CHAPTER I.

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BY THE AUTHOR OF "VILLA EDEN."

ON THE HEIGHTS.

Revised Edition. In one volume, with Pictorial Title. 16mo. Cloth.

Price, $2.00.

EDELWEISS.

One volume. With Pictorial Title. Square 16mo. Neat Cloth. Price,

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-->_Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of the price, by the Publishers,_

ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.

[Illustration: "_Be patient a few minutes longer! There's a man

beckoning to go with us_," _said the boatman to his passengers_.--VILLA

EDEN, Page 1.]

VILLA EDEN:

THE COUNTRY-HOUSE ON THE RHINE.

By BERTHOLD AUERBACH.

TRANSLATED BY CHARLES C. SHACKFORD.

BOSTON:

ROBERTS BROTHERS.

1871.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by

ROBERTS BROTHERS,

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of

Massachusetts.

THE COUNTRY-HOUSE ON THE RHINE.

A ROMANCE, BY BERTHOLD AUERBACH.

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I.

THE APPARITION.

"Be patient a few: minutes longer! There's a man beckoning to go with

us," said the boatman to his passengers, two women and one man. The man

was gray-haired, of slender form, rubicund face, and blue eyes of a

kindly, but absent-minded and weary expression; a heavy moustache,

wholly covering the upper lip, seemed out of keeping with this

inoffensive face. He wore a new summer suit of that fashionable

material which seems be-dashed and be-sprinkled with white, as if the

wearer had purposely rolled himself in a feather bed. He had, moreover,

a pretty wallet attached to a leather belt, and embroidered with blue

and red beads.

Opposite the man sat a tall and stately woman, with restless eyes and

sharp features, that might once have been attractive. She shook her

head, vexed at the delay, like one not accustomed to be kept waiting,

got up, and sat down again. She wore a pale-yellow silk dress, and the

white veil on her gray round hat was wound about the rim like the band

around a turban. Again she threw back her head with a quick movement,

then looked straight down before her, as if not to show any interest in

the stranger, and boring with the point of her large parasol into the

side of the boat.

Near the man sat a smiling, fair maiden, in a blue summer suit, and

holding in her hand, by the elastic string, a small blue hat ornamented

with a bird's wing. Her head was rather large and heavy, and the broad

forehead was made yet more massive by a rich abundance of braided hair;

a large curl on each side rested upon her shoulder and breast. The

girl's countenance was bright and clear as the clear day which shed its

beams over the landscape. She put on her hat, and the mother gave it a

little touch to adjust it properly. The girl exchanged quickly her

coarse leather gauntlets for delicate, glossy ones which she took out

of her pocket; and while drawing them on with great dexterity, she

looked at the new-comer.

A tall and handsome young man, with a full brown beard, a sinewy frame,

a gray shawl over his shoulder, and upon his head a broad-brimmed gray

hat with black crape, same down the steep and zigzag path with a

vigorous step to the shore. He stepped into the boat, and lifting his

hat while bowing in silence, displayed a noble white forehead shaded by

dark-brown hair. His countenance spoke courage and firmness, and, at

the same time, had an expression that awakened confidence and trust.

The girl cast down her eyes, while her mother once more fastened and

unfastened her hat-string, contriving at the same time, with seeming

carelessness, to place one long curl in front, and the other upon the

shoulder behind, so as to be becoming, and to look easy and natural.

The man in the mottled suit pressed the white head of his cane to his

lips. The stranger, seating himself apart from the others, gazed into

the stream, whilst the boat was moving rapidly through the water. They

landed at an island on which was a large convent, now a boarding-school

for girls.

"Oh, how beautiful! and are the lessons learned there?" asked the girl,

pointing to a group of lofty trees on the shore, clustered so near

together that they seemed to have grown out of one root, and with low

seats inside the grove. "Go on!" said the mother with a reproving look

to the girl, and immediately taking her husband's arm. The girl went on

before, and the stranger followed them.

In the thickets sang the nightingales, the blackbirds, and the finches,

as if they would proclaim, "Here is the peace and the rest of Paradise,

and no one disturbs us." The dark fir-trees with their sheltering

branches, and the long row of light-green larches stood motionless by

the shore, and bees hummed in the blossoming chestnut-trees. They

reached the convent. The building, without any architectural

peculiarity, had an extended prospect of the garden, the meadows on the

island, the river, and the mountains. It was shut up, and no human

being was to be seen. The old gentleman pulled the bell; a portress

opened a small window, and asked what was wanted. Admission was

demanded, but the portress replied that it could not possibly be

granted that evening. "Take in my card, and say to the good mother that

I am here with my wife and daughter," said the old gentleman. "Permit

me to add also my card," said the stranger. The three looked round,

struck by the pleasant tone of his voice. The stranger handed his card,

and added, "Please say to the worthy Lady Superior, that I bring a

message of greeting from my mother."

The portress closed the window quickly, while the four stood at the

entrance. "I took you for a Frenchman," said the old gentleman with a

kindly tone to the young man. "I am a German," he replied. "Have you

then a relative in the convent, and are you acquainted with the good

mother?" "No, I know no one here." The answers of the stranger were so

short and direct, that he gave no opportunity to continue the

conversation, and the old gentleman appeared to be a man of position

and character, who was accustomed to be addressed, and not to make

advances. He walked with the two ladies towards a beautiful flower-bed,

and placed himself with his companions upon a seat. But the girl was

restless, and walking up and down along the edge of the meadow, she

gathered the hidden violets. The young man remained standing as if

rooted to the spot, staring at the stone steps which led up to the

cloister-door, as though he must find out what various destinies had

already gone in and out over them.

Meanwhile, the old gentleman said to his wife, "That elegant young man

appears to me to be a gambler, who has lost all his means at one of the

neighboring baths. Who knows but that he wants to borrow money of the

Lady Superior?" She laughed at her husband for being disposed to see

now, for the third time during this journey, a criminal or a ruined man

in the persons they chanced to meet.

"You may be right," said the old gentleman; "but that's the mischief of

these showy, establishments, that one supposes everybody he meets has

something to do with them. Besides, just as it happened with our

daughter--"

"What happened with me?" asked the girl from the meadow. "Why,"

continued the father, "how often, when walking behind you at the baths,

have I heard people say, 'What beautiful false hair!' no one now thinks

that there is anything genuine."

The girl laughed merrily to herself, and then adding a violet to the

nosegay on her bosom, called out, "And I believe the stranger is a

poet." "Why?" asked the mother. "Because a poet must be handsome like

him." The old gentleman laughed, and the mother said, "Child, you are

manufacturing a poet out of your own imagination; but, silence! let us

go, the portress is beckoning to us."

The convent door opened, and the visitors entered. Behind the second

grated door stood two nuns in black garments with hempen cords about

their waists. The taller nun, an old lady with an extraordinarily large

nose, told them that the Lady Superior was sorry not to be able to

receive any one; that it was the evening before her birth-day, and she

always remained, on that day, alone until sunset; that there was a

further difficulty in admitting strangers to-day, as the children--for

so she called the pupils--had prepared a spectacle with which to greet

the Superior after sun-down; that everything was in disorder to-day, as

a stage had been erected in the great dining-hall; that the Superior,

however, had ordered that they should be shown over the convent.

The two nuns led the way through the main passage. Their step was hard

and noisy, for they wore wooden shoes fastened to the feet by leather

straps over the stockings. The smaller and prettier nun, with her

delicate features pinched up in the close-fitting cap, had kept herself

timidly in the background, allowing the other to do the talking. But

now she addressed the girl in the blue muslin dress, speaking in

French. The mother gave a nod of satisfaction to the father, as much as

to say, "There, now; you see it was worth while to let the child learn

something; that was my doing, and you only reluctantly consented." The

father could not refrain from informing the nun with the big nose that

his daughter, Lina, had returned, only six months before, from the

Convent of the "Sacred Heart" at Aix-la-Chapelle. The stranger also

spoke a few words in French to the pretty nun. But now, and as often as

he addressed her, she drew herself shyly back, apparently not from

timidity, but with a nervous involuntary shrinking into herself.

The breakfast-room, school-room, and music-room, and the large

dormitories were shown to the strangers, and they admired the neatness

and good order everywhere seen. Especially in the sleeping-rooms

everything was arranged as prettily and neatly, as if not real human

beings, much less careless children, inhabited them, but as if

everything had been made ready for fairy visitants. In one little bed

only was there any disturbance. Lina drew back the curtain, and a child

with great brown eyes looked up. The young man had also come to the

bedside. "What is the matter with the child?" asked Lina. "Only

homesickness." "Only homesickness," said the stranger in a low tone to

himself, while the lady asked, "How do you cure homesickness?" "The

housekeeper has a sure method; a child complaining of homesickness is

put on the sick-list, and must stay in bed; when she is allowed to get

up, the homesickness is gone, and she feels at home." "Go away, all of

you! go away! I want Manna, I want Manna," moaned the child. "She will

come soon," said the nun, soothingly, adding in explanation, "No one

but an American girl can pacify the child." "That must be our Manna,"

said Lina to her mother. The twilight was gathering, and through the

galleries, in the golden evening light, strange forms rustled in long

green, blue, and red garments, and then vanished within the cells.

The visitors went into the dining-room, at the farther end of which

there was the representation of a forest scene with a hermitage; and

there lay a doe bound with a red cord. The young creature fixed its

great eyes on the strangers, and tugging at its cord, tried to get

away.

The French nun said that the children, aided by one of the sisters who

had a natural talent that way, had themselves arranged the decorations.

Large choirs had been practicing, and one of the pupils, a very

remarkable child, had composed the piece which represented a scene from

the life of the Superior's patron saint.

The German nun regretted that no stranger could be present. A copy of

the song to be introduced in the play was lying upon a chair. The lady,

taking it up, read it and handed it over to the young man, who ran

through the verses. "It's astonishing that a child should have composed

them," said the lady. The young stranger felt obliged to make some

reply, and observed in a somewhat careless tone, "Our German language,

especially when used in rhyming, is an instrument that can easily be

drummed upon, and thrummed upon, by any child."

"I told you so; he is a poet," said the triumphant look of the girl to

her parents.

As they were leaving the dining-hall, now turned into a temporary

theatre, Lina remarked to the pretty Frenchwoman how sorry she was not

to be able to see her young friend, Hermanna Sonnenkamp; she herself

was obliged to return that very evening with her parents, as they had

been invited to attend, to-morrow afternoon, a reception at the

Countess von Wolfsgarten's.

The girl said this with a proud emphasis, as if assured that every one

must know what was the full significance of a reception at Count von

Wolfsgarten's. The Frenchwoman must have noticed it, for she replied,

"Here, on the contrary, we do not know each other by the names applied

to us in the world outside; we here know only our convent names."

"May I know yours?" "Certainly; I am called sister Seraphia." The girl

seemed now on more intimate terms with the French sister, since she

could call her "sister Seraphia;" and she rejoiced at the thought of

being able to tell at home, in her own little town, about the nun of

high rank, at least a princess, whose acquaintance she had made. They

walked back through the long gallery, and as they went down the steps,

there came up a snow-white form with great wings on its shoulders, and

a glittering diadem on its head, from which long black ringlets

streamed down over bosom and neck. Deep, black eyes, with long lashes

and thick brows, gleamed out of the pale countenance. "Manna!" cried

Lina, and "Manna!" echoed the vaulted ceiling. The winged apparition

grasped the hand of the speaker, and leading her aside down the stairs

said, "Is it you, dear Lina? Ah, I have only been with a poor child

pining with homesickness; to-day I cannot speak a word with any other

living soul."

"O, how wonderful you look! how splendid! To the child you must be a

real live angel! And how glad they will all be at home, when I tell

them."

"Not a word about it. Excuse me to your parents for flitting by them,

and--who, who is the young man here with you?"

The stranger seemed aware that they were talking about him, and looked

from below up to the wonderful vision. He shaded his eyes with his

hand, to take a better look, but he could see none of the features,

nothing but the mysterious shape and the two gleaming eyes.

"We don't know who he is; he joined us first in the boat; but," she

added, smiling at her own suggestion, "you can find out, for he sent a

greeting from his mother to the Superior; ask her by and by. Don't you

think him handsome?"

"O Lina! how you talk! May the Holy St. Genevieve intercede with the

dear God to pardon you for saying that, and me"--covering her face with

her hands--"for hearing it. Farewell, Lina, greet every one for me."

As the winged apparition swept along the corridor, she was unable to

hear Lina calling out that she would, to-morrow, tell them at the

Countess Wolfsgarten's all about her. The vision vanished. They left

the convent, and at the door the old gentleman said to the young man,

"It is a good thing for girls to be educated in a convent on an island,

away from the rest of the world." "Girls at the convent, and boys at

the barracks! fine world that!" answered the young man, in a sharp

tone.

Without a word in reply, the old gentleman, turning away, drew off a

few paces with the ladies as if he wished to have no further

intercourse with a stranger of such revolutionary sentiments. The

stranger hastened to the boat, and was speedily set across. The stream

was like pure, molten gold, and the stranger dipping his fingers into

it bathed his forehead and eyes. He sprang lightly ashore, and looking

over to the island-convent, saw the man, with wife and daughter, just

going down to the boat; he waved a distant farewell with his hat, and

with a rapid step went up the hill behind the ruins of the castle,

overlooking the convent. He continued sitting there for a long time,

gazing fixedly at the convent on the island. He heard songs from maiden

voices, saw the long row of windows brightly lighted up, and at last,

looking up to the stars, he exclaimed, "O mother!" What did that mean?

Perhaps his mother had said to him, that at some time or other a

wonderful experience would come over him. The nightingale in the

thicket sang on unceasingly, and the young man listened to the song,

but would gladly have silenced it in order that he might hear more

plainly the singing of the children in the convent, who with magic

power had conjured up a dream of heaven into their actual life, and for

one hour become choirs of singing angels. "Alone in the spring night,

amidst the Castle-ruins with beating heart! Can it be I?" said the

young man to himself.

He descended the hill, and as he reached the inn, met the man with the

two women just ready to start for the rail-road station. He would have

liked to ask the girl who that wonderful apparition was, but he

restrained himself. What would be the use? Better that thou knowest her

not; then the charm of the vision is pure and undisturbed. He went into

the inn; he sat there and read the bill of fare without knowing what he

was reading, and what he should select. He stared at the card until the

waiter came and asked for it, in order to give it to another guest. He

ordered what happened to meet his eye. "What wine would you like? We

have 'Drachenblut' of a choice vintage." "Bring some Drachenblut."

He ate and drank without knowing what; he only knew that he must eat

and drink something; absently he took up a newspaper lying upon the

table. What are convents? what are ruined castles? what is the

apparition of a girl with wings? Here is the world, the real, the

stirring, the actual world of to-day. You come into an inn, weary after

a wide survey from a mountain top, and involuntarily you lay hold of a

newspaper,--why is this? It may be that the eye and the mind, tired out

by the manifestations of unmoving nature, become refreshed by viewing

what is perpetually changing in the world; you are alone, you need to

hear some word spoken by one to many, and the newspaper tells you about

the world which has kept on its way while you were dreaming, while you

were losing yourself in the boundless prospect, and coming to yourself

again.

Yes, it is so now! How it was in other times, when one could live on in

undisturbed dreaminess, we can hardly imagine. At all times--whether in

the pressure of heavy affliction, when our own life has become a

burden, and the world indifferent, or in exalted feeling, when we are

transported, as it were, out of all actual existence--the newspaper

comes, and demands our attention, and calls to us as if we were to

cooperate everywhere in the various relations of the world.

What has America to do with the young man? and yet he has just read an

account of matters there; the choice of a new President of the Republic

was exciting all minds in the New World, and the name of a man who was

a pattern of uprightness and worldwide views, Abraham Lincoln, seemed

to penetrate everywhere, and to bring with it a great crisis in the

history of humanity. Deeply interested, he looked up smiling, for he

remembered that the Frenchwoman had said that an American girl could

alone console the homesick child, and that she had also composed the

play for the festival. Here a child plays with sacred stories, whilst

all is in commotion in her Fatherland. The thoughts of the young man

were again in the convent, and with the wonderful apparition.

Just as he was laying down the paper, his eye fell upon an

advertisement. He knit his brows, looked around, and read again; then

asking permission to keep the paper, he carried it with him to his

chamber. "A handsome man," said the guests, after he had gone;

"evidently a young widower, who wishes to find distraction from his

grief in a Rhine-journey; he wears a weed on his hat.'"

CHAPTER II.

"UP THE RIVER."

"Name: Eric Dournay. Title: Doctor of Philosophy, late Army-Captain.

Place of departure: name of a small University city. Destination: ----

Object of Journey: ----"

Such was the entry made by the young man in the register of the inn

early the next morning; and he now first noticed written above his

name, "Justice Vogt, Lady, nee Landen, and Daughter, from"--a small

town on the Upper Rhine. That was then the mottled gentleman of

yesterday with the two ladies.

Eric, for so we shall hereafter call him, carrying his small valise,

went down to the steamboat-landing. The morning was fresh and bright,

life and song everywhere, and only one little cloud, like a slight

streak of mist resting half way up the mountainside. Eric walked with a

firm and erect step, taking in full draughts of the fresh morning air.

He stood at the landing, and looked into the water, from which a streak

of mist rose, and became dissolved in the air. Then he gazed long at

the island, where the morning bell was ringing to wake up the children,

who had been transformed the previous evening into legendary beings.

How would that girl with long, black hair and glittering wings open her

bright eyes? As if he must drive away this image, Eric took the paper

out of his pocket, and read again the advertisement. On came the

puffing steam-boat pressing her bow against the stream.

Eric had not noticed that two of the convent nuns, one of whom was the

pretty Frenchwoman, had been also waiting for the approaching boat. He

did not see them until after they had got on board. He gave them a

salutation, but received no response except a look of surprise. They

took their breviary, sat down upon the deck and said their prayers. On

seeing them, Eric thought he would ask who the girl was with the wings;

but he came to the conclusion not to do so, for no result could come

from this occurrence, and he wished to concentrate all his energies

upon the project he had in view. There were but few fellow passengers,

and the morning hour does not encourage sociability, as if the solitude

of sleep has yet an influence over human souls.

Eric stationed himself near the helmsman, who whistled incessantly in a

low tone: and lost in thought he looked at the upheaved water and the

shore. Pressing together his finely cut lips, he seemed determined

silently to take in the full poetic beauty of this river and landscape

that has never been adequately portrayed, and often shook his head as

he heard two persons here and there wasting in so-called conversation

the freshness of the morning and the quiet, inspiring influence of the

scenery. We shall often have occasion as we proceed, to impart

information about this youth. At present we will premise that Eric, the

son of respectable parents, receiving a careful education, entered the

military service, and then, voluntarily resigning his commission,

devoted himself to study. He had just obtained his doctor's degree,

working very hard to hasten this event, for only two months had elapsed

since the death of his father. On the evening of the day he had taken

his degree, his mother urged him to allow himself a few days'

recreation. Stroking his pale, thin face, she said, "You will regain

the fresh color of life; life and work are one's duty; that was always

what your father said and did."

It was to be determined when Eric returned what plan of life they would

adopt. The thought, which she could not keep down, was very painful to

the mother, that they could no longer continue in their former mode of

life without care and responsibility, but must make provision for the

future, a state of things never contemplated by her. And with pain that

she sought to repress, but could not wholly conceal, calling to mind a

saying of Lessing, she saw her son standing in the marketplace and

asking for work. Moreover, she hoped that her son would consent finally

to receive some position through patronage; at any rate he must again

recover his fresh, youthful looks. Had the mother seen him now, she

would have been astonished to see how quickly that had taken place; for

a brightness shone in his eye, and a color in his countenance more

brilliant and glowing than in his best and most tranquil days.

For the sake of giving some special object to his journey, she had

commissioned him to carry her greeting to the Superior of the convent.

He was now on his return, for a simple newspaper advertisement had

given an unexpected direction to his journey and his purposes.

Wonderful! thought Eric to himself, placing his hand upon the breast

pocket containing the newspaper, wonderful, how the calls are given

which send forth here and there the adventurous Ulysses!

Meanwhile he had sufficient youthful elasticity not to neglect, for the

sake of the goal, the pleasures to be enjoyed by the way. He watched

with an intelligent glance the machinery of the boat, and the life on

the river and on the banks. At the second landing the two nuns were to

stop, and the pretty Frenchwoman gave him a backward nod, as she

descended the side ladder. When in the boat she sat looking down with

folded hands; and on landing, she gave no further look behind.

The passengers changed at every landing. At one village came a band of

pilgrims, chiefly women with white kerchiefs on their heads; and when

they disembarked, a troop of Turners came on board, in their light gray

uniform, and immediately struck up a song upon the deck, whilst the

pilgrims sang upon the shore. In all the cities and villages they

passed bells were ringing on that bright spring day full of blossoms

and sweet sounds, and Eric felt all that intoxication which the

Rhine-life brings over the spirit,--that exhilaration of every faculty,

which comes no one knows whence, as no one can say what gives to the

wine of these mountains its flavor and its life. It is the breath of

the stream; it is the fragrance of the mountains; it is the virtue of

the soil; it is the sunlight that glows in man as in the wine, and

excites an ethereal gladness which no one can be free from, and which

no one can explain.

Eric was often spoken to, but he held himself aloof from all

companionship, wishing in the movement around him to be alone with the

delightful landscape. There are words which become poles of thought in

the meditation of the lonely. Eric heard one fellow traveller say to

another,

"I prefer to go up the river, for one can look at everything longer and

more closely, and it is a triumph of the human mind that we can make

headway against the current."

Against the current! That was the word which that day stuck fast to

Eric out of the thousand things he thought of and looked upon. Against

the stream! That was also his life-course. He had left the trodden

highway, and with bold self-determination he had marked out a path of

his own. It is well, for one there learns more perfectly the world

about him, and, above all, learns his own strength.

"Against the current!" said he, smiling to himself. "Let us see what

will come of it." It was high noon when he disembarked at a little

mediaeval city.

A young man standing on the shore looked sharply at him, exclaiming,

"Dournay!" "Herr von Pranken!" answered Eric. They grasped each other's

hands.

CHAPTER III.

DRINKING NEW WINE.

"Before people have fairly done shaking hands, they say, 'Let us

drink.' It must be the river there that makes you long so to quench

your thirst."

So spoke Eric to the tall, fair youth of his own age, sitting opposite,

who had placed his nicely gloved hand upon a brown spaniel whose head

lay in his lap. The dog frequently looked up to Eric, whose deep,

musical voice perhaps produced an impression upon the creature.

"Here is the list of wines. What year and what vintage do you prefer?

Shall we take new wine, still lively and fermenting?" "Yes, new wine,

and from the mountain here upon which the sun lies so cheerily, and

where the cuckoo calls from the wood;--wine native to the soil, and

blood-relation of this beautiful region."

Pranken in sharp, military accent gave the order to the waiter,--"A

bottle of Anslese." The wine came, and was poured out golden into the

sparkling glasses; the two men touched glasses and drank. They sat

among the vines by the shore, where the refreshing landscape stretched

itself out over green islands in the river, over gleaming habitations,

over vineyards and mountains.

The boats by the shore were still, for the swell made by the steamboat

had subsided; here and there the distant rumbling of a railway train

was heard; on the smooth stream, in which the white clouds of heaven

mirrored themselves, beams of the noonday sun sparkled, and in the

foliage of the blossoming elder the nightingale sang.

"This is life!" said Eric, extending his arms. "After a day of

loneliness amidst the confused whirl of thoughts and of people, to meet

thus unexpectedly an old acquaintance is indeed like home; and let me

tell you, moreover, that I look upon this meeting as a good omen."

Otto von Pranken nodded acquiescingly. In the first surprise, he had,

perhaps, given Eric a warmer welcome than their acquaintance warranted;

but now that Eric made no assumption of intimacy he nodded, well

pleased. Eric has the tact to know his place; it's well. Pranken

immediately drew off his glove, and reaching out his hand to Eric,

asked, "Are you taking a pleasure-tour?"

"No, I am not in the situation, nor would this be the fitting time to

do so. You probably do not know that my father died two months ago."

"Indeed, indeed! and I shall be forever grateful to our good Professor;

the little that I learned at the military school--and it is little

enough--I owe altogether to him. Ah! what patience and what unremitting

zeal your good father had! Let us pledge his memory." Their glasses

clinked. "When I am dead,'" said Eric, and his voice had a tone of deep

emotion, "I should like that my son should thus with a companion pledge

my memory in the bright noonday."

"Ah! to die!" Pranken wished to turn the subject. "If I must die,

that's enough, without knowing what is said of me afterwards. It is in

a high degree offensive to me, that they have placed their burying

ground in the midst of the vineyard yonder."

Eric made no reply, looking with fixed gaze before him, and listening

to the cuckoo's voice calling at that moment from the churchyard. "Are

you an agriculturist?" he asked, as if summoning together his scattered

thoughts. "A sort of one; I have taken off, I don't know for how long

it will be, my lieutenant's uniform, and mounted the high jack-boots;

but I am bored by the one as much as by the other." He took his

nail-cleaner out of his pocket, and worked away industriously at his

nails; then with his pocket-brush he smoothed down again his carefully

parted but thin hair, occasionally looking up to his companion

opposite.

The two, sitting there for a little while without speaking, sharply

inspected each other. Two awkward people, who are placed in a position

of helpless antagonism, become mutually embarrassed; two clever people,

who know each other's cleverness, are like two fencers, who, familiar

with each other's ward and pass, will not risk a stroke or thrust.

Pranken bent over his glass, inhaled the bouquet of the wine, and said,

at length, half smiling, "Perhaps you will now abandon your late

Communistic views."

"Communistic! I had no idea that you, like so many others, cover up

everything unpleasant with that convenient formula of excommunication,

'Communism.' I should like to be a Communist. I mean that I should like

to see in Communism a form of organization adapted to the wants of

society, which it is not, and never can be. We must take some other

method than this, to get rid of the existing barbarism which compels

our fellow human beings to be without the most common necessities of

life. It is a bitter drop in my glass, that, while I can here at

leisure drink this mountain-wine, yonder are poor hard-driven laborers

who can never taste of it."

"To-day is a holiday, and no one labors then," said Pranken, with a

laugh. Already, in this first meeting, the contrast of these two young

men was plainly to be seen. Eric also laughed at this unexpected turn

from his comrade; but he was mature enough not to make a personal

matter out of a difference of theory. He therefore came back to neutral

ground, and the conversation flowed on quietly in recollections of the

past, and thoughts of the future.

In their carriage and gait, the military training of the two young men

was plainly to be seen; but in Eric the stiffness was tempered by a

sort of artistic grace. Pranken was elegant, Eric noble and refined;

every tone and movement of Pranken bespoke attention; but his demeanor

had that cool insolence, or--if that is too harsh a word--impertinence,

which regards every one outside of one's circle as non-existent, or at

least as having no right to exist.

Eric had an equally good figure, but he was more easy and dignified.

Eric's voice was a fine, deep baritone, while Pranken's was a tenor.

Their different characters could be seen also in their way of speaking.

Eric pronounced every word and letter distinctly; Pranken, on the other

hand, spoke with a lazy drawl, as if the vowels and consonants were too

much for him, and as if he must avoid all straining of the organs of

speech; the words dropped, as it were, out of his lips, and yet he

liked to talk, and made excellent points. Pranken's remarks were

forcible, and came out in jets, like the short canter peculiar to the

Royal bodyguard. When talking upon the most ordinary occurrence, his

manner was somewhat rattling and noisy, like one handling his

shoulder-belt, and joining or leaving a convivial company. Eric had

thought more than he had talked. A secluded student in the almost

cloister-like retirement of home, this bearing was wholly novel and

strange to him.

"Herr Baron," said the waiter, as he brought in a bottle of native,

sparkling wine, "your coachman wishes to know if he shall unharness the

horses."

