committed no breach of faith!" exclaimed _Heinrich_, "for I
never belonged to you; I am and was a free-thinker. For a long time I
admitted your great and manifest excellences, but the longer I remained
among you the more I learned to hate you and the principles of your
order, whose sole aim is the subjection of the mind to your dogmas, or
rather your authority, an object to attain which you know how to employ
every conceivable means, good as well as bad. Do you really ask a man
of my nature to submit to become the tool of such plans? If you could
expect it, it was your fault, not mine, if you now find yourselves
deceived."
"To that, my son, I have two answers," replied Severinus, after a short
pause of reflection. "If the principles of our order, which the hand of
God has hitherto wonderfully protected, seem to you so worthy of blame
that you consider it a duty to oppose them and prepare a better fate
for your nation by your own ideas, I can say nothing against it in my
own person, except that I pity your error, while I can pay a certain
respect to the man who has at heart the welfare of his people, even
though his views may be mistaken. But you, _Heinrich_, do not oppose us
from the necessity of preserving your country from a supposed evil, nor
from the sanctity of a firm though erroneous conviction, but merely out
of vanity, that thereby you may play a prominent part before your
revolutionary party. You know nothing more sublime and imperishable
than the worldly admiration bestowed upon you, because the reward and
recognition of Christ, promised by his vicars throughout eternity, are
incredulously scorned by your narrow soul. Vanity and egotism are
answerable for your actions towards us, and even destroy the paltry
merit of having sacrificed yourself for your convictions."
"Oh, Ottilie," _Heinrich_ suddenly exclaimed, in bitter wrath, "gentle,
innocent angel! How much better you understood me!"
"That is not all I have to say in reply," continued Severinus, without
permitting himself to be at all disturbed by the interruption. "If, as
I have just seen, the reproach of acting from selfish impulses wounds
you so deeply, tell me what noble motive induced you to remain a year
with men whom you abhor, receive every possible proof of friendship
from them, and feign enthusiastic interest in a faith which seems to
you pernicious and criminal? Pray answer this, if you can."
"I can," replied _Heinrich_, quietly. "Chance and ennui threw me into
your hands. You took me to the college. The genius of your system
attracted me; I wished to penetrate the mysterious nimbus which
surrounded you, to investigate you and your nature, as people desire to
examine every curiosity. You interested me, and I very soon perceived
that it would only cost me a little hypocrisy to acquire knowledge
which would be useful all my life. I looked upon it as a necessary
entrance-fee, and paid you with it. Why did you not see that the coin
was false? You trained me for diplomacy, and drilled me in the arts of
dissimulation, to which you gave the noble name of 'self-command.' As I
learned them I tested them on you, and thus you see that my diplomatic
career began by making you the first victims of your own teachings, and
by deceiving you. Truth will pardon my year of faithlessness for the
sake of a lifetime of repentance."
"That sounds very strange," said Severinus. "Did we teach you
hypocrisy? To _conceal_ the truth without _telling a lie_ is the art we
communicated to aid you in your diplomatic career. But granted that it
was so, granted that we taught you dissimulation to obtain certain
necessary ends, should not common human gratitude have withheld you
from betraying in such a despicable manner the men who trusted you?"
"Gratitude," laughed _Heinrich_, "for what? Did you receive me
cordially and bestow your instruction upon me for my own sake?
Certainly not. Why did you expel poor Albert Preheim, who was miserably
poor, dependent, and sincerely devoted to you? Because he had not
sufficient ability to serve you, because he was a man of limited
intellect. You did not keep me for my good but your own, because you
expected to find in me a useful tool, because a skillful agent for this
country was necessary. Tell me yourself, would you have done all this
for me if the matter had only concerned my welfare?"
"No," said Severinus; "our mission is to serve God alone. This claims
us so entirely that the interests of individuals must be excluded. We
cannot trouble ourselves about any one who is not in some manner useful
to this end; he must apply to those orders whose sole vocation is the
practice of Christian charity. If he cannot find among them the
benefits he seeks, he would not be worthy of ours."
"Well, for what do I owe you gratitude?" asked _Heinrich_.
