RESULTS.
On alighting next morning at the station in Hamburg, Wilhelm found
himself clasped in a pair of strong arms and pressed to a magnificent
fur coat. Inside this warm garment there beat a still warmer heart,
that of Paul Haber, who had received a letter from Wilhelm the day
before, telling him of his dismissal from Berlin, and that he was
leaving for Hamburg by the last train before midnight, and whom neither
the cold and darkness nor the extreme earliness of the hour could
restrain from meeting his friend at the station.
Their greeting was short and affectionate.
"A hearty welcome to you!" cried Paul. "We will do our best to make a
new home for you here."
"You see, I thought of you at once when I had to look about me for some
resting-place in the wide world."
"I should have expected no less of you. Keep your ears stiff, and don't
let the horrid business worry you."
Wilhelm's bag was handed to an attendant servant, and the two friends
walked off arm in arm toward an elegant brougham lined with light blue,
with a conspicuously handsome long-limbed chestnut and a stout, bearded
coachman, which stood waiting for them.
Wilhelm mentioned the name of the hotel where he intended to stay, but
Paul cut him short. "Not a bit of it! Home, Hans, and look sharp about
it!" And before Wilhelm could offer any remonstrance, he found himself
pushed into the carriage, Paul at his side. The door banged, the
footman sprang on to the box, and off they went as fast as the long
legs of the chestnut would carry them.
For the last two years Paul had owned a villa on the Uhlenhorst, in the
Carlstrasse, and there the fast trotter drew up. Wilhelm had said but
little during the drive, and Paul had confined the expression of his
feeling of delight to clapping his friend on the shoulder from time to
time, and pressing his hand. Rather less than half an hour's drive
brought them to their destination. Paul would not hear of Wilhelm
making any alteration in his dress, but drew him as he was into the
smoking room on the ground floor, where Malvine came to meet him, and
received him in her hearty but quiet and uneffusive manner. She was the
picture of health, but had grown perhaps a little too stout for her
age. She wore a morning wrap of red velvet and gold lace, and looked,
in that costly attire, like a princess or a banker's wife.
"You must be very cold and tired," she said; "the coffee is ready, come
at once to breakfast--that will put some warmth into you--you can dress
afterward." She hurried before them into the next room, where they
found an amply spread table over which hovered the fragrant smell of
several steaming dishes. It was a lavish breakfast in the English
style; beside tea and coffee there were eggs, soles, ham, cold turkey,
lobster salad, and several excellent wines. A servant in the livery of
a "Jager" waited at table.
Wilhelm shook his head at the sight of all this splendor. "But, my dear
lady, so much trouble on my behalf!"
"You are quite mistaken," Paul answered for Malvine, and not without a
smile of satisfied pride; "it is our usual breakfast--we have it so
every day."
Wilhelm looked at him surprised, and then remarked after a short pause:
"I would never have written to you, if I had dreamed that you would get
up before daybreak, and upset your whole household in order to fetch me
from the station."
"Why, what nonsense! We are quite used to getting up early. At
Friesenmoor we have to be still earlier."
"But that is in the summer."
"So it is, but then our broken rest is not made up to us by the sight
of a friend."
While they devoured the good things, and Paul, who despised tea and
coffee, sipped his slightly warmed claret, he remarked, between two
mouthfuls, "I was struck all of a heap by your letter. You turned out!
the most harmless, law-abiding citizen I ever heard of! What in the
world did you do? You need not mind telling me."
"I cannot say that I am aware of having committed any crime, Paul."
"Come now, something must have happened, for the police does not take a
step of that kind without some provocation--it's only your beggarly
Progressives who think that, but nobody who knows the fundamental
principles of our government and its officials would believe it."
"You seem to have become a warm admirer of the government."
"Always was! But, upon my word, when I see the way the opposition
parties go on I am more so than ever--positively fanatical."
"Then I have no doubt that you will consider that I did commit a crime."
"Ah! so there was something after all?"
"Yes, I contributed fifteen hundred marks to a collection for the
distressed families of the Social Democrats who had been dismissed from
Berlin."
"You did?" cried Paul, dropping his knife and fork, and staring at
Wilhelm in amazement.
"And that seems so criminal to you?"
"Look here, Wilhelm, you know I'm awfully fond of you, but I must say
you have only got what you deserve. How could you take part in a
revolutionary demonstration of the kind?"
"I did not, nor do I now see anything political in it. It was a
question of women and children deprived of their bread-winners, and
whom one cannot allow to starve or freeze to death."
"Oh, go along with your Progressionist phrases! Nobody need starve or
freeze in Berlin. The really poor are thoroughly well looked after by
the proper authorities. The supposed distress of these women and
children is a mere trumped-up story on the part of the
Revolutionists--a means of agitation, a weapon against the government.
The beggars simply speculate on the tears of sentimental idiots. They
get up a sort of penny-dreadful, whereon the one side you have a
picture of injured innocence in the shape of pale despairing mothers
and clamoring children, and on the other, villainy triumphant in the
form of a police constable or a government official. And to think that
you should have been taken in by such a swindle!"
"I suppose you do not see how heartless it appears to speak so lightly
of other people's hunger, sitting oneself at such a table as this?"
"Bravo, Wilhelm! Now you are throwing my prosperity in my teeth like
any advocate of division of property. I trust you have not turned
Socialist yourself? you who used not to have a good word to say for the
lot."
"Never fear--I am not a Socialist. Their doctrines have not been able
to convince me yet. But for years I have seen the distress of the
working people with my own eyes, and I know that every human being with
a heart in his body is in duty bound to help them."
"And who says anything against that? Don't we all do our duty? Poverty
has always existed and always will to the end of time. But, on the
other hand, that is what charity is there for. We have hospitals for
the sick, workhouses and parish relief for the aged and incapable, for
lazy vagabonds who won't work, it is true, only the treadmill."
"That is all very fine, but what are you going to do with the honest
men who want to work but can find none?"
"Wilhelm, I have always had the highest respect for you, your wisdom,
your intellect, but forgive me if I say that, in this case, you are
talking of things you do not understand. Everybody who wants work finds
it. I hope you will be at my place next summer. Then you'll see how I
positively sweat blood in harvest-time trying to get the necessary
number of laborers together, and what I have to put up with from the
rascals only to keep them in good humor. Don't try on any of these
windy arguments with a landowner--people that want work and can't find
it indeed! Let me tell you, my son, neither I nor any one of my country
neighbors can scrape together as many people as we need."
"But everybody cannot work in the fields."
"There, at last, you have hit the bull's eye--that is where the shoe
pinches. Agriculture offers a certain means of livelihood to all who
can and will work properly. But that does not suit the lazy beggars.