"No," he replied; and while he was turning the bottle in the

wine-cooler he added to Eric: "I dislike to interrupt the brief joy of

this meeting with you. Ah! you have no idea what a terrible bore this

extolled poetry of rural life is!" Pouring out a glass from the

uncorked bottle, he said laughing, "Compost, and again compost, is the

word. The compost-heap is an Olympus, and the God enthroned upon it is

called Jupiter Ammonia." Pranken laughed aloud at his own witty

outburst, then drank off his glass, and complacently twirled with both

hands the ends of his moustache.

Eric led the conversation back to the beauty of the Rhine-life, but

Pranken interrupted by saying, "If now somebody would only take off the

paint from this lying Lorelei, with her song about the beauty of life

on the Rhine! So the poets always speak of the dewy morning, and we had

to-day a blast from the mountains, as if the angels in heaven had spilt

all their milk into the fire."

Eric could not help laughing; sipping at his glass, he said, "But the

joy of the wine!" "O, yes," replied Pranken, "the old topers drink as a

matter of business, but without any poetry. They sit together by the

hour, always the same set, and the same half-dozen anecdotes on hand;

or they interchange a superannuated jest, and then go home with red

face, and staggering feet, bellowing forth a song; and that they

call Rhine joyousness! The one really merry thing in this whole

Rhine-delusion is the landlord's garland." "What's that?" "When the

respectable godfather tailor or shoemaker has laid in a cask of choice

vintage, more than he can or wishes to drink, he hangs upon his house a

green garland; and the old German family room, with its hospitable

Dutch stove covered with green branches, and its gray cat under the

bench, is turned into a bar-room. They first finish up Smith street,

then Hare street, Church street, Salt street, and Capuchin street. They

drink the health of their own wine; this is the only mistress."

"Let us, too, rejoice in our wine," said Eric. "See how the sun still

glows in the noble juice which it has so joyfully smiled upon, and so

diligently ripened. I drink to thee, O Sun, past and present." With a

rapidity that seemed foreign from his ordinarily quiet mood, he emptied

the glass.

"I have always thought," replied Pranken, "that you were a poet. Ah, I

envy you; I should like to have the ability to write a satirical poem,

so peppered that the whole world would burn its tongue with it." Eric

smiled, saying that he had himself once thought that his vocation was

to be a poet; but that he had perceived his mistake, and was now

resolved to devote himself to some practical calling. "Yes," he said,

taking the newspaper out of his pocket, "you can perhaps render me a

service that will determine my whole life." "Gladly, if it is not

against--"

"Don't be alarmed, for it has nothing to do with theories of right, or

political matters at all. You can perhaps help me to an introduction."

"In love then? The handsome Eric Dournay, the Adonis of the garrison,

wants some one to do his wooing?"

"Nothing of that kind. I only want a situation as private tutor. Look

at this advertisement: 'I desire for my son, fifteen years of age, a

tutor of scientific education and high-breeding, who will undertake to

give him such training as shall fit him for a high station. Salary to

be fixed by mutual agreement. A pension for life after the conclusion

of the engagement. Address and references to be left at the railroad

station at ----, on the Rhine.'"

"I know about this advertisement, and even had a hand in writing it. I

must confess that we hit upon something rather unusual in the choice of

the expression 'high-breeding.'"

"Is a man of rank to be understood?"

"Certainly. I have no need of defending myself against the charge of

what the newspaper hacks call _feudalism_. In this case the point

insisted on is, that a tutor in a middle-class family, and especially

for a self-willed boy, must be a man of unimpeachable position."

"Certainly, that is all right and proper. Perhaps, although I'm not a

Baron, I have an unimpeachable position. I received the title of doctor

a few days ago."

Pranken gave him a condescending nod of congratulation, then added

quickly,--"And do you leave entirely out of sight that you quit the

army with the rank of Captain? I should lay special stress on the

military training. But no, you are not fit for a bear-trainer! The boy

is as untameable and crafty as an American redskin, and he knows just

where to lay hold upon the scalp-lock in every character, as he has

already proved on half a dozen tutors." "That would only give an

additional charm to the attempt." "And do you know that Massa

Sonnenkamp is a millionaire, and the heir knows it?"

"That doesn't alarm me, but rather tempts me on." "Well; I will take

you myself to the mysterious man. I have the good luck to stand high in

his favor. But no. Still better, you shall go with me first to my

brother-in-law's estate. You must remember my sister Bella."

"Perfectly, and I accept your hospitality. But I would rather you

should announce my visit to Herr Sonnenkamp--it seems to me I have

heard that name before, but no matter--and let me go to him alone."

Pranken threw a questioning glance upon Eric, who continued: "I know

how to appreciate your ready friendliness; but a stranger can never

quite do himself justice in presence of a third person."

Pranken smiled at Eric's quickness, feeling a sort of pride in having

so cultivated a man under his patronage. He took out his pocket-book,

and sat for a while with his silver pencil-case pressed against his

lips; the doubt arose whether he were doing wisely to recommend Eric to

the position; would it not be better to put him off, and bring forward

a man who would be quite under his own influence? but as Eric would

make the application for himself, and would, most probably, receive the

appointment, it would be better to establish a claim to his gratitude.

And in the midst of his hesitation a certain kindly feeling made itself

felt; it was pleasant to be able to be a benefactor, and he was for a

moment happy in the thought.

He wrote directly on a card to Herr Sonnenkamp, begging him to make no

engagement, as a highly educated gentleman, formerly an artillery

officer, was about to apply in person for the situation. He carefully

avoided speaking as a personal friend of the applicant, as he wished to

take no decided step without his sister's approval.

The card was sent off immediately, and Pranken played for some minutes

with the india-rubber strap of his pocket-book, before putting it back

into his pocket.

CHAPTER IV.

COMRADES WITHOUT COMRADESHIP.

Seated in an open carriage, the two young men were soon winding along a

road which led up the mountain. The air was full of dewy freshness, and

high above the vineyards the nightingales in the leafy woods poured

forth a constant flood of melody. The two men sat silent. Each knew

that the other had come within the circle of his destiny, but could not

anticipate what would be the consequence.

Eric took off his hat, and as Pranken looked at his handsome face with

its commanding, self-reliant expression, it seemed to him that he had

never really seen it before; a thrill of alarm passed through him, as

he began to realize that he was forming ties whose results could not be

foreseen. His face now darkened with anger and scorn, now brightened

with benevolence and good-humored smiles; he murmured to himself some

unintelligible words, and burst forth at intervals into an inexplicable

fit of laughter.

"It is truly astonishing, most astonishing!" he said to himself. "I

could hardly have believed it of you, my good Otto, that you could be

so generous and self-forgetful, so wholly and completely a friend.

People have always told you, and you have had the conceit yourself,

that through all your whims you were better than you would own to

yourself. Shame on you, that you would not recognize your innocence and

virtue! Here you are showing yourself a friend, a brother, a most noble

minister of destiny to another, who is a bit of humanity, nothing but

pure humanity, in a full beard. All his thoughts are elevated and

manly, but a good salary pleases even his noble manliness."

Pranken laid his head back on the cushions of the carriage, and looked

smiling up to the sky. He resolved to take good care that this specimen

of noble manhood, who was sitting by him in the carriage, should not

thwart his plans, and that what he could not bring about himself, his

sister Bella should accomplish. Pranken's whole bearing was forced and

unnatural. His uniform, worn ever since childhood, had given him not

only a feeling of exclusiveness, but also a definite, undisputed, and

exceptional position, which separated him from the ordinary mass of

men. Among his fellow-soldiers ha was lively, and high-spirited; not

specially remarkable for anything, but a good officer, knowing how to

take care of and to drill his horses and his men. Now that he had laid

aside his uniform, he felt in citizen's dress as if he were falling to

pieces; but he held himself all the more proudly erect, in order to

show by every movement that he did not belong to the common herd. In

the regiment there were always strict rules to be followed; now he was

under the command of duty and wearisome free-will. Left to himself, he

became painfully aware that he was nothing without his comrades. Life

appeared bare and dreary, and he had worked himself into a bitter and

satirical mood, which gave him in his own eyes, a certain superiority

to that blank, monotonous existence, without parade, or play, or

ballet. He looked with a sort of envy at Eric, who, poorer and without

advantages of social position, gazed around him so serenely and

composedly, feasting on the beauty of the landscape. Eric was certainly

the better off. Having become a soldier at a more mature age, he had

never lost his own individuality in the '_esprit de corps_' of army

life; and now that he was a civilian again, his whole appearance

changed, and his nature developed itself under a new and interesting

aspect.

"I envy you," said Pranken, after they had driven for sometime in

silence.

"_You_ envy _me_?"

"Yes! at first it vexed me and roused my pity, that a man like you

should enter the service of a private individual, and in such a

position! But perhaps it is fortunate for a man to be obliged to

determine on some career in order to make a living."

"Just for that reason," replied Eric, "will the task of educating the

young millionaire be a hard one. Two things only excite the powers of

men to activity: an idea, and worldly gain."

"I don't quite understand you."

"Let me make my meaning clearer. He who uses his power for the sake of

an idea enters the region of genius, however small and inconspicuous

may be the sphere of his activity. He who works for the sake of profit,

to supply the necessities, or the luxuries of life, is nothing but a

common laborer. The common need is the compelling power which plants

the vine on the steep mountain side, clears the forest, steers the

ship, and drives the plough. Where this common need unites itself with

the ideal, and this may be in every sphere of life, _there_ is noble

human activity. A nobleman, who busies himself in the world, has the

good fortune to be the inheritor of an idea,--the idea of honor."

Pranken nodded approvingly, but with a slightly scornful expression, as

much as to say, "This man to have the audacity to seek justification

for the nobility! Nobility and faith need not be proved; they are facts

of history not to be questioned!"

Again they were silent, and each asked himself what was to come of this

unexpected blending of their paths in life. As fellow-soldiers they had

been only remotely connected; it might be very different for the

future.

The valleys already lay in shadow, though the sun shone brightly on the

mountain-tops. They drove through a village where all was in joyous and

tumultuous movement,--in the streets, maidens walking arm in arm; young

men standing singly or in groups, exchanging merry greetings and jokes

and laughing jests; the old people sitting at the doors; the fountain

splashing, and along the high-road by the river, gay voices singing

together.

"O how full of refreshment is our German life!" cried Eric; "the

active, industrious people enjoy themselves in the evening, which

brings coolness and shade to the treeless vineyards."

They continued their journey in silence, when suddenly Pranken started

convulsively, for there came before him, as if in a dream, a vision of

himself, pistol in hand, confronting in a duel the man now seated by

his side. Whence came the vision? He could not tell. And yet, was it

meant to be a prophetic warning?

He forced himself to talk. A prominent trait of his character, which

belonged to him by nature and education was a social disposition, a

desire to please all with whom he came in contact. To drive away the

vision, and in obedience to this social impulse, he began to tell Eric

where he had been. By the advice of his brother-in-law, Count Clodwig

von Wolfsgarten, he had just paid a visit to a much respected landed

proprietor in the neighborhood, in order to enter upon a course of

instruction, if the arrangement should prove mutually agreeable.

The land-holder Weidmann,--who was often called the March-minister,

because as a pioneer to help stem the revolutionary current in 1848 he

was made minister for three days,--was considered, in all the

surrounding region, as an authority upon agricultural as well as

political matters.

Pranken talked on, and the more he talked the more he enjoyed his own

witty sallies; and the more he indulged in them, the more pungent they

became. He began: "I should like to know how this man will strike you;

he has, like"--here he hesitated a little, but quickly added--"like all

great reformers, a vast train of fine dogmas, enough to supply a whole

Capuchin monastery."

Eric laughed, and Pranken, laughing also, continued: "Ah! the world is

made up of nothing but humbug! The much-talked-of poetry of a landed

proprietor's life is nothing but a constant desire for lucre, tricked

out with paint from the glow of the morning and evening sky. This Herr

Weidmann and his sons think of nothing but the everlasting dollar. He

has six sons, five of whom I know, and all look impertinently well,

with pretentiously white, faultless teeth, and full beards. These

mountains, which travellers admire, are compelled to yield them wine

from the surface, and slate, manganese, ore, and chemicals from the

mines beneath. They have five different factories; one son is a miner,

another a machinist, a third a chemist, and so they work into each

others' hands and for their common interest. I have been told that they

extract forty different substances from beechwood, and then send the

exhausted residuum as charcoal to the Paris restaurants. Isn't that a

pretty love of nature? Then, as to Father Weidmann,--you enjoy the song

of the nightingales, I know. Well, Father Weidmann obtained from the

government an edict of protection for them, because they eat insects

and are very useful to the fields and woods. Father Weidmann lives in a

restored castle, but if a minstrel came there to-day he would get no

hearing, unless he sang the noble love by which Nitrogen and Hydrogen

are bound to Ammonia. I am almost crazed with super-phosphates and

alkalies. Do you think, it is a destiny worth striving after, to be

able to increase the food of mankind by a few sacks of potatoes?"

Before Eric could answer, Pranken added: "Ah, there is just nothing

that one would like to turn to. The army is the one profession."

As they were ascending a steep hill overlooking the river with its

islands, Pranken, pointing up the stream to a white house upon the

bank, said, "Yonder is the Sonnenkamp villa, which bears the name of

Eden. That great glass dome on which the evening sun is shining is the

palm-house. Herr Sonnenkamp is an enthusiastic gardener; his

conservatories and hot-houses excel those of princes."

Eric, standing upright in the carriage, looked back upon the landscape,

and the house where was to be, probably, the turning-point of his life.

As he sat down Pranken offered him a cigar. Eric declined, for he had

given up smoking.

"He who does not smoke will not do for Herr Sonnenkamp;" and he

emphasized the word Herr. "Next to his plants, he prides himself upon

his great variety of genuine cigars; and he was specially grateful to

me, when I once said to him that he possessed a seraglio of cigars. I

don't know how he who refuses a cigar can get along with him."

"I can smoke, but I am no slave to the habit," replied Eric, taking the

cigar.

"You seem to me not only a Doctor of Philosophy," said Pranken, "but

also a real philosopher."

The two travellers drove on in silence. Eric looked down, his mind

occupied with many and various thoughts.

O wonderful world! Invincible potencies hover in the air; a human soul

is journeying there and does not imagine that another is pressing

towards him, and that they both have one destiny. This is the greatness

of the human spirit, that there is a preparation for taking up into

itself, as if they had one life, some person whose name is not even

known, whose countenance has not been seen, and of whose existence

there has been no anticipation. He who has not lived for himself alone,

he who has dreamed, thought, labored, striven for the common good, he

is ready, each hour, to enter into the universal life, and utters the

creative word. Be soul of my soul, and speaks the word of salvation,

"Thou art thy brother's keeper."

CHAPTER V.

THE OLD NOBLEMAN AND HIS BEAUTIFUL WIFE.

"To Wolfsgarten," was the direction upon the guide-board at the edge of

the well-kept forest where they were now driving, on the grounds and

territory of the nobleman. Every stranger who asks the way, and makes

inquiry concerning the large, plain mansion with steep gables beyond,

receives the reply that two happy people live there, who have every

blessing except that of children.

There are those who give satisfaction to the soul. Where two sit and

talk about them, each feels gratified in being able to perceive and

exhibit the pure and beautiful, and is grateful to the other for each

new insight; but, strangely enough, people soon tire of talking about

the purely beautiful. On the other hand, there are those who furnish an

inexhaustible supply of material for conversation which dwells chiefly

upon the unlovely features, whilst the attractive are mingled in and

brought to the surface with great effort; at the close the speaker

feels obliged to add, "But I am no hypocrite when I meet this person in

a friendly way, for while there is much to condemn, there is also a

great deal that is good." Clodwig was a character of the former, and

his wife Bella, born Baroness von Pranken, of the latter sort.

Clodwig was a nobleman in the best sense of the word. He was not one of

your affable people, on the same terms with every one. He had a

gentlemanly reserve and repose. The independent proprietor, the

manufacturer as well as the priest, the day-laborer, the official, and

the city-merchant, each believed that he was particularly esteemed and

beloved; and all considered him an ornament of the landscape, like some

great tree upon the mountain-top, whose shade and whose majestic height

were a joy, and a shelter from every storm.

The counsel and help of Clodwig von Wolfsgarten could be counted upon

confidently in all exigencies. He had been abroad for a long period,

and only since his second marriage, five years since, had he resided at

his country-seat. Bella von Wolfsgarten was much more admired than

beloved. She was beautiful, many said too beautiful for the old

gentleman. She was more talkative than her husband; and when she drove

out in a pony-carriage drawn by a span of dappled greys through the

country and villages, herself holding the reins, while her husband sat

by her side and the footman upon the back seat, everybody bowed and

stared. Many old people, who always find some special reason for any

new fashion, were inclined to see in this fact of Bella's holding the

reins a proof that she had the rule. But this was not so, by any means.

She was humble and entirely submissive to her husband. It was often

displeasing to him that she so excessively praised, even in his

presence, his goodness, his even disposition, and his noble views of

life and the world.

Eric had only a dim recollection of the commotion excited in the

capital by Bella's marriage, for it happened about the time that he

resigned his commission. He had frequently seen Bella, but never the

count. The count had been for many years ambassador from the small

principality to the papal court, and there Eric's father had become

acquainted with him.

Clodwig was known in the scientific world through a small archaeological

treatise with very expensive designs; for next to music, which he

pursued with ardor, he was devoted to the science of antiquity with all

that earnest fidelity which was a characteristic of his whole being. It

was said in his praise, that there was no science and no art to which

he did not give his fostering care. Returning from Rome to his native

land, childless and a widower, he became an esteemed member of the

assembly of the nobility favoring what is called moderate progress; and

during the session, he associated much with the old Herr von Pranken,

who was also a member. He soon became interested in Bella von Pranken,

a woman of imposing manners, and a brilliant performer upon the piano.

Bella was now, if one may be so ungallant as to say so, somewhat

passee; but in her bloom she had been the beauty of that court circle,

where a younger generation now flourished, to which she did not belong.

Bella had travelled over a good part of the world. In the company of

two Englishwomen she had visited Italy, Greece, and Egypt. She had

hired an experienced courier, who relieved her from all care. On her

return to the court where her father was grand-equerry, she mingled in

society with that indifferent air which passes itself off as a higher

nature brought into contact with the common-places of daily life. She

conversed much with Clodwig von Wolfsgarten, who supposed that the

insignificant trifles of social life were considered by her as unworthy

of notice, and she gained the credit with him of possessing a refined

nature occupied only with higher interests. She constantly and actively

participated in Clodwig's fondness for archaeological pursuits. It was

a matter of course that they should find themselves in each other's

society, and if the one or the other was not present, Bella or Clodwig

was asked if the absent one was sick, or had an engagement. Bella had

no porcelain figures and nick-nacks of that kind upon her table, but

only choice copies from the antique; and she wore a large amber chain

taken from the tomb of some noble Roman lady. She possessed a large

photographic album, containing views of her journey, and was happy to

look over them again and again with Clodwig, and to receive instruction

from him. She also played frequently for him, although no longer

exhibiting her musical talent in society.

The entire circle for once did something novel: they carried from Bella

to Clodwig, and from him to Bella, the enthusiastic speeches of the one

about the other; and even personages of the highest rank took part in

furthering their intimacy. This became necessary from the timidity they

both experienced, when they became conscious of the possibility of a

different relation between them. Meanwhile success crowned the attempt,

and the betrothal was celebrated in the most select circle of the

court.

Mischievous tongues now repeated--for it was but fair that there should

be some compensation for the previous excessive good-nature--that two

interesting points of discussion had arisen. Bella, they said, had made

it a condition of the betrothal, that he should never speak of his

deceased wife, and the old Pranken had asked of the physician how long

the count might be expected to live. He must have smiled in a peculiar

way when the physician assured him that such old gentlemen, who live so

regularly, quietly, and without passion, might count upon an indefinite

number of years.

In the meanwhile, the conduct of Bella gave the lie to the malicious

report that she hoped soon to be a rich young widow. Clodwig had had an

attack of vertigo shortly before the wedding; and always after that

Bella contrived that he should be, without his knowledge, attended by a

servant. She devoted herself with the most affectionate care to the old

gentleman, who now seemed to enjoy a new life, and to gain fresh vigor

on returning to his paternal estate. At the baths, where they went

every summer, Clodwig and Bella were highly esteemed personages. She

was admired not only for her beauty, but also for her stainless

fidelity, and for her solicitous attention to her aged husband.

CHAPTER VI.

THE RECEPTION DAY.

It was yet bright daylight here upon the mountain-height, when they

approached the Wolfsgarten mansion. As they were making the last ascent

through the park, a beautiful girl in a figured blue summer-suit stood

in the path between the green trees. Getting sight of the carriage, she

quickly turned back again. Two light-blue ribbons, tied behind,

according to the fashion, floated in the evening wind. Her step was

firm and yet graceful.

"Ah," said Pranken, "to-day we have hit upon my sister's collation-day.

That pretty girl who turned about so quickly is the daughter of the

Justice, freshly baked out of the oven of the convent of the 'Sacred

Heart' at Aix. You will find her a genuine child of the Rhine, and my

sister has given her the appropriate name Musselina; there is in her

something of perpetual summer. Through this warm-hearted child we are

now already announced to the company."

While he was arranging his hair with his pocket-comb, he continued,--

"The family is very respectable and highly esteemed; the little one is

too good to be trifled with; one must have an inferior kind to smoke in

the open air."

Pranken suddenly became aware whom he was talking to, and immediately

added,--"So would our comrade, Don John Nipper, who was everlastingly

betting, express himself. Do you know that the wild fellow has now an

affection of the spine, and is wheeled about at Wiesbaden in a chair?"

Pranken's whole manner changed; and springing with joyful elasticity

out of the carriage, he reached out his hand to Eric, saying, "Welcome

to Wolfsgarten!" Many carriages were standing in the court-yard, and in

the garden they found the ladies, who with fans and parasols sat upon

handsome chairs around a bed of luxuriantly-growing forget-me-nots, in

the centre of which was a red rhododendron in full bloom.

"We are no peace-breakers; don't let us disturb you, good ladies,"

cried out Pranken from a distance, in a jesting tone. Bella greeted her

brother, and then Eric, whom she recognised at once. The wife of the

Justice and Fraeulein Lina were very happy to renew the acquaintance of

yesterday; then were introduced the district physician's wife and

sister, the head-forester's wife and her mother, the apothecary's wife,

the burgomaster's wife, the school-director's wife, and the wives of

the two manufacturers. In fact, all the notabilities of the place

seemed to have assembled. The gentlemen had gone, it was said, to view

some prospect not very far off, and would soon be back.

The conversation was not very lively, and Eric's appearance awakened

interest. The director's wife, a large striking figure--Bella called

her the lay figure, for she knew how to dress well, and everything

became her--raised her opera-glass and looked round upon the landscape,

but took advantage of this survey to get a nearer look at Eric's face.

The manner in which she then balanced the glass in her hand seemed to

say that she was not altogether displeased with the view.

After the first question, how long it was since Eric had seen the

Rhine, and after he had informed them how everything had appeared under

a new aspect, and had affected him almost to intoxication, he said it

was very pleasant to see the young ladies wearing wreaths of fresh

flowers and leaves upon their heads. To this he added the remark, that

though it was natural and fitting for ladies to wear wreaths on their

heads, it was very comical when men, even on some rural excursion,

allowed the black cylinder hat to be ornamented with a wreath by some

fair hand.

Insignificant as was the observation, the tone in which Eric uttered it

gave peculiar pleasure, and the whole circle smiled in a friendly

manner; they at once felt that here was a person of original and

suggestive ideas.

Bella knew how to bring out a guest in conversation. "Did not the

Greeks and Romans, Captain," she asked, "wear badges of distinction

upon the head, while we, who plume ourselves so much about our hearts,

wear ours upon the breast?" Then she spoke of an ancient wreath of

victory she had seen at Rome, and asked Eric whether there were

different classes of wreaths. Without intending it Eric described the

various kinds of crowns given to victory, and it excited much merriment

when he spoke of the wreath made of grass, which a general received who

had relieved a besieged city.

The girls, who stood in groups at one side, made a pretence of calling

out to a handsome boy playing at the fountain below, and sprang down

the little hill with flying garments. On reaching the fountain, they

troubled themselves no further about the little boy they had called to,

but talked with one another about the stranger, and how interesting he

was.

"He is handsomer than the architect," said the apothecary's daughter.

"And he is even handsomer than Herr von Pranken," added Hildegard, the

school-director's daughter.

Lina enjoyed the enviable advantage of being able to relate that she

had met him yesterday at the island convent; her father had rightly

guessed that he was of French descent, for his father had belonged to

the immigrating Huguenots, as his name indicated. The apothecary's

daughter, who plumed herself highly upon her brother's being a

lieutenant, promised to obtain from him more definite information about

the captain.

In her free way, Lina proposed that they should weave a garland and

place it unexpectedly on the bare head of the stranger. The wreath was

speedily got ready, but no one of the girls, not even Lina, ventured to

complete the strange proposal.

Meanwhile Eric was sitting amidst the circle of ladies, and he

expressed his sincere envy of those persons who live among such

beautiful natural scenery; they might not always be conscious of it,

but it had a bracing influence upon the spirit, and there was a keen

sense of loss when removed into less interesting scenes. No one

ventured to make any reply, until Bella remarked,--"Praise of the

landscape in which we live is a sort of flattery to us, as if we

ourselves, our dress, our house, or anything belonging to us, should be

praised."

All assented, although it was not evident whether Bella had expressed

approval or disapproval. Then she asked Eric concerning his mother, and

as if incidentally, but not without emphasis, alluded to the sudden

death of her brother, Baron von Burgholz. Those present knew now that

Eric was of partially noble descent. Bella spoke so easily that

speaking seemed a wholly secondary matter to her, while seeing and

being seen were the things of real importance. She hardly moved a

feature in speaking, scarcely even the lips, and only in smiling

exhibited a full row of small white teeth.

Bella knew that Eric was looking at her attentively while he spoke, and

composedly as if she stood before a mirror, she offered her face to his

gaze. She then introduced Eric, in the most friendly way, to the

agreeable head-forester's wife, a fine singer, asking at the same time

if he still kept up his singing; he replied that he had been for some

years out of practice.

The evening was unusually sultry, and the air was close and hot over

mountain and valley.

A thunder storm was coming up in the distance. They discussed whether

they should wait for the storm at Wolfsgarten or return home

immediately. "If the gentlemen were only here to decide." The pleasant

forester's lady confessed that she was afraid of a thunder storm.

"Then you and your sister are in sympathy," said Eric.

"O," said the sister, "I am not at all afraid."

"Excuse me; I did not mean you, but the beautiful songstress dwelling

here in the thicket. Do you not notice that Mrs. Nightingale, who sang

so spiritedly a few moments since, is now suddenly dumb?" All were very

merry over this remark, and now each told what she did with herself

during a thunder storm.

"I think," said Eric, "that we can find out not so much the character,

as the vegetative life of the brain, the nervous temperament, as it is

called, by observing the effect which a thunder storm has upon us. We

are so far removed from the life of nature, that when changes take

place in the atmosphere that can be heard and seen, we are taken by

surprise, as if a voice should suddenly call to us out of the still

air, 'Attend! thou art walking and breathing in a world full of

mystery!'"

"Ah, here come the gentlemen!" it was suddenly called out. Two handsome

pointers springing into the garden went round and round Pranken's dog,

who had been abroad, smelling at him inquiringly, as if they would get

out of him the results of his experience. The men came immediately

after the dogs.

Eric immediately recognised Count Clodwig, before his name was

mentioned. His fine, well-preserved person, the constant friendliness

of expression on his smoothly shaven, elderly face, as yet

unwrinkled,--this could be no other than the Count Clodwig von

Wolfsgarten; all the rest had grouped themselves around him as a

centre, and exhibited a sort of deference, as if he were the prince of

the land. He possessed two peculiar characteristics seldom found

together: he attracted love, and at the same time commanded homage; and

although he never exhibited any aristocratic haughtiness, and treated

each one in a friendly and kindly manner, it seemed only a matter of

course for him to take the lead.

