Greifmann and Gerlach had driven to the railway station. The express train
thundered along. As the doors of the carriages flew open, Seraphin peered
through them with eyes full of eager joy. He thought no more of the fate
that threatened him as the sequel of his father’s arrival; his youthful
heart exulted solely in the anticipation of the meeting. A tall, broad‐
shouldered gentleman, with severe features and tanned complexion, alighted
from a _coupé_. It was Mr. Conrad Gerlach. Seraphin threw his arms around
his father’s neck and kissed him. The banker made a polite bow to the
wealthiest landed proprietor of the country, in return for which Mr.
Conrad bestowed on him a cordial shake of the hand.
“Has your father returned?”
“He cannot possibly reach home before September,” answered the banker. The
traveller stepped for a moment into the luggage‐room. The gentlemen then
drove away to the Palais Greifmann. During the ride, the conversation was
not very animated. Conrad’s curt, grave manner and keen look, indicative
of a mind always hard at work, imposed reserve, and rapidly dampened his
son’s ingenuous burst of joy. Seraphin cast a searching glance upon that
severe countenance, saw no change from its stern look of authority, and
his heart sank before the appalling alternative of either sacrificing the
happiness of his life to his father’s favorite project, or of opposing his
will and braving the consequences of such daring. Yet he wavered but an
instant in the resolution to which he had been driven by necessity, and
which, it was plain from the lines of his countenance, he had manhood
enough to abide by.
Mr. Conrad maintained his reserve, and asked but few questions. Even Carl,
habitually profuse, studied brevity in his answers, as he knew from
experience that Gerlach, Senior, was singularly averse to the use of many
words.
“How is business?”
“Very dull, sir; the times are hard.”
“Did you sustain any losses through the failures that have recently taken
place in town?”
“Not a farthing. We had several thousands with Wendel, but fortunately
drew them out before he failed.”
“Very prudent. Has your father entered into any new connections in the
course of his travels?”
“Several, that promise fairly.”
“Is Louise well?”
“Her health is as good as could be wished.”
“General prosperity, then, I see, for you both look cheerful, and Seraphin
is as blooming as a clover field.”
“How is dear mother?”
“Quite well. She misses her only child. She sends much love.”
The carriage drew up at the gate. The young lady was awaiting the
millionaire at the bottom of the steps. While greetings were exchanged
between them, a faint tinge of warmth could be noticed on the cold
features of the land‐owner. A smile formed about his mouth, his piercing
eyes glanced for an instant at Seraphin, and instantly the smile was
eclipsed under the cloud of an unwelcome discovery.
“I am on my way to the industrial exhibition,” said he, “and I thought I
would pay you a visit in passing. I wish you not to put yourself to any
inconvenience, my dear Louise. You will have the goodness to make me a
little tea, this evening, which we shall sip together.”
“I am overjoyed at your visit, and yet I am sorry, too.”
“Sorry! Why so?”
“Because you are in such a hurry.”
“It cannot be helped, my child. I am overwhelmed with work. Harvest has
commenced; no less than six hundred hands are in the fields, and I am
obliged to go to the exhibition. I must see and test some new machinery
which is said to be of wonderful power.”
“Well, then, you will at least spare us a few days on your return?”
“A few days! You city people place no value on time. We of the country
economize seconds. Without a thought you squander in idleness what cannot
be recalled.”
“You are a greater rigorist than ever,” chided she, smiling.
“Because, my child, I am getting older. Seraphin, I wish to speak a word
with you before tea.”
The two retired to the apartments which for years Mr. Conrad was
accustomed to occupy whenever he visited the Palais Greifmann.
“The old man still maintains his characteristic vigor,” said Louise. “His
face is at all times like a problem in arithmetic, and in place of a heart
he carries an accurate estimate of the yield of his farms. His is a cold,
repelling nature.”
“But strictly honest, and alive to gain,” added Carl. “In ten years more
he will have completed his third million. I am glad he came; the marriage
project is progressing towards a final arrangement. He is now having a
talk with Seraphin; tomorrow, as you will see, the bashful young
gentleman, in obedience to the command of his father, will present himself
to offer you his heart, and ask yours in return.”
“A free heart for an enslaved one,” said she jestingly. “Were there no
hope of ennobling that heart, of freeing it from the absurdities with
which it is encrusted, I declare solemnly I would not accept it for three
millions. But Seraphin is capable of being improved. His eye will not
close itself against modern enlightenment. Servility of conscience and a
baneful fear of God cannot have entirely extinguished his sense of
liberty.”