"Because you were afforded an opportunity to advance the holiest cause,
to become a fellow-laborer in the service of the Highest Being. What
are we men, what is our feeble influence? Only when we belong to a
great band, unite our strength, direct our manifold powers towards
_one_ lofty aim, do we feel strong and have real weight. And the more
we enter into the struggle of the whole, the more petty cares for
ourselves disappear, then only do we obtain true contentment."
"My noble Severinus," exclaimed _Heinrich_, "do you not suppose that I
too belong to such a band, like all who are imbued with one great aim?
Do you not suppose that there are sacred interests in the world and
among nations, whose representatives are united by an invisible bond of
common activity? Are you not sure that in our world also there are such
associations which, without compulsion or vows, without being bound by
time and space, or ruled by statutes, have an eternal existence?"
"What you say sounds very noble; I know these are your philosophical
catch-words, but it is untenable," said Severinus. "Your union,
supposing that such an one might exist in fancy, is too diffuse to
produce the consciousness of mutual dependence, which can alone
suppress selfishness in individuals; you gentlemen, who desire to
promote the happiness of the world, always have room enough within the
limits of your imaginary union to cherish your individual cares and
interests, and make war upon yourselves. Even though your object may
perhaps be the same, you are always at variance about the means of
attaining it; nay, you are often, from purely personal motives, most
bitter enemies. You may have an association, but you have no unity, and
your efforts are unsuccessful in consequence of your want of harmony.
You lack positive legal consolidation, which is the secret of our
power; and while you win at tea-tables men of superior minds to join
your confederacy, we deprive you of the masses. You can undoubtedly
belong to such a band without injury to your egotism," he added,
smiling; "but you will always feel discontented and solitary." He
paused and gazed at _Heinrich_, then continued: "How differently you
would labor with us! My son, is there no way of bringing you back? Is
there no feeling of devotion which binds you to me? You say you are
free from every obligation to the order; are you also free from all
obligations to me? I think I have done more for you than even our
purpose would have rendered necessary. As prefect of the college, all
manner of claims were made upon me; yet when my days were occupied I
sacrificed my nights to initiate you into secrets which the order
confides only to a chosen few. I have borne with your thousand
caprices, smothered your passions with inexhaustible indulgence, and
unweariedly labored to develop your great talents. I wished to obtain
you for our cause, not only because we needed remarkable powers, but
also because I knew of no greater happiness for yourself. In you I
learned to love men once more; for your sake, I have become tolerant,
for your sake I have come from Rome. My chilled heart warmed towards
you as towards a son. Does this deserve no love,--not even
forbearance?"
"Love!" said _Heinrich_, impatiently. "What do you desire? Men do not
love each other. I honor you, for you are the best and noblest of all
in the college, and if we had a common interest I would gladly join
you; but I do not deal in useless feelings, and frankly confess that I
don't understand how people can have them, except towards women."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Severinus. "So you believe you love only
what you desire to possess. You love nothing at all, _Heinrich_, and I
resign all hope of moving you by gentleness and kindness." So saying,
he started up and again leaned against the pedestal of the marble Hebe,
who vainly held her goblet of joy above his head. His delicately cut
features were slightly flushed, and his dark eyes flashed an imperious
glance at _Heinrich_. "Here stands a man who has devoted his whole life
to the service of a divine idea. Educated in a Jesuit college, sent
into the would as an ecclesiastical coadjutor, and finally promoted to
the rank of assistant, I learned to share all the joys and sorrows of
our order, and have become a Jesuit from the crown of my head to the
sole of my foot. I have felt every passion struggle within me and
subdued them all: for the honor of God was the object unchangeably
before my eyes; I used my life only as a preparation for eternity, and
therefore proudly approach death without blanching. Will you meet the
annihilation in which you believe as calmly?"
"I hope so," said _Heinrich_, coldly.
"And if, instead of your deities of sensuality which beckon to you
here, a bleeding Christ should appear before you in his chaste mother's
lap, pleading, 'Turn back to those who will guide you in my ways--'"
"I would say to him, 'Lord, guide me in thy ways _thyself_!'" exclaimed
_Heinrich_, with a forced laugh.
"And if we threatened you with the curse of the church?"
"I would become a Protestant."