The work is too hard, and, more particularly, the discipline on an
estate is too strict for their fancy. They would rather be in the town,
rather starve in a workshop, or ruin their lungs in a factory, because
there they have more freedom--that is, they can go on the spree all
night and shirk their work all day, if they like--they can play the
gentleman, and think themselves as good as any general or minister.
Under these circumstances, it is no wonder that they soon come to want,
and instead of admitting that it is entirely the fault of their own
pigheadedness and perversity, they go and turn unruly against the
government. They should be turned out neck and crop, the whole pack of
them."
"Don't excite yourself so, Paul," warned Malvine gently, as her husband
grew crimson in the face and ceased to eat.
Wilhelm remained unruffled. "So you think the Socialist Act was quite
justified?"
"Justified! Why, my only objection to it is that it is much too mild. A
State has a right to use every means it can--even the sharpest--to
defend itself against its deadly enemies. To deal mildly with the
enemies of society is to be unjust to us, the orderly and industrious
members of the community, who work hard to get on, and who don't want
to be for ever trembling for their well-earned possessions, because
thieves and vagabonds--as is the way of all robbers--would like to
enjoy the good things of this life without working for them."
"My good Paul, that is the language of fanaticism, and, of course, it
is useless to try to reason against that. Only let me tell you this. I
do not believe that the Socialists want to rob anybody; I do not
believe that they are enemies to the State and to society. They too
desire a State and a society, but different from the existing ones;
they too have an ideal of justice, but it is not the one that has
become traditional with us. Under the new order of things, as they have
arranged it in their minds, there should be room for every individual,
every opinion, all sorts and conditions of men. What the ruling classes
say against them to-day has been said against the adherents of all new
ideas since the beginning of time. Whoever tried to make the slightest
alteration in the existing order of things was always considered, by
those who derived advantages therefrom, to be a foe to the State and to
society in general-a robber and a revolutionist. The early Christians
enjoyed exactly the same reputation as the Socialists to-day. They were
looked upon as enemies of the whole human race, and were torn to pieces
by wild beasts, though--doubtless to your regret--it has not come to
that with, the Socialists. And nevertheless, though lions and tigers
are a good deal worse than police officers, the principles of
Christianity have triumphed, and there is nothing to prove that the
principles of Socialism will not triumph in their turn."
"Prophet of evil omen!" cried Paul.
"Not necessarily so. Where would be the misfortune? I am firmly
persuaded that a Socialist State would not differ in any important
point from the accepted forms of government of the day. The
administrative power would merely be transferred from the hands of the
military and the landed aristocracy to another class. To those who do
not want a share in the governing power, it is all the same who wields
it. You see, human nature remains the same, and its organization alters
only very gradually, almost imperceptibly, though it sometimes changes
its name. Christianity promised to be the beginning of the thousand
years' reign, but in the main, everything has gone on just as it was
before. A Socialist State would not be able to make the sun rise in the
west, or do away with death any more than we can. They would have
ministers, custom-house officers, policemen, virtue, vice and ambition,
self-interest, oppression and brotherly love just as we do, and if the
Socialists come into power, they will soon pass special acts and
prosecute the followers of other opinions just as they are being
prosecuted to-day. That is all upon the surface, and does not touch the
root of things. Why excite yourself about a mere shadowplay?"
"In practical matters," answered Paul, laughing, "I consider I am the
better man, but you certainly beat me at metaphysics. Prophecy
decidedly comes under the heading of metaphysics, so I strike my colors
before you."
"The sooner the better," said Malvine; "especially as it is quite
unpardonable of you to start off on a long discussion when our poor
friend must be so tired and sleepy."
It was eight o'clock by this time, and Wilhelm really felt the want of
rest. But before going to his room he asked after his godson, little
Willy. Malvine was evidently expecting this, she ran to the door and
called into the next room: "Come here, Willy--come quick--Uncle
Eynhardt is here and wants to see you." Whereupon the boy came bounding
in, and threw himself with a shout of delight upon Wilhelm's neck.
Willy was still his mother's only child. He was nearly six years old,
not very tall for his age, but a fine, handsome, thoroughly healthy
child, with firm legs, a blooming complexion, the dark eyes of his
grandmother, and long fair curls. He was charmingly dressed in a sailor
suit with a broad turned-back collar over a blue-and-white striped
jersey, long black stockings, and pretty little patent leather shoes
with silk ties. Wilhelm lifted up this young prince, kissing him, and
asked, "Well, Willy, do you remember me?" He had not seen, him for
eighteen months.
"Of course, I do, uncle, we talk about you every day," cried the child
in his clear voice. "Are you going to stay with us now?"
"Yes, that he is!" his father answered for the friend.
"How jolly! how jolly!" cried Willy, clapping his hands with glee. "And
you will teach me to ride, won't you, uncle? Papa has no time."
"But I don't know how to ride myself," returned Wilhelm with a smile.
Willy looked up disappointed. "What can you do then?"
"Be a good boy now," Malvine broke in, "and leave uncle in peace and go
back to the nursery. You shall have him again later on."
After more kisses and caresses Willy ran off, and Paul led his guest to
the room prepared for him, where at last he left him to himself.
Wilhelm had visited Paul on his estate during the preceeding summer,
but since then had only seen him in Berlin. The house on the Uhlenhorst
was new to him, and he marveled at the solid sumptuousness that met the
eye at every turn. The visitor's room was not less splendidly furnished
than the smoking and breakfast rooms he had already seen, and when he
looked about him at the great carved bedstead with its ample draperies,
the silk damask-covered chairs, the thick rugs, the marble washstand,
and the toilet table with its array of bottles and dishes of china, cut
glass, and silver, he could not help feeling almost abashed. His friend
Paul had become a very great gentleman apparently!
And so in point of fact he had. The Friesenmoor had proved itself a
very gold mine, and in the district round about they calculated that it
yielded a clear return of a hundred or a hundred and twenty thousand
marks a year. Paul had long ago been in a position to make use of his
right of purchase on the estate, and had acquired about two thousand
acres of adjoining marsh lands beside, though at a considerably higher
price, and was now the owner of a well-rounded estate of twelve
thousand acres, the admiration and pride of the whole neighborhood. He
had converted the cultivation of the marshland, which six years ago had
been but a bold theory, into an established scientific fact, and his
methods, the excellence of which was amply proved by his almost
tropically luxuriant harvests and uninterruptedly increasing wealth,
were assiduously imitated on all sides. Paul Haber was acknowledged far
and wide to be the first authority on the management of marsh land. The
government had long since taken note of his success and kept an eye
upon his doings, and was furnished by the Landrath with regular
accounts of his agricultural progress. Young men of the best county
families contended for the privilege of being under him for a year's
practical farming. Foreign governments sent professors, lecturers, and
practical agriculturists to him, partly to inspect his arrangements,
partly to study his methods under his personal supervision, in order to
adopt them in their own countries. Paul was more than a landed
proprietor, he was a kind of professor holding his unpretentious
lecture in the open air or in the appropriately decorated smoking-room
of the Priesenmoor house, always surrounded by a troop of eager and
admiring listeners of various nationalities, and mostly of high rank.