“I have never set a very high estimate on the pluck and moral force of
religious people,” declared Greifmann. “They are a craven set, who are
pious merely because they are afraid of hell. When a passion gets
possession of them, the impotence of their religious frenzy at once
becomes manifest. They fall an easy prey to the impulses of nature, and
the supernatural fails to come to the rescue. It would be vain for
Seraphin to try to give up the unbelieving Louise, whom his strait‐laced
faith makes it his duty to avoid. He has fallen a victim to your
fascinations; all the Gospel of the Jew of Nazareth, together with all the
sacraments and unctions of the church, could not loose the coils with
which you have encircled him.”
In this scornful tone did Carl Greifmann speak of the heroism of virtue
and of the energy of faith, like a blind man discoursing about colors. He
little suspected that it is just the power of religion that produces
characters, and that, on this very account, in an irreligious age,
characters of a noble type are so rarely met with; the warmth of faith is
not in them.
“Mr. Schwefel desires to speak a word with you,” said a servant who
appeared at the door.
The banker nodded assent.
“I ask your pardon for troubling you at so unseasonable an hour,” began
the leader, after bowing lowly several times. “The subject is urgent, and
must be settled without delay. But, by the way, I must first give you the
good news: Mr. Shund is elected by an overwhelming majority, and Progress
is victorious in every ward.”
“That is what I looked for,” answered the banker, with an air of
satisfaction. “I told you whatever Cæsar, Antony, and Lepidus command,
must be done.”
“I am just from a meeting at which some important resolutions have been
offered and adopted,” continued the leader. “The strongest prop of
ultramontanism is the present system of educating youth. Education must,
therefore, be taken out of the hands of the priests. But the change will
have to be brought about gradually and with caution. We have decided to
make a beginning by introducing common schools. A vote of the people is to
be taken on the measure, and, on the last day of voting, a grand barbecue
is to be given to celebrate our triumph over the accursed slavery of
religious symbols. The ground chosen by the chief‐magistrate for the
celebration is the common near the Red Tower, but the space is not large
enough, and we will need your meadow adjoining it to accommodate the
crowd. I am commissioned by the magistrate to request you to throw open
the meadow for the occasion.”
The banker, believing the request prejudicial to his private interests,
looked rather unenthusiastic. Louise, who had been busy with the teapot,
had heard every word of the conversation, and the new educational scheme
had won her cordial approval. Seeing her brother hesitated, she flew to
the rescue:
“We are ready and happy to make any sacrifice in the interest of education
and progress.”
“I am not sure that it is competent for me in the present instance to
grant the desired permission,” replied Greifmann. “The grass would be
destroyed, and perhaps the sod ruined for years. My father is away from
home, and I would not like to take the responsibility of complying with
his honor’s wish.”
“The city will hold itself liable for all damages,” said Schwefel.
“Not at all!” interposed the young lady hastily. “Make use of the meadow
without paying damages. If my brother refuses to assume the
responsibility, I will take it upon my self. By wresting education from
the clergy, who only cripple the intellect of youth, progress aims a
death‐blow at mental degradation. It is a glorious work, and one full of
inestimable results that you gentlemen are beginning in the cause of
humanity against ignorance and superstition. My father so heartily concurs
in every undertaking that responds to the wants of the times, that I not
only feel encouraged to make myself responsible for this concession, but
am even sure that he would be angry if we refused. Do not hesitate to make
use of the meadow, and from its flowers bind garlands about the temples of
the goddess of liberty!”
The leader bowed reverently to the beautiful advocate of progress.
“In this case, there remains nothing else for me to do than to confirm my
sister’s decision,” said Greifmann. “When is the celebration to take
place?”
“On the 10th of August, the day of the deputy elections. It has been
intentionally set for that day to impress on the delegates how genuine and
right is the sentiment of our people.”
“Very good,” approved Greifmann.
“In the name of the chief‐magistrate, I thank you for the offering you
have so generously laid upon the shrine of humanity, and I shall hasten to
inform the gentlemen before they adjourn that you have granted our
request.” And Schwefel withdrew from the gorgeously furnished apartment.
Meanwhile a fiery struggle was going on between Seraphin and his father.
He had briefly related his experience at the Palais Greifmann; had even
confessed his preference for Louise, and had, for the first time in his
life, incurred his father’s displeasure by mentioning the wager. And when
he concluded by protesting that he could not marry Louise, Conrad’s
suppressed anger burst forth.
“Have you lost your senses, foolish boy? This marriage has been in
contemplation for years; it has been coolly weighed and calculated. In all
the country around, it is the only equal match possible. Louise’s dower
amounts to one million florins, the exact value of the noble estate of
Hatzfurth, adjoining our possessions. You young people can occupy the
chateau, I shall add another hundred acres to the land, together with a
complete outfit of farming implements, and then you will have such a start
as no ten proprietors in Germany can boast of.”
Seraphin knew his father. All the old gentleman’s thought and effort was
concentrated on the management of his extensive possessions. For other
subjects there was no room in the head and heart of the landholder. He
barely complied with his religious duties. It is true, on Sundays Mr.