"Misguided, accursed son of the flesh, with which you defile the vessel
of divinity, your joys shall one day be shivered by the hand of the
Lord like this idol!" cried Severinus in an outburst of fury, seizing
the Hebe and dashing it so violently at the feet of the startled
_Heinrich_ that the room shook and the graceful head rolled a long
distance. The dust rose from the floor in clouds.
For a moment _Heinrich_ stood petrified with astonishment, gazing
regretfully at the beautiful broken limbs. "So you intend to close our
conversation with this resounding crash, father?" he asked at last,
when he had recovered his former sarcastic mood.
"Close? Oh, no; we have not done with each other yet," said Severinus,
as he paced up and down the apartment several times, and then suddenly
paused with quiet dignity before _Heinrich_. "This is the most
disgraceful trick my impetuous temper has ever played me. Fortunately,
I can replace your broken property. It would be far more difficult to
repair the moral loss you have sustained in this hour. We will come to
an understanding quietly. My recent violence was the last outbreak of
my sorrow for your loss, but your cold derision has chilled my
affection forever. Ascribe it to your own conduct if my dealings with
you are henceforth destitute of all consideration. The _man_ is dead to
me, you are now simply the enemy of my church, whom at any cost I must
disarm."
_Heinrich_ looked at him in astonishment. "Indeed, I am curious to
learn in what way you will propose to effect this."
"You shall know at once. We must first determine the relations in which
you will in future stand towards our order."
"That would be useless labor, father, since for a long time no
relations have existed between us, and none will ever be formed again!"
"They will, they must exist! The tie was formerly a voluntary one on
your part, now it will be compulsory: that is the only difference. You
have proved to me that you have secretly deserted us, my care will be
to prevent your making it public; and since persuasion is unavailing,
this must be done by force."
"Force?" cried _Heinrich_, starting up. "What do you mean?"
"Simply that I possess means to compel you to that which you will not
do of your own free will."
"Father Severinus, we intimidate children in this way, but not men!"
Severinus looked him steadily in the face. "Have you ever seen me
employ empty threats?"
"No," replied _Heinrich_, with visible anxiety.
"Very well; then let us come to the point without further
circumlocution. You must first of all be fully informed of your present
situation. That you are pointed out as our agent, and consequently in
disfavor here, you know, and also that you must take leave as soon as
possible, if you prefer an honorable voluntary resignation to a
disgraceful dismissal."
"And why must I do this? Who can dismiss me on the ground of such vague
accusations?"
"These accusations will be proved."
"They cannot be, for I shall find means to justify myself. Although I
cannot deny having been for some time connected with you, it does not
follow that this is still the case."
"That too is provided for. We possess the most irrefutable proofs that
you still maintain an intercourse with us by letter." He drew out a
small portfolio. "Now I will ask you for a lamp." _Heinrich_ lighted
the candles, and saw two envelopes, which Severinus held out to him,
addressed in his own hand. "You see,--these envelopes contained the
replies to the General's requests concerning the erection of a private
institution in H----. We shall know how to conceal the fact that these
answers were refusals. It is enough that the postmarks on envelopes
addressed by your own hand will afford proofs of the recent existence
of a secret correspondence."
"And of what use will they be if you are forced to conceal their
contents? Suppose you are asked why you do not produce the letters
themselves?"
"It will be sufficient reason to say that they contained important
secrets which we cannot reveal on any account."
_Heinrich_ passionately struck his brow. "Oh, could I suspect that I
had to deal with men to whom no measures are too petty, and who are not
ashamed to collect pitiful envelopes and use them to aid their
designs!"
"Nothing is so trivial that it is not worth the trouble of keeping, if
it can serve the honest cause. Our Lord Jesus Christ was not ashamed to
pick up a piece of old iron; why should not we, his servants, make even
the most trifling things useful for his designs?"
"I hope, father, that you yourself feel the humorousness, not to say
absurdity, of such logic at this moment."
"Let us not digress. I am aware that our proceedings can in no case
meet with your approval, and bear you no ill will for it; therefore I
have not submitted them to your judgment. Every word which does not
directly concern the matter in hand is a mere waste of time."