Of course, under these circumstances there was no lack of outward marks
of distinction. Two years before he had been promoted to a first
lieutenancy of the Landwehr. A row of foreign decorations adorned his
breast, and last year, when he was visited by the Minister for
Agriculture, accompanied by the Landrath, the Kronen Order of the
fourth class was added to the rest. Paul was on the District Committee
and County Council, and if he was not deputy of the Landtag and member
of the Reichstag, it was only because he considered all parliamentary
work a barren expenditure of time and strength. He stood in high repute
in the county, which was proved by his election to be the president of
the Society for the Cultivation of Moors and Marshes, a society founded
by his followers and admirers, and which counted among its members some
of the most important landowners of the whole of Northern Germany.
These circumstances could not fail to react on Paul's character. He no
longer tried to look as much as possible like a smart officer, but
rather like a country gentleman of ancient lineage. The thick fair
mustache had abandoned its enterprising upward curl, and now hung down
straight and long. The model parting of the hair was in any case out of
the question, a distinguished baldness having taken the place of the
old luxuriance, and his figure had fulfilled all the promises of his
youth. In his dress Paul still cultivated extreme elegance, only that
it partook more of the bucolic now in style than of the drawing-room as
in former days. He wore high patent leather boots with small silver
spurs, well-fitting riding breeches, a gray coat with green facings and
large buckhorn buttons, a blue-and-white spotted silk necktie tied in a
loose knot with fluttering ends, an artistically crushed soft felt hat,
and in his dog-skin gloved hand a small riding-whip with a chased gold
head. With all its dandyism it was a model of good taste, and in no
single detail smacked of the parvenu, and that for the very good reason
that Paul was no parvenu, but a man who was conscious of having
attained to a position which was his by nature and by right. He had
never suffered from undue diffidence, and his success had naturally
increased his sense of his own value, which, however, he did not
display in any bumptious or aggressive manner as one who would force
reluctant acknowledgment of his merits, but quietly and naturally,
seeing that he received full and voluntary recognition from all sides.
He believed in himself, and was quite right to do so, for everybody
else believed in him too. He spoke with authority, for there was no one
about him who did not hang upon his lips with respect, and mostly with
admiration. He made assertions and gave his opinion with the assurance
of superior knowledge, but he had a right to do so, for it always
referred only to matters about which he knew, or was fully persuaded
that he knew, more than most people. Even his wealth did not go to his
head, but acted on him like a moderate amount of drink upon a man who
can stand a great deal. He enjoyed to the full the comforts and
amenities of life which his large income enabled him to procure, but he
did it for his own pleasure, not for the sake of what others would
think; for his own comfort, and not for show. He liked to keep good
horses and dogs, an admirably appointed table and cellar, and a large
staff of well-drilled servants. On the other hand, he avoided anything
approaching to display, was never seen at races, went to no fashionable
baths, gave no grand entertainments, nor had a box at either theatre or
operahouse, belonged to no club, and never played high. His wife wore
perhaps rather more jewelry and followed the newest Paris fashions a
trifle more closely than was absolutely necessary at Friesenmoor or
even the Uhlenhorst, but as she remained as simple and unaffected as
before, nobody could think any the worse of her for this small
inherited weakness.
Toward his own family Paul had behaved in a most exemplary manner,
affording thereby the strongest proof that though he had risen he was
no upstart. The numerous members of his family and the men who had
married into it nearly all had to thank him for their advancement or
actual support. Some were employed on his estate, others he had trained
in his particular branch of agriculture, after which, and with his
recommendation, they had found no difficulty in obtaining brilliant
positions as stewards or lease-holders of estates, and two of his
brothers had appointments on royal domains. He had, therefore, every
right to self-congratulation, as having fulfilled all the duties of a
model man and citizen far beyond what necessity demanded.
For Wilhelm, Paul still retained the affection and friendship of his
early days, only that, unconsciously to himself, it had taken on a
certain fatherly tone; although there was a difference of but one year
between them, there was a touch of protecting consideration and pity
about it, such as strong men feel toward a weaker and less perfectly
developed creature.
The first day Paul left his friend to have a thorough rest, but the
next morning early he knocked at his door and asked if he might come in.
"Certainly," was the answer, and opening the door at the same moment,
Wilhelm appeared fully dressed and ready for inspection.
"You have kept up your old habit of early rising--that is right," said
Paul, and clapped him on the shoulder.
"So have you," returned Wilhelm with a smile.
"I--oh, that's different. I am a farmer, and you know the proverb--'The
master's eye makes the cattle fat.' But your books don't require to be
fed and watered at break of day. As you are ready, come down now, and
we can have a chat over breakfast."
Malvine met him downstairs with a friendly smile and shake of the hand.
This morning she wore a long blue morning gown with gay colored
embroidery at the throat and wrists and a little lace cap with blue
ribbons. The breakfast was as elaborate as on the day before.
"I want to take you over to my place to-day, Wilhelm. We have a
shooting party, the weather is lovely, and it will be a nice change for
you."
"Thanks, Paul, but I would much rather you left me here. I am no
sportsman, as you know very well."
"We'll soon make you into one. Nobody is born a sportsman, or rather we
are all born sportsmen, but forget it in our wretched town life, and
afterward have to set to work and learn laboriously the art that came
so naturally to our forefathers. Not, however, that you need fire a
single shot, it is more for the healthy out-of-door exercise, and to
show you Friesenmoor in its winter dress, and for the society which
will interest you. They are neighbors of mine--nearly every one of them
a character--old Baron Huning, who fought in the Crimea as an English
officer, Count Chamberlain von Swerte, crammed with curious court
stories, Graf Olderode, who, in spite of his gout, will jump for joy
when I introduce you as the best friend I have in the world, and add
that you have just been banished from Berlin under the Socialist Act.
And then there are my pupils--I've got a Russian prince among them, and
a very near neighbor, a young nobleman from the Marches, an officer in
the Red Hussars. Now don't be a slow coach, come along."
"You are very kind, but I should be very sorry to make your gouty Graf
jump, even for joy."
"Dr. Enyhardt is quite right," Malvine now joined in. "What an idea too
to carry him off from me before he has had time to settle comfortably.
You stay with me. Herr Doctor; this is my day, and you shall make the
acquaintance of some charmingly pretty girls this afternoon. That will
interest you more than Paul's old Chamberlains."
"All right," laughed Paul; "but you had better look out, Wilhelm, I
smell a rat. Malvine has designs upon you, she wants to get you
married. If you came with me you would be the hunter, but if you stay
here you will find yourself in the position of the game."