Conrad attended church, but surrounded invariably by a motley swarm of
worldly cares and speculations connected with farming. At Easter, he went
to the sacraments, but usually among the last, and after being repeatedly
reminded by his wife. He took no interest in progress, humanity,
ultramontanism, and such other questions as vex the age, because to
trouble himself about them would have interfered with his main purpose. He
knew only his fields and woodlands—and God, in so far as his providence
blessed him with bountiful harvests.
“What is the good of millions, father, if the very fundamental conditions
of matrimonial peace are wanting?”
“What fundamental conditions?”
“Louise believes neither in God nor in revelation. She is an infidel.”
“And you are a fanatic—a fanatic because of your one‐sided education. Your
mother has trained you as priests and monks are trained. During your
childhood piety was very useful; it served as the prop to the young tree,
causing it to grow up straight and develop itself into a vigorous stem.
But you are now full‐grown, and life makes other demands on the man than
on the boy; away, therefore, with your fanaticism.”
“To my dying hour I shall thank my mother for the care she has bestowed on
the child, the boy, and the young man. If her pious spirit has given a
right direction to my career, and watched faithfully over my steps, the
untarnished record of the son cannot but rejoice the heart of the father—a
record which is the undoubted product of religious training.”
“You are a good son, and I am proud of you,” accorded Mr. Conrad with
candor. “Your mother, too, is a woman whose equal is not to be found. All
this is very well. But, if Louise’s city manners and free way of thinking
scandalize you, you are sheerly narrow‐minded. I have been noticing her
for years, and have learned to value her industry and domestic virtues.
She has not a particle of extravagance; on the contrary, she has a decided
leaning towards economy and thrift. She will make an unexceptionable wife.
Do you imagine, my son, my choice could be a blind one when I fixed upon
Louise to share the property which, through years of toil, I have amassed
by untiring energy?”
“I do not deny the lady has the qualities you mention, my dear father.”
“Moreover, she is a millionaire, and handsome, very handsome, and you are
in love with her—what more do you want?”
“The most important thing of all, father. The very soul of conjugal
felicity is wanting, which is oneness of faith in supernatural truth. What
I adore, Louise denies; what I revere, she hates; what I practise, she
scorns. Louise never prays, never goes to church, never receives the
sacraments, in a word, she has not a spark of religion.”
“That will all come right,” returned Mr. Conrad. “Louise will learn to
pray. You must not, simpleton, expect a banker’s daughter to be for ever
counting her beads like a nun. Take my word for it, the weight of a wife’s
responsibilities will make her serious enough.”
“Serious perhaps, but not religious, for she is totally devoid of faith.”
“Enough; you shall marry her nevertheless,” broke in the father. “It is my
wish that you shall marry her. I will not suffer opposition.”
For a moment the young man sat silent, struggling painfully with the
violence of his own feelings.
“Father,” said he, then, “you command what I cannot fulfil, because it
goes against my conscience. I beg you not to do violence to my conscience;
violence is opposed to your own and my Christian principles. An atheist or
a progressionist who does not recognize a higher moral order, might insist
upon his son’s marrying an infidel for the sake of a million. But you
cannot do so, for it is not millions of money that you and I look upon as
the highest good. Do not, therefore, dear father, interfere with my moral
freedom; do not force me into a union which my religion prohibits.”
“What does this mean?” And a dark frown gathered on the old gentleman’s
forehead. “Defiance disguised in religious twaddle? Open rebellion? Is
this the manner in which my son fulfils the duty of filial obedience?”
“Pardon me, father,” said the youth with deferential firmness, “there is
no divine law making it obligatory upon a father to select a wife for his
son. Consequently, also, the duty of obedience on this point does not rest
upon the son. Did I, beguiled by passion or driven by recklessness, wish
to marry a creature whose depravity would imperil my temporal and eternal
welfare, your duty, as a father, would be to oppose my rashness, and my
duty, as a son, would be to obey you. Louise is just such a creature; she
is artfully plotting against my religious principles, against my loyalty
to God and the church. She has put upon herself as a task to lead me from
the darkness of superstition into the light of modern advancement. I
overheard her when she said to her brother, ‘Did I for an instant doubt
that Seraphin may be reclaimed from superstition, I would renounce my
union with him, I would forego all the gratifications of wealth, so much
do I detest stupid credulity.’ Hence I should have to look forward to
being constantly annoyed by my wife’s fanatical hostility to my religion.
There never would be an end of discord and wrangling. And what kind of
children would such a mother rear? She would corrupt the little ones,
instil into their innocent souls the poison of her own godlessness, and
make me the most wretched of fathers. For these reasons Miss Greifmann
shall not become my wife—no, never! I implore you, dear father, do not
require from me what my conscience will not permit, and what I shall on no
condition consent to,” concluded the young man with a tone of decision.