When Eric was introduced to him, his countenance immediately lighted

up, every feature beaming with happy thoughts. "You are welcome; as the

son of my Roman friend you have inherited my friendship," he said,

pressing more closely with his left hand the spectacles over his eyes.

His manner of speaking was so moderate and agreeable that he seemed to

be no stranger; while there was in the accent something so calm

and measured, that any striking novelty was received from him as

something for which you were unconsciously prepared. He had always

the same demeanor, a steady composure, and a certain deliberateness,

never making haste, having always time enough, and preserving a

straight-forward uprightness befitting an old man. When Eric expressed

the happiness it gave him to inherit the count's friendship towards his

father, and that of the countess towards his mother, a still warmer

friendliness beamed from Clodwig's countenance.

"You have exactly your father's voice," he said. "It was a hard stroke

to me when I heard of his death, for I had thought of writing to him

for several years, but delayed until it was too late."

When Eric was introduced now by Clodwig to the rest of the gentlemen,

it seemed as if this man invested him with his own dignity. "Here I

make you acquainted with a good comrade," said Clodwig, with a

significant smile, whilst he introduced him to an old gentleman, having

a broad red face, and snow-white hair trimmed very close. "This is our

major--Major Grassler."

The major nodded pleasantly, extending to Eric a hand to which the

forefinger was wanting; but the old man could still press strongly the

stranger's hand. He nodded again, but said nothing.

The other gentlemen were also introduced by the count; one of these, a

handsome young man, with a dark-brown face and fine beard and

moustache, the architect Erhardt, took his leave directly, as he had an

appointment at the limestone quarry. The school-director informed Eric

that he had been also a pupil of Professor Einsiedel.

The major was called out of the men's circle by the ladies; they took

him to task, the wife of the Justice leading off, for having left them

and gone off with the gentlemen, while always before he had been very

attentive to the ladies, and their faithful knight. Now he was to make

amends.

The major had just seated himself when the girls placed upon his white

head the crown intended for Eric. He nodded merrily, and desired that a

mirror should be brought, to see how he looked. He pointed the

forefinger of his left hand to Lina, and asked her if that was one of

the things she learned at the convent.

It soon became evident that the major was the target for shafts of wit,

a position which some one in every society voluntarily must assume or

submit to perforce. The major conferred upon his acquaintance more

pleasure than he was aware of, for every one smiled in a friendly way

when he was thought of or spoken about.

A gust of wind came down over the plain; the flag upon the mansion was

lowered; the upholstered chairs were speedily put under the covering of

the piazza; and all had a feeling of comfort, as they sat sociably

together in the well-lighted drawing-room, while the storm raged

outside.

For some time no other subject could be talked about than the storm.

The major told of a slight skirmish in which he had been engaged in the

midst of the most fearful thunder and lightning; he expressed himself

clumsily, but they understood his meaning, how horrible it was for them

to be murdering each other, while the heavens were speaking. The

Justice told of a young fellow who was about to take a false oath, and

had just raised up his hand, when a sudden thunder-clap caused him to

drop it, crying out, "I am guilty." The forester added laughing, that a

thunder storm was a very nice thing, as the wild game afterwards was

very abundant. The school-director gave an exceedingly graphic

description of the difficulty of keeping children in the school-room

occupied, as one could not continue the ordinary instruction, and yet

one did not know what should be done with them.

All eyes were turned upon Eric as if to inquire what he had to say, and

he remarked in an easy tone,--"What here possesses the soul as a raging

storm is down there, on the lower Rhine, and above there, in Alsace, a

distant heat lightning which cools off the excessive heat of the

daytime. People sit there enjoying themselves in gardens and balconies,

breathing in the pure air in quiet contemplation. I might say that

there are geographical boundaries and distinct zones of feeling."

Drawing out this idea at length, he was able to make them wholly

forget the present. The forester's wife, who had been sitting in the

dark in the adjoining room with her hand over her eyes, came into the

drawing-room at these words of Eric, which she must have heard, and

seemed relieved of all fear.

Eric spoke for a long time. Though his varied experience might have

taught him a different lesson, he still believed that people always

wished to get something in conversation, to gain clearer ideas, and not

merely to while away the time. Hence, when he conversed, he gave out

his whole soul, the very best he had, and did not fear that behind his

back they would call his animated utterances pertness and vanity. He

had a talent for society; even more than that, for he placed himself in

the position of him whom he addressed, and this one soon felt that Eric

saw farther than he himself did, and that he spoke not out of

presumption, but out of benevolence.

There is something really imposing in a man who clearly and fluently

expresses his ideas to other people; their own thought is brought to

light, and they are thankful for the boon. But most persons are imposed

upon by the "Sir Oracle" who gives them to understand, "I am speaking

of things which you do not and cannot comprehend;" and the Sir Oracles

carry so much the greater weight of influence.

The men, and more particularly the Justice and the school-director,

shrugged their shoulders. Eric's enthusiasm and his unreserved

unfolding of his own interior life had in it something odd, even

wounding to some of the men. They felt that this strange manner, this

extraordinary revelation of character, this pouring out of one's best,

was attractive to the ladies, and that they, getting in a word

incidentally and without being able to complete a thought, or round off

a period, were wholly cast into the shade. The Justice, observing the

beaming eyes of his daughter and of the forester's wife, whispered to

the school-director, "This is a dangerous person."

The company broke up into groups. Eric stood with Clodwig in the

bow-window, and they looked out upon the night. The lightning flashed

over the distant mountains, sometimes lighting up a peak in the

horizon, sometimes making a rift in the sky, as if behind it were

another sky, while the thunder rolled, shaking the ceiling and tinkling

the pendent prisms of the chandelier.

"There are circumstances and events which occur and repeat themselves

as if they had already passed before us in a dream," Clodwig began.

"Just as I now stand here with you, I stood with your father in the

Roman Campagna. I know not how it chanced, but we spoke of that view in

which the things of the world are regarded under the aspect of the

infinite, and then your father said,--methinks I still hear his

voice,--'Only when we take in the life of humanity as a whole do we

have, as thinkers, that rest which the believers receive from faith,

for then the world lives to us as to them, in the oneness of God's

thought. He who follows up only the individual ant cannot comprehend

its zigzag track, or its fate as it suddenly falls into the hole of the

ant-lion, who must also get a living. But he who regards the anthill as

a whole--'"

Clodwig suddenly stopped. From the valley they heard the shrill whistle

of the locomotive, and the hollow rumbling of the train of cars.

"But at that time," he continued after a pause, and his face was

lighted up by a sudden flash of lightning, "at that time no

locomotive's whistle broke in upon our quiet meditation."

"And yet," said Eric, "I do not like to regard this shrill tone as a

discord."

"Go on, I am curious to hear why not."

"Is it not grand that human beings continue their ordinary pursuits in

the midst of nature's disturbances? In our modern age an unalterable

system of movements is seen to be continually operating upon our earth.

May it not be said that all our doing is but a preparation of the way,

a making straight the path, so that the eternal forces of nature may

move in freedom? The man of this new age has the railroad to serve

him."

Clodwig grasped Eric's hand. Bright flashes of lightning illumined the

beaming face of the young man and the serene countenance of the old

count. Clodwig pressed warmly Eric's hand, as if he would say, "Welcome

again! now art thou truly mine." Love, suddenly taking possession of

two hearts, is said to make them one; and is it not also true of

friendship?

It was so here. The two confronted each other, not with any foreboding,

or excitement of feeling, but with a clear and firm recognition that

each had found his own choicest possession; they felt that they

belonged to each other, and it was entirely forgotten that they had

looked into each other's eyes for the first time only a few moments

before. They had become united in the pure thought of the Eternal that

has no measure of time; they may have stood there speechless for a long

time after unclasping their hands; they were united, and they were one

without the need of word, without external sign.

In a voice full of emotion, as if he had a secret to reveal, which he

could hardly open his lips to utter, and yet which he must not

withhold, Clodwig said,--"In such storms I have often thought of that

former period when the whole land from here to the Odenwald was a great

lake, out of which the mountain peaks towered as islands, until the

water forced for itself a channel through the wall of rock. And have

you, my young friend, ever entertained the thought that chaos may come

again?"

"Yes, indeed; but we cannot transport ourselves into the pre-human or

post-human period. We can only fill out, according to our strength, our

allotted time of three score years and ten." The major now came and

invited them to go into the inner saloon, where the company had

assembled. Clodwig again stroked softly Eric's hand, saying, "Will you

come?" Like two lovers who have just given a secret kiss and an

embrace, they rejoined the company. No one suspected why their

countenances were so radiant.

CHAPTER VII.

AN ILLUMINATING FLASH.

After the crisis of a storm has passed, a company of persons become

very lively, and have an additional feeling of home. They had withdrawn

into the inner music saloon, whose vaulted ceiling, brilliantly lighted

up, had even a festive appearance. Half way up the walls of the room

four balconies projected, and in the centre was the grand piano. On one

side was a circular seat, upon an elevated platform, where Bella was

sitting with the happy Justice's wife on the right, and the forester's

wife on the left.

The young girls were promenading arm in arm through the saloon, and

Pranken, full of his jokes, accompanied them; he carried in his hand a

rose out of Lina's wreath; when Clodwig and Eric joined the circle,

with the major, the young people came up to them.

Bella asked the major whether the work upon the castle, which Herr

Sonnenkamp had begun to rebuild, was still continued. The major nodded;

he always nodded several times before he spoke, as if carefully

arranging beforehand what he should say.

He asserted very confidently that they would find a spring in the

castle court-yard. Clodwig begged him to preserve carefully every relic

of the middle ages and the Roman period, and promised soon to go

himself, and superintend the excavations. The head-forester jestingly

observed, "Herr Sonnenkamp,"--everybody called him Herr, but with a

peculiar accent, as if they wished no further acquaintance with

him,--"Herr Sonnenkamp will probably now give his name to the restored

castle."

When Herr Sonnenkamp's name was mentioned, it seemed as if a dam had

been carried away, and the conversation rushed in headlong from all

quarters.

"Herr Sonnenkamp has a deal of understanding," said the

school-director, "but Moliere maliciously observes, that the rich man's

understanding is in his pocket."

The apothecary added, "Herr Sonnenkamp loves to represent himself as an

incorrigible sinner, in the hope that nobody will believe him; but

people do believe him."

Eric caught the names Herr Sonnenkamp, Frau Ceres, Manna, Roland, Frau

Perini; it was like the chirping of birds in the woods, all sounds

mingled together, and no one melody distinctly heard. The wife of the

Justice, with a significant glance towards Pranken, said, "Men like the

major and Herr von Pranken can take up at once such mysterious,

interloping people from abroad, but ladies must be more reserved." Then

she gave it to be understood that the old established families could

not be too strict in receiving foreign intruders.

In a somewhat forced humor, Bella joked about the long nails of Frau

Ceres; but her lips trembled when Clodwig said very sharply, "Among the

Indians long nails take the place of family descent, and the one

perhaps is as good as the other."

All were amazed when Clodwig spoke so disparagingly of the nobility. He

seemed displeased at the detracting remarks upon the Sonnenkamp family;

he was above all meanness, and everything small and invidious was

as offensive to him as a disagreeable odor. Turning to Eric, he

said,--"Herr Sonnenkamp, the present subject of the conversation, is

the owner of many millions. To acquire such immense wealth is an

evidence of strength; or, I should rather say, to acquire great wealth

shows great vigor; to keep it requires great wisdom; and to use it well

is a virtue and an art."

He paused, and as no one spoke, he continued,--"Riches have a certain

title to respect; riches, especially one's own acquisition, are an

evidence of activity and service. Far easier does it appear to me to be

a prince, than to be a man of such excessive wealth. Such an

accumulation of power is apt to make men arbitrary; a very wealthy man

lives in an atmosphere saturated, as it were, with the consciousness of

supreme power, and ceases to be an individual personality, and the

whole world assumes to him the aspect of a price-current list. Have you

ever met such a man?"

Before Eric could reply, Pranken roughly broke in, "Captain Dournay

wishes to become the tutor of the young Sonnenkamp." All eyes were

directed towards Eric; he was regarded as if he had been suddenly

transformed, and clad in a beggar's garment. The men nodded to each

other and shrugged their shoulders; a man engaging in a private

employment, and such an employment too, had lost all title to

consideration. The ladies looked at him compassionately. Eric saw

nothing of all this. He did not know what Pranken meant by this

surprising revelation; he felt that he must make some reply, but knew

not what to say.

A painful pause followed Pranken's communication. Clodwig had placed

his hands upon his lips, that had become very pale. At last he said,

"Such an appointment will contribute to your honor, and to the honor

and good fortune of Herr Sonnenkamp."

Eric felt a broad hand laid upon his shoulder, and on looking round he

gazed into the smiling countenance of the major, who, pointing several

times with his left hand to his heart, said at last, "The count has

expressed what I wished to say, but it is better for him to have said

it, and he has done it much better than I could. Carry out your

purpose, comrade."

Pranken now came up, and said, in a very affable tone, that it was he

who had advised and recommended Eric. Lina had opened a window, and

called out in a clear voice, "The storm is over."

A fresh, fragrant air streaming into the saloon gave relief to their

constraint, and every one breathed freely again. A gentle rain still

pattered down, but the nightingales were again singing in the woods.

They now urged the forester's wife to sing. She declined, but could not

withstand the request of Bella, who very seldom played, that she would

sing to her accompaniment.

The forester's wife sang some songs with so fresh and youthful a voice,

so clear and simple, that the hearts of all the hearers were touched.

Lina also was urged to sing. She insisted that she could not to-day,

but, on receiving a reproving glance from her mother, she seated

herself at the piano, sang some notes, and then gave up. Without

embarrassment, as if nothing had happened, she said, "I have now proved

to you that I can't sing to-day."

The wife of the Justice bit her lips, and breathed hard with quivering

nostrils, at the foolish girl acting as if nothing was the matter. The

forester's wife sang another song; and now Lina, placing herself at her

side, said that she would sing a duet, but she could not sing alone.

And she did sing, in a fresh soprano voice, somewhat timidly, but with

clear and pure tone.

With unconscious simplicity, as if he were an old acquaintance, she now

asked Eric to sing. The whole company united in the request, but Eric

positively declined, and looked up surprised when Pranken joined in

with the remark, "The captain is right in not exhibiting at once all

his varied talents." It was said in the gentlest tone, but the

sarcastic point was unmistakable.

"I thank you for standing by me like a good comrade," said Eric,

looking round.

The sky was clear, only it still lightened over the Taunus mountains.

The company took their leave, with many thanks for the delightful day

they had spent, and the charming evening. Even the perpetually silent

"Mrs. Lay-figure" now spoke, appearing in her fashionable new hood,

which she had put on very becomingly. Just as they were departing, the

physician made his appearance. He had been detained by the storm while

visiting a patient in a neighboring village. He drove off with the

rest, having scarcely had time to say good-evening to the Count Clodwig

and Bella.

Bella drew a long breath when the reception was all over. There was

much conversation in the different carriages, but in one there was

weeping, for Lina received a sharp scolding for her behavior, in acting

as if she were nothing but a stupid, simple country girl. Instead of

being sprightly and making the most of herself, she behaved as if she

had come, only an hour before, from keeping geese. Lina had for a long

time been accustomed to these violent reproofs, but she seemed today to

take them more feelingly to heart. She had been so happy, that now the

severe lecture came doubly hard. She silently wept.

The Justice, who was no justice of the peace in his own family, took no

part in this feminine outbreak. Not until he was ready to take a fresh

cigar did he say, "This loquacious Dournay seems to me a dangerous

man."

"I think him very agreeable."

"Woman's logic! as if the amiability, instead of excluding, did not

rather include, the dangerous element. Don't you see through this very

transparent intrigue?"

"No."

"Then put together these facts: we come across him at the convent,

where the daughter of this exceedingly wealthy Herr Sonnenkamp is

living, and he acts as if he knew no one, and had no special end in

view. Now he wants to be the tutor of young Sonnenkamp. Ha! what a

flash!"

A bright flash of lightning illumined not only the landscape, but the

relation in which several people stood to each other. Especially the

Eden villa was as clearly defined in every part as if it were only a

few paces off.

"Just see," continued the Justice, "how this great pile of buildings

and the park are lighted up, and no one knows what is brewing up

here. Amazing world! Baron Pranken introduces this Dournay to his

sister-in-law and his father-in-law as a friend, and yet these two men

are sworn enemies."

The wife of the Justice was vexed with her husband. He was so animated,

and made such keen observations, alone with her and at home, while in

society he had hardly a word to say, and let others bear away all the

honors.

"Who is the father-in-law you speak of?" she asked, for the sake of

saying something.

"Why, Herr Sonnenkamp, of course; at least, he is to be. That

inexhaustible wealth of his is guano for the Baron Pranken; he needs

it, and why should he trouble himself about where it comes from?" Lina

threw her veil over her face, and shut her eyes. The Justice now

explained the special reasons why neither he, nor his wife, should

become mixed up in these affairs.

"This captain-doctor is a dangerous man, dangerous in many respects."

This was his last remark, and they were silent until they reached home.

CHAPTER VIII.

CONFESSION OF TWO KINDS.

Otto von Pranken walked with his sister Bella up and down the garden.

Otto informed her that he had recommended Eric to Herr Sonnenkamp, but

that he was already very sorry for it.

Bella, who was always out of humor after she had made herself a victim

to the collation, turned now her ill humor against her brother, who had

introduced to her as a fitting guest one who was, or wished to be, a

menial, and above all, a menial of that Herr Sonnenkamp. With

mischievous satisfaction she added thereto, that Otto must take delight

in boldly leaping over difficulties, since he had recommended into the

family such an attractive person as this doctor--she made use of that

title as being inferior to that of captain. The natural consequence

would be that the daughter of the house would fall in love with her

brother's tutor.

"This Herr Dournay," she ended by saying, "is a very attractive person,

not merely because he is extraordinarily handsome, but yet more because

he possesses a romantic open-heartedness and honesty. Whether it is

genuine or assumed, at any rate, it tells, and particularly with a girl

of seventeen just out of a convent."

Otto answered good naturedly, that he had given his sister credit for a

less commonplace imagination; moreover, that Eric was an acknowledged

woman-hater, who would never love a real woman of flesh and blood. Yet

Pranken declared his intention of calling the next morning at the

villa, and telling Herr Sonnenkamp in confidence how very reluctant he

was to give the recommendation; that he should beseech him to dismiss

the applicant politely, for he might with propriety and justice say

that Eric would inoculate the boy with radical ideas; yes, that it

might further be said to Herr Sonnenkamp, that to receive Eric would be

displeasing at court. This last reason, he thought, would carry all

before it. Pranken had worked himself into the belief that to have a

secure position in the court-circle was the highest that Herr

Sonnenkamp could aim at.

Bella rejected this plan; she took pleasure in inciting her brother to

gain the victory over such an opponent; that would inspire him with

fresh animation. Moreover, that it might be well to offset the Lady

Perini, whose ecclesiastical tendencies no one had thoroughly fathomed,

by a man who was a representative of the world, and under obligations

of gratitude to them. And further it was not to be doubted that a

perpetual, secret war would exist between Donna Perini and this

over-confident Dournay, so that, whatever might happen, they would have

the regulation and disposal of matters in their own hands.

Bella forgot all her vexation, for a whole web of intrigue unfolded

itself clearly to her sight, agreeable in the prosecution, and tending

to one result. She was the confidante of Fraeulein Perini, but she

herself did not wholly trust her, and Otto must remain intimate with

Eric; and in this way, they would hold the Sonnenkamp family in their

hands, for Eric would undoubtedly acquire great influence.

Otto strenuously resisted the carrying out of the part assigned to him,

but he was not let off. A cat sitting quiet and breathless before a

mouse-hole will not be enticed away, for she knows that the mouse will

come out; it is nibbling already; and then there is a successful

spring. Bella had one means of inducing her brother to do as she

wished; she need only repeat to him how irresistible he was, and how

necessary it was for him to gain that self-confidence which had

hitherto stood him in such good part. Otto was not fully convinced, but

he was persuaded that he soon would be. And, moreover, this Dournay was

a poor man whom one must help; he had taken today the sudden revelation

of his position in life with a good grace, and behaved very well.

Whilst brother and sister promenaded in the garden, Eric sat in the

study of Count Clodwig, that was lighted by a branching lamp. They sat

opposite, in arm-chairs, at the long writing-table. "I regret," Clodwig

began, "that the physician came so late; he has a rough rind, but a

sound heart. I think that you and he will be good friends."

Eric said nothing, and Clodwig continued: "I cannot understand why my

brother-in-law, in his peculiar manner, informed the company so

suddenly of your intention. Now it is a common topic of conversation,

and your excellent project loses its first naive charm."

Eric replied with great decision, that we must allow the deed resolved

upon in meditation to come into the cold sharp air of the critical

understanding.

Clodwig again gazed at him fixedly, apparently surprised that this man

should be so well armed at all points; and placing his small hand upon

a portfolio before him as if he were writing down something new, he

resumed:--

"I have, to-day, been confirmed anew in an old opinion. People

generally regard private employment as a degradation, regardless of the

consideration that the important thing is, in what spirit one serves,

and not whom he serves. 'I serve,' is the motto of my maternal

ancestors."

The old man paused, and Eric did not know whether he was going on, or

waited for a reply; but Clodwig continued: "It is regarded as highly

honorable when a general officer, or a state official undertakes the

education of a prince; but is it any the less honorable to engage in

the work of educating thirty peasant lads, or to devote one's self, as

you do, to the bringing up of this wealthy youth? And now I have one

request to make of you."

"My only desire is to grant it."

"Will you tell me as exactly as possible how, you have so--I mean, how

you have become what you are?"

"Most willingly; and I will deserve the honor of being allowed to speak

so unreservedly, by not being too modest. I will speak to you as to

myself."

Clodwig rang a bell that stood upon the table, and a servant entered.

"Robert, what room is assigned to the doctor?" "The brown one directly

over the count's chamber." "Let the captain have the balcony chamber."

"If the count will pardon me, the luggage of Leonhard, Prince of

Saxony, is still in that room." "No matter; and, one thing more, I

desire not to be interrupted until I ring."

The servant departed, and Clodwig settled himself in the arm-chair,

drawing a plush sofa-blanket over his knees; then he said, "If I shut

my eyes, do not think that I am asleep."

In the manner with which Clodwig now bade Eric speak out frankly, there

was a trustful kindness, very far removed from all patronizing

condescension; it expressed, rather, an intimate sympathy and a most

hearty confidence. Eric began.

CHAPTER IV.

A SEEKER.

"I am twenty-eight years old, and when I review my life, it seems to me

so far to have been only a search. One occupation leaves so many

faculties dormant, and yet the torture of making a choice must come to

an end; and in every calling of life the entire manhood may be

maintained and called forth into action.

"I am the child of a perfectly happy marriage, and you know what that

means. I shared, from my third year, the education of the Prince

Leonhard. There was a perpetual opposition between us, the reason of

which I did not discover until later, when an open breach occurred. I

then saw for the first time, that a sort of dissimulation, which does

not agree with good comradeship, had made me outwardly deferential, and

inwardly uneasy and irritated. Perhaps nothing is more opposed to the

very nature of a child than a perpetual deference and compliant

acquiescence.

"I entered the military school, where I received marked respect,

because I had been the comrade of the prince. My father was there

my special instructor, and there I lived two years with your

brother-in-law. I was not distinguished as a scholar.

"One of the happiest days of my life was the one on which I wore my

epaulets for the first time; and though the day on which I laid aside

my uniform was not less happy, I am not yet free from inconsistency. I

cannot to this day, see a battery of artillery pass by without feeling

my heart beat quicker.

"I travel backwards and forwards, and I pray you to excuse disconnected

narration. I have, to-day, been through such a various experience; but

I will now endeavor to tell my story more directly and concisely.

"Soon after I became lieutenant, my parents removed to the university

city; I was how left alone. I was, for a whole year, contented with

myself and happy, like every one around me. I can remember now the very

hour of a beautiful autumn afternoon,--I still see the tree, and hear

the magpie in its branches,--when I suddenly reined in my horse, and

something within me asked, 'What art thou doing in the world? training

thyself and thy recruits to kill thy fellow-men in the most scientific

manner?'"

"Allow me to ask one question," Clodwig mildly interrupted. "Did the

military school never seem to you a school of men, and part of your

profession?"

Eric was confused, and replied in the negative; then collecting his

thoughts, he resumed: "I sought to drive away oppressive thoughts, but

they would not leave me. I had fallen out with myself and my

occupation. I cannot tell you how useless to myself and to the world I

seemed to be,--all was empty, bare, desolate. There were days when I

was ashamed of my dress, that I, a sound; strong man, should be loafing

about so well dressed, my horse perhaps consuming the oats of some poor

man."

"That is morbid," Clodwig struck in with vehemence.

"I see it is now; but then it was different in the first stress of

feeling. The Crimean war broke out, and I asked for a furlough, in

order to become acquainted with actual war. My commander, Prince

Leonhard, at the rifle-practice, casually asked me which army I meant

to join; and before I could reply, he added, in a caustic tone, 'Would

you prefer to enlist with the light French or the heavy Englishman?' My

tongue was tied, and I perceived clearly my own want of a clear

understanding of my position. How mere a cipher was I, standing there

without any knowledge of myself or the world! My outer relations shared

in the total ruin of my inner being. Must I relate to you all these

petty annoyances? I deserved to have them, for there was in me nothing

but contradiction, and my whole life was one single great lie. A

uniform had been given me; I was not myself, and I was a poor soldier,

for I abandoned myself to the study of philosophy, and wished to solve

the riddle of life. I am of a peculiarly companionable, sympathetic

nature, and yet the continued life among my fellow-soldiers had become

an impossibility.

"I bore it two years, then asked for my discharge; which I received,

with the rank of Captain, out of respect to my parents, I think. I was

free, at last, and yet, as I said before, it saddened me to break away

from my life.

"I was free! It was strange to look out into the world and say. World,

what do you want of me? What must I do for you? Here are a thousand

employments; which shall I take? I was ready for anything. I had a fine

voice, and many people thought that I might become a professional

singer, and I received overtures to that effect. But my own inclination

led in a very different direction. An earnest longing possessed me to

make some sacrifice for my fellow-men. Had I been a devout believer, I

think I should have become a monk."

Clodwig opened his eyes and met Eric's beaming glance. After a short

pause, Clodwig nodded to Eric, then folded his arms again on his

breast, laid his head back, nodded again, and closed his eyes. Eric

continued:--

"When I first went through the streets in a civilian's dress, I felt as

if I were walking naked before the eyes of men, as one sometimes seems

to be in troubled dreams. In such a helpless, forlorn state of feeling,

one grows superstitious, and is easily governed by the merest

accidents; The first person who met me, and stared at me, as if

doubting who I was, was my former captain, who had left the service,

and was superintendent of a House of Correction for men. He had seen

the notice of my discharge, and remembering some of my former attempts

in that direction, asked whether I meant to devote myself entirely to

poetry. I answered in the negative, and he told me that he was looking

for an assistant. My decision was soon made; I would consecrate myself

to the care and elevation of my fallen fellow-men. After entering on my

new occupation I wrote to my parents. My father replied to me, that he

appreciated my efforts, but foresaw with certainty that my natural love

of beauty would make a life among criminals unbearable to me; he was

right. I tried with all my might to keep in subjection a longing for

the higher luxuries of life, but in vain. I was without that peculiar

natural vein, or perhaps had not reached that elevated standpoint,

which enables one to look upon and to treat all the aspects of life as

so many natural phenomena. In my captain's uniform, I received more

respect from the prisoners than in my citizen's dress. This experience

was a sort of nightmare to me. Life among the convicts, who were either

hardened brutes or cunning hypocrites, became a hell to me, and

this hell had one peculiar torment. I fell into a mood of morbid

self-criticism, because I could not forget the world, but was

constantly trying to guess the thoughts of others. I tormented myself

by imagining what men said of my course. In their eyes I seemed to

myself now an idealistic vagabond, if you will allow the expression.