"And if he is," retorted Malvine, "it is surely the better part to let
yourself be caught by a pretty girl than to go and shoot poor hares and
wild ducks."
Paul did not press his invitation, and drove off a minute or two later,
not to return till the following day. Malvine, however, put her threat
into practice, and persuaded Wilhelm with gentle insistence to join her
afternoon coffee party, and be introduced to all her lady visitors and
take part in the conversations. The introduction caused Malvine a
little embarrassment. Only now did she fully realize the fact that her
guest was nobody in particular. She was painfully conscious of the
baldness of his name and his simple title of Dr., and the absence of
any sort of distinguishing mark by the addition of which she might
recommend him to the special notice of her circle of friends. He was
not a landed proprietor, nor a professor, not even a master. Nor could
she conscientiously say, "the celebrated Dr. Eynhardt." He had no
military title, and to introduce him as "the handsome Dr. Eynhardt"
would hardly do. Fortunately she had no need to mention the latter
adjective. The ladies observed without further assistance how
remarkably handsome this gentleman was with his girlish complexion,
silky, raven-black hair and beard, and lustrous dark eyes. Charming
lips drew him constantly into the conversation, which, cultivated and
many-sided, ranged from the weather to the recently-closed Paris
Exhibition, from Sarasate to Vischer's last novel. Wilhelm had not a
word to say on these important subjects, and so spoke in monosyllables,
or not at all, till the ladies, who were most of them very animated,
came to the conclusion that he was as stupid as he was handsome, "as is
usually the case, my dear."
At supper Malvine was indefatigable in asking Wilhelm how he liked this
dark girl, and what he had said to that fair one, and what impression
the piquante little one with the boyish curly head had made upon him?
When he frankly confessed that he had paid very little attention to any
of the young ladies, and could scarcely remember one from another, she
was very much discouraged. It was decidedly no easy task to help this
clumsy person along. All three girls of whom she had spoken were
heiresses, and beautiful and well-educated beside--what more did he
want?
Alas! he did not want anything at all, but to be left in peace, and
that was the aggravating part of it. Malvine had set her heart on
marrying him, and marrying him well. Her sentiment for him had long
since given place to other and less agitating feelings, as beseemed a
model wife, mother, and landed proprietress. She was grateful to him
for having recognized and set right the mistaken impression of her
girlish heart. She was seized with discomfort at the thought of what
might have been. Where would she be now if she had become Frau Dr.
Eynhardt? A woman without fortune, of no position or importance, and at
the present moment even homeless and a wanderer. As things had turned
out she was wealthy and distinguished, the best people in Hamburg and
the whole of Luneburg came to her house, and she ruled like a small
queen over a large settlement of dependents. And all this she owed to
her dear Paul, who, during the seven years of their married life, had
never given her one moment's pain, never cost her eyes a single tear.
Out of her grateful acknowledgment that Wilhelm had materially assisted
in the founding of her agreeable destiny, and the unconscious lingering
remains of her former attachment, there had sprung up a very tender
friendship for him, the unusual warmth of which would have at once
betrayed its hidden origin to the experienced analyst of the heart. She
wanted to see him happy, she considered earnestly what was lacking to
him to make him so, and was sure that it could only be a rich and
pretty wife. This happiness then she determined to procure for him, an
easy enough task, as her set contained a large selection of "goldfish."
If he would only meet them halfway! The young ladies, obviously very
well disposed toward him, could not make the first advances. And yet on
the following Thursday he sat there in the midst of the gay chatter
just as quiet and wooden as on the first occasion, made no advances to
any of the girls, singled out no one from the rest. After that Malvine
was obliged to make a pause in her well-intentioned maneuvres, for the
third Thursday was Christmas Eve, and her time was taken up in
preparations for the Christmas-tree.
For this festive occasion Frau Brohl and Frau Marker came over from
Berlin, as had been their custom ever since Paul had taken the house on
the Uhlenhorst. Frau Marker had grown very stout, and her hair showed
the first silvery threads, otherwise she was blooming and as silent as
ever. Old Frau Brohl was simply astounding. She had not changed in the
smallest degree, time had no power over her, she was just as doubled up
and colorless, and her movements just as slow as ever, her brown eyes
had the same tired droop, and her low, complaining voice the old tone
of suffering. But her appetite had grown, if anything, rather larger,
and, apart from one or two colds in the winter, she had not known an
hour's illness during the whole time.
Needless to say, the grandmother did not come empty-handed. She brought
two cases with her, one of which contained a large quantity of
excellent bottled fruit, which Malvine still preferred to any her own
highly-paid cook could prepare, while the other was filled with a
choice collection of fancy work. On these treasures being unpacked, it
was discovered that the inventive genius of the old lady of seventy was
still undiminished. For the master of the house there was a game-bag
made of interwoven strips of blue and red leather, somewhat in the
Indian manner, very curious, and of course, impracticable Malvine
received a silklace veil, the pattern in large marsh-mallows--a
graceful play upon her name.
Frau Brohl had worked at this masterpiece for a year and a half. For
little Willy, in consideration of the aristocratic propensities one
might expect, or at any late encourage, in the heir to a large estate,
there was a Flobert rifle, the strap of which was ornamented after an
entirely new method by cutting out thin layers of the leather and
inserting gilt arabesques and figures. For the house in general there
were some ingenious arrangements in fir cones and small shells.
The Christmas-tree was set up in the great drawing-room on the ground
floor and reached almost to the ceiling. It was a beautiful young fir,
so fresh and fragrant of pine that the breath of the woods seemed to
cling to it still. A large party had gathered for the lighting-up.
Beside the relatives of the aristocratic pupils, who had come over from
the estate, there were some neighbors from the Uhlenhorst, with five or
six little children, and the Chamberlain von Swerte with his high-born
wife. The couple were childless, and not wishing to spend their
Christmas alone, had accepted Paul's invitation, and come all the way
from their little castle near Ronneburg to the Ulhenhorst.
The chamberlain was the lion of the evening. Paul took an opportunity
of whispering to Wilhelm, "Herr von Swerte is of the House of
Hellebrand--one of the first families in the county--tremendously
ancient lot!" Old Frau Brohl had observed the little gold tab on his
coat tail--the chamberlain's sign of office, and manuevered skillfully
in order that she might frequently obtain a back view, and so gaze upon
the proud badge in silent awe and admiration. The children had no eye
for such matters, but rushed shrieking with delight round the tree,
whose branches shed such gorgeous presents on them. Willy got a hussar
uniform, with sword, knot, boots and spurs all complete, and would not
rest till he had been taken to his room and dressed in it, and then
appeared before the company in this martial attire. His mother's eye
grew dim with pride and joy when Herr von Swerte lifted up the little
warrior to kiss him, and said heartily: "Well, my dear Herr Haber, he
will make a smart cavalry officer some day!"