Mr. Conrad had observed a solemn silence, like a man who suddenly beholds
an unsuspected phenomenon exhibited before him. Seraphin’s words produced,
as it were, a burst of vivid light upon his mind, dispelling the
multitudinous schemes and speculations that nestled in every nook and
depth. The effect of this sudden illumination became perceptible at once,
for Mr. Gerlach lost the points of view which had invariably brought
before his vision the million of the Greifmanns, and he began to feel a
growing esteem for the stand taken by his son.
“Your language sounds fabulous,” said he.
“Here, father, is my diary. In it you will find a detailed account of what
I have briefly stated.”
Gerlach took the book and shoved it into the breast‐pocket of his coat. In
an instant, however, his imagination conjured up to him a picture of the
Count of Hatzfurth’s splendid estate, and he went on coldly and
deliberately: “Hear me, Seraphin! Your marriage with Louise is a favorite
project upon which I have based not a few expectations. The observations
you have made shall not induce me to renounce this project
unconditionally, for you may have been mistaken. I shall take notes myself
and test this matter. If your view is confirmed, our project will have
been an air castle. You shall be left entirely unmolested in your
convictions.”
Seraphin embraced his father.
“Let us have no scene; hear me out. Should it turn out, on the other hand,
that your judgment is erroneous, should Louise not belong to yon crazy
progressionist mob who aim to dethrone God and subvert the order of
society, should her hatred against religion be merely a silly conforming
to the fashionable impiety of the age, which good influences may
correct—then I shall insist upon your marrying her. Meanwhile I want you
to maintain a strict neutrality—not a step backward nor a step in advance.
Now to tea, and let your countenance betray nothing of what has passed.”
He drew his son to his bosom and imprinted a kiss on his forehead.
The millionaires were seated around the tea‐table. Mr. Conrad playfully
commended Louise’s talent for cooking. Apparently without design he turned
the conversation upon the elections, and, to Seraphin’s utter
astonishment, eulogized the beneficent power of liberal doctrines.
“Our age,” said he, “can no longer bear the hampering notions of the past.
In the material world, steam and machinery have brought about changes
which call for corresponding changes in the world of intellect. Great
revolutions have already commenced. In France, Renan has written a _Life
of Christ_, and in our own country Protestant convocations are proclaiming
an historical Christ who was not God, but only an extraordinary man. You
hardly need to be assured that I too take a deep interest in the
intellectual struggles of my countrymen, but an excess of business does
not permit me to watch them closely. I am obliged to content myself with
such reports as the newspapers furnish. I should like to read Renan’s
work, which seems to have created a great sensation. They say it suits our
times admirably.”
The brother and sister were not a little astonished at the old gentleman’s
unusual communicativeness.
“It is a splendid book,” exclaimed Louise—“charming as to style, and
remarkably liberal and considerate towards the worshippers of Christ.”
“So I have everywhere been told,” said Mr. Conrad.
“Have you read the book, Louise?”
“Not less than four times, three times in French and once in German.”
“Do you think a farmer whose moments are precious as gold could forgive
himself the reading of Renan’s book in view of the multitude of his urgent
occupations?” asked he, smiling.
“The reading of a book that originates a new intellectual era is also a
serious occupation,” maintained the beautiful lady.
“Very true; yet I apprehend Renan’s attempt to disprove to me the divinity
of Christ would remain unsuccessful, and it would only cause me the loss
of some hours of valuable time.”
“Read it, Mr. Gerlach, do read it. Renan’s arguments are unanswerable.”
“So you have been convinced, Louise?”
“Yes, indeed, quite.”
“Well, now, Renan is a living author, he is the lion of the day, and
nothing could be more natural than that the fair sex should grow
enthusiastic over him. But, of course, at your next confession you will
sorrowfully declare and retract your belief in Renan.”
The young lady cast a quick glance at Seraphin, and the brim of her teacup
concealed a proud, triumphant smile.
“Our city is about taking a bold step,” said Carl, breaking the silence.
“We are to have common schools, in order to take education from the
control of the clergy.” And he went on to relate what Schwefel had
reported.
“When is the barbecue to come off?” inquired Mr. Conrad.
“On the 10th of August.”
“Perhaps I shall have time to attend this demonstration,” said Gerlach.
“Hearts reveal themselves at such festivities. One gets a clear insight
into the mind of the multitude. You, Louise, have put progress under
obligations by so cheerfully advancing to meet it.”
After these words the landholder rose and went to his room. The next
morning he proceeded on his journey, taking with him Seraphin’s diary. The
author himself he left at the Palais Greifmann in anxious uncertainty
about future events.