This I was not, and would not be, and above all, I was determined that

my enemies and deriders should not have the triumph of seeing me the

wreck of a fickle and purposeless existence.

"Ah, I vexed myself unnecessarily; for who has time or inclination to

look for a man who has disappeared! Men bury the dead, and go back to

their every-day work, and so they bury the living too. I do not

reproach them for it, it must be so.

"It became clear to me that I was not fitted for the calling I had

chosen. I lived too much within myself, and tried in every event to

study the foundation and growth of character of those around me, not

willing to acknowledge that the nature and actions of men do not

develope themselves so logically as I had thought. Besides, I was too

impassioned, and possessed by a constant longing for the beautiful.

"I thought of emigrating to the New World, but what should I do there?

Was it worth while to have borne such varied experiences and struggles

in order to turn a bit of the primeval forest into a cornfield? Still,

one consideration drew me toward America. My father's only brother, the

proprietor of a manufactory of jewelry, lived there, but was quite lost

to us. He had loved my mother's sister, but his suit was somewhat

harshly rejected, and he left Europe for the New World. He cast off all

connection with his home and family, and turned out of his house in New

York a friend of my father's who guardedly mentioned us to him. He

would hear nothing of us, nor even of Europe. I imagined that I could

reconcile my uncle, and you know that a man in desperate circumstances

looks for salvation to the most adventurous undertakings.

"My good father helped me. What he had always recognized as my true

vocation, from which I had turned blinded by the attractions of army

life, I now saw plainly. A thirst for loneliness arose within me; I

felt that I must find some spot of earth where no disturbing tone could

penetrate the inner life, where I could immerse myself in solitude.

This solitude which is inclusive of all true life, study, the world of

letters, now offered to me. My father helped me, while showing me that

my past life was not wasted, but must give me a new direction and a

peculiar success. He brought me a birth-day gift which I had received

in my cradle; the senate of the University; in which he had lectured

before his appointment as tutor of the prince, had bestowed upon me

soon after my birth its certificate of matriculation, as a new-born

prince receives a military commission."

Clodwig laughed heartily, rubbed his eyes, leaned forward with both

hands on his knees, looked kindly at Eric, and begged him to go on.

"I have little more to tell you. I soon schooled myself, or rather my

father schooled me, to live for universal ends, and to put aside all

personal aims as much as possible. I devoted myself to the study of

ancient literature, and every aspiration for the beautiful, which had

idealized the poet's vocation for me, found satisfaction in my

introduction to the classic world. 'Every man may glory in his

industry,' says the poet. I worked faithfully, and felt only in my

father's house the happiness of a child, and in my youth the joy of

mental growth. My father hoped that success would be granted me where

he had failed; he made me heir of those ideas which he could neither

establish as scientific truth, nor impart from his professor's chair,

if there ever were a happy home, made holy by lofty aspiration, it was

my parents' house. There my younger brother died, now very nearly a

year ago; my father, who already was sorely sick at heart, with all his

stoic fortitude could not bear this blow. It is two months since he

also died. I kept down the anguish of my bereavement, finished my

studies, and received my doctor's degree a few days ago. My mother and

I formed various plans, but have not yet decided upon any. I made this

excursion to the Rhine in compliance with my mother's advice, for I

have been working very hard; on my return we meant to come to some

decision. I met your brother-in-law, and I feel it my duty not to turn

away from the opening which has offered. I am ready to enter into

private service, knowing what I undertake, and believing that I am

thoroughly equipped for it. There was a time when I thought I could

find satisfaction only in working for some great public interest; now I

should be content to educate a single human being, still more to

co-operate in training to a fitness for his great duties one, who, by

his future lordship over vast possessions, represents in himself

manifold human interests.

"I have come to the end of my story. I do not wish that any one should

think better of me than I deserve, but I also wish to pass for what I

believe I am. I am neither modest nor conceited; I may be in dangerous

ignorance, for I do not in the least know how I am regarded by others;

I have shown only what I find in myself by honest self-examination. I

mean to be a teacher. He who would live in the spirit, and has not the

artist's creative power, must be a teacher; for the teacher is, so to

speak, the artisan of the higher being, and, like every artisan, is so

much the better workman, or teacher, the more of the artist spirit he

has and uses. A thought is the best gift which man can bestow upon man,

and what I give my pupil is no longer my own. But pardon me for having

fallen into this vein of preaching. I have shown you my whole life, as

well as I can; where I have left any gaps, pray question me."

"Nothing further is needed," said Clodwig, rising, and quietly laying

aside the sofa-blanket. "Only one question. Have you never had the

desire to marry, or has that not entered into your plans?"

"No, I shall not marry. I have heard so many men say, 'Yes, ideals, I

had them too, but now I live in and for my family.' I will not

sacrifice everything higher to the caprice of a pretty woman. I know

that I am at variance with the world; I cannot dissemble, nor can I

change my own way of thinking, nor bring others over to mine. I have

set myself a difficult life-task, which can be best carried out alone."

Clodwig stepped quickly towards Eric and said:--

"I give you my hand again. This hand shall never be withdrawn from you,

so long as it has life. I had something else in view for you, but now I

cannot and need not speak of it; I will subdue my own wishes. Enough;

press on quietly and firmly towards your goal; whatever I can do to

help you reach it, you have a right to demand. Remember you have a

claim upon me in every situation and condition of your life. You cannot

yet estimate what you have given, and are still giving me. Good night,

my dear young friend."

The count hastily withdrew, as if to avoid any further emotion. Eric

stood still, looking at the empty chair and the sofa-blanket as if all

were a dream, until a servant came, and, in a very respectful manner,

conducted him to his room.

CHAPTER X.

THE GOOD HOST.

When a man has laid open his whole history to another, he often seems

to himself emptied, hollow, and void,--what is left of him? how small

and contemptible he appears! But it was quite otherwise with Eric. From

a tower below in the valley rang clear a silver-toned midnight bell,

hung there in ancient times by a noble lady, to guide the lost wanderer

in the forest to a human dwelling. Eric heard it, and saw in fancy the

confessional in the church, with its believers bending before it, or

passing out into the world again made strong by its blessing. He had

confessed to a man whose life was consecrated by a pure spirit, and

felt himself not impoverished, but elevated and strengthened, armed

with self-knowledge for every relation of life.

He opened the window, and inhaled the cool, fragrant air of night. Over

the valley hung a thin mist; the clocks in the villages struck

midnight, and the Wolfsgarten clock chimed in sweet and low. Eric

resigned himself to the influence of nature's life and power as it

presses upward in the tree-trunks, moves in the branches, and refreshes

every bud. In the distance rolled a railway train. The nightingales

sang loudly, then suddenly ceased as if overpowered by sleep.

In nebulous forms, familiar and strange figures gathered around Eric.

How much he had experienced in this one day, though he had not yet

crossed the threshold of the house where perhaps his future lot was

cast! He had reviewed his past life, and had found a home of which he

had not dreamed yesterday. Ah, how great and rich is the world, and

true comrades live in it waiting only for our summons and the greeting

of friendly eyes!

All the fulness of life in the immortality of nature and the human

spirit flooded Eric's being. He felt a blessed elation; he had given up

his life, it was taken from him; he was freed from self, and lived and

soared in the infinite.

The moon rose over the mountains, a whispering thrill rustled through

the wood, the nightingale sang loud again, the mists rose from the

valley and vanished, and one broad beam glittered on a glass dome in

the distance. There lay Villa Eden.

Only after a vigorous resistance Eric finally yielded to weariness and

closed the window. A black trunk marked with the crest of Prince

Leonhard first attracted his notice, and he smiled to see how Clodwig

had shown his household in what honor he held his guest; this room had

been occupied by the Prince a few days before. Eric then gazed long on

a bust of Medusa, fascinated by the grand, powerful, beautiful face; on

the head with its wildly disordered locks were two wide-spread wings;

below the heavy frowning brow gleamed the great death-dealing eyes; the

mouth was haughtily curved, and on the lips lay scornful, defiant

words; under the chin two snakes were knotted together like a kerchief.

The aspect of the head was at once repulsive and fascinating.

Opposite the Medusa stood a cast of the Victory of Rauch, that

wonderful countenance recalling the face of Queen Louisa, the noble

head with its garland of oak-leaves not raised, but bent as if in

thought and self-control. A strange pair were those two busts! but

there was no more time to dwell upon them. Eric was overcome by sleep,

but woke again after a few hours, when day had scarcely dawned.

There are hours and days of joyous and buoyant feeling, as if we had

found the key to all hearts; as if we held in our hands the magic wand

which reveals all living springs, and brings us near to every soul as

to a friend and a brother. The world is purified, the soul pervaded by

the deep feeling of unalloyed blessedness, which is nothing but

breathing, living, loving.

Encompassed by such an atmosphere, Eric stood at the window and looked

out over the river to the mountains beyond, the castles, the towns, the

villages, on the banks and on the heights. Everywhere thou art at home,

thou art living in a beautiful world. He went at once into the open

air, and strode on not as if he were walking, but as if borne onward by

some ineffable power. Drops of rain from the last night's storm hung

upon the tender green of the foliage, on the grass and flowers; no

breeze stirred the air, and frequent rain-drops, like a sudden shower,

pattered down from the overhanging branches. A ray of sunlight now

gleams upon every leaf and twig, and awakens an inexpressible movement;

the blackbird sings in the copse, and with his clear, shrill tone is

heard far above all the intermingling, chorus of melodies.

Eric stood motionless near a covered pavilion on the very ridge of the

mountain, and gazed long at a kite hovering with outspread wings over

the summit, and then letting itself down into the wood on the other

side of the river. What made him think at that moment of Herr

Sonnenkamp? Was it envy and dread of the little bird, whom evil tongues

called a bird of prey; and has he not the right to live according to

his might?

Eric's thoughts were wafted toward the boy, longing to mingle in his

dreams, and whisper to him, I am coming to thee. He endeavored for a

long time to get sight of the glass dome, but it was nowhere visible.

He went away from the river to an elevated plain, from which there was

again a view of valleys, heights, and mountains.

He stood in the midst of an extensive field, and for the first time saw

a vineyard which was just being planted. The laborers held implements,

like augurs, in their hands, and making with them holes in the loose

earth, they set out the young shoots in rows.

He saluted the laborers, and they answered him cheerfully, feeling from

the sound of his voice that he greeted every stranger as a brother. He

inquired how long it would be before the first vintage, and when an old

man answered clearly all his questions, he felt a new refreshment.

This conversation brought him back from his state of excitement, back

from his wandering into the infinite, again to the earth. He went away

expressing his thanks, and realising that he must bring this strain of

lofty feeling into subjection to actual life. He met laborers who were

going to a limestone quarry. He joined them, and learned that this also

belonged to the count, who had leased all his lands, not retaining for

himself even the management.

Receiving a friendly greeting from the overseer, he was shown a

manufactory of cement near by, and saw paving-tiles from excellent

patterns of the time of the Renaissance, which Clodwig had recommended,

and which found a ready sale.

Eric returned to the Castle, refreshed by the breath of nature as well

as by this glance into actual human life. A servant told him that the

count was expecting him. Clodwig, already fully dressed for the day,

took his guest by the hand, saying, "I shall ask you by and by many

questions, but only one now:--did your father despair at the last,

or--how shall I express it?--did he die in the belief of an orderly and

progressive unfolding of the social and moral world?" Eric then

depicted in vivid language derived from his own recollections, and

under the inspiring influence of his morning's exhilaration, how his

father, on the last night of his life, congratulated his son that he

was born into the new age, which need no longer exhaust itself against

opposing forms of violence. "My son," he said, "my heart thrills with

joy, when I contemplate how in this century a beauty, a freedom, and a

brotherly love unfold themselves which existed to us only in the germ.

As one example, my son, see how the State now educates its children,

and does it in a way that no Solon, no Socrates, ever could imagine.

Thou wilt live in a time when it will hardly be conceived that there

were slaves, serfs, bondmen, monopolies, and the whole trumpery of a

false world."

Eric added how happy it made him, that his father had departed in such

a cheerful mood, and that he, as a son, could so fully enter into his

hopes, and carry them out into life. He spoke in such an excitable

manner, that Clodwig placed his hand on his shoulder and said, "We will

not, in the morning, take such a distant flight." He expressed also his

satisfaction that he could enter so fully into the life of the coming

generation, for he had always been troubled lest he might lose all hold

upon the new time.

"We have had our morning devotions, now let us go to breakfast," he

said, turning round easily as he got up from his seat. "Yet one more

question: did your father never explain to you what occurred at his

sudden--you know what I mean--loss of favor at court?"

"Certainly; my father told me the whole, circumstantially."

"And did he not forbid you to speak of it to any one?"

"To others, but not to you."

"Did he mention me by name?"

"No, but he expressly enjoined it upon me to inform those whom I

honored with my whole soul, and so I can tell you."

"Speak rather low," Clodwig enjoined, and Eric went on.

"My father, in that last interview which no one knew anything about,

was to have received from the hand of the sovereign a title of

nobility, in order that he might be appointed to an office at court. He

said to the sovereign, 'Your highness, you make null the blessing of

the long years in which I have spent my best strength in the education

of my youthful prince, if you think I accept this on my own account, or

that I regard it as something belonging to the age in which we live.'

'I do not make a jest of such things,' the prince replied. 'Neither do

I,' said my father.

"Years after, his lips trembled as he related this to me, and he said,

that that moment, when he stood face to face with his pupil speechless,

was the bitterest moment of his life."

A silent pause now ensued between Eric and Clodwig, until the latter

said finally, "I understand, I understand; let us go."

They went into the breakfast-room on the ground floor, the doors of

which were wide open. Bella soon appeared; she thought that Eric looked

at her scrutinisingly, and quickly turning away, she went to a side

table to prepare the coffee.

"My wife," said Clodwig, "has already sent a messenger, this morning,

to Fraeulein Perini, and I have added a message to Herr Sonnenkamp, that

you, dear Dournay, would present yourself this evening, or, what would

be better, early to-morrow morning."

"And I am to ask you to excuse my brother, who has set out, early

this morning, in company with a young man whom they call here the

Wine-chevalier, to the horse-market at Mannheim. Will you have coffee

or tea?"

"If you please, coffee."

"That is fine, and on the strength of that we are good friends," said

Bella, in a lively way. "It is an abominable excess of politeness, when

people reply to such a question, 'It makes no difference to me.' If it

makes no difference to you, dear polite soul, then give some decided

answer, and don't put off the choice upon me."

A merry key was thus struck, and they seated themselves at table. Bella

noticed that Eric observed her, and she knew that she looked better in

her pretty morning-dress, than in full evening costume. Her movements

were very elastic and graceful. She was a tall, noble, well-made

person; her soft, dark-auburn hair, now partly loose, was confined by a

fine point-lace kerchief, put on with apparent carelessness, as if one

had not taken a second look in the mirror, and tied under the chin. Her

complexion was fresh, as if she had just bathed her face in milk; and

in fact she did wash her face in milk every morning and evening. The

expression of her countenance was keen and bright. All was nobly

formed, except that she had a thin, compressed upper-lip, which a

malicious gentleman at court had once called the lip of a poisoner. It

was very vexatious to Bella that her voice was so masculine.

Her personal charms, her cordial and at the same time arch manners,

showed to great advantage in the light talk at the breakfast table; and

when at intervals she keenly watched Eric, she was surprised at his

appearance. Yesterday she had seen him first only in the evening

twilight, and afterwards by candle-light. He was manifestly a person to

be seen in full daylight; and in fact, there was now a brilliant

lighting up of his countenance, for the happy excitement of his whole

inner being showed itself in his mien, and he looked at Bella, as if he

would say, 'I have become almost the son of thy husband; let the same

noble union be formed between us.'

Bella was unusually friendly, perhaps because she had already used a

little artifice. A note, written in Italian to Fraeulein Perini,

cautioned her in terms as decided in meaning, as they were carefully

worded in expression, of the necessity of subjecting the new-comer to a

sharp examination.

When Clodwig told the messenger that Eric would make his appearance in

the evening, or the next morning, she felt herself justified and at

rest in regard to her previous artifice; for Clodwig had never before

detained a guest with such determination of his own, and no one could

even boast of having made it appear that he was not sufficient for

himself.

Clodwig and Bella had promised each other to live only to themselves,

and until now they had faithfully kept the promise.

"I am a weary soul," Clodwig had said to Bella when he offered her his

hand, and she had answered, that she would refresh the weary one. She

had cut off every relation with the world, for she knew that friendly

visits last only for a few hours or days, and make the solitude

afterwards more keenly felt.

Bella was very amiable always, and to everybody, provided everybody

always did according to her will, and lived to please her. She really

had no love for people and no desire for their society; she wanted

nothing from others, and wished only to be left alone. The manifold

relations which Clodwig had formerly had with men and women were

repugnant to her, and he accommodated himself to the wish of his wife,

who lived wholly for him, so far as to reduce his extensive

correspondence and his personal intercourse to the smallest possible

limit. They kept up a periodical connection with only two social

circles in the neighborhood: one of these was the so-called

middle-class circle who were invited to collation, as it was named,

which we made acquaintance with yesterday; the other was a select

circle, of the noble families scattered around, who were invited twice

a year. Was this renegade captain now to change all this?

In the triumphant thought that she had banished him, Bella became more

and more talkative. Eric could not refrain from highly extolling that

mirthful excitement, that exuberant humor which pervades the Rhineland,

and takes possession of every one who comes within the sphere of its

inhabitants. At last he led the conversation again to Sonnenkamp, by

remarking that the manner in which the man was spoken about yesterday

was very puzzling to him.

Bella in an off-hand manner declared, that she found the man very

interesting, although this was going counter to the universal

Philistinism; that she regarded him as a conqueror, a bold Berserkir,

who had nothing to win for himself in this stock-jobbing age but gold.

There appeared to be a sympathetic attraction between Bella and

Sonnenkamp's speculative and daring spirit. Clodwig considerately

added,--

"I have often noticed, that so long as a man is accumulating wealth,

his prosperity seems to give universal satisfaction; men feel pleased,

as if they were accumulating too. But when he has attained his end,

they turn round and find fault, where before they had commended. Do you

understand anything of horticulture?"

"No."

"Herr Sonnenkamp is a very considerable horticulturist. Is it not

strange that in the laying out of parks we have wholly supplanted the

formal methods of French gardening, which now turn to the culture of

fruit, and find encouragement in the pecuniary profit that governs all

such operations? The English excel in swine-raising, their swine being

fat sides of bacon with four feet attached; the French, on the other

hand, having taken to fruit culture, have succeeded in producing

fabulous crops.

"Yes!" he concluded, smiling, "Herr Sonnenkamp is a tree-tutor, and,

moreover, a tyrannical tree-trimmer. To-day I can speak out more

freely. Sonnenkamp has always been, and will always be, a stranger to

me.

"Through all his external polish, and an increasing attention to the

cultivation of good manners, a sort of brutishness appears in him, I

mean brutishness in its original meaning of an uncultivated state of

nature."

"Yes," Bella remarked, "you will have a difficult position, and

especially with Roland."

"With Roland?" asked Eric.

"Yes, that is the boy's name. He would like to know much, and learn

nothing."

Bella looked round pleased with her clever saying. The parrot in his

great cage upon the veranda uttered shrill cries as if scolding. As she

rose, Bella said, "There you see my tyrant; a scholar who tyrannises

over his teacher in a most shocking manner."

She took the parrot out of his cage, placed him on her shoulder,

fondled and caressed him, so that one almost grudged such wasteful

prodigality; and her movements were all beautiful, especially the

curving of the throat and shoulders.

CHAPTER XI.

MEDUSA AND VICTORIA.

Clodwig looked down for some time after Bella had gone. He nodded to

Eric as if he would greet him anew. But Bella soon returned, bearing

the parrot on her hand, and stroking it. She walked up and down the

room, lingering when Eric related how he had to-day, tearing himself by

force away from the view of the river, gone back into the country, and

had conversed with many persons.

Clodwig dwelt at length upon his pet theory, that traces of the Roman

Colonists were still preserved in the physiognomy and character of the

people.

Bella, apparently unwilling to be obliged to hear this again,

interrupted, with good-humored impertinence,--"When one turns himself

away from the Rhine, he has the feeling, or at least I have, that some

one, it may be Father Rhine himself, looks after me and calls out, 'Do

turn round!'"

"We men do not always feel that we are looked at," replied Clodwig, and

requested Eric to give his opinion about the earthen vase, a present

the day before from the Justice, which was standing on a side-table in

the breakfast-room. Eric readily complied, and they went into the

adjoining room, filled with a great variety of articles found buried in

the ground. Eric, fresh from the study of antiquities, showed himself

so familiar with all the related topics, that Bella could not refrain

from expressing her astonishment.

"You are a good teacher, and it must be a pleasure to be instructed

by you." Eric thanked her, and Bella continued with friendly

affability,--"Yes, indeed! many people give instruction in order to

make a brilliant appearance, and many deal forth their knowledge

reluctantly; but you, Doctor, teach like a beneficent friend who

delights in being able to impart, but takes a yet greater pleasure in

bestowing a benefit upon the recipient; and you impart in such a way

that one is not only convinced you understand the matter, but believes

that he himself does."

Clodwig looked up in amazement, for he had said the evening before

precisely the same thing of Eric's father, while making mention of the

fact that the only little treatise ever published by him had received

the disinterested help of Professor Dournay.

Bella withdrew after having thus shown her friendliness and her

admiring surprise. The two men sat together for a long time after this,

and then went to Eric's room, where Eric handed to the count a copy of

his Doctor's thesis; and it then first occurred to him how strangely it

had happened that he had there discussed the apocryphal treatise of

Plato, "Concerning Riches," and now he was to be called upon to educate

one under conditions of wealth. Eric and Clodwig were greatly struck by

this coincidence.

Clodwig requested Eric to translate the manuscript from Latin into

German. He did so, and it was to them a time of real enjoyment.

When they arose, Clodwig observed to Eric how strange it must appear to

him to find the Medusa and Victoria opposite each other; but he

confessed to a heresy which met with his own approval, though not in

accordance with the received scientific explanation. The Medusa was to

him the expression of all-consuming passion, which stiffens with horror

the sinning beholder who sees therein the image of himself; and it was

very significant that the ancients represented this entire abandonment

of all the higher spiritual nature through a womanly form, the

unrestrained indulgence of passion being opposite to the truly

feminine, and so the more unseemly. The Victoria of Rauch, on the other

hand, appeared to him to be the embodiment of an eminently modern

spiritual conception.

"This countenance is wonderfully like"--he did not finish the sentence,

but, stammeringly beginning another, continued: "This is not that

Goddess of Victory who wears proudly and loftily the crown upon her

gleaming forehead; this is the representation of victory which is

inwardly sad that there is a foe to be conquered. Yes, still further,

this Victoria is to me the goddess of victory over self, which is

always the grandest victory."

After Clodwig had made this remark, he said, "Now I leave you to

yourself; you have already talked too much to-day and yesterday." Eric

remained alone, and while he was writing to his mother, Clodwig sat

with Bella and said to her:--

"This young man is a genius, and ought not to live in a dependent

situation, bound to routine service; he ought to be free like a bird,

singing, flying, as he will, without any fixed and unalterable limits

of time and occupation, and especially he ought to be by himself. It is

a joy to meet with such originality and depth."

"Is he not too well aware of his own worth?" asked Bella, a flash of

displeasure gleaming in her eyes.

"Not at all. He does not wish to shine, and yet he is genuine light. I

feel as if I stood in the clear sunshine of the spirit; he is a man of

pure character, and I am at home with him in the inmost realities, as I

am with myself." Bella said nothing, and Clodwig continued:--"I like

especially in him, that he lets one who is talking with him complete

his sentence; he does not interrupt by any movement or any change of

feature; and in such an active and richly endowed mind this is doubly

valuable, and something more than mere civility."

Bella still kept silence, bent over her embroidery, on which she was

diligently intent. At last she looked up, and with a beaming

countenance, said, "I rejoice in your joy."

"And I should like to perpetuate this joy," Clodwig replied.

"He is a handsome man," added Bella.

Clodwig answered, smiling, "Now, since you have called my attention to

it, I am reminded how handsome he is. But he does not plume himself

upon his good looks, and I think _that_ to be genuine beauty, which,

when present has nothing strikingly prominent, all being in harmonious

combination, but which, when thought of afterwards, reveals new and

beautiful attributes and forms. Most handsome men are forever looking

into a mirror visible only to themselves. But why should I give up this

man to somebody else, and above all to this Sonnenkamp? I am situated

so that I can offer him a home with me for years! Why not do it?

"Why not?" said Bella, putting away her embroidery. "I need not assure

you that I have no other joy in life than yours. So it is now with this

brief happiness of yours, this childlike confidence you place in this

noble-looking man. I see also that he has something elevated in his

nature; he imparts much and gladly, is stimulating and quickening."

"Why not then?"

"Because we want to be alone! Clodwig, let us be by ourselves! It is my

desire that even my brother should soon leave us; every third person,

whether related by blood or by the most intimate spiritual ties, causes

a separation, so that we do not have exclusive possession of each

other."

While she was speaking, she had placed her hand on Clodwig's arm, and

now she grasped his hand and stroked it. As Clodwig went away, Bella

looked after him, shaking her head.

Bella came to the dinner-table handsomely dressed, and with a single

rose in her hair. The men appeared weary, but she was extremely

animated. She spoke a great deal of the happiness she had always had in

being at the house of Eric's parents, where no ignoble word was ever

uttered, for the mother cherished every high thought, like a priestess

tending and feeding the smallest flame of the ideal on the household

altar. Eric, who thought that he was proof against any further

excitement, experienced a new and elevated emotion.

They drove out at noon, and Bella was silent during the ride. They

visited a former Roman encampment. Bella sat alone under a tree, upon a

covering spread upon the ground, and the men walked about.

When they came together around the evening lamp, Bella seemed like an

entirely different person, having for the third time, that day, changed

her dress. She was now very lively.

Bella had never been, during her whole life, dissatisfied with herself;

she had never repented anything she had done, always saying. You were

fully justified, at the moment when you acted. She did not wish at this

time to appear in a false light to her husband's favorite, or as a mere

trifling appendage; Eric should know who she was, that she was not only

Clodwig's wife, but over and above all, Bella von Pranken.

She was ready to play as soon as Clodwig expressed the wish to hear

her. The quick and eager haste with which she took off her ringing and

rattling bracelets, which Eric at once with marked attentiveness

received from her hand and placed upon the marble table under the

mirror,--the manner in which she poised her hands like two fluttering

pinions, and then brought them down upon the keys, like a swimmer who

is in his element,--all served to show how resolved she was to occupy

no second place. And never, since she had been Clodwig's wife, had

Bella played as she now did in the presence of a third person,

reserving hitherto her masterly performance on the piano for Clodwig

alone. To-day her execution displayed such zest and skill that Clodwig

himself, who knew every peculiar excellence in her method of playing,

received a new surprise and delight.

During a pause, Eric seemed to strike the right key by remarking, that,

after such elevated enjoyment in the intercourse with noble persons and

in the wide survey of unbounded nature, there is nothing for the soul

but to let the feelings dissolve and die away in the unlimited and

shoreless ethereal atmosphere of music. A realm of waking dreams is

then opened to us, a feeling of the infinite is awakened, that creates

a something beyond what any word or look can express, and which is

never unfolded by any sight or sound of nature from the unfathomed and

mysterious depths of the human soul. As in answer to the inquiry, what

influence predominated in him before composing, Mozart said, 'nothing

but music which _would_ come out,'--the pure musical impulse without

any definite conception, without any limiting idea, only a rhythmic,

billowy undulation of tones,--so it is that we, after the tension of

thought and observation, through music are admitted into that pure,

undefined, yet all-encompassing realm, which is a chaos, but a chaos

that is no longer formless and void.