"Well, then, father, we will use very few. Tell me exactly what you
require."
"That you should bind yourself to contend with us no longer."
_Heinrich_ burst into a loud laugh. "And by these untenable threats you
wish to induce me to take such a step! No, father, we have not yet gone
so far. Although I have no proofs that our correspondence was a hostile
one, you are equally unable to show that it was confidential and
friendly; far less, that I have failed in my duty towards my own
government. Our risks are equal."
"If they are, I need only throw in these papers and your scale will
sink!" held aloft a roll of manuscript. "Here are the proofs of the
offenses you committed against your government and court during your
stay in Rome. Whoever sees them will no longer doubt that you are a
traitor now as well as then!"
"Severinus!" cried _Heinrich_, fairly beside himself with fury.
"Be calm, my friend; we are only weighing our comparative advantages
and disadvantages. If you compel me to make these papers public, your
honor and all your ambitious plans are destroyed!"
"If you rob me of my future career as a statesman, woe betide you! Do
you see what an enemy you will find in me? I, too, am in possession of
secrets which you would not desire to have revealed!"
"As we know this, my friend, we do you the honor of treating with you.
Towards any one else we should have adopted a shorter course. The only
point in question now is which of us has most to lose, and it is you!"
"What do those papers contain?" asked _Heinrich_, in a hollow tone.
"In the first place an article in your own hand, which you prepared at
the rector's command, containing the characteristics of this court and
those of the most influential persons who surround the prince."
"That can only compromise me personally," said _Heinrich_, with forced
composure.
"It can be displayed by a malevolent person as an act of treachery to
your court in favor of the Jesuits' designs,--and in fact it was
intended to aid us in our first steps here."
"It failed, however, for the characteristics were not correct. Any one
who is familiar with the relations existing here will instantly
perceive that they are intentionally falsified, to mislead any one who
might wish to use them."
"This may have proceeded from want of judgment quite as much as
design."
_Heinrich_ suppressed a smile. "Oh, father, pardon my lack of modesty
if I doubt that any would impute want of judgment to _me_!"
Severinus bit his lips. "You were a very young man, whose penetration
could not have been so well disciplined as now. Meantime, where many
proofs are brought together the number turns the scale, and I possess
one which will weigh heavier than all the rest." He drew a printed
document from his breast and pointed to the title. "Who is the author
of this pamphlet written in favor of the Jesuits and against your
government?"
"I," said _Heinrich_, coldly. "But, fortunately, you can create no
proofs of the fact."
"We can procure them."
"_No_, father; there was but one, the manuscript written by my own
band; and this no longer exists, for I threw it into the fire myself,
and saw it burn with my own eyes. I knew you crafty gentlemen too well
to allow such a dangerous document to fall into your possession."
"You burned the manuscript, but not the proof-sheets," said Severinus.
"When you asked for them you were told that they had already been
destroyed. Here are the corrections written in your own hand! You
wondered at the time that we should have such miserable compositors in
our secret printing-establishments, because you found whole words
wrong. You were unsuspicious enough not to perceive that the errors
were only made in order to obtain as many corrections as possible in
your handwriting; no one who knows its peculiar characteristics will
doubt the authenticity of this document." _Heinrich_ turned very pale.
He cast a glance of deadly hatred at Severinus, who was quietly
watching him. "Moreover, here is also the letter you sent to Father K.
with the pamphlets he had ordered; and although you took the precaution
not to name the title, no one will believe that you submitted to the
judgment of the General of the Jesuits any other manuscript than one
written in the interests of the order." expression of bitter irony
played around the priest's delicate lips. "It seems to me that you were
not aware how 'crafty' we are! You can now proceed to make public all
these 'contemptible coercive measures,' as you call them; you may
perhaps thereby injure us a little, but you will not justify yourself.
As soon as this secret is revealed you are lost. Suppose you hold
psychological discussions with your court and government concerning the
transformation which has taken place in you, and the causes that
induced you to deny your convictions for an entire year,--you will be
laughed at, and your name will be handed before all parties."