At dinner Wilhelm found himself beside Frau Brohl. The old lady was
still fond of him, and never forgot how well he had behaved at a
critical moment, and with what modest self-perception he had
acknowledged that he was not the husband for her granddaughter.
Searching about for something agreeable to say to him, or for a subject
that would be sure to interest him, she suddenly remembered one, and
said, between the fish and the roast, "Have you heard the story about
your old flame, Frau Von Pechlar?"
Wilhelm started and changed color.
Frau Brohl never noticed, and continued in her soft complaining voice:
"Your guardian angel saved you there, Herr Doctor. You would have come
off nicely if you had married Fraulein Ellrich. There have been all
sorts of rumors for years, but now it has come to an open scandal. She
has left Herr von Pechlar and gone off with a count, who has been
hanging about her for some time. They say she has gone to Italy with
him."
Wilhelm made no reply, but he was surprised himself to feel how deeply
the information affected him, so that he could not breathe freely all
the evening, and although it was late before he got to bed, he could
not sleep for hours, thinking of the girl he had once loved, who was
now rushing blindly down the path of dishonor. Why should the thought
pain him so much? Do heart wounds heal so slowly and imperfectly that a
rough touch can make the scar burn and throb after long years? Or was
it regret at the besmirching of a picture which till now had shone so
purely and been so sweetly framed in his memory? He did not know, but
for days it depressed him to the verge of melancholy.
In return for the hospitality he had received New Year's Eve was spent
at Herr von Swerte's. The whole Haber family, with Frau Brohl and Frau
Marker--the white grandmamma and the brown grandmamma, as Willy called
them, to distinguish them from one another--drove over in the afternoon
to Ronneburg by way of Harburg, but Wilhelm could not be prevailed upon
to accompany them. Paul took him severely to task; Malvine represented
to him, with an eloquence unusual to her, the horrors of a lonely
New-Year's Eve; Frau Brohl pointed out the advantages of celebrating
the festive occasion in a company composed entirely of rich people; and
even Willy entreated, "Do come, Onkelchen, you can take care of me on
the road." All their persuasion proving fruitless, they finally left
him to his fate, and he remained behind alone.
Night found him at the writing-table in Paul's study, his head in his
hand, lost in thought. At last he shook himself out of his deep
brooding and wrote the following letter to Schrotter:
"My Revered Friend, I will not now break the habit of eight years, but
will spend my New Years' Eve with you, the person who stands nearest to
me in all the world. I am alone in this grand villa, the servants seem
to be enjoying themselves downstairs over their roast goose and punch,
Paul has taken his family and gone into the country to the castle of a
neighboring estate owner by whom he is evidently very much impressed,
and I can chat with you undisturbed.
"I wish you could live for a time in close contact with Paul, as I am
doing, you would be surprised and pleased. His development has been
wonderfully logical, and he now affords the spectacle, so intensely
interesting to the observant eye, of a person whose every capacity,
under the influence of the most favorable combination of circumstances
imaginable, has attained to the utmost limit of growth which is
possible to it. Paul has become the ideal type of our North German
landed proprietor. He is ultra conservative, and considers the
Socialist Act too mild. He loathes parliamentarianism, but would wish
that the Landrath had not the power to appoint even a police constable
without the consent of the estate owners of the district, and raves
about local police prerogative. His only newspaper, beside the little
local one, is the Kreuzzentung, he is learned in the Army List, and the
writing-table at which I am sitting is strewed with volumes of the
Almanac de Gotha. He looks after his subjects--for I think he calls his
workmen his subjects--in a truly fatherly or feudal manner, but I do
not doubt that he would drive the best of them off the estate with
dogs, if, even in the depth of winter, they did not stand hat in hand
the whole time they were talking to him. The sole problem of the
universe which has any sort of interest for him is the outlook of the
weather for the harvest. The course of human or superhuman events
arouses his wonder, his doubts, or his anxiety only in proportion as it
affects the price of corn. He cannot grasp that one should have any
other aim in life than to become a successful agriculturist. He finds
full satisfaction in his work, and what between a charming wife and an
adored child he would afford an example of what the fables and proverbs
tell us does not exist--a perfectly happy man, if one thing were not
lacking, the little word 'von' in front of his name. I trust he may not
die without obtaining it, and then the world will have contained one
mortal who has known absolutely boundless happiness.
"But in writing to you in this strain my conscience pricks me. Is it
not unkind toward Paul, whose attachment to me is positively touching?
Is it not churlish to exercise such cold crticism upon a friend whose
faithful affection has never for one moment wavered? He surrounds me
with endless proofs of his affection, and is always on the lookout for
something which may give me pleasure. He is a passionate sportsman--his
only passion as far as I can see--and worries me twice a week to join
him on his shooting expeditions. He is a masterly 'skat player, and is
most anxious to enrich my existence by the joys which, according to
him, this intellectual game affords to its adepts. When I venture
timidly to propose that I should leave him and live by myself, he looks
so honestly hurt and grieved that I have not the courage to insist
further. And Frau Haber, kind soul, who is so set upon getting me
married and thereby insuring my happiness! I and marrying! What have I
to offer a woman? Love? I am too poor in illusions.
Amusements--society--the theater? All that is a horror to me. And
moreover, I question if I have a right to bring a being into the world,
over whose destiny I have no control, and whose existence would most
certainly be richer in pain, and misery than in happiness; and I know
unquestionably that I have no right to teach a light-hearted girl to
think, and force her to exchange the artless gayety of a playful little
animal for my own fruitless speculations and never-to-be-satisfied
yearnings.
"In face of all this, serious doubts arise in my mind. Is it for me to
speak with superciliousness and superiority of Paul, or to look down
upon him? I ask you, as I have been asking myself every day these three
weeks--is he not the wise man and I the fool? He the useful member of
society, and I the mere hanger-on? His life the real, mine the shadow?
That he is happy I have already said; that I am not, I know. His system
therefore leads to peace and contentment, mine does not. He has set a
child into the world, and though, of course, he does not know what its
ultimate fate will be, he sees for the present, as do I and everybody
else who is not blind, that it fills his home with sunshine and warmth.
He provides hundreds with their daily bread. That is, I know, of no
moment to the universe; it is of very little importance whether a few
more obstruse human creatures walk the face of the earth or not. But
meanwhile, the creatures in question enjoy more agreeable sensations,
if, thanks to Paul's exertions, they have a comfortably spread table
every day. I cannot boast of any such achievements. The only good I
ever did my fellow-men did not proceed from me but from our friend
Dorfling, who simply used my hand as an instrument for carrying out his
charitable designs. My personal compassion, my love for my companions
in ignorance and suffering bears no fruit, benefits no one, and it
frequently seems to me that, if the truth were known, I am an egoist of
the deepest dye.