Bella, who sat reclining far back in a large arm-chair, gazed at Eric

in such rapt wonder, that he dropt his eyes, unconsciously fixed upon

her. To the surprise of both the men she suddenly rose, and bade them

good night. She first gave her hand to Clodwig, then to Eric, and then

to Clodwig again, and quickly went out.

Clodwig remained only a short time with his guest, and then he also

took his leave. Eric went, in a sort of ecstacy, to his chamber. How

rich was the world! what a day this had been from the dawn in the dewy

wood even until this moment! and human happiness was a reality! Here

were two who had attained rest and blessedness, such as could hardly be

believed to exist in the actual world.

While he was standing still upon the carpeted stairs, from unconscious

thoughts of the rich house he was about to enter, and conscious

thoughts of the full and rounded existence of his host and hostess, the

question suddenly occurred to him, Is this beautiful life, this

perfecting of the soul in an extended view of nature, and its

saturation in all that is beautiful in science and art, possible to

wealth only, to freedom from care and want, to emancipation from all

labor and from common needs?

As, holding the light in his hand, he entered the balcony chamber, he

remained standing terrified, as if a ghost had appeared to him, before

the bust of the Medusa, which with open mouth fixed upon him its

overpowering and paralyzing gaze.

How is this? how has this image so suddenly assumed this likeness? Did

Clodwig have any suspicion of it? It was indeed terrible.

Eric turned about, and now, as if it were some trick played upon him by

an evil spirit, the contrasted image also, the Victoria, has a likeness

to Bella when, silent and quiet, she modestly and humbly bent down her

head.

Had Clodwig any suspicion of this wonderful play of opposites, and did

he not acknowledge this, this morning when he avowed his heresy to the

received opinion?

The pulse in Eric's temples beat violently. He put out the light,

looked for a long time out into the dark night, and sought to recall

afresh to his recollection the bright plenitude of the day's

experience.

CHAPTER XII.

FRAU ADVENTURE.

In the morning Eric put on his uniform, for so Clodwig had advised with

cautious reference to a former experience. A horse had been placed at

his disposal, and his portmanteau was to be sent after him.

Clodwig's contracted brow grew smooth as the handsome, noble-looking

young man entered the parlor in his becoming uniform. After greeting

him, he pointed to Eric's arm, saying:--

"Take off the crape before you go."

Eric looked at him surprised, and Clodwig explained himself.

"You are not to be sentimental, and you must agree with me that it is

not well to enter, for the first time, a stranger's house, wearing a

badge of mourning. People often desire a sympathy which they cannot

expect to receive. You will be less disturbed in the end, if you

impress it upon yourself at first that you are entering service, and

moreover are to serve an extremely rich man, who would like to keep

everything unpleasant out of sight. The more you keep to yourself your

own personal feelings, the more free will you be."

Clodwig smiling quoted from Lucian's "Sale of the Philosophic Sects,"

where the Stoic as a slave cries out, "Even if I am sold, I am still

free within myself!"

Eric good-humoredly took the crape from his sleeve.

Bella had excused herself from appearing at breakfast, and sent Eric a

message of farewell till their next meeting.

The two men were now alone. Clodwig gave Eric a letter for Herr

Sonnenkamp, but begged him not to make any positive engagement until he

had seen him again, adding almost inaudibly, "Perhaps I shall keep you

for myself."

As a mother crams all the pockets of her son going away from home, so

Clodwig sought to give his young friend all sorts of instructions.

"I have but slight acquaintance with the boy," said he; "I only know

that he is very handsome. Do you not agree with me that it is a great

mistake to give a young soul the foundation principles which are to

determine his life-course, before this young soul has collected the

material of life or knows his own tendencies?"

"Certainly," replied Eric; "it is like building railroads in

uncultivated or half-civilized countries, before roads have made

possible the interchange of agricultural and manufactured products. The

root of the disease of modern humanity, as my father often said, lies

in the habit of teaching children dogmatically the laws which govern

the universe; it is a superfluous labor based on ostentation, which is

unfruitful, because it leaps over the first steps."

Clodwig nodded several times. This man might be trusted to sail out

into the open sea; he would always have a compass with him.

The time of departure came; Clodwig said,--

"I will go a little way with you."

Eric took his horse by the bridle, and they walked on side by side. The

old man often fixed an anxious, affectionate look upon his young

friend. He repeated that he considered it a highly honorable task to

train the young American for a useful life; then he advised him again

to keep this one object in view, and to turn resolutely from all gossip

concerning Herr Sonnenkamp, who had certainly left many rumors

uncontradicted, either because he was too upright to trouble himself

about them, or because he preferred to have some facts of his history

hidden by false reports. It was undoubtedly singular, that though he

was a German by birth, not a single relative had ever been seen at his

house; probably, however, he was of low origin, and helped his

relatives on condition that they should have no intercourse with him;

Major Grassler had hinted at something of that kind.

"One thing more," said Clodwig, standing still, "say nothing to Herr

Sonnenkamp of your having for a short time devoted yourself to the

supervision of criminals. I would cast no slur upon him, but many men

have an aversion to persons of such a calling."

Eric thanked him, seeing clearly his earnest desire to smooth the path

before him. They went on in silence until Clodwig said, "Here I will

turn back, and let me give you one warning."

"A warning?"

"Perhaps that isn't the right word; I only want to say to you, make up

your mind to pass in the world for an enthusiast. A man who seeks

anything in life except profit, pleasure, and honor, appears an

enthusiast to many people who have no sympathy with such a

predilection; the world cannot be just to such men, it must condemn

them, because it sees its own strivings condemned by them. You will

have to bear a martyrdom all your life long, if you remain true,--and I

believe you will; bear it with a proud self-respect, and remember that

a new, old friend understands you, and lives your life with you."

Suddenly the old man laid his hands on Eric's shoulders, kissed him,

and walked hastily away, without once turning.

Eric mounted and rode on; as he turned the corner of the wood, he

looked back and saw Clodwig standing still. Bella had watched the pair

from the balcony, which commanded a view of their whole course; now she

went to meet her husband, and was not a little surprised to observe in

his face an emotion which she had never seen there before; he seemed to

have been weeping.

"You were right," said Clodwig hastily, "it is better for us to remain

by ourselves. But I rejoice in this new generation which differs from

ours; it wavers no longer between the two poles of enthusiasm and

despair; it has, if I may so express it, a sort of intellectual

inspiration, and I believe it will bring more to pass than we have. I

am glad that I am not too old to understand these young people born

into an age of railroads. I admire and love this present age; never

before has every man in every calling known so definitely what he

wishes and ought to do, both in science and practical life."

Bella thought she must make some, reply, and said that young Sonnenkamp

would be fortunate to have such a guide.

"It pains me that he must enter that house."

"Yet you have recommended him."

"Yes, that's it exactly. One is punished sooner or later for

undertaking anything with half-sincerity or against his real

convictions. I have brought myself into closer relations with this Herr

Sonnenkamp, without really wishing it. In his house I always have a

feeling as if I were in a family where horse-flesh is eaten. But, good

heavens! it may be prejudice, custom; horse-flesh is also one kind of

meat. But now I am free from, anxiety for the excellent young man."

Clodwig seemed unable to cease talking of Eric; and as he recalled what

had passed, he was astonished at all that he had learned from him in so

short a time; pointing to an apple-tree in blossom, he exclaimed: "Look

at that tree in bloom, which when shaken covers every one with

blossoms, and yet its richness is unimpaired. Such is this Dournay."

Bella replied, that it must be a hard task for a man who was so spoken

and thought of to live up to the standard expected of him.

"May not such pleasure in imparting," she asked doubtfully, "be an

exaggerated self-esteem or pure vanity?"

"O no! this young man does not wish to make a show; he only wishes that

no moment of existence may be utterly wasted. He lets his active spirit

work, and he must take satisfaction in the notice and sympathy of

others; without this satisfaction, the pleasure of imparting would be

impossible. That is the faith which removes mountains of prejudice."

"Faith?" said Bella, smiling beforehand at her own nice distinction,

"it seems to me rather like the permanent embalming of a want of

faith." He very zealously endeavored to show how this was, rather, the

difficult and painful transmission of one's life.

He spoke long and eagerly. Bella appeared to listen, but hardly heard

what he said; she smiled to herself at the old diplomatist, who had

something incomprehensibly child-like, almost childish, about him. She

threw her head back proudly, conscious of her inflexible virtue, which

was strongly armed even against her husband, who wished to bring her

into constant intercourse with a young man so richly endowed.

In the mean time Eric had ridden on through the wood, filled with fresh

animation by the happy chance which had befallen him. He took a firm

hold of his horse's bridle, full of that confident spirit to which

every undertaking seems sure of success, or, at least, of only short

and temporary failure. He congratulated himself on the good fortune

that had helped him to win so easily and entirely a man of refined

character, who was evidently somewhat cautiously reserved towards most

men.

He had left his past life on the mountain behind him, and a new one was

beginning. Smiling, he thought, The heroes of old must have felt in my

mood, when they knew that they were under the protection of one of the

gods of Olympus.

At a turn in the wood he stopped, and, taking Clodwig's unsealed letter

from his pocket, read as follows:

"A neighbor's greeting to Herr Sonnenkamp, at Villa Eden.

"Had Fate granted me a son, I should consider it as a completion of the

great blessing, to be able to give him this man as a tutor.

"CLODWIG, COUNT VON WOLFSGARTEN.

WOLFSGARTEN CASTLE, May 4, 186-."

Eric set spurs to his horse, and rode gaily on through the wood, where

birds were singing amid the fresh young leaves. As he passed through

the village, he saw at the window of the Rath-haus, behind blooming

wall-flowers, a rosy, fair-haired maiden, who drew back quickly as he

bowed to her. He would have liked to turn his head to see whether she

was looking after him, but he did not venture to do so.

After a little while, it occurred to him that he was very vain to

believe that this lingering behind the flowers concerned him at all;

Lina had undoubtedly expected to see Baron von Pranken, when she heard

his horse approaching.

Eric was now riding along the river-bank in the valley. He was so full

of cheerfulness, that songs rose to his lips as they had not done for a

long time; he did not give them voice, but sang them in his soul. The

whole fulness and variety of thought, perception, and feeling were

stirring in his heart. As he saw the sun shining on the glass dome of

Villa Eden, it struck him like a lightning flash,--

Why is such a free, delightful existence denied me? why must I labor in

the service of others? Then came the thought. But what should I do with

such an indolent, selfish life? Then the riddle presented itself, How

is one to educate a wealthy boy?

And so strangely are thoughts associated in the human mind that Eric

felt, not that he could solve this riddle, but that he could understand

how the ancients had represented the idea of enigmatical questioning

and the riddle under the form of the Sphinx.

Then again came the inquiry, How can one educate a rich boy, who knows

that an estate like that, and untold wealth, are to be his, and who

sees no need for exertion in the life before him?

Eric had been looking down; now he threw back his head and smiled as he

thought, Neither pupil nor tutor is a mere abstract idea; both are

living, variously endowed beings. Such questions can receive no general

answer, and all riddles are like stormy weather out of doors, that,

seen through the dim atmosphere from the shelter of a house, seems

intolerable, but once out in the midst of it, one feels refreshed.

All his puzzling doubts and speculations seemed cleared away, and he

felt ready armed to wrestle with the problem. "Come on, riddle, I am

ready for you," he said almost aloud, and rode on at a quick trot.

In the midst of his doubts and thoughts a pleasant smile suddenly

spread over his face. He wondered whether he were not under some spell,

and all the frolicsome humor of youth came over him as he uttered aloud

a letter which he would write to his mother.

"DEAR MOTHER:

"You must let yourself be named Frau Adventure, for your son, Doctor

Adventure, Captain Hero, in the midst of railway cars and telegraphs,

has fallen upon Dream-land, where he is fed upon the sweet-bread of

praise, and the sugared almonds of protection, by a pair of spirits who

watch over the Holy Grail. He is now seated on a bay horse, and has the

magic word sesame of a sage hermit in his pocket, and all things come

at his bidding, and each says, 'Heart, what dost thou desire?' Dear

mother, if you want a quiet little island, only say so; I have

innumerable ones to dispose of.

"And there's a postscript, dear mother. Suppose the millionaire,

towards whom I am riding, should be Uncle Adam? That would make the

fairy tale complete."

At the thought that this fanciful conjecture might be a probability,

Eric stopped short. Then he rode briskly along the broad road, on each

side of which grew great nut-trees, dropping their caterpillar-like

blossoms on the path. The horse trotted on bravely, his black mane

flying in the wind as the rider lifted his cap to let the fresh air

cool his hot brow.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

A MORNING IN EDEN.

The boats sail up and down the river, the railway trains move on this

side and on that, and persons from all countries, and in every relation

of life, get refreshment from the view.

There thou wouldst like to dwell, many a one thinks, and to pass away

thy days in the regular and constant enjoyment of nature, and in

voluntary labor, solitary, or in the society of congenial persons.

The banks of the Rhine have the appearance of being charming seats of

repose, while they also furnish enough of stirring life. The high-road

of intercourse with the world lies before the very threshold of the

house; and from the midst of solitude, every hour can unite itself with

the great world's varied and bustling activity.

Cheerful towns and villages along the banks, with their castles and

vineyards, their beautiful and well-kept country-seats, are everywhere

seen, forming an almost unbroken chain.

From town to town, and from house to house, stories are narrated of the

narrow escapes of the inhabitants, who saved themselves with resolute

strength from the ingulfing flood, or with the last energy of despair

reached the shore, many being dashed with violence upon the bank.

He who comes an entire stranger from abroad, and makes his home here,

can feel assured that it is at his option to cultivate an acquaintance

with the old residents, or to remain by himself. The continual current

of strangers, coming and going, allows him who remains to abide in

complete isolation.

Whose is that beautiful country-house yonder, which looks to the

passer-by, with its tower gleaming from a distance, like a white swan

nestling in the green bank? Travellers on the boats passing up and down

the river often ask this question, and receive the reply, that the

villa is called Eden, and that it is a real Eden, as far as one can

judge from the outside, for it is all shut up and guarded, with

spring-guns and steel traps the whole length of the garden walls. The

servants have permission to show the house and park only when the owner

is away on a journey, and then they take in a great deal of money.

One praises the wonderful stables with marble mangers; another, the

hot-houses all in bloom; a third, the beautiful arrangement of the

interior of the house; a fourth, the fruit-garden and the park, each

one according to his own peculiar taste. The owner is a rich American,

who has built this house, laid out the shady park, and changed the

half-swampy, ragged, and uneven meadow, extending down to the river,

into a fruit-garden that bears fruits of a size and beauty never before

seen in this region. He was rebuilding, too, the ruined castle there on

the height.

And what is the name of this man?

Sonnenkamp. Almost all his servants are foreigners; he visits only a

few persons in the vicinity, and seldom receives any one as a guest; no

one knows, indeed, who he is, or what he is. He has the finest horses,

but he, his wife, and a female companion drive and ride out together,

only at some convenient point to turn back again on the public highway.

On the morning that Eric rode to the villa, a large, thick carpet was

laid by servants in morning livery on the west side upon the extensive

gravelled square. A round table with green damask covering was placed

near a many-colored pyramid of fragrant flowers, and on the table was

afterwards set a large, ground crystal vase, with artistically arranged

flowers and bouquets, and plates for four persons.

A side-table was placed near a blossoming copse of laburnums and

variegated lilacs, and on it a large silver tea-urn with lighted lamp.

A thin vapor soon went up from the urn. Two great rocking-chairs were

put in suitable places near by.

A young man who stood aside, taking no part in the arrangement, looked

out upon the landscape, where one could enjoy a view extending over the

fruit-garden and the fountain, in whose basin two pairs of swans were

swimming, over the meadows; and now he turned away from the prospect,

inspected the preparations, and with the words, "All right," withdrew

with the servants. The tea-urn steamed, and the chairs and table seemed

to be awaiting the company.

A pert finch alighted upon the back of one of the rocking-chairs, and

whistled to his little mate in the trees: "that was a fine set-out, and

he would like, if he could, to do the same for his little ones."

The forward, impudent young father was, however, soon scared away, for

at the sound of approaching footsteps he started, and carelessly flew

directly over the hissing urn, whose vapor seemed to scald him, and to

change his course, so that he almost grazed the hat on the head of the

man who now came in.

The man limped a little with his right leg, but lie knew how to

disguise it so that this limping toned down the formidable impression

of his powerful, athletic frame.

He was a large, broad-shouldered man, in a well-fitted summer suit, and

a white neck-cloth with a standing shirt-collar after the English

fashion. The man of Herculean frame seemed to do all he could to

reduce, lessen, and soften the effect of it; but the finest garments

could do this only in a small degree. He wore a broad-brimmed straw

hat, so that at a short distance but little could be seen of his shaded

face. The young man who had superintended the arrangements a short time

before, bearing a large portfolio, followed the strong man. The man in

the straw hat had sat down in the rocking-chair, which, together with

the portfolio, was made ready for him.

Removing the straw hat, which the valet Joseph at once took, he stroked

his smoothly-shaven, prominent chin with his large, fleshy hand, on

whose thumb, strange to say, was a ring like a single link of a chain,

a golden hoop with iron in the middle.

The man is Herr Sonnenkamp. His reddish face had deeply marked lines,

and over his broad brow a lock of gray hair was combed down. There was

a more than ordinary breadth between the bristling eyebrows, giving to

them the appearance of having been forcibly rent asunder. Whoever saw

this countenance once could never forget it.

The deeply-set, light-blue eyes had an expression of determination and

shrewdness; the shoulders were broad and somewhat round; the nose was

large, but not without a character of nobleness; the mouth was somewhat

curved with imperious disdain. The whole countenance was worn and

anxious, but a domineering energy was visible in all its traits.

The impression at the first was, that one would not like to have

this man for an enemy. "Hand here," he now said, taking out of his

vest-pocket a ring on which were suspended some very small keys.

Joseph held the portfolio in the most convenient position for

Sonnenkamp to unlock, and then took out the letters it contained.

Sonnenkamp speedily arranged them, placing together those with a

foreign stamp, and by the side of them a large pile having an inland

postage mark. Joseph now laid down the hat and the portfolio upon the

empty rocking-chair, and with his ready scissors cut every envelope.

Herr Sonnenkamp quickly ran over the opened letters, and put them

aside. He only looked at the seal and address of some of the inland

ones, and directed that they should be placed again in the portfolio;

he put two of the foreign in his pocket, and, placing the rest back

with his own hand, locked the portfolio.

The folding-doors of the terrace were opened, and Herr Sonnenkamp rose,

taking from the chair his broad straw hat. Two female forms appeared on

the terrace. One, tall, with a long, pale, sad face, wore a morning cap

with deep-red ribbons; and a flaming red shawl; the other was a small,

pretty figure, with sharp, bloodless features, piercing brown eyes, and

coal-black hair lying flat upon the head; she was one of those

countenances that have plainly never been youthful, and to which

advancing age can do no harm. Her dress was of black silk, and she had

suspended from her neck a mother-of-pearl cross that glistened and

shone upon her breast.

Herr Sonnenkamp had that American trait, including in itself so much

that is good, of respectful courteousness and considerate care toward

his own household and relatives; he went to meet the two ladies at the

steps, nodded pleasantly to the lady in black, and extending his hand

to the lady in the red shawl, asked in a kindly tone after her health,

using the English language.

The lady, Frau Ceres, did not deem it necessary to make any reply. She

went to her seat at the breakfast table, and a female attendant

immediately placed a shawl over her lap, and a waiter pushed under her

feet a cushioned footstool.

The lady in black, Signora Boromea Perini, went to the side-table, and

took with a spoon from the tea-canister, which a servant held, the

requisite measure of tea.

"Where is Roland?" inquired Frau Ceres, in a listless tone.

"He will soon be here," answered Sonnenkamp, and made a sign to have

him sent for. Fraeulein Perini brought the first cup to Frau Sonnenkamp,

to whom it appeared too great an exertion to pour in a couple of drops

of milk. In a very subdued tone, Herr Sonnenkamp asked, "Will you eat

anything, dear child?"

Frau Ceres sipped a spoonful, then half a one, and looked about, as if

spent with the effort. It seemed to be a burden to her to be obliged to

sip the tea herself.

"Where is Roland?" she inquired again. "It is inexcusable that he is so

irregular. Did you not say something, Madame Perini?"

"Nothing, my gracious lady."

Herr Sonnenkamp remarked in a very mild, pacifying tone, if she would

endure it patiently a little longer, Roland would receive, it was to be

hoped, a tutor at last who would bring him under the proper discipline.

He then spoke of the letter which Otto von Pranken had written to him.

At the mention of this name, Fraeulein Perini let a biscuit fall into

her cup, and busied herself in fishing it out again, while Sonnenkamp

added that he should read no more applications, until he had become

acquainted with the person recommended by Herr von Pranken.

"Is the man one of the nobility?" asked Frau Ceres.

"I do not know," replied Sonnenkamp, though he did know very well; "he

is a captain."

Frau Ceres, without saying anything, determined within herself to wait

until this question of nobility was settled.

Fraeulein Perini, feeling that she must speak for Frau Ceres as if

knowing what she thought, looked at her smilingly and observed, "One

seldom meets with so perfect a chevalier as the Baron von Pranken, at

least not in Germany; even more than the countess Bella he has----"

"I pray you," Herr Sonnenkamp here interposed, and his countenance had

the expression of a bull-dog trying to be tender, "I pray you not to

praise others at the expense of the countess; the ladies are bewitched

with Herr von Pranken, and for my part, I am with the countess Bella."

Frau Ceres gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, and

held the gold spoon pressed to her lips. He boasts of being fascinated,

she rightly thought, and it is only for the sake of making a

complimentary speech.

"But where can Roland be?" she suddenly exclaimed, and pushed against

the footstool so that the table shook, and everything upon it rattled.

The servant, entering, said that Roland would not come to breakfast, as

he did not wish to eat anything to-day, but to remain with Nora, who

had five puppies.

"Then tell him," rejoined Sonnenkamp, and his countenance flushed a

dark red even to the roots of his thin hair,--"then tell him that if he

does not instantly come, I will have all the five young ones

immediately drowned in the Rhine."

The servant hastened out, and a beautiful youth, clothed in blue

velvet, soon made his appearance; he was pale, and his finely cut lip

quivered. He had evidently gone through a hard struggle.

The boy was tall and slender, and his features were strikingly

beautiful, delicately regular as if chiselled. He took off his

jockey-cap, and showed his dark brown hair, well arranged in thick

curls about his forehead.

"Come to me," said his mother, "and kiss me, Roland, you look so pale;

is anything the matter with you?"

The boy kissed his mother, and, shaking his head as if denying that

anything ailed him, said in a voice hovering between a falsetto and a

bass, "I am as well as my young dogs."

A deep color dyed his cheeks, and his lips became purple.

"I do not wish to punish you on the day that you receive your tutor,"

said Sonnenkamp, casting a glance toward his wife.

"I? a tutor again? no tutor for me," replied the boy; "and if you give

me one, I will soon make him take his leave."

Sonnenkamp smiled. This bold, defiant attitude of the boy seemed

specially to delight him. When Roland, who had just declined all food,

ate now heartily, his mother followed his example; in the satisfaction

of knowing that her son had so good an appetite, she also found one, so

that Fraeulein Perini could not refrain from remarking to Roland,--

"See, Master Roland, how on your dear mother's account you should come

regularly at meal-time, for she can only taste food when you also

partake of it."

The boy gave Fraeulein Perini a peculiar look, but made no reply; there

seemed to be no good understanding between the boy and the companion of

his mother. Fraeulein Perini, however, showed her friendliness toward

the boy, promising to pay a visit with him to the young dogs after

breakfast.

"Do you know why dogs are born blind?" asked Roland.

"Because God has so ordained it."

"But why has God ordained it?"

Fraeulein Perini looked puzzled at this question, and Herr Sonnenkamp

came to her help, saying that he who was continually asking the reason

why would never accomplish anything, and that Roland had fallen into

this way of constant questioning, because he was not willing to learn

anything thoroughly.

The boy looked down. A certain sullenness or dulness, perhaps both,

appeared in the expression of his face.

Frau Ceres left the breakfast table, seated herself in a rocking-chair,

and contemplated her long, delicate, almond-shaped nails.

Herr Sonnenkamp told her what a number of letters in German, French,

and English he had received in answer to his advertisement; the

candidates had generally enclosed their photographs, and rightly, for

personal appearance was significant.

Frau Ceres listened like one who is sleepy, sometimes closing her eyes.

When Sonnenkamp remarked how much misery there was in the world, a

constant looking for a perfect success, to which every man believes

that money is the one thing needful, she threw upon him a sidelong

glance of surprise, apparently not comprehending how any one could

live, and be destitute of means.

Fraeulein Perini, the companion, was a useful mediator; she knew how,

while Frau Ceres remained apparently or really quite inattentive, to

keep up the conversation with short questions, or remarks, as she

occasionally looked up from her embroidery and cast a glance, the real

convent glance, shy but benignant, upon Herr Sonnenkamp. In this way

Frau Ceres could listen, without exerting herself to join in the

conversation.

Fraeulein Perini seemed to serve Herr Sonnenkamp as a person upon whom

he could practice politeness; and they stood in the most courteous

relation to each other. He would, in fact, have been glad to dismiss

her long before, but she was fastened upon him like the rheumatism-ring

which he wore on his left thumb.

Frau Ceres was always carefully waited upon by Fraeulein Perini; never

alone, she had a constant companion and attendant, and when they drove

out, Herr Sonnenkamp always left the seat next his wife to Fraeulein

Perini, riding backwards himself. He could not be rid of her, and it

was best to treat her with polite consideration. Besides, she had many

excellent qualities, and best of all, no whims; she was always

even-tempered, never put herself forward, and always had an opinion,

which generally was one that caused no discussion. She never appeared

offended; if she was overlooked, she seemed not to notice it; or if

drawn into conversation, she was agreeable, and even witty; she was

always ready to help, to do for and to meet others, and never talked of

herself.

Every morning, summer and winter, she went to church, and was always in

order, as if ready for a journey at an hour's notice; she knew where

everything was in the house, and was never in the way in travelling.

She was always busy with embroidery, and there was no church for miles

around which had not an altar-cloth, or some part of the decoration, of

her work.

She spoke all the continental languages with ease, except German, which

she said she never could learn. Sonnenkamp was convinced, however, that

she understood it perfectly, and that her want of comprehension was

only a mask whose object it was easy to see.

Her relations with Roland were peculiarly distant. She treated him as

the young master of the house, but concerned herself no further about

him, even declining his father's proposal that she should instruct him

in the languages. She never stepped out of the circle that appeared

marked out for her; after being Manna's governess, she became wholly

and exclusively the companion of Frau Ceres; and this was a most safe

and honorable position.

The more Herr Sonnenkamp spoke of the recommendation of Herr von

Pranken, so much the more attentive Fraeulein Perini seemed to become,

but she did not utter a single word; but when Herr Sonnenkamp asked her

what had been her feelings when she was first introduced to the family

at Nice, she answered, "I had the happiness to be introduced to you by

my noble guardian, the Dean."

Roland was impatient and beckoned to Fraeulein Perini to go with him:

but Sonnenkamp requested her to remain with the mother, and in order to

manifest some sympathy in his son's joy, he himself accompanied him.

Roland was the only one whom the dog allowed to come near her; and when

Herr Sonnenkamp ventured it, she growled, and snapped at him with her

teeth. He was very angry, but he restrained himself and went away.

Roland brought his cross-bow and shot at the doves and sparrows in the

courtyard. Suddenly the boy left off. A horseman, with horse well in

hand, galloped up to the gate.

CHAPTER II.

THE ARROW CAUGHT.

"Shoot away, my boy, I'll catch the arrow!" the rider called from his

horse, and the boy stood still, as if he had seen a miracle. Eric had

heard much of Roland's beauty, but he was astonished at the charming

grace of his figure. The boy's whole being seemed strained with

amazement and excitement, like the bow which he held bent in his hand.