_Heinrich_ trembled with rage. The painful dilemma into which he found
himself hurried without the slightest warning, the incomprehensibility
of his situation, the priest's crushing dialectics, and his own
physical exhaustion--all these combined causes so bewildered him that
he lost all control over himself, and following only the blind impulses
of his instinct, he vigorously rushed upon Severinus, who had just
replaced the document in his breast. "Hold!" he cried, seizing his arm.
"Do you really suppose I will voluntarily leave these papers, which
decide the destiny of my whole life, in your hands?"
Severinus remained perfectly calm, and measured him with a contemptuous
glance. "Ottmar, I could defend myself if I did not have sufficient
confidence in your good sense to know that I am safe from violence."
After a long pause, Severinus approached him; his expression became
more gentle, his harsh tone softened, and it seemed as if sorrow was
mirrored in his eyes as he laid his hand gently upon the young man's
shoulder and in a low tone murmured his name. The latter looked up
sullenly.
"Ottmar, I do not act for myself, but for my church."
"It is a matter of indifference to me for when you act if you destroy
my career. Oh, it is despicable! I have robbed you of the labors of a
year, but you are defrauding me of a whole life! Woe to him who rashly
ventures within your charmed circle! He can never break through it
without being crushed."
"Ottmar, I do not understand how you could ever have imagined we would
send such an invaluable power into the world without holding in our
hands the leading-strings by which we could draw you back at any
moment. Let us come to some conclusion. I have the most positive orders
not to leave here without the security I have already mentioned. If you
do not promise to-night that you will voluntarily send in your
resignation, to-morrow I must commence proceedings which will make you
a dishonored man."
"And I am to allow my hands to be tied, I am to mount to this height,
and in the zenith of my success to be hurled back to every-day
obscurity, laughed at and dishonored! No, I will not and cannot be
ruined by you! You recognize only the fanaticism with which you
incessantly pursue your own aims. I too am a fanatic; but it is in the
cause of ambition, and to this everything must yield, good and bad. You
shall perceive that I have not been your pupil in vain. You have
impressed upon me the stamp of your society to brand me in the eyes of
my party; but what will injure me at _Protestant_ courts will aid me in
_Catholic_ ones. If I am reported to be a Jesuit, I will make the rumor
profitable. I will enter the service of a Catholic country under the
guise of being in accord with you. You cannot contradict yourselves so
far as to decry me here as an ultramontanist and there as a liberal. I
will go to N----, where you are sure that I am powerless against you.
If this is not sufficient security, let the battle begin,--I can do no
more!"
"It is the only expedient that you still have, if you seek your
happiness solely in the brilliancy of a diplomatic career; and it is
not our intention to exclude you from it, for we do not wish to drive
you to extremities unnecessarily. N---- is at least the only place
where you cannot injure us. On this condition we will mutually spare
each other and keep the peace; but if you succeed in obtaining
influence in N----, and should ever attempt to use it against us, we
have the power there to crush you at once: not by stratagem, but by our
firmly-established might. Do not forget this."
"Ottilie," thought _Heinrich_, "you spoke the truth. I have so poisoned
the air with my falsehoods that I breathe nothing but corruption, and
am rightly served." "Well, then," he said to Severinus, "your holy
object is attained by the noblest means. You thrust a man, who has
hitherto made only a short digression from the path of right, into a
course of wrong and hypocrisy, careless whether a soul is destroyed, so
that appearances are preserved."
Severinus cast down his eyes. "The cause must be saved; the individual
must be sacrificed to the cause. May God have mercy upon his soul, if
that which should lead him to good turns him to evil! Come, we will
repeat our agreement before witnesses." Severinus opened the door, and
they entered the drawing-room, where the others were waiting with
anxious faces.
_Heinrich's_ offer was discussed in detail and confirmed by his word of
honor, after which he took a formal leave of the gentlemen.
Severinus turned in the doorway and clasped his hand. "I do not know
what mysterious impulse of affection binds me to you, that, while
treating you as my worst enemy, tears of sorrow dim my eyes, although I
have only faithfully obeyed my orders. For Christ's sake forgive me, as
I pardon you, and if ever you need me call upon me!" He gazed at
_Heinrich_ with all the strange meaning of his wonderful eyes. It
seemed as if their brilliancy was shadowed by tears as he asked, "Shall
I not see you again when I return to H---- in a few weeks?"