"If I could at least act consistently with the philosophy which directs
nay views of life! But I am not even capable of that. Systematically, I
concede no importance to outward forms. Maja does not count me among
her devotees. What are houses? What are the phantoms who inhabit them?
A transient semblance, a delusion of the senses! And yet, I am
conscious that I miss just those houses which happen to stand, in
Berlin and that I feel an unspeakable longing for the phantom called
Dr. Schrotter. Once again it has been proved to me that I am an
unconscious plaything in the hands of unknown powers, for again, as
more than once in my life, and always at decisive moments, some outside
agency has interfered in my fate, and disposed of me contrary to my own
intentions, by sending me out of Berlin and away from you. But,
nevertheless, my appreciation of this fact does not give me the
strength to accept the inevitable in silence and without repining.
"Enough--I will not pain you. Only this much I should like to add that
life is really harder to bear than I had thought for.
"Farewell, dear and honored friend; remember me affectionately to
Bhani, who, I trust, does not suffer too severely from this hard
winter, and always believe in the faithful friendship and devotion of
your
"WILHELM EYNHARDT."
Three days later Wilhelm received the following answer from Schrotter:
"DEAREST FRIEND: Your long and welcome New Year's letter troubled me
much on account of the state of mind I see revealed in it. I think,
however, that it is explained by the fact of your being rooted up out
of your accustomed surroundings that you are oppressed by Haber's
hospitality, and that you have as yet made no plans for the future, and
I trust that your spirits will improve when these three circumstances
are altered.
"I have always considered Haber, with all his good qualities of heart
and character, a thoroughly commonplace man, and your observations
verify my opinion to the full. And yet I quite understand that the
sight of his prosperity and self-satisfaction should give you food for
thought, and raise the question in your mind whether his philosophy--if
I may use the word--or yours, is the right one. That is a great
question, and I do not presume to answer it, either in general or for
your particular case; and all the more, for the very good reason that
your life is only really beginning now. You are not yet thirty-four,
you may yet do something great, something pre-eminent, and who knows if
those very qualities which have made your life unproductive hitherto,
may not enable you later on to do things beside which the achievements
of a Paul Haber shrink into insignificance? On the other hand, I am
persuaded--quite apart from your respective ways of life--that you have
chosen the better and higher part.
"Human nature is like a tower with many stories; some people inhabit
the lower, others the higher ones. The inhabitants of the cellars and
ground floor may, in their way, be good, decent, praiseworthy people,
but they can never enjoy the same amount of light, the same pure air
and wide view as those who live on the upper stories. Now you, my dear
young friend, live several floors higher up than our good Paul Haber,
whom, however, I value and am very fond of. But there are people living
over our heads too. I have known Indian sages who looked down upon all
we strive after and with which we occupy ourselves with the same
pitying wonder as you do on Haber's passion for sport and 'skat,' and
his longing for a title; who have difficulty in understanding that we
should earn money, be ambitious, entertain passions, conform to outward
rules of custom, and, under the pretext of education, laboriously study
rows of empty phrases. These Brahmins have still higher interests and a
yet wider view than the noblest-minded and wisest of us, and the
knowledge that such pure and all-embracing spirits do exist ought to
teach us to be humble, and not despise those who may still cling to
some vain show that we have overcome, and attach importance to matters
which no longer possess any in our eyes.
"One thing I have in my heart to wish for you, my dear friend--that you
could take life with a little of the unreflecting simplicity of those
who accept--what the moment offers without troubling themselves as to
the why and the wherefore. You bow to those high powers who, for
instance, have caused you to be banished from Berlin; then submit
yourself to those still higher ones, who let you live and feel and
think. Do not fight against the natural instincts which lead you to
cling to life and love. Your fears that you have nothing to offer a
wife are groundless. There are women who do not seek their happiness in
the vanities which you very properly detest. Do all you can to find
such a woman. Bestow life as you have received it, and leave your
offspring cheerfully to the care of those powers who rule over your own
life and destiny. For my part, I should be very sorry to see your race
die out.
"And why reproach yourself that you provide no one with daily bread?
Man does not live by bread alone; and by simply being what you are, you
supply many people--myself for instance--with a pleasure in life and a
belief in your future career that is worth more than daily bread.
"Bhani thanks you for your kind message. She incloses two verses for
you, of her own composition. Here you have them in prose
translation--'My beloved master and his humble handmaid miss the dear
friend with the soft eyes and gentle voice. We live as in a bungalow in
the season of rains--clouds and ever clouds, and no sun. When will the
sky be blue, and the sunshine come again? and when wilt thou eat rice
once more at the table of my lord?' In the original it certainly sounds
much prettier.
"Let me know soon what you think of doing, and be assured of the hearty
affection of your old
"SCHROTTER.
"POSTSCRIPT: Just read the enclosed extract from my to-day's Times.
That man's development was as logical as Haber's."
In the letter Wilhelm found, beside Bhani's poem, written in delicate
Sanscrit characters on yellow paper, a cutting from an English
newspaper, in which he read that a Nihilist of the name of Barinskoi,
in St. Petersburg, had for some time excited the suspicions of his
confederates by his luxurious and showy style of living. In order to
discover the source from which he drew the money for it, they appointed
one of their female members to be his mistress. She had shared in his
extravagances, and soon obtained proofs that he was in the service of
the police, and sold his fellow Nihilists. A secret court condemned him
to death, and a few days ago he had been found dead in his rooms, his
throat cut, and his body literally hacked to pieces.
In January Wilhelm received an unusual visitor. It was a leader of the
workingmen of Altona, who told him, without further circumlocution,
that the Socialists had kept their eye upon him, had found out where he
was living, and now sent him, the Altona man, to see if anything could
be made of him.
"What do you mean by that?" asked Wilhelm in astonishment.
"I mean," returned the visitor, who had introduced himself as
Stonemason Hessel, "whether you could not be persuaded to join us
openly."
As Wilhelm did not answer at once, Hessel resumed--"Our party needs men
like you, who are independent and bold, have a university education,
and speak well. You are all that, as we know. By banishing you from
Berlin they have, in point of fact, made you one of us. So go a step
further, Herr Doctor; defend yourself, take up the fight the government
has forced upon you. You have a million of determined workmen at your
back, who will gladly accept you as their leader."
"Excuse my frankness," said Wilhelm at last, "but I really cannot think
you are serious in your proposal."
"It is a very serious matter to us," cried Hessel. "I speak in the name
of the heads of the party, and have means of convincing you of the
reality of my proposal if you have any doubts about it."
"But how do you come to know about me?"
"That is very simple. You are not, perhaps, aware how well organized we
are, and how we follow up everything that may be of use to us
afterward. We know what you did for our party in Berlin, and that you
are suffering for it now. We know your circumstances, and that you have
a considerable sum of money at your disposal, and, I repeat, we want
educated men. Most of us have not had the means to get much schooling.