The rider feasted his eyes on the picture. Roland's head was bare, his

jockey-cap lay near him on a great dog resting at his feet, and just

raising his head as if to ask whether he should start up and drive the

stranger away.

"Shoot away! Fire!" cried the rider, in a commanding tone. "Have you no

courage?"

The arrow whizzed from the bow, the rider bent sideways and caught it

with a sure hand.

"Either you are a bad marksman, or you tried not to hit me!" he

exclaimed.

Astounded and motionless, with his bow lowered, the boy gazed at him

while he was approaching and dismounting, and then asked,--

"Can you be the hero Siegfried?"

"Ah! then you know about him," replied Eric, gaily. "No, my young

friend." He offered his hand to Roland, who seized it.

"Hero Siegfried wore no uniform with a red collar. But now help me to

dispose of my horse."

"It is like one of Count Wolfsgarten's horses."

"It is his."

"Ivan!" shouted the boy.

A groom appeared and led the horse to the stable. As Eric and Roland

followed, they heard from behind a partition near by a whining, and a

weak attempt at barking.

"You have some young St. Bernard dogs close by," said Eric.

"Yes; do you know them by their whimper?"

"I can't tell the particular breed in that way. I saw a St. Bernard dog

out there in the court; but I know by the sound that these puppies are

blind and not a week old."

The boy looked at Eric as if he were a magician; he opened a door, but

begged him to go no nearer, because the mother was very savage, and was

just then suckling all the five young ones. Eric did approach her,

however, and she looked at him without growling, and again the boy

gazed at the stranger in astonishment.

"_You_ can certainly tell me why dogs are born blind," he began.

Eric smiled. A boy who asks questions is desirous of instruction and

ready for it; it is only necessary to put things before him which will

lead him to question.

"Not only dogs," replied Eric, "but cats, eagles, and hawks come into

the world blind. It may be that those animals which need sharp eyes for

their support and protection have a gradual development of the power of

sight, so that they do not see the light, as the saying is, all at

once. Man even, though he opens his eyes at his birth, has no real

power of sight at first; he has to learn to see during his first year.

Man, like the brute, learns to use his limbs in his earliest years, but

one thing the brute wants, he can never acquire articulate speech."

A thrill passed over the boy as he listened to the stranger, whose

words again had a tone of strangely magnetic power. In the excited

state in which Eric had been for two days, and which reached its height

at this moment, it seemed to him as if he were acting out a fairy tale,

or one of those dreams in which one says to himself, in the wonder of

the dream-life, "Wake up, you are certainly dreaming!" There was

something which gave him a sense of being merely a spectator of his own

life, though he knew that he was actually living it. He compelled

himself to collect his thoughts, and said at last,--

"You are the son of Herr Sonnenkamp, are you not? and your name is

Roland?"

"Roland Franklin Sonnenkamp; what is yours?"

"Eric Dournay."

The boy started; he thought he had heard the name within a few days,

but was not quite sure.

"You are a Captain of Artillery, sir?" said he, pointing to the

uniform.

"I have been. Then you know the different uniforms, my boy."

"Yes; but Herr von Pranken doesn't speak to me so familiarly."

"I think we had better both keep up the familiar manner that we began

with," answered Eric, holding out his hand to the boy. Roland's hand

was cold, all his blood had rushed to his head. The boy was surprised

and taken captive in spite of himself.

"If you like," he began again, "you can have one of my puppies. Two I

mean to keep; one I shall bring up for my sister Manna; Baron von

Pranken is to have the fourth, and you may have the fifth."

His face beaming with satisfaction, Eric looked at the boy; this

pleasure in giving showed that there was something good to build upon.

"Perhaps you know that in Homer the host does honor to a guest by

bestowing some gift as a token of remembrance."

"I know nothing about Homer."

"Have none of your tutors told you anything of him?"

"All of them. They made a great talk about him, but it's stupid."

Eric led the conversation back, and asked, "Who helps you train the

dogs?"

"One who knows all about it, the huntsman Klaus, whom they call the

screamer; he will be pleased when I tell him that you knew how old the

puppies were by their whimper."

Eric nodded. A boy like this might easily be guided to knowledge, if

one could once get the lead.

Eric now asked Roland to conduct him to his father. As they were about

to leave the stable, a snow-white pony with long mane turned his head

quite round and neighed.

"That is my Puck," said Roland. He was evidently very happy in showing

the stranger all his treasures, almost like a little child who displays

a toy for the wonder of his playmate. Eric could not but praise the

beautiful creature, which looked at him with great, wild, shy eyes.

He took the boy's hand, and they went together through the large

botanical garden.

"Do you know about plants too?" asked Roland.

"No, I'm quite ignorant about them."

"So am I," said the boy, delighted; Eric's acknowledgment of an

ignorance which coincided with his own seemed to bring them nearer to

each other.

They passed over a plat where men were weeding and putting the ground

in order. A little old man, with a shy but shrewd look, was at work; he

took off his cap, and said good-morning. "Have you seen my father?"

asked Roland. "He is over there," replied the little man, pointing

toward the green-houses.

The long green-houses, constructed of pale-blue glass, came in sight. A

door stood open, within which a fountain was to be seen, in whose gray

marble basin lay blocks of stone with water plants growing in all their

crevices. Some of the trees which needed protection from the winter

were still here, and a few which did not thrive had thick wrappings on

trunk and branches.

They heard a voice. "There he is in the cold-house," said Roland. Eric

told him to turn back now, as he had something to say to his father

alone.

The boy stood as if rooted to the spot. In Eric's manner of ordering

him to go, there was an air of such irresistible authority that he did

not know what to make of it.

As Eric went forward, the boy stood motionless, then turned, snapped

his fingers, and whistled to himself.

Drawing a long breath, Eric stopped a moment to collect himself. What

if this boy were related to him by blood, and he were to find here his

missing uncle? Walking slowly and composedly, he entered the open door

of the green-house.

CHAPTER III.

THE FLAG IS HOISTED.

"Who's there? what do you want?" was asked by a form as it raised

itself up from a bed of black earth. A coarse, gray, sacklike linen

garment covered the form from head to foot; it was like that worn by

convicts, or rather, by the insane.

"What do you want? who are you? whom do you wish to see?" the man again

asked.

"I wish to see Herr Sonnenkamp."

"What do you want of him?"

"I would like to introduce myself to him."

"I am he. Who are you?"

"My name is Eric Dournay. Herr von Pranken had the kindness, day before

yesterday, to--"

"Ah! are you the man?" Sonnenkamp replied, drawing a long breath. With

trembling hands he unfastened the linen sack which he wore over his

coat, saying, with a forced smile, "You have surprised me in my

working-garb."

Rolling the sack together, and tossing it away, he said, "Was no

servant at hand? Do you always wear a uniform?"

It was the uniform then that gave him such a start, thought Eric. And,

on looking at the man, he was sure that he could not be his uncle. The

likeness of his missing uncle, which still hung in his father's study,

was present to his mind; it represented him as a slim, delicate form,

with a very prominent aquiline nose, and no trace of resemblance to

this athletic personage before his eyes.

"I am very sorry for having disturbed you," Eric resumed, convinced

that the first impression had been an unfavorable one. "I beg you

indeed to excuse me," he stammered out; "the Count von Wolfsgarten,

whose guest I have been, and from whom I bring to you a letter of

recommendation, has--"

"A letter from Count Wolfsgarten? Very welcome. I am very glad to see

you," replied Sonnenkamp, taking the letter.

"We have met very unexpectedly--there was no reason for

suspecting--prejudice as men--I mean--constraint--"

Sonnenkamp's tone had wholly changed; it had become gentle, kind,

almost tenderly beseeching.

He hastily ran his eye over the lines written by Clodwig, and then said

in a low tone,--

"I am very glad,--very welcome."

Looking, up from the letter, he made a sort of bow to Eric, and, as if

sure of acquiescence, remarked, "a nobleman--just what a nobleman ought

to be--is the Count Wolfsgarten. Do you stand as high in favor with the

Countess Bella?"

There was a touch of sarcasm in the tone of this last question.

Eric answered with an unmoved tone and look, "I am happy to enjoy

equally the favor of husband and wife."

"Fine, very fine," Sonnenkamp resumed. "But let us go out into the open

air. Are you a botanist too?"

Eric regretted that he had always neglected to extend his knowledge in

this direction.

Out in the open air, Sonnenkamp again surveyed the new-comer from head

to foot. Eric now for the first time noticed, that wholly forgetting

his military attire, he had taken off his cap. And when he perceived

the look with which he was surveyed, he realised what was the meaning

of private service, to give up one's self with his whole personal being

to the dominion of an individual.

In Sonnenkamp's survey there was something which made Eric feel as if

he were in a slave-market; and when Sonnenkamp stretched out his hand

with a peculiar gesture, it seemed as if he were about to take hold of

his chin, open his lips, and examine whether his teeth were all sound.

Eric shook his head at this strange fancy, and proudly stood erect,

feeling, that he must maintain his own ground steadily in the presence

of this man.

Sonnenkamp immediately gave orders to a servant near by to get

breakfast ready at the fountain.

"Did you come on horseback?" he asked.

"Count Wolfsgarten was kind enough to furnish me with a horse."

"You have already spoken with my son?"

"Yes."

"I am glad that you came in uniform," Sonnenkamp said, making no

further inquiries of Eric what he thought of the boy.

As if Eric were only a distinguished, well-recommended visitor,

Sonnenkamp now exhibited to him the object of his greatest pride. This

was a perfect collection of heaths, such as is rarely to be found. He

discoursed upon the nice distinctions in the different varieties, and

added: "I have been where the greater part of these heaths originated,

the table-land of the Cape of Good Hope."

"I am sorry," said Eric, "that my mother is not here, for she would

take great delight in this magnificent display."

"Is your mother a botanist?"

"Our botanical professor used to boast of her proficiency; but she

takes great pains to avoid every appearance of being a blue-stocking.

It must be very difficult to keep together these productions of

different climates."

"Very difficult indeed. These Ericas require, at the same time, a

regular temperature and a uniform moisture. You may often have noticed

how some little heath-plant with its delicate blooms, which is sent to

a lady for a flowers-stand, becomes dry and brittle after a few days.

This little plant will not endure the dry atmosphere of a room."

Sonnenkamp suddenly stopped, and smiled to himself. This stranger

professed only an ordinary degree of knowledge in order to be

agreeable, and to let the rich proprietor branch out and be eloquent

about his darling hobby. I can't be taken by such coarse bait, thought

Sonnenkamp. "Will you be so good as to put this tub from the stand upon

the ground?" he said, pointing to a very large Erica.

A momentary glance made Sonnenkamp aware that Eric understood well

enough that the motive was to find out whether he knew how to make

himself serviceable, and how to keep a humble position.

Eric complied very readily with the request, but Sonnenkamp had

immediately made up his mind, in spite of Clodwig's warm

recommendation, not to receive this man into his house.

He had two reasons. The stranger had seen him, as no other person could

ever boast, utterly thrown off his balance, and must therefore be

removed from his sight; now it appeared that he must maintain a

respectful demeanor, which was rather irksome.

He would, in the meanwhile, show to one so well-recommended every

respectful attention. He took pleasure in thinking how he would test

the man in all points, allow him to unfold himself in the consciousness

of a certainty of being employed, and then dismiss him without

assigning any reason for doing so.

All this passed through Sonnenkamp's thoughts while he was turning

round to lock the green-house door. The thing was as surely and as

firmly fixed in his mind as the door was surely and firmly looked.

"Do you speak English?" he asked, seeing his wife still sitting in the

rocking-chair; she had taken off the red shawl, and as she sat there,

her satin dress had a rich golden lustre.

"Captain, Doctor, I beg your pardon, what name?" said Sonnenkamp, in

introducing him.

"Dournay."

Frau Ceres gave a hardly perceptible nod, and, as if there were no one

else present, said in a peevish tone to her husband, that he paid no

attention to her, and had not said a single word to her about her new

dress. Sonnenkamp stood wholly at a loss to know what was the meaning

of this unexpected sally of his wife. Did she think it was a mark of

high-breeding to show the stranger such a degree of indifference? She

was not diplomatic enough for that. He turned, and as if apologising,

remarked to Eric that his wife loved gay colors.

In a tone of strict truth, Eric replied that he entirely coincided with

the gracious lady; that gay colors were in keeping with external

nature; and that people ought to be sunny and bright like the flowers.

Frau Ceres smiled at this friendly turn, and Eric continued in the same

strain, that it was a lamentable effect of the style of conversation

employed in society, that the expression even of a truth should be

regarded as mere civility and flattery, whenever it struck pleasantly

upon the ear; that words were deprived of their real meaning, and

people accustomed themselves to advance ideas which neither the speaker

nor the hearer actually believed; that our manner of talking in society

was like a card of invitation to an evening party, in which eight

o'clock was specified as the hour, when half past nine was meant; and

he who went at eight only brought the hosts into a dilemma.

Frau Ceres looked from Eric to her husband, and from her husband to

Eric, and as no one said anything, Eric continued, briefly pointing out

how colors in dress harmonised with the natural environment. But he

soon perceived that he was going too far in this exposition, and he

added that the attire of ladies approached nearer to the ethereal

bright plumage of the birds.

His mother now beckoned to Roland, who appeared in the distance. He

pointed to the summit of the tower. The mother looked up and smiled;

and the father also smiled when he saw the flag of the American Union

floating from its top.

"Who did that?" asked Sonnenkamp.

"I," Roland answered, with a joyous smile.

"What is it for?"

The boy's visage changed, and he cast a side-glance toward Eric.

Sonnenkamp screwed his under lip between his thumb and fore-finger into

a half-circle, and nodded silently.

Eric had noticed the boy's glance, and his heart beat for joy. He asked

the boy.

"Are you very proud of being an American?"

"Yes."

Eric was introduced to Fraeulein Perini as she came up to them; grasping

the mother-of-pearl cross with her left hand, she made a very

ceremonious courtesy. Frau Ceres requested her to go with her to the

house. Sonnenkamp, Eric, and Roland remained by themselves.

CHAPTER IV.

THE BUYER EXAMINES WHAT IS OFFERED.

"Give me your hand, Roland," said Eric. The boy gave it, looking up

trustingly and joyfully.

"My young friend," Eric added, "I thank you for that testimony of

respect waving yonder; but now leave us, for your father wishes to

speak with me."

Father and son looked in amazement at the man who was giving his orders

in such a free and easy manner. The boy departed, Eric nodding to him

again.

After the two men were left by themselves, for a while no word was

spoken. Herr Sonnenkamp, who always carried his cigars loose in his

pocket, offered Eric a large, black, broken one, which he accepted and

lighted from the match Sonnenkamp held out to him, without taking it

into his own hand.

After drawing a few whiffs, he said,--"You will certainly agree with

me, that it is an impolite politeness for any one to insist on taking

the lighted match into his own hand; between this giving and taking,

one generally burns his fingers."

However insignificant this remark, it served for a beginning. Herr

Sonnenkamp leaned back in his chair, held the cigar-smoke for a long

time in his mouth, and then blew it out in perfect rings, which, as

they floated in the air, grew larger and larger until they vanished.

"You have great influence over the boy," he said, after a while.

"I think that the attraction is mutual, and this makes me hope that I

might succeed as the boy's tutor. Only love can educate, as love only

can create and form. An artist who does not love his calling can never

truly create. There are, indeed, many who love a child because they

give him instruction; but I can instruct only one whom I love."

"Fine, very fine,--noble. But Roland needs a strict hand."

"Love does not exclude but rather includes strictness; he who loves

requires perfection in himself, as well as in the object of his love,

and makes the highest demands."

Sonnenkamp nodded in a very friendly, even kindly manner; but there was

a sort of sneer upon his countenance, as looking down to the ground and

placing both hands upon his knees, he said:--

"We will speak now about personal matters; for things of that sort we

will find time by and by. You are a ----?"

"Philologist by profession; but I have devoted myself, by preference,

to practical education."

"I know that,--I know that," Sonnenkamp said, still looking down as he

spoke.

"I should like to know something about your personal history."

He did not look up, and Eric was deeply pained at the thought of being

obliged again to become his own biographer. He felt like a man who

speaks to a sober and cool listener after drinking with a set of boon

companions. He had unfolded himself freely and spontaneously to

Clodwig, the day before; and to-day he must do it in order to recommend

himself to a purchaser. And so it is! The seller must always say more,

and expatiate more upon his goods, than the buyer. Wealth was a

tyrannical power exhibiting itself under an entirely new form.

Eric, looking at the back of the man's head, and at his broad

neck,--for not a glance was vouchsafed him,--very soon lost all

sensitiveness as to his position of being a seeker after employment. He

was not the receiver, but the giver. A tone of self-respect breathed in

the words which he now uttered:--

"I offer you my free labor."

On hearing this, Sonnenkamp threw up his head quickly without changing

his position, cast a rapid glance upon the speaker, and let his head

immediately drop again.

"I mean," continued Eric, "that I offer to you and to your son all that

I am, and all the knowledge and science that I have made my own

hitherto. I look for no other reward than the free unfolding of my own

activity; and I have the feeling of freedom in doing this, since

whatever I may accomplish I accomplish also for myself, in bringing

that actually to pass which I have striven after, and which I have laid

down as a theoretical demand."

"I know what free labor is," Sonnenkamp said, looking towards the

ground. Then sitting upright, he added with a smiling countenance:--

"You are not dealing with a man of learning. I think we shall come

sooner to terms, if you will regard me as a common-sense man who only

wants to know the plain matter-of-fact."

"I had hoped," Eric replied, "that the introduction of Count von

Wolfsgarten--"

"I esteem highly the Count von Wolfsgarten, more highly than I do any

one else; but--"

"You are right; I will give you a personal explanation," Eric

interrupted.

Was it the cigar, or was it the painful position in which he felt

himself placed, that caused the sweat to start out upon Eric's

forehead? At any rate, he laid the cigar down, and perceiving with a

sort of surprise that he was wearing his uniform, began to explain

again that he had put it on, for that day, because Count Wolfsgarten

had advised him to do so.

Sonnenkamp again sat up wholly erect, feeling himself completely

fortified against this man, who, an entire stranger, had taken

possession of his house, his wife, his son, and thought even to

domineer over him, and make him a stranger in his own home. He would

let the applicant talk till he was tired.

"Go on, captain," he exclaimed, laying his right hand with the fingers

crooked upon the table, and then drawing it back again, as if he had

deposited a stake at play.

Eric had now become master of all his powers, and in a tone of cheerful

good humor, began in a wholly different style:--

"Excuse a scholar for not throwing off his scholastic method. In the

old poems, before the hero enters upon his career, the parents are

described; and although I am no hero, and what I have to unfold is no

record of personal prowess, yet allow me to give a preliminary account

of my father and mother."

Eric once more gave a brief and concise sketch of his life. Mindful of

Clodwig's advice not to say anything about his fancied mission to

educate convicts, an incident occurred to him, which he had, in an

incomprehensible way, wholly passed over before. He gave an account of

his once having had charge of a powder-mill. "I was driven away by a

revolting expression of my employer. From some cause never yet

explained, the mill blew up, and four men were killed. But what said my

employer when he reached the spot? Not one word of pity for the lost

men, but 'that it was a shame for so much good powder to be lost.'"

"What was the man's name?" asked Sonnenkamp.

Eric gave one of the most distinguished names of the principality, and

was not a little surprised to hear Sonnenkamp say, "A wonderful

man,--influential and powerful."

Eric found it difficult to continue his narrative with composure after

this incident, and ended by saying,--

"I beg that you will not regard me as a weak, restless person, for

having so often changed my calling."

"On the contrary," Sonnenkamp declared, "I have had experience enough

both in the old and new world, to teach me that the most capable people

are just those who determine for themselves upon their employment.

Whoever changes his calling must do so either from some external

necessity, or from real fitness for something else. Allow me to ask one

question. Do you believe it possible for a man who undertakes,

compelled by want or because he can find nothing better to do, some

employment, I do not like to call it a service, but a dependent

position--you know what I mean, but I am not familiar with the

German--is it possible for him to devote himself heartily to that

occupation? Will he not always feel himself bound, under obligation to

serve, and often ill at ease?"

"Your frank objection," Eric replied, "does me great honor. I know well

that the calling of an educator requires to be made supreme, from

morning until night. Nothing can be more desirable to me than to

perceive that you are as deeply interested in the matter as I could

wish."

Again a peculiar expression darted across Sonnenkamp's countenance; but

Eric, without appearing to perceive it, continued, in a voice full of

emotion, "It is not because I can find nothing better to do that I

apply for the position of tutor in your family. I agree with you, that

he who takes such a place merely from necessity can never fulfil its

duties, although I do not mean to assert, and unconditionally, that

inclination may not be developed, or as we say, that one may not make a

virtue out of necessity. My knowledge is not great, but I have learned

what one must do in order to learn, and therefore I think that I am

able also to instruct. As far as earnest sincerity of purpose is

concerned, I will yield to no one; and so far as I can judge, I venture

to say, that were I placed in the most favorable circumstances, I would

enter upon the calling of an educator in a spirit of freedom, with

joyful zeal."

"Right honorable, right honorable! go on!" Sonnenkamp interposed in

such a tone that Eric was somewhat confounded, hearing as he yet did,

in a measure, the echo of his own earnest utterance, now so strangely

interrupted. In a sort of triumphant tone, Sonnenkamp continued:--

"An amateur is all very well; but I prefer a man with a profession."

"I am entirely of the same opinion," Eric answered; "and I am amazed at

the good results practically secured in the new world, by adopting a

different course."

With constrained calmness he continued,--

"In regard to this matter, I have only one desire, and only one request

to make."

"And that is?"

Sonnenkamp again placed his hand upon the table as if he were laying

down a stake at play.

"I should like that you would not find it disagreeable to consider me

at first, for some days, a guest in your house."

Eric said nothing more, hoping that Sonnenkamp would answer at once in

the affirmative; but he cracked in two, abruptly, a cigar which he had

just lighted, and which did not seem to draw freely, and threw it away

into the shrubbery. His face became red again, and a mocking smile

played upon his lips, as he thought: "Very confident indeed! This young

man imagines that if he can only get a lodgment for a few days, he can

so bewitch every one that he will be deemed indispensable. We shall

see!"

As he maintained a persistent silence, Eric said:--

"It would be desirable as well for you as for me, before making a

permanent agreement, to know more of each other; and I especially

desire this on Roland's account."

Sonnenkamp smiled, and watched two butterflies chasing each other,

hardly giving any attention to Eric as he went on to state, that the

boy seemed to him in one respect too mature, and in another not mature

enough to be made acquainted with the selection of a tutor, and perhaps

to have a voice in it; therefore he must first know him as a guest in

the house, and afterwards as his tutor; also it was his own desire that

Roland should not know that his tutor received pay in money, or at

least, should not know the amount.

At the word money, Sonnenkamp seemed to come out of his

butterfly-gazing.

"What sum would you demand?" asked he, putting into his mouth a fresh

cigar that he had held for some time in his hand. Eric replied that it

was not for him, but for the father, to determine that.

Sonnenkamp brought his cigar to a glow with a few violent whiffs, and

with great unction declared how well he knew that no sum was large

enough to compensate adequately the painstaking duties of education and

instruction.

Then leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs, and holding on to

his left leg with the right hand, manifestly well satisfied with this

declaration of his noble sentiments, he said,--

"Would you be willing to give me an exposition in a few words of the

principles and method you must employ in the training of my son?"

"The method to be marked out in any particular case, the course I

should adopt in actual instruction, I myself do not as yet know."

"What! you yourself not even know that?"

"I must take my method from Roland himself, for it must be adapted to

the pupil's natural characteristics. Let me take an illustration from

your own surroundings. You see here the river. The boatmen have sounded

the bottom, and knowing where the shoal-banks are, keep well clear of

them. So must I, first of all, fathom, in the peculiar sense of that

word, the depths of Roland's nature."

Eric looking up continued:--

"Or let me take a yet more pertinent illustration. If you see that your

servants, in going from the house to the servants' quarters, take by

preference a short cut over a grass-plot artistically measured and laid

out, you will, if it is possible, give in to this beaten track, and not

obstinately adhere to your artificial plan, however correct it

may be, and however much in conformity with the principles of

landscape-gardening. You will adopt this natural foot-path as a part of

your plan. This is the method adapted to circumstances. Such

thoroughfares are found also in human beings."

Sonnenkamp smiled; he had, in fact, tried very hard, by means of

stringent prohibitions, to keep a bed of shrubbery in the middle of the

court-yard free from foot-passengers, and finally had laid out a

pathway through it.

"Agreed as to the method, but how about the principles?" He smiled with

self-satisfaction, for he perceived how nice a distinction he had

drawn. The man had made him conscious that, in an intellectual

struggle, he had here no mean antagonist.

"Here I must take a wider range," resumed Eric. "The great contest,

which runs through the history of humanity and the whole of human life,

shows itself in the most direct way in the training of one human being

by another; for here the two elementary forces confront each other as

living personalities. I may briefly designate them as individuality and

authority, or historic civilization and nature."

"I understand--I understand, go on!" was thrown in encouragingly by

Sonnenkamp, when Eric paused for a moment, anxious not to get lost in

generalities.

"The educator is necessarily the representative of authority, and the

pupil is a personality by the very endowment of nature," resumed Eric.

"There is continually then a balance to be adjusted between the two, a

treaty of peace to be made between the contending forces, which shall

at last become a real reconciliation. To train one merely as an

individual is to place a child of humanity outside of actual existence,

and for the sake of freedom to isolate him from the common life, and

make it burdensome to him; to subject him merely to prescribed laws is

to rob him of his inborn rights. The human being is a law to himself,

but he is also born into a system of laws. It was the great mistake of

Jean Jacques Rousseau, and the French Revolution, that in their

indignation at the traditions contradictory to reason, they thought

that an individual and an age could develop everything from themselves.

A child of humanity neither contains all within himself, nor can he

receive all from without. I think then that there is a mingling of the

two elements, and there must be an hourly and an imperceptible

influence exerted both from within and from without equally, inasmuch

as man is a product of nature and a product of history. It is through

the last, only, that man is distinguished from the beasts, and becomes

an heir of all the labors and all the strength of the past

generations."

Sonnenkamp nodded acquiescingly. His whole mien said, This man lays

down very aptly what he heard yesterday from the lecturer's desk; and

Eric continued,--

"Man alone comes into an inheritance, and an inheritance is the

heaviest human responsibility."

"That is something new to me. I should like to ask for a fuller

explanation."

"Permit me to illustrate: the beast receives from nature, from birth,

nothing except its individual strength and its stationary instinctive

capacity, while the human being receives from his progenitors and from

humanity a superadded strength which he has not in himself, but of

which he becomes possessor, and so he is the only inheritor. And let me

say further, that it is difficult to decide whether it is harder to

turn to good advantage that which a man is in himself, or that which he

may receive, as for example your son will, as an inheritance. Most

persons are of account only through what they possess. I consider this

last of no trifling importance, but--"

"Wealth is no sin, and poverty is no virtue," Sonnenkamp interrupted.

"I admit the depth and fineness of your perception in all this. I

confess it is new to me, and I think that you have taken the right

view. But whether, in the education of one individual boy, you shall

find occasion for such great fundamental principles--"

"While engaged in the work of instruction," Eric quietly replied, "I

shall not be likely to have directly before my eyes universal

principles, as everything must be developed from its own basis. While

one is loading, aiming, and firing off a musket, he does not define to

himself the various physical laws that come into play, but he must know

them in order to proceed in the right way."

Sonnenkamp was rather tired of this discussion; it was somewhat out of

his line, and he had the unpleasant consciousness, that while trying to

make an impression upon the stranger, he had himself been made to

appear infinitely small.