"No," said _Heinrich_. "I shall send in my resignation to-morrow, and
depart as soon as possible."
Severinus suddenly clasped him passionately to his breast. "Farewell,
my lost son! From this hour I will love nothing but God!" Then he went
down the staircase with a steady step, without casting another glance
behind. Old Anton lighted the way, and then returned, pale but calm.
"Where is Roeschen?" exclaimed _Henri_, who was longing to forget the
tortures of the past hour in the arms of love.
"She is not here," said the old man.
"Not here?" asked _Henri_, in amazement. "Where is she?"
"Forgive me, Herr Baron! I could do nothing else,--I took her home to
her father."
"What! what!" cried _Henri_, fairly beside himself with rage. "Did you
dare to oppose your master? Leave this house early to-morrow morning
before I am up! I will never see you again!"
He threw a heavy purse at his feet. The old man burst into tears, and
his knees trembled under him.
"Herr Baron," he said, in a choking voice, "may you never regret having
driven such a faithful servant from you! Farewell! may God preserve
you!"
With these words he tottered out of the room, while Ottmar threw
himself upon his couch in a mood of sullen discontent; for the first
time consciousness of his marred existence came over him with crushing
distinctness.
The second step was taken; he had fallen one degree lower. The warning
voice had not failed him, but Egotism must complete his work at the
cost of everything else.
The first act _Heinrich_ had committed against his conscience, under
the influence of this terrible demon, was the game he had played for a
year with the Jesuits, in order to obtain knowledge which would be
useful in his career. When he afterwards came to the decision, where he
had an equal amount to lose or gain, he chose the path of truth; but
now he again encountered the necessity of sacrificing his ambition or
his convictions, and principle was compelled to yield to egotism. He
would henceforth choose the path of falsehood, of worldly advantage,
instead of the only one which could lead him to higher things.
He had bound himself to appear in N---- as an enemy of progress,--to
aid in oppressing an impoverished nation. He must persuade his
conscience that all his ideas of right and freedom were dead, and not
worth the sacrifice of a whole life of honor and influence,--that the
philanthropy which, in the guise of an earnest sense of duty, had lived
his cold intellect, was an eccentricity of his youth, and must yield to
his own advantage; in truth, it could not be otherwise. Only the
emotional nature makes all ideas so living that we weep, suffer, and
bleed for them as if they were real sentient beings, and gives us, for
men whom we cannot draw within the circle visible to our senses, that
warm feeling of sympathy which we call philanthropy. But he had lost
this power, and with it a true sense of honor, yet to-night he found no
repose. He was formed by nature for noble ends, and although he no
longer felt as he had done in former days, he knew what his emotions
were once. He knew the difference between right and wrong, and that he
was choosing the latter, and looked back with shame upon the preceding
day.
Both _Heinrich_ and _Henri_ had fallen equally low. If _Heinrich_ had
crushed his sense of right and yielded to ambition, _Henri_ had gone so
far in his pursuit of pleasure that he had sought to destroy a young,
trusting heart, and angrily driven away the old man who had opposed his
design. _Egotism had completed his victory over both natures_. Haunted
by these and similar thoughts, he at last fell asleep just before dawn.
It was late in the forenoon when he awoke. The rays of the winter sun
were shining upon the bright, blooming landscapes on his window
curtains; a few freezing, starving birds were twittering loudly;
everything bore a delusive semblance of spring, which had as little
existence in the outside world as in his own breast. He opened his
eyes, looked around him, and with a deep sigh murmured those words of
painful disappointment: "Thank God, you have only been dreaming!" He
sank back upon his pillows for a moment; it seemed as if his soul had
not yet opened its eyes and was still slumbering, while he watched the
bright colors upon his curtains. It seemed to him as if the door would
open and old Anton come in to wake him. "Yes!" he called aloud, and
started up. But he found himself alone. He rubbed his eyes and
remembered that for the first time in his life Anton had failed to
rouse him at the right hour. He had sent him away that very night! It
was no dream: he had really done and experienced everything! "What has
been begun must be finished," he said, with gloomy resolution, and rose
to enter upon his sinful new career.