The struggle for our daily bread uses up all our time, and all the
brains we have. Look at me, Herr Doctor, for years I never had more
than five hours' sleep, and always used half the night to learn the
little I know. There are plenty of people among us who--more's the
pity--are distrustful of the better educated--call them upstarts, and
won't have anything to do with them. Their idea is that the proletariat
should be led by proletariars. But that is nonsense. No oppressed class
has ever yet been emancipated by its own members. It was always by
high-minded men of wider views out of the upper classes. Catilina was
an aristocrat, and put himself at the head of the populace. Mirabeau
belonged to the Court, and overthrew the monarchy. Wilberforce, the
defender of the negro, was not black himself."
Wilhelm now for the first time looked more attentively at this
stonemason, who talked so glibly of Catalina, Mirabeau and Wilberforce,
and the thought passed through his mind that, at any rate, there was
one good thing about Social Democracy--it brought education into
circles to which it otherwise would never have penetrated.
"And so," Hessel wound up, "we workmen too must be led to victory by
educated men."
"You overlook one point, however," remarked Wilhelm. "To be your
leader, one must before all things share your convictions."
"It is quite impossible that an educated and thoughtful man should not
see the injustice of the present social system. The government, which
oppresses us, sees it as clearly as we do ourselves. It is not fighting
for a conviction, but for the supremacy of a certain class."
"'It is impossible,' is no argument. In point of fact, I do not hold
with your doctrines. I know that the working-classes suffer, but I do
not know why, and I do not believe your theorists when they say it is
all because the workingman is ground down by the capitalist.
Furthermore, you speak of leading--where am I to lead you to?"
"To victory against the plundering feudalism of the State."
"That is a mere phrase. I know of no plan which will sweep poverty and
distress from the face of the earth. Even if you raise a revolution and
it succeeds, even if you destroy the feudal State and build up a
workingman's State upon the ruins, you will thereby only have improved
the condition of a select few, not of the whole--not even of the many.
I would not like to be in the shoes of your present leaders, preachers
and prophets, when you have conquered, and your followers demand to see
the results of your victory. How little they will then be able to
fulfill of the promises they have made to-day."
"So it is your opinion that there is nothing to be done for us, and
that we ought calmly to be left in want, and slavery, and ignorance?"
Hessel asked angrily.
"I think," returned Wilhelm, "that it is the bounden duty of every man
to love his neighbor, and help him where and when he can."
"Oh yes," said Hessel with a sneer, "that is the standpoint of the
Church--the standpoint of the Middle Ages. You would give us alms. No,
thank you, we accept no presents. We demand our rights, not charity."
Wilhelm thought to himself that he had not always found the Socialists
so proud, but kept the thought to himself, not wishing to hurt Hessel's
feelings, who seemed to be an honest fanatic.
"Do not let that be your last word," Hessel went on. "You are probably
but slightly acquainted with our doctrines and writings. Come nearer to
us. Come to our meetings--talk to our workmen. You will find that many
of us have very clear heads, and know exactly what we want, although
the majority do still cling a good deal to phrases. You will assuredly
soon begin to interest yourself in the emancipation of the proletariat.
And what a future to look forward to! You might be another Lassalle,
famous powerful, adored by thousands, received as a savior wherever you
show yourself--make a triumphal progress through all Germany, perhaps
through the world. And over and above, the consciousness of having
rendered such mighty service to your fellow-men."
Wilhelm rose.
"I seem to myself to be playing a rather ridiculous part in this
scene," he said; "it is a parody of the Gospel story of the Temptation.
Unfortunately, I have not the smallest particle of ambition, and have
no desire to be either famous or mighty, or to make triumphal
progresses. If I could really do anything for you, believe me, I would
do it gladly. But I assure you I possess neither the philosopher's
stone, nor a prescription for a universal panacea. I do not believe
either that the remedies they recommend so highly to you are very
effectual, so I am much obliged to you for your confidence in me, and
beg you to leave me in my obscurity."
Hessel gave him a dark look, stood up, turned slowly away, and left him
without one word, or even offering him his hand.
Wilhelm had sent to Berlin for a box of books, and tried to go on with
his work, but found no real pleasure in it. A deep despondency had come
upon him, and the idea that his life was wholly purposeless took more
and more hold upon him. Often, after studying earnestly for a day or
two, and making extracts for his book, he would ask himself, "Why take
all this trouble? Who is going to be made wiser or happier by this
rigmarole?" and his pleasure in the work was gone again for days. The
consciousness of exile, instead of being blunted by time, weighed ever
more heavily upon him. He never realized till now what an absolute
necessity it was to his nature to lean upon a kindred spirit, for he
had never before been without one. Since the death of his father he had
first had Paul, and then Dr. Schrotter, whom he had seen daily, and
thus had always had some one to share his mental life. Now he was
separated from Schrotter by distance, and from Paul by the great change
in their views, and found no sufficient support when left to himself.
If at times the sight of Paul's perfect self-content and happiness
roused in him the wish to follow his example, it was quickly overruled
by the conviction that neither Paul's commonplace, practical
occupations, nor his worldly success, would afford him, Wilhelm, the
smallest satisfaction.
He passed his days and weeks in self-communings and spiritual
loneliness, in spite of Paul's and Malvine's endeavors to interest him
in men and things. He allowed himself to be drawn into Malvine's
afternoon receptions, and the two or three parties they gave during the
winter; but refused to accompany them to other people's balls and
dinners. He was happiest of all with Willy, who was very fond of Uncle
Eynhardt. He took him for walks, told him stories, was never tired of
answering his endless questions, amused him with little chemical
experiments, and in default of the riding lessons let him ride upon his
knee. And as he passed his fingers through the child's long curls, he
often thought, in spite of all his philosophic doubts, how wonderfully
pleasant it must be after all, to bring forth some such sweet
golden-haired mystery that would cling to its parent and break away
from him--a continuation and yet a wholly new departure that had its
roots in the past, and yet struck out boldly into the future, and whose
bright gaze would be trying to penetrate the riddle of the universe
when he himself had long since sunk into oblivion. Had Malvine been
something more than good-natured and commonplace, had she possessed a
little more tact and insight into the human heart, she would have seen
that in Wilhelm were now combined all the conditions necessary for
predisposing him for marriage--the sense of a spiritual void, the
longing for love and companionship, a consciousness of being alone in
the midst of a cheerful, peaceful family circle, and the desire to see
his own life renewed in that of a child. What he needed was that some
one should frankly make the first advances, and overcome his natural
shyness and diffidence by a bold and saucy attack. With a little tact
and diplomacy, a clever woman would have had no difficulty in putting
up a bright girl to attempt so easy a fight and victory. But Malvine
never thought of such a thing. Social etiquette withheld the various
young ladies on whom the Habers' quiet guest had made no small
impression from taking those first steps, which are considered
unwomanly and humiliating, although in most cases they invariably bring
about the desired results, and so Wilhelm continued to sit in his
corner, and the group of pretty heiresses in theirs; the winter passed,
and Malvine's darling wish was still unfulfilled.