"Pardon, gracious sir," a groom interposed, as Eric was beginning to

expatiate anew. Sonnenkamp stood up hastily, and remarking that it was

time for his ride, with affable condescension he waived with his hand

the discussion to some other time.

He went quickly away. Roland came along the path, and called out,--

"I may ride out with Herr Dournay, may I not, papa?"

Sonnenkamp nodded, and departed with a hurried step. He mounted on

horseback, and was soon to be seen riding a spirited black horse along

the white high-road by the river. He made an imposing appearance as he

sat on horse-back; the groom followed him.

CHAPTER V.

A NEW PATRON AND A NEW TUTOR.

By Roland's direction his own pony had been saddled, and also a

horse for Eric. They mounted, and rode slowly through a part of the

village which joined the estate. At the very end of it stood a small

vine-covered house, with all the window-shutters closed. Eric asked who

owned it, and why it was shut up. Roland told him that it belonged to

his father, and that the architect, who built the villa, had lived

there, and sometimes his father also, when he came from Switzerland or

Italy during the building of the house, or the laying out of the park

and garden.

"Now for a good trot," said Eric; "take your bridle more firmly in your

left hand. Now!"

They started briskly, keeping side by side, but suddenly Eric's horse

shied and began to rear. Roland uttered a cry, but Eric reassured him,

saying, "I'll conquer him;" he drew his feet from the stirrups, and

rode off at such a pace that the horse was soon covered with foam and

quite submissive; then he rode back to Roland, who was waiting for him

in anxiety.

"Why did you throw off the stirrups?" he asked.

"Because I didn't want to hang by them if the horse fell backwards."

They rode on quietly near each other. Eric asked:--

"Which do you like best, to have some fixed object for your ride, or

simply to go over a certain distance, and then turn back?"

Roland looked puzzled.

"Didn't you understand my question?"

"Yes, perfectly."

"And what do you think?"

"I like to have some object, a visit to pay, at the end of my ride."

"I thought you would say so."

"Only think," said Roland, "they say I must have another tutor."

"Indeed."

"But I won't."

"What do you want?"

"I want to get away from home and go to a military school! Why should

Manna go to the convent? They always say that my mother can't eat

unless I am with her, but she'll have to eat when I'm an officer."

"Then you want to be an officer?"

"Yes, what else should I be?"

Eric was silent.

"Are you a nobleman?" asked the boy, after a pause.

"No."

"Shouldn't you like to become one?"

"We cannot make ourselves noblemen."

The boy played with his horse's long mane; glancing back, he saw that

the flag had been lowered from the tower. He pointed it out to Eric,

saying haughtily that he should hoist it again. His fine, delicately

cut, but pale face gained strength and color as it lost its weary look,

and assumed a daring expression.

Without noticing his domineering manner, Eric said how much he liked

Roland's pride in being an American.

"You are the first person in Germany who has commended it," cried the

boy joyfully. "Herr von Pranken and Fraeulein Perini are always

ridiculing America; you are the only man,--but I beg your pardon, I

ought not to be talking so familiarly to you."

"Put away that notion; we want to be good friends."

The boy held out his hand, and Eric pressed it warmly.

"See, our horses are good friends too," said Roland. "Have you many

horses at home?"

"No, not any; I am poor."

"Wouldn't you like to be rich?"

"Certainly, wealth is a great power."

Roland looked at him in surprise; none of his tutors had said that to

him; they had all represented wealth as a temptation and a vanity, or

had extolled it for the sake of flattering him.

After some time, in which the boy was evidently thinking about Eric, he

said, "Are you French, like your name?"

"No, I am a German, but my ancestors were French emigrants. How old

were you when you came to Europe?"

"Four."

"Have you any recollection of America?"

"No, but Manna has. I can only remember a song which a negro used to

hum, but I can't quite recall it, and nobody can sing it to me."

As they rode up the mountain, the little man, whom they had seen at

work in the garden, stood aside to let them pass, and greeted them

respectfully. They drew up, and Roland asked Nicholas, as the dwarf was

called, why he was going home so early.

The little man replied that he was going home now at noon, and then

into the wood to get some of the new earth which Herr Sonnenkamp had

found. Up in the wood was a spring which contained iron, and Herr

Sonnenkamp had dug down and found the earth also impregnated with iron.

In this earth he had planted hydrangeas, and the flesh-colored flowers

had changed to sky-blue.

The little man could not express all his wonder at Herr Sonnenkamp, who

knew everything, and how to turn everything to account; it was no

wonder that he had grown so rich, while stupid men might go all over

the world, where millions were to be had, without ever knowing it.

But the little man took especial delight in telling them of a simple

device of his master, who always mixed juniper leaves with the earth

where he planted seeds of fruit-trees, and in that way kept away worms

and mice.

As they rode on, Eric expressed his admiration for a man, who, like a

second Columbus, was still making new discoveries in a world which

seemed already explored and parcelled out. His readiness to appreciate,

from a single example, Herr Sonnenkamp's greatness in this direction

made Roland draw himself up in his stirrups, struck with surprise as he

thought of the subject. He had never before heard his father so

praised.

"Is there no one in the neighborhood whom you would like to call upon?"

"No--or--yes, the major--but he is now at the castle. But up there in

the village the huntsman Claus lives, he has our dogs----will you go

with me to see him? I must let him know how Nora's puppies are; he was

with me an hour before you came."

Eric readily assented, and they trotted up the gentle ascent, turned

into a side path, and dismounted before a small cottage. Dogs of

various kinds came round them and jumped upon Roland; Puck also seemed

to have friends; he played with a brown badger-dog. An old man came out

of the house and touched his cap with a military salute. He wore the

short, light-gray cotton jacket which is the easy and comfortable

everyday dress of the country people along the Rhine, and he was

smoking a clay pipe, on which a sort of Ascension of Napoleon was

painted in glaring colors.

The tone and manner with which Roland presented his new friend to the

huntsman, showed that he knew how to take an imperious tone toward his

inferiors.

"Off with your cap," said he to the screamer; "only think, the captain

knew by their whimper how old and of what breed Nora's puppies were,

before he had seen them."

"Yes, one can do that," replied the screamer in a very loud voice, "one

can do that. Dogs have their own peculiar whine and bark, according as

they belong to a knowing or a stupid race; and stupid people, too, cry

and complain quite differently from smart ones."

He cast a pleased glance upon Eric, and held his pipe in his hand for

some time.

"You are right," said Eric. "I see you have had much experience and

reflection."

"May be so," answered the huntsman.

He led the way into his house, and when Eric asked what saint it was

whose picture hung on the wall, he replied, laughing,--

"That is my only saint, it is Saint Rochus of the mountain yonder, and

I like him because he has a dog with him."

There were many bird-cages in the room, and such a twittering and

confused singing, that one could hardly hear himself speak. The old man

was very happy in explaining to Eric how he taught birds that lived on

beetles and caterpillars to eat seeds, and how he got maggots and

weevils also, and he complained of Roland's want of interest in the

feathered tribe.

"No, I don't like birds," the boy declared.

"And I know why," said Eric.

"Do you? why then?"

"You have no pleasure in the free-flying creatures which you cannot

make your own, and you don't like them imprisoned either. You like dogs

because they are free and yet cling to us."

The dog-trainer nodded to Eric, as if to say, "You've struck the nail

on the head."

"Yes, I do like you!" cried Roland, who had two young spaniels in his

lap, while the mother stood by and rubbed her head against his side,

and the other dogs crowded round.

"Envy and jealousy," said Eric, "are striking characteristics of dogs.

As soon as a man caresses one, all the rest want to share the favor."

"There's one that doesn't trouble himself about it," said the trainer,

laughing.

In the corner lay a small brown dog, that only blinked at them

occasionally. Eric remarked that it must be a fox-hound, to judge from

its appearance.

"Right, he understands dogs!" cried the screamer, turning to Roland.

"You are right! I got that fellow out of a fox-hole, and he is and

always will be an unfaithful and ungrateful beast, who is not to be

trusted; do what you will for him, he is never thankful nor

affectionate."

The dog in the corner just opened his eyes and shut them again, as if

he didn't disturb himself about the talk of men.

Roland showed Eric his ferrets, which seemed to know him as he took

them out of the cage. He pointed out a bright yellow one, as an

especially cunning, tough rascal; he had given him the name of

Buchanan. The name of the other he would not tell; it was really Knopf,

but now he only said that he called him Master of Arts, because he

always considered so long before he went into a hole, and moved his

lips as if he were delivering a lecture.

They went into the garden, and the huntsman showed Eric his bee-hives.

Turning to Roland, he said,--

"Yes, Roland, your father's flowers are good for my bees, if the poor

little creatures didn't have to fly so far down to reach your garden. I

let my cattle feed in other men's pastures, and the world hasn't yet

got so far that rich men can forbid poor men's bees to suck honey from

their flowers."

A sharp glance shot from his eyes as he said this, which expressed the

whole rankling hostility of the poor towards the rich. The keeper

complained that Sonnenkamp cherished so many nightingales, which

certainly sang beautifully, but robbed the bees of their honey, and

even ate the bees with the honey. The nightingale, which men prize so

highly, is a cruel murderer of bees.

"Yes," answered Eric, "the nightingales do not know that the bees give

honey, and we cannot blame the birds for considering them as plagues

for whose destruction men will be grateful. However, they do not eat

them altogether for our sakes but their own."

The screamer looked first at Eric, then at Roland, and nodded as if

saying, "Yes, yes, that's quite another thing."

Roland now asked how far Griffin had been broken in. The reply was,

that he would now run at the man, but he was still too wild, and his

leap not quite regular, but he was beginning to seize hold. Roland

desired to see him do it; but the day-laborer, who allowed himself to

be experimented upon in that way, was not at home. Roland said that the

dwarf was at home, and he would be ready to do it. He himself went

after the dwarf.

After Roland had gone, the huntsman, Claus, hastily grasped Eric's

hand, saying, "I will help you to catch him, and I can give the fellow

slick into your hand."

Eric gazed in utter astonishment at the old man, who proceeded to

inform him that he understood very well what he had come for, and

whoever knew how could make out of Roland a proper man. He signified by

a very sly wink that Eric would some day be exceedingly grateful to

him, if he should help him out.

Before Eric could make any reply, Roland came back with the dwarf, who

allowed a pillow to be fastened over his shoulders, and stationed

himself at the garden-fence, holding fast by the palings with both

hands. A large Newfoundland dog was let out of a kennel, and sprang

about awkwardly in all directions, but at a whistle from the keeper

stationed himself behind him.

The keeper now called out, "Griffin! catch him! At him!"

With a bound the dog-leaped through the garden at the dwarf standing by

the fence, jumped upon him, bit into the pillow, tugged at him until he

fell over, and then placed his right fore-foot upon his breast, looking

back at his master.

"Bravo! bravo! You see he is a real devil!"

"You are right!" exclaimed Roland. "Devil! that's just the name--Devil

he shall be called. Now they will be afraid of me all over the

neighborhood."

Eric was shocked at this insolent bravado as well as at the off-hand

application of the idea. He appealed to the trainer whether a dog's

name ought to be changed who had already cut all his teeth.

"Certainly not," asserted the man; "a dog whose name is changed don't

know when he is called."

"And besides," added Eric, "it is wholly wrong to give a dog such a

name. A dog's name ought to have an _a_ in it, and have only one

syllable; the letter _a_ can be called aloud very easily."

"You are a great scholar; I never heard of the like before; you know

everything;" the screamer went on in high commendation, winking at the

same time merrily, and with half-sidelong glances.

Devil--for Roland persisted in giving the dog this name--would not come

away from the dwarf, prostrate on the ground, although both Roland and

the trainer called to him repeatedly. That was not a part of his

lesson. He held on until the trainer showed his whip.

Roland gave the dwarf a piece of money, for which he was very abjectly

grateful, and only wished that he might be thrown down in that way

three times every day by the dog. Eric looked on meditatively. How was

this rich youth to be made to learn to love, labor for, and influence

the world which so laid itself at his feet?

When the two left the cottage, the trainer escorted them a part of the

way, followed by a whole pack of dogs. They led their horses by the

bridle, and the trainer, keeping exclusively by the side of Eric, made

an ostentatious display of his whole stock of wisdom concerning the

training of dogs. The huntsman considered himself infinitely clever,

and all learned men stupid.

He seemed also to wish, in a sly way, to instruct Eric, when he said to

him that as soon as a dog can stand without stumbling over his own

legs, a beginning could be made. And it was an all-important thing not

to say much to a dog, but to use short, simple words, such as "go!"

"come!" "here!" but never any long speeches; and one must not make much

of him, but leave him to himself for whole days; and if he wished to

make friends, not to mind it, for if one gives too much attention to a

dog he becomes troublesome; and any one whom a dog is to respect must

not be found wanting at the hunt, especially when the dog is taken out

for the first time; if one has shot any game that the dog can fetch, he

will be faithful and true, but if one misses, he acquires no respect,

and never gains over the dog.

"Do you know Herr Knopf?" the screamer asked abruptly. Eric answered in

the negative.

"Yes; Herr Knopf," said the screamer, "has told me a hundred times,

that all the school-masters ought to be under my tuition. Dogs and

human beings are just alike. But the dogs are the more faithful beasts,

and let themselves be broken in, and bite only when the master orders

them to."

Eric looked at the man in astonishment; there was in him an

inexplicable bitterness, and this man was the boy's friend. He returned

to their former topic, and the screamer chuckled when he said that

beasts acquire something of the understanding of the men they are with.

The huntsman was very merry, and when they were about to separate, on

reaching the level ground, he took Roland aside, and said to him:--

"Thou blustering fellow! all thy ramrod priests and school-masters have

been of no account. That would be the man! Thy father ought to buy such

a man as that, and then something might be made of thee. But all your

money can't get him!"

The screamer said this ostensibly to Roland alone, but Eric was also to

hear it, for he must know that he ought to be grateful to him.

Just as they mounted, the huntsman said further,--

"Do you know that your father is buying up the whole mountain? Cursed

accumulation! Your father is buying the whole Pfaffen-street." At the

same time, pointing to the far extending wide-spread Rhineland, he

said,--

"In a hundred years, not one handbreadth of all those vineyards will

belong to those who rake and dig there. Must that be? Can that be

allowed?"

A brisk trot carried them back to the villa; Eric had made up his

mind; at the very moment when Eric had said to himself, "It is your

duty not to abandon the boy," he saw in the garden, near the small

vine-embowered house, a female form which vanished round the corner.

Had he really seen his mother, or had she been only present to his

imagination?

Quicker than one can compute, the idea was formed in his mind, that

here his mother and his aunt were to dwell; this house with its little

garden, its dwarf-trees, and its beautiful prospect was made ready for

her.

"Did you see a woman there in the garden?" he asked Roland.

"Yes, it was Fraeulein Milch.

"Who is Fraeulein Milch?"

"The Major's housekeeper."

CHAPTER VI.

THE BREAD OF SERVICE AND THE BLESSING OF THE HUGUENOT.

When Eric and Roland returned from their ride, they learned that Herr

von Pranken had arrived. Eric's portmanteau had also been carried to

his room. The valet, Joseph, introduced himself as the son of the

Professor of Anatomy's servant, and he mentioned, with perceptible

emotions of gratitude, that Eric's father had given him a French

Grammar, out of which he had learned by heart French phrases, in his

spare moments at the Academic billiard-saloon, where he had been an

attendant. He had there laid the foundation of his present prosperity,

and he expressed his satisfaction at being able to thank the son of his

benefactor.

Joseph helped Eric in his arrangements, and gave him information

concerning the habits of the household; according to these, the next

thing to be done was, that each one, before dinner, which was regarded

as a sort of festive occasion, should repair in full dress to the

pleasure-ground in summer, and in spring to Nice,--as that part of the

covered walk on the terrace was called which had the best exposure to

the sun.

Eric laid aside his uniform; he entered the covered walk, and there

found Pranken and Fraeulein Perini promenading up and down together.

Pranken approached Eric with a bland smile that flickered upon his

face, disappearing as quickly as it came. In the consciousness of his

rank and his social position, he could afford a perfect courteousness

of demeanor, in which even a certain degree of geniality might be

observed. With a bow he again took a position by the side of Fraeulein

Perini, and continued his previous promenade and conversation with her.

Eric stood apart, and the admonition that he, as one in service, must

not be sensitive, struggled with his pride. But it might be regarded as

very considerate in Pranken, that he did not ask how it fared with his

application for the position of tutor.

Roland now entered in full dress, and the boy was amazed to see Eric in

citizen's clothes. Eric asked him, "Is your sister's name Manna?

"Yes; Hermanna, in fact, but she is always called Manna. Have you ever

heard of her?"

Eric had not time to reply that he had heard that name frequently

mentioned by Pranken and Fraeulein Perini, for Sonnenkamp entered in a

black dress-coat, white neck-tie, and irreproachable yellow gloves. He

was very gracious to everybody, one might say _appetizing_ in his

manner, as if he would say, "I hope you will all enjoy your dinner."

Never was Sonnenkamp in a more cheerful mood, never more buoyant, than

during the quarter of an hour before dinner.

They went into the dining-saloon, a cool, square, vaulted room, lighted

from the roof.

The carved oak furniture here was very massive. A large side-board, set

out with beautiful antique vessels and Venetian glasses, displayed the

rich silver plate. The whole neighborhood said that Herr Sonnenkamp ate

out of golden plates; but this was a gossiping story.

They waited a few minutes in the dining-room until the folding-doors

opened, when two servants in the coffee-colored livery of the house

stood like guards, one on each side, and Frau Ceres, like a princess,

stepped between them. At the threshold she courtesied somewhat stiffly;

and Pranken, coming forward, conducted her to the table. A servant was

stationed near each person, and drew back the chair whilst he took his

seat; Fraeulein Perini stood up behind her chair and leaned her arms

upon the back, held the mother-of-pearl cross in her folded hands, said

a prayer, made the sign of the cross, and sat down.

Frau Ceres, during the dinner, retained her yellow gloves, scarcely

tasting any food, and appearing as if she had come to the table merely

not to derange the order of things. She declined every dish, until Herr

Sonnenkamp said:--

"Do take something, dear child, do, I pray you."

In his manner, in making this request, there was a double tone, hard to

be distinguished separately. Sometimes it sounded like the call and

signal of a tamer of wild beasts, who allowed some subdued animal to

take the food lying before him; but again it sounded as when a father,

fondly and coaxingly, beseeches his peevish child to eat something for

his own good. Frau Ceres ate only a part of a bird, and some

sweetmeats.

Pranken's demeanour at table was that of an honored guest, to whom was

conceded the duty of paying particular attention to the hostess and

conversing with her. He gave a humorous account of the horse-market at

Mannheim, from which he had returned to-day at an early hour, with his

companion; he had bought for the fall-races a gray mare, which he would

be happy to transfer to Herr Sonnenkamp. And he soon took care to gain

the good will of Frau Ceres. She had a special aversion to the family

of the Wine-chevalier, who were very reserved towards the Sonnenkamp

household. He proceeded to relate some ridiculous swaggerings of the

Wine-chevalier, although he had been his own chosen companion.

He had also great skill in imitating the peculiar manner of speaking of

different persons, and in introducing; facetious anecdotes, which

produced a movement of the muscles in the weary face of Frau Ceres, and

frequently even a smile.

The conversation was carried on in Italian, which Pranken spoke pretty

well, but in which Eric was not fluent. For the first time in his life,

Eric sat at a table where he was obliged to keep as silent as the

servants who were in waiting.

Frau Ceres considered it her place not to leave the stranger wholly

neglected, and therefore she asked him in English if his parents were

still living.

Assuming a patronising tone, Pranken went into an account of Eric's

father and mother; he did it with marked friendliness of manner, and

dwelt with special emphasis upon the fact that Eric's mother belonged

to the nobility.

"Are you a Frenchman, as your name indicates?" Fraeulein Perini

inquired.

Eric once more repeated that his ancestors had immigrated into Germany

two hundred years before; that he felt himself to be purely a German,

and rejoiced to be descended from the Huguenots.

"Huguenots?--ah, yes! they sing that," Frau Ceres said, taking a

childish delight in this knowledge.

Every one at the table was obliged to restrain himself from laughing

aloud.

"Why was the name Huguenots given to them?" asked Roland, and Eric

replied,

"Some people think that the name originated in the circumstance of

their holding their secret religious assemblies at Tours, only by

night, when the ghost of King Hugo appeared; but I am of the opinion of

those who consider it a German word, originally Eidgenosse, meaning

associates, and changed by the French into Huguenot."

Pranken nodded to Eric in a very friendly manner, as if he would give

him a testimonial of his excellent qualifications as a tutor.

"You take pride, then, in your descent from the Huguenots?" asked

Sonnenkamp.

"Pride is not precisely the word I should prefer," Eric answered.

"But you know that the Puritans, who were exiled to the New World on

account of their religious belief, were the parent-stock of that

substantial, conscientious, and courageous middle class; and that they

carried with them and transplanted into their new homes, as the Greeks

of old times into Sicily and Italy, a complete civilization."

The manner in which Eric uttered this, touching upon a great historical

series of events, suddenly gave to the conversation at table a wholly

new direction. They were at once taken out of the light, brief

witticisms, and piquant personalities, into an entirely different

atmosphere. Roland felt this to some extent, looked proudly at Eric,

and was glad that his voice and his thoughts so overmastered all.

Sonnenkamp himself recognised here the serene presence of a higher

nature, which always breathed in an elevated region; he could not help

feeling a certain respect for the man, and at last put the question,

"How do you associate the Pilgrim Fathers in America with the

Huguenots?"

"Let me briefly explain," answered Eric. "The new age has broken

through the stringent lines of demarcation between different

nationalities, as, for example, the Jews have become actual and

constituent parts of the various peoples among whom they have been

scattered. A haughty and tyrannical king drove the Huguenots out of

France, and they became Germans. The emigrating Englishmen imprinted

their culture upon America; the emigrating Huguenots, established among

a people already civilized, were obliged to adopt the social cultus of

their new fatherland. Permit me, Herr Sonnenkamp, to take you as an

example."

"Me? what do you mean?"

"You emigrated to America as a German, and the German emigrants in the

New World become assimilated to their adopted home, and their children

are completely American."

Roland's eye glistened, but whether it was that Pranken felt himself

cast in the shade by Eric, or that he endeavored to embarrass him as

much as possible, he exclaimed, with an odd mingling of humor and

pity,--

"It is very modest in you to place the Huguenots, who almost all

belonged to the gentry, in the same category with the Jews."

"I regard it as a matter of no consequence," Eric replied, "whether my

ancestors belonged to the gentry or not; they were engaged in the

common occupations of business and trade, and my immediate ancestors

were goldsmiths. The resemblance of the Jews with the Huguenots,

however, I must maintain. Every community exiled on account of its

religion, and scattered abroad, incurs thereby a double obligation:

first, to keep in view, over and above all nationality, the oneness of

humanity; and second, to contend against all fanaticism and all

exclusiveness. There is no one religion in which alone salvation is to

be found, and no one nationality comprising in itself all excellence."

Pranken and Fraeulein Perini looked at each other in astonishment. Frau

Ceres was at a loss to comprehend what all this meant, and Sonnenkamp

shook his head over this sermon-like style of his guest, who

intermingled his world-wide historical views with the light table-talk;

and yet he could not get rid of the impression that there was before

him a nature that had its permanent abode in the region of pure

thought.

"You must unfold that to me yet more definitely at some other time," he

said, seeking to divert the conversation.

And Roland said:--

"Louis the fourteenth, who exiled your ancestors, is he the one who

destroyed the castles here on the Rhine?"

"The same."

It seemed difficult to draw the conversation away from a subject which

made it drag heavily, but it was suddenly diverted, for just then a

highly seasoned dish was brought in, of which Roland desired to eat.

His father would not permit it. His mother, perceiving it, cried out in

a shrill voice, "Do let him eat what he likes."

A glance from Eric met Roland's eye, and the boy laid down the morsel

that he was about putting into his mouth, saying, "I would rather not

eat it."

Sonnenkamp made a sign to the servant to re-fill Eric's glass with

Rauenthaler. This appeared to be his way of expressing his gratitude

for the glance of Eric.

No new topics for light conversation came up. Pranken was silent, and

it was uncertain whether he had exhausted his material, or whether he

wished to make Eric conscious by this reticence how pedantically, and

at the same time ostentatiously, he had disturbed the cordial good

feeling of the table.

The cloth was removed. Fraeulein Perini again repeated a prayer in a low

tone, all stood motionless, and the servants having quickly drawn back

the chairs, they repaired to the veranda, where coffee was served in

very small cups.

Frau Ceres gave a biscuit to a snow-white parrot, and the parrot called

out, "God bless you, massa." Then she sank down into an easy-chair, and

Pranken placed himself near her on a low tabouret, sitting almost at

her feet.

Fraeulein Perini selected a seat sufficiently near, if she wished to

take part in the conversation, and yet far enough off to allow Pranken

to speak with Frau Ceres alone.

Sonnenkamp beckoned to Eric to go with him into the garden. Roland

accompanied them without being asked.

The servant came to inform them that the huntsman Claus was with the

puppies, and begged that the young gentleman would come to him.

"I give you permission to go," the father said.

"But I would prefer to remain with you here," Roland replied.

There was an expression of childlike fondness in the tone and gesture,

as he grasped Eric's hand.

"If your father says that you may go, you should go," Eric quietly

answered.

Roland departed with lingering steps, halting at intervals, but still

he went.

CHAPTER VII.

AN EXAMINATION THAT ENDS WITH A LAUGH.

For some time, the two walked silently side by side. Eric was

dissatisfied with himself; he lived too exclusively in himself, and in

the longing to arrange everything according to his own mental laws, and

to express each truth in the most comprehensive way, throwing himself

into it in the excitement of the moment with perfect freedom and

naivete, yet not unconscious of his intellectual riches.

Hence the hearers felt that, what he said was not only inopportune, but

was presented with a sort of zealous importunity. Eric acknowledged

this and was conscious of it immediately afterward, when he had

divested himself of himself; yet he was continually making the same

mistake, which caused him to appear in an ambiguous light, and as if he

were out of his appropriate place. Eric had a sort of clairvoyant

perception how all this was affecting Sonnenkamp, but he could not

discern the peculiar triumph that it afforded him over the visionary,

as he smiled to himself at the green youth who served up such

freshly-cooked dishes of sophomoric learning. He knows what it is, he

has passed through it all. People settle themselves down there in the

little university-town, and coming in contact with no one else, they

live in a fantastic world of humanity, and appear to themselves to be

personages of the greatest consequence, whom an ungrateful lack of

appreciation hinders from manifesting their efficiency in actual life.

And this captain-doctor now before him had only a small company of

ideas under his command.

Sonnenkamp whistled to himself,--whistled so low that nobody but

himself could hear the tune; he even knew how to set his lips so that

nobody perceived him to be whistling.

He placed himself in a chair on a little eminence, and showed Eric also

a seat.

"You must have noticed," he said at last, "that Fraeulein Perini is a

very strict Catholic, and all our household belong to the Church; may I

ask, then, why you rang the changes so loudly upon your Huguenot

descent?"

"Because I wish to show my colors, and nail them to the mast; for no

one must ever take me for what I am not."

Sonnenkamp was silent for some time, and then he said, leaning back in

his seat,--

"I am master in this house, and I tell you that your confession shall

be no hindrance. But now"--he bent himself down, putting both hands on

his knees and looking straight at Eric--"but now--I came very near

falling from my horse to-day, which has never happened to me before,

because I was deeply engaged, while riding, in reflection upon what you

said to me--in brief--the main point of our conversation. How do you

think that a boy who is to engage in no business and who is to come

into possession of a million--or rather say, of millions--how do you

think that such a boy is to be educated?"

"I can give a precise answer to that question."

"Can you? I am listening."

"The answer is simple. He cannot be educated at all."

"What! not at all?"

"That is what I affirm. The great mysterious Destiny alone can educate

him. All that we can do is, to work with him, and to help him rule over

and apply whatever strength he has."