Easter came round, and with it the migration of the family to
Friesenmoor House. Wilhelm would have liked to seize this opportunity
for withdrawing himself from a hospitality which weighed heavily on
him, but Paul put down his timid revolt with a high hand.
"None of that now. You are coming with us, and can see what country
life is like for a whole summer," he declared, and there the matter
rested.
The estate and its surroundings possessed no picturesque charms. The
land stretched in uniform flatness from the sluggish Suderelbe to the
equally sleepy Seeve, and the Fuchsberg at Ronneburg, with its height
of two hundred feet, was a giant of the Alps or Cordilleras, compared
to the floor-like evenness of the country round about. From the
platform of the tower which Paul had built on to his house, giving it
quite a baronial appearance, one could see for miles across country,
almost to Hamburg, the spires of which were plainly visible on a clear
day. But far and near one saw nothing but cornfields and meadows, that
had the regularity of a carpet pattern, intersected by clay-colored
dikes, straight ditches full of stagnant brown water, here and there a
busy windmill, and in the distance the smooth-flowing watercourses
which bounded the landscape. The picture was laid on from a meager
palette; a few browns and greens, slightly relieved and enlivened by
the vigorous tones of the whitewashed walls of the laborers' cottages,
some standing apart, some collected together like a little village.
And yet, though the view from the tower might not seem very attractive,
a walk through the country revealed many a peculiar charm to the
observant and divining eye. Here one stood upon ground where man had
wrestled with Nature and subdued her. At every step one encountered the
marks of that struggle and victory, reminding one of Jacob's mysterious
encounter with the angel. The waters of the marsh were now forced
within the prescribed limits of a system of drains and canals.
Luxuriant crops triumphed over reeds and rushes, which were now only
permitted to fringe the edges of the ditches. Sleek, mild-eyed cows
grazed and ruminated where formerly the wildfowl built her nest. Chaos
was vanquished, and had to own man for her lord and master.
Here, upon the scene of his labors, Paul's figure assumed a certain
epic dignity. As a stern lord with a handful of armed followers keeps
down a subjugated people, so Paul, at the head of a few hundred
workmen, held sway over the unruly forces of Nature always more or less
ready to revolt. There were always dikes to be repaired, ditches to be
deepened, drain-pipes to be laid or improved, or artificial manure to
be carted, and Paul was active from break of day till nightfall, either
on foot or on horseback, hurrying from one end of the estate to the
other, everywhere ordering or giving a helping hand, and always leading
his troops himself to fresh onslaughts against the resisting elements.
He did it all quietly, without any fuss or attempt to reflect credit on
himself, and left it to others--to strangers, poetically inclined
pupils or students on their travels--to say that his conquest of the
Friesenmoor was a Faust-like achievement.
He had built a whole village for his laborers, to right and left of the
highroad leading to Friesenmoor House. The cheerful, clean, whitewashed
cottages, with their green-painted window-frames, were thatched with
rushes and surrounded by gardens in which young fruit trees, not yet
sufficiently strong to forego the support of poles, already gave
promise of their first harvest of apples and pears. The village hall
and the school-house were distinguished by superior size and
green-glazed tile roofs; nor was a church, with a pointed belfry and
weathercock, missing. For Paul was a model landowner, who took ample
thought for the welfare of his dependents, and as soon as his means
permitted it, had hastened to build a church and appoint a pastor,
providing thereby, at the same time, for one of his numerous relatives.
In his ardent loyalty to his king, he had expressed the wish to call
his village Kaiser-Wilhelm's Dorf, and had received the desired
permission.
In Kaiser-Wilhelm's Dorf, it was evident, content and comparative
prosperity reigned supreme. Behind every house was a pigsty, behind
nearly every one a cowshed. The men looked strong and hearty; the
women, carrying dinner to their husbands in the fields, or sitting
knitting on the benches in front of their doors, all presented bright
and cheerful faces, and the school would hardly contain the crowd of
flaxen-haired, blue-eyed children, whose rounded cheeks gave evidence
of a never-failing and amply spread dinner-table.
In the beginning, all this made a vast impression on Wilhelm. As the
struggle with nature is man's real and normal task, he instinctively
feels an emotion almost amounting to joy wherever he comes upon
evidences of victory. But, as usual with Wilhelm, this first
instinctive emotion was followed by the usual fatal speculations, and
he said to himself, "Paul has converted swamps into cornfields, has
enriched himself thereby, and supports some hundreds of families. Good!
but what further? This great achievement has as its primary result,
that people are fed who otherwise perhaps would not eat so much or so
well, or merely would not feed on this spot at all. But is the filling
of one's own and other people's stomachs the first and highest aim of
life?"
Paul tried hard to interest him in the details of farming. He took him
about, showed and explained everything to him, and finally brought out
his pet scheme--that he should sell the house in Berlin, and buy
instead some marshland near by, which was to be had for a moderate sum;
he would give him a helping hand at first, and as property of that kind
could very well afford a steward, he could easily get him a first-rate
one. They would be neighbors, Wilhelm would have a larger income and
fewer wants, and live in peace and comfort. Wilhelm was profoundly
touched by the affection which was manifest in Paul's every word and
thought, but the prospects he opened up before him offered him no
attractions.
In July, when the harvest was ripening for the sickle, and man had
nothing to do but leave the sun to its work of brooding on the fields,
Paul went one day to a committee meeting in the town. When he came home
he remarked to Wilhelm at supper:
"What do you think? They have discovered that I am harboring a
dangerous Social Democrat. The Landrath actually remonstrated with me
on the subject in a discreet and well-meaning way. I can't tell you how
the man amused me," and he laughed again as he recalled the
conversation. But all his amusement vanished when Wilhelm answered:
"The Landrath was quite right. A political outlaw is very doubtful
company for a man in your position, and I cannot think how I came to
overlook the fact myself."
In vain did Paul endeavor to turn the matter into a joke; in vain that
he showed himself inconsolable at his stupidity in having told the
story. Wilhelm declared firmly that he must leave his friend, and
bringing his whole force of will to bear upon it, carried his intention
through.
The next day Paul's carriage took him to Harburg. The parting was
trying to all of them. Paul's leave-taking was prolonged, and he made
his friend promise he would return next year for some weeks at least to
Friesenmoor House. Malvine had tears in her eyes as she said, "No one
will care for you so much as we do." Even little Willy was downcast,
and gazed with a reproachful look at the friend who could find it in
his heart to desert him. As the train moved off he called out to
Wilhelm, in his ringing, childish voice, "Come back soon, Onkelchen,
and bring me something nice."