"To rule over and to apply," Sonnenkamp murmured to himself; "that

sounds well, and I must say that you confirm an impression which has

often before this been made upon me. Only a soldier, only a man who has

developed and trained his own inborn courageous energies, only such an

one can accomplish anything great in our time; nothing can be done by

sermons and books, for they cannot overcome the old, nor create the new

age."

In a changed, almost cringingly humble tone, Sonnenkamp continued,--

"It may appear in the highest degree strange, that I, a man of little

knowledge, who have not had time in the active business of life to

learn anything rightly,--that I should seem to subject you to

examination; but you must be convinced that I do it for my own

instruction. I see, already, that I have even more to learn from you

than Roland has.

"I pray you then to tell me what training--imagine yourself a father in

my circumstances--what training you would give your own son."

"I believe," Eric answered, "that fantasy can call up all sorts of

pictures, but a relation which is one of the mysteries of nature can

only be known through experience, and cannot be apprehended by any

stretch of the imagination. Permit me then to answer from my own

outside point of view."

"Very well."

"My father was the educator of a prince, and I think his task was the

easier one."

"You would then place wealth above sovereignty?"

"Not at all; but in a prince the sense of duty is very early awakened.

Not only pride but duty is a means, every moment, of inducing him to

conduct himself as a prince. The formal assumption of state dignity, in

which those in the highest rank are so accomplished, appears from a

very early age as an essential feature of their position, as a duty,

and becomes a second nature. Taste becomes connoisseurship. Pardon my

scholastic ways," Eric laughingly said, breaking in upon his

exposition.

"Don't stop--to me it is in the highest degree interesting."

Sonnenkamp leaned back in his seat, and gave himself up to the

enjoyment of Eric's discourse, as if it were some choice tid-bit: very

well for this man to go off into the regions of speculation, who in the

meanwhile could not call his own the chair on which he sat, nor the

spot of earth on which he stood, whilst he; Sonnenkamp, could proudly

call his all that was around him, and could obtain possession, if he

wished, of all that was within reach of his sight, and, as the keeper

said, buy up the whole of the Rhinegau.

"Continue," he said, putting a fresh cigar in his mouth.

"It may seem laughable," resumed Eric, "but it is certainly significant

that a prince receives, in his very cradle, a military rank. When

reason awakens in him, he sees his father always under the ordinance of

duty. I do not at all deny that this duty often sits very lightly upon

him, if it is not wholly neglected, but a certain appearance of duty

must always be preserved. The son of a rich man, on the other hand,

does not see the duty which wealth imposes placed so peremptorily

before his eyes; he sees beneficence, utility, the fostering Of art,

hospitality, but all this not as duty, but as free personal

inclination."

"You come round again to the obligation imposed by social civilization.

I pray you, however,--you have a decided talent for instruction, I see

that plainly; and I am at any rate thankful to Count Clodwig and to

you."

"A point for comparison occurs to me," Eric began anew.

"Go on," Sonnenkamp said, encouragingly.

"It was a custom, in the good old time, for German princes to learn

some trade. Irrespective of all else, they learned how to understand

and to esteem labor. The rich youth ought to have something like this,

without its being suffered to degenerate into a mere hollow

ceremonial."

"Very suggestive," Sonnenkamp asserted. He had proposed to himself only

to make inquiries of Eric, only to procure a new species of enjoyment

by allowing a learned idealist to open his whole budget; he had taken

especial satisfaction in the thought that Eric would do this for his

enjoyment, and would reap no advantage from it himself; he also

experienced a certain delight in being able for once to journey into

the region of the ideal--it seemed a very pretty thing--but only for

one hour, for one half-day; and now he was unexpectedly awakened to a

lively interest. He placed his hand upon Eric's arm, and said,--

"You are really a good teacher."

Eric continued, without remarking upon the compliment,--

"I set a very high value upon sovereignty; it is a great influence, and

confers independence and self-possession."

"Yes, that is true. But do you know what is the most desirable thing,

which money cannot buy?"

Eric shook his head, and Sonnenkamp continued,--

"A trust in God! Look! a poor vine-dresser was buried there day before

yesterday. I would give half my property to purchase of him for the

remainder of my life his trust in God. I could not believe what the

physician said, but it was only the truth, that this vine-dresser, a

real Lazarus covered with sores, in all his sufferings constantly said,

'My Saviour underwent yet severer pains, and God knows beforehand

why he inflicts this upon me.' Now tell me if such a faith is not

worth more than any millions of money? And I ask you now, do you

feel yourself able to give this to my son, without making him a

priest-ridden slave, or a canting devotee?"

"I do not think that I can. But there is a blessedness to be obtained

from the depths of thought."

"Is there? and in what does it consist?"

"According to my opinion, in the blissful consciousness of acting

according to the measure of our strength, and in harmony with the

well-being of our fellow-men."

"I think that if I, when a boy, had had an instructor after your stamp,

it would have been happy for me," Sonnenkamp exclaimed, in a tone

entirely different from before.

Eric replied, "Nothing that you could say to me would give me more

confidence and hopefulness than this utterance."

A quick movement of the hand, as if he were throwing away some object,

indicated that something went wrong with Sonnenkamp. This continued

conversation wearied him, for he was not used to it, and this sort of

immediate balancing of the ledger wounded his pride. Eric never

remained in his debt, and he himself had always the feeling that there

was something for him to pay.

For some time nothing was heard but the splashing of the fountain, and

the gentle flowing of the Rhine, and at intervals the note of the

nightingale singing unweariedly in the thicket.

"Did you ever have a passion for play?" Sonnenkamp asked unexpectedly.

"No."

"Were you ever passionately in love? You look at me in astonishment,

but I asked only because I should like to know what has made you so

mature."

"Perhaps a careful and thorough training has given me that serious

thoughtfulness which you are so kind as to call maturity."

"Well, you are more than an educator."

"I shall be glad if it is so, for I think that he who is to bring

anything to pass must always be something more than what his immediate

activity calls for."

Sonnenkamp again made a wry face, and once more jerked his hand as if

throwing something away. This readiness always to return the blow, and

this assured response, put him out of countenance.

They heard Pranken and Fraeulein Perini walking up and down in a

side-walk.

"You must take care to stand in good relations with Fraeulein Perini,"

Sonnenkamp said, as he rose; "for she is also--she is of some

importance, and is not very easily fathomed, and she has one great

advantage over most persons I know,--she has that most valuable trait

of never indulging in any whims."

"I am sorry to say that I cannot boast of any such trait, and I ask

your pardon in advance if I ever--"

"It is not necessary. But your friend, Pranken, understands very well

how to be on good terms with Fraeulein Perini."

Eric considered that truth demanded of him to inform Sonnenkamp that he

had no right to call Pranken a friend of his. They were in the military

school together, and acquainted in the garrison, but their ideas had

never chimed together, and his own views in life had always been wholly

different from those of a rich elder son; he acknowledged the kindness

with which Pranken had facilitated his entrance into the family of

Sonnenkamp, but the truth must be spoken in spite of all feelings, of

gratitude. Sonnenkamp again whistled inaudibly; he was evidently amazed

at this courageous openness of mind, and the thought occurred to him

that Eric was a subtle diplomatist, he himself considering it the chief

peculiarity of diplomacy not to make any confession of being under

obligation of any sort. This man must be either the noblest of

enthusiasts or the shrewdest of worldlings.

Eric felt that this confession was untimely, but he could not

anticipate that this communication would counteract the whole

impression previously made upon Sonnenkamp.

On meeting Pranken and Fraeulein Perini, Sonnenkamp greeted the Baron in

a very friendly way, and took his arm.

Eric joined Fraeulein Perini. She always carried some nice hand-work;

with very small instruments and with a fine thread, she completed with

surprising quickness a delicate piece of lace-work. It was the first

time that Eric had spoken with her, and he expressed his great

admiration for her pretty, delicate work. But immediately it was fixed

as firmly as if there had been a written covenant between them,--We

shall avoid each other as much as possible, and if we are placed in the

same circle, we shall conduct ourselves just as if there were no such

persons in the world.

In contrast with the clear, full tone of Eric, Fraeulein Perini always

spoke in a somewhat husky voice; and when she perceived that Eric was

surprised at hearing her, she said,--

"I thank you for not asking me if I am not hoarse. You cannot imagine

how tiresome it is to be obliged to reply, again and again, that I have

always spoken so from my childhood."

Eric gladly entered into this friendly mood, and related how

troublesome it was to a friend of his, born on the 28th of February, to

have the remark always made to him. It is fortunate for you that you

were not born on the 29th, for then you would have had only one

birth-day every four years. "He has now accustomed himself to say

pleasantly, 'I was born on the 28th of February, and it is fortunate

for me that I was not born on the 29th, for then I should have had only

one birth-day every four years.'"

Fraeulein Perini laughed heartily, and Eric was obliged also to laugh.

"What are you laughing at?" Sonnenkamp asked, drawing near. Laughing

was the thing of all others that he most delighted in.

Fraeulein Perini narrated the story of Eric's friend, and Sonnenkamp

laughed too.

The day continued after that serene and unruffled.

CHAPTER VIII.

EYES OPENED.

While Eric was in the garden with Herr Sonnenkamp, Roland sat with

Claus near the young dogs. The huntsman asked him whether all was

settled with the captain, and seeing that he did not understand his

meaning, he laughed to himself as he thought he might win a double

reward.

"What will you give me," he asked, "if I manage to have the captain

stay with you as a companion and teacher? Whew!" he interrupted himself

suddenly, "you look like a dog whose eyes are opened for the first

time. Come, tell me--what will you give me?"

Roland could not answer; everything was giddy and confused in his

thoughts, and the young dogs seemed to be whirling round and round.

Joseph came into the stable, and after representing Eric's parents as

veritable saints, he concluded,--

"You ought to be proud, Master Roland; the father educated the prince,

and now the son is to educate you."

"Open the shutters, quick!" cried Claus suddenly. Joseph did so, and

the trainer took up one of the puppies, drew up its eyelids, and

exclaimed, "There, that's enough to show me that this one's eyes are

just opening. Now don't let any more light in, or they will be

spoiled."

In his interest in the animals, Claus forgot his shrewd two-fold plan;

he went with Roland and Joseph into the court, where Roland immediately

left them. He saw his father and Eric sitting together, and felt angry

with Eric for not telling him directly who he was. Soon overcoming this

feeling, however, he would gladly have hastened to him and embraced

him, but he restrained himself, and only approached when he heard the

whole party laughing.

He pressed close to Eric confidingly, and his eyes said, "I thank you;

I know who you are."

Eric did not understand his glance, until Roland said,--

"The others have had you long enough, now come with me."

He accompanied Eric to his room, and seemed to be waiting to talk with

him, but Eric begged to be left alone; he was inexpressibly weary, and,

like a heavy burden, there lay upon his spirit the consciousness that

he who enters the service of others cannot live his own life;

especially if he attaches to himself a faithful soul which he is to

mould, sustain, and guide, he must never be weary, never say, "Now

leave me to myself," but must be always ready, always expectant, always

at the beck and call of others.

Roland was much troubled at Eric's look of fatigue; he could not

suspect that he was extremely dissatisfied with himself. It was not

merely the weariness after imparting extensive and various knowledge

which often brings a sense of exhaustion, it was pure chagrin that he

had allowed himself to be beguiled into drawing a plan of vast extent,

and for what object? The education of a single boy.

Eric's chief vexation was, however, that he was obliged to acknowledge

himself still so undisciplined; he must become more self-restrained

before he could give stability and right training to another. In this

state of discontent he hardly heard the boy, who talked on about the

wonderful opening of the dog's eyes, and kept asking him questions, and

looking inquiringly in his face.

A servant entered, and announced that the carriages were ready for a

drive.

Eric was startled. What sort of a life was this? To promenade in the

garden, ride, drive, eat, amuse one's self. How could he guard and

preserve his own inner life? How would it be possible to hold a young

spirit to a definite course of constant self-development?

Eric's pride rose; he had not worked all his life for this,--exercised

himself in earnest and strict renunciation for the sake of filling the

intervals between driving and banqueting. The plan would be unbearable;

he would have an arrangement which he could control and to which he

could give the tone of his own mind.

He went into the court with Roland, and politely asked to be excused

from the drive, as he felt the necessity of being alone for a few

hours.

This announcement was received by glances of various expression. Herr

Sonnenkamp said quickly, that he laid no sort of constraint upon his

guests: Pranken and Fraeulein Perini exchanged looks in which there

seemed to be a malicious pleasure in the harm that Eric had done

himself by the wilfulness which led to a want of tact.

Roland said at once that he would like to stay at home with Eric, but

Pranken rejoined in an exultant tone:

"Herr Dournay just wishes to be alone; if you stay with him, my dear

Roland, the gentleman will just not be alone."

He uttered the word "gentleman" in a peculiarly disagreeable tone.

The second carriage was sent away. Fraeulein Perini, Pranken, and Roland

entered the other; Sonnenkamp seated himself on the box; he was fond of

managing four horses from the box-seat; four-in-hand was a great

delight to him. This driving four-in-hand was generally taken for

ostentation, but it was only a personal gratification.

Frau Ceres also remained behind; she had already exerted herself to be

social quite enough for that day.

Eric watched the party drive off, then returned to his room.

He sat there alone in perfect quiet, more weary than it would have

seemed possible to become in so short a time, but the day Lad been one

of excitement, and full of a violent effort to make himself master over

novel circumstances. How much he had been through! It seemed years

since he looked over the Roman antiquities with Clodwig. During the day

he had been obliged to turn over and over, and to unfold his own

character and environment; he had tasted for the first time the humble

bread of servitude, and the feeling, half of friendliness, half of

ingratitude, the enigmatic in Sonnenkamp, in Roland, in Fraeulein

Perini, and Frau Ceres, seemed to him like the dim memory of a dream,

like a far-off life, as his thoughts went home to his mother.

A profound home-sickness threatened to overcome him, but he shook it

off resolutely. It must not be! His military training helped him; his

orders were to stand at his post, keep a close watch, and never to

tire.

"Never to tire!" he said half aloud to himself, and the consciousness

of youthful vigor supported him. He felt that on the next day he could

meet the problems before him full of fresh courage; and one thought

above all others strengthened him, and lightened his heart: he had

remained faithful to the truth, and so should it always be. Truth is

that firm standpoint of mother-earth where the wrestling spirit is not

to be conquered and thrown.

In the distance, from the railway station across the river, he now

heard an idle locomotive blowing off steam. It snorted, shrieked, and

panted like a fabulous monster; and Eric thought. This engine has all

day been drawing trains of cars in which hundreds of human beings had,

for the time, been seated, and now it is resting and letting off its

hot steam. He smiled as he thought that he himself was almost such a

locomotive, and was now cooling himself, to be fired up anew on the

morrow.

Suddenly he was waked from sleep; for he had slept without intending to

do so. A servant announced that Frau Sonnenkamp wished to speak to him.

CHAPTER IX.

A TWILIGHT RIDDLE.

The sun had set, but a golden haze enveloped valley, mountain and

river, when Eric went with the servant, and from the corridor looked

out over the distant prospect. He was conducted through several rooms.

In the last, where a ground-glass hanging-lamp was lighted, he heard

the words, "I thank you,--be seated."

He saw Frau Ceres reclining on a divan, a large rocking-chair standing

before her. Eric sat down.

"I have remained at home on your account," Frau Ceres began; she had a

feeble, timid voice, and it was evidently, difficult for her to speak.

Eric was at a loss what to reply.

Suddenly she sat upright, and asked,--

"Are you acquainted with my daughter?"

"No."

"But you've been to the convent on the island?"

"Yes; I had a greeting to deliver from my mother to the Lady

Superior--nothing farther."

"I believe you. I am not the cause of her becoming a nun--no, not I--do

not think it," and reclining again on the pillow, Frau Ceres

continued,--

"I warn you, captain, not to remain here with us. I have been informed

of nothing--he has let me be informed of nothing--but do not stay with

us, if you can find any other employment in the world. What is your

purpose in coming into this house?"

"Because I thought--until an hour ago I believed--that I could be a

fitting guide to your son."

And now Eric gave utterance to his inmost feeling of unfitness for

being another's guide, and yet he must confess that no other person

could have a stronger inclination to be, only some other might perhaps

take it more easily. He unfolded from the very depths of his soul the

newly awakened longing to plunge into solitary meditation, and lamented

that one builds up an ideal of life and of work only to have it

shattered in pieces upon the rock of actual existence; but it was only

unvanquished self-seeking, for which his own thought, and not, the

world, was to blame.

"I am not learned--I don't understand you," Frau Ceres replied. "But

you speak so beautifully--you have such good expressions--I should like

always to hear you speak, even if I do not understand what you are

saying. But you will not let him know anything about my having sent for

you?"

"Him? Whom?" Eric wished to ask, but Frau Ceres raised herself up

hastily, and said,--

"He can be terrible--he is a dangerous man--no one knows it, no one

would imagine it. He is a dangerous man! Do you like me too?"

Eric trembled. What did that mean?

"Ah! I do not know what I am saying," continued Frau Ceres.

"He is right--I am only half-witted. Why did I send for you? Yes, now I

know. Tell me about your mother. Is she really a learned and noble

lady? I was also a noble lady--yes, I was one indeed."

A fresh shiver passed over Eric. Is this half lethargic, half raving

person really insane, and kept within bounds in society only by the

greatest care?

He had wished this very morning to write to his mother that he had come

into fairyland,--the fairy land was yet more marvellous than he had

himself fancied.

Eric depicted with extreme precision, as far as a son could, the

character of his mother; how she was always so very happy, because she

was contriving how to make others happy. He described the death of his

father, the death of his brother, and the greatness of soul with which

his mother endured all this.

Frau Ceres sobbed; then she said suddenly,--

"I thank you--I thank you!"

She extended her white hand to Eric, and kept saying,--

"I thank you! With all his money he has not been able to make me know

that I could weep once more. O, how much good it does me! Stay with

us--stay with Roland. He cannot weep--say nothing to him--I also should

like to have a mother. Stay with us. I shall never forget it of you--I

thank you--now go--go--before he returns--go--good-night!"

Eric went back to his chamber. What he had experienced seemed to him

like a dream; the hidden element of mystery which seemed at Wolfsgarten

to envelop the family of Sonnenkamp was more and, more evident. Here

were the strangest sorts of riddles. Roland, full of life and spirits,

came to him; the brief separation had given both a new and joyful

pleasure in meeting again; it was as great as if they had been

separated for years.

Roland asked Eric to tell him about the Huguenots; there had evidently

been much talk about them during the drive. Eric put him off, saying

that it was not necessary, at least not now, to dwell upon the horrible

tortures which human beings inflicted upon one another on account of

their religious belief.

Roland informed Eric that Herr von Pranken was going the next day to

visit Manna at the convent.

Eric was doubtful what he ought to do. If he were to forbid the boy's

informing him of what he heard, he would scare away his confidingness,

his perfect confidence; and yet it was disagreeable to himself to be

informed of things which might not be intended for him to hear. He

proposed to himself for the future, to request Sonnenkamp to say

nothing in the hearing of the boy which he ought not to know, Eric was

summoned once more to tea; Frau, Ceres did not make her appearance.

Eric was this evening perplexed, and lost the feeling of untroubled

security.

Should he tell Sonnenkamp that his wife had sent for him? But then he

must inform him of what she had revealed to him, though it was only

half uttered,--it was a warning, a speech wholly disjointed and

incoherent.

Eric also saw Roland looking at him as if beseeching. The boy felt that

some painful experience was going on in his new friend, which he would

gladly remove. And to Eric's affection there was superadded the feeling

of pity. Here was a manifestly distressing family relation under which

the boy must have suffered, and it was a fortunate thing that his

light, youthful spirits were untouched.

Eric was reminded continually of an experience of his in the house of

correction, The most hardened criminals had avowed always, with the

most triumphant mien, that it conferred the greatest satisfaction to

them to be able to conceal their deeds from the world; but the least

hardened disclosed, on the other hand, how glad they felt to be

punished; for the fear of discovery, and the constant endeavour to

conceal the crime, were the severest punishment.

Eric had now a secret; was he to let it be possible for a servant to

betray him, and himself appear untrustworthy?

When Eric was about to go to rest, Roland came to him and asked whether

he had anything to impart to him.

Eric replied in the negative, and the boy appeared sad when he said

good-night.

CHAPTER X.

A NEW DAY AND DARK QUESTIONS.

The morning dew glistened on grass, flower, and shrub, and the birds

sang merrily, as Eric walked through the park. There was evidence

everywhere of an ordering, busy, and watchful mind.

Eric heard, on the bank of the river, two women talking with each

other, as they carried on shore the garden-earth out of a boat.

"God be praised," said one, "who has sent the man to us; no one in the

place who is willing to work need suffer poverty any more."

"Yes," spoke the other, "and yet there are people here who are so bad

as to say all sorts of things about the man."

"What do they say?"

"That he has been a tailor."

Eric could hardly restrain himself from laughing aloud. But a third

woman, with a rather thick voice, said,--

"A tailor indeed! He has been a pirate, and in Africa stole a

gold-ship."

"And supposing he did," said the other, "those man-eaters have heaps of

gold, and are heathens beside, and Herr Sonnenkamp does nothing but

good with his gold."

Eric could not help smiling at these strange tales and implications;

and it was also painful to him that great wealth always stirred up new

and calumnious reports.

He went on farther. He saw from a height, with satisfaction, how the

main building and all its dependencies, with park and garden, were

combined in a beautiful harmony. Near the main building there were only

trees of a dark foliage, lindens, elms, and maples, which brought out,

by contrast, so much the more brightly the brilliant architecture of

the house built in a good Renaissance style. The arbored walks

converged gradually, as if conducting to the solidly-built mansion,

which seemed not to be built upon the ground, but as if it had sprung

up from the soil with the scenery that surrounded it; the stone

colonnades, the lawns, the trees, the elevations, all were an

introduction to the house; all was in harmony. The verandas appeared to

be only bearers of the climbing plants, and the whole was a masterpiece

of rural architecture, a work of natural poetry according to the laws

of pure art, so that all that was man's handiwork seemed as fresh as if

it had just come out of the builder's hand, and in such perfect

preservation, that one perceived that each tree, each leaf, each

lattice, was owned and carefully cherished by a wealthy man.

Eric, however, was not to be long alone; the valet, Joseph, joined him,

and with a pleasing deference offered to inform Eric concerning

everything in the household.

As Eric was silent, Joseph related once more that he had been a

billiard-boy at the University, Henry the thirty-second, for all the

boys must be called Henry. Then he had been a waiter in the Berne Hotel

at Berne, where Sonnenkamp had boarded for almost two summers long,

occupying the whole first floor--the best rooms in the world, as Joseph

called them--and had learned to know him, and taken him into his

service. Joseph gave rather a humorous account of the corps of servants

in the household, that it was a sort of menagerie gathered from all

countries. As in a poultry yard there are all sorts of fowls, and even

the peacock is not wanting, which shrieks so horribly and looks so

beautifully, so it was with the people here, for Herr Sonnenkamp had

travelled all over the world. The coachman was an Englishman, the first

groom a Pole, the cook a Frenchman, the first chamber-maid a

thoroughgoing Bohemian, and Fraeulein Perini an Italian Frenchwoman of

Nice. The master was, however, very strict; the gardeners must not

smoke in the park, nor the grooms whistle in the stable, for all the

horses were accustomed to the whistle of the master, and must not be

disturbed. And moreover, Herr Sonnenkamp would rather not have his

servants look like servants, or have any peculiar dress of servants,

and it was only a short time ago that he had given in to his wife, and

dressed a few of them in livery. The servants were allowed to speak

only a few words, and there were particular words which Herr Sonnenkamp

used to each of them, and which each used in answering, and so all were

kept in good order.

Joseph related in conclusion, not without self-satisfaction, that he

had spread abroad in the servants' room the fame of Eric's parents; it

was a good thing for people to know where a man came from, for then

they had a much greater respect. But that Madame Perini was the special

mistress in the household, and would continue to be; she was really a

Fraeulein, but the gracious Frau called her always Madame.

"The keeper is right," added Joseph. "Fraeulein Perini is a woman with

the strength of seven cats, and a marten into the bargain."

Eric wished to hinder this revelation, but Joseph begged him to allow

everything to be spoken out, and to pardon him as being a University

acquaintance. He only added the information that Pranken was to marry

the daughter of the house.

"Ah! that is a beauty! not exactly a beauty, but lovely and charming;

formerly she was so frolicsome, no horse was too wild for her, no storm

on the Rhine too violent; she hunted like a poacher, but now she is

only sad--always sad--vilely sad."

Eric was glad when the gossiping youth suddenly drew out his watch, and

said:--

"In one minute the master gets up, and then I must be near him. He is a

man always up to time," he added as he went away.

Like confused echoes which gradually mingle into one sound, Eric

thought upon all that he had now heard about the daughter of the house.

And was not this the girl with wings, who had met him the day before

yesterday in the convent? Involuntarily standing still, and staring at

a hedge, a whole life-picture presented itself to his mind. Here is a

child sent to the convent, removed from all the world, from all

intercourse with people; she is taken out of the convent, and they say

to her: "Thou art the Baroness Pranken!" and she is happy with the

handsome and brilliant man, and all the dazzling splendor of the world

is showered upon her through him. It seems as if he had called it all

into being, and this without knowing what kind of a man her husband

is,--it will be indeed a good thing for her not to know.

He shook his head. What was the little cloister-plant to him?

Eric saw nothing more of the gorgeous beauty of the garden; he hastened

out of it with his eyes fixed upon the ground, wandered through the

park, and just as he came out of a copse of trees by the pond,

Sonnenkamp met him. He had a foreign look in his short gray

plush-jacket fastened with cord, and was especially glad to find Eric

already up, proposing to himself to show him the house and grounds.

He directed his attention first to a large tuft of prairie-grass; he

smiled as Eric imagined a stampede of buffaloes, and he made a peculiar

motion of throwing, in describing how he had caught many a one with the

lasso.

Then he led Eric to an elevation set out with beautiful, plane-trees,

which he pointed out as the very crown of the whole place. He prided

himself very much upon these fair and flourishing trees, adding that in

such a tract as the wine-district, destitute of shade, a thickly shaded

place was a thing to be taken into consideration against a hot day of

summer.

"You will perceive that I have gone beyond my own territory, in order

to add to its beauty; above there upon the height is a group of trees,

which I have kept in order and thinned out, laying out paths, and

making new plantations, in order to get a picturesque view. I have

built my house not to please the eyes of others, but where I could

have the best prospect from it. The peasant's house yonder was built

after a plan of my own, and I was very properly obliged to contribute a

part of the cost. That plantation beyond is a screen to hide the

glaring stone-quarry; and that pretty church spire above there in the

mountain-village,--that was built by me. I was very highly praised for

doing it, and a great deal of flattering, pious incense was burned for

me, but I can assure you that my sole motive in doing it was to gain a

fine view. I am obliged to change the whole character of the region--a

very difficult job--and here comes in the covetousness of people. Just

see, a basket-maker builds him a house yonder, with a horribly steep

roof covered with red tiles, that is a perpetual eye-sore to me; and I

cannot reach the fellow. He wishes to sell the house to me for an

extravagant price, but what can I do with it? He may just keep it, and

accommodate himself to my arrangements."

There was a violent energy in Sonnenkamp's manner of speaking,

reminding Eric of an expression of Bella's, that the man was a

conqueror; such an one has always something tyrannical in him, and

desires to arrange and dispose everything in the world according to his

own individual taste, or his own personal whims. The villages, the

churches, the mountains, and the woods, were to him only points in the

landscape, and they must all come into one favorite angle of vision.

And now Herr Sonnenkamp conducted his guest through the park, and

explained to him how he had arranged the grounds, and how through the

disposition of elevations and depressions he had broken up the

uniformity; but that in many cases he had only to bring out the natural

advantages, and give them their right effect: he pointed out the

careful disposition of light and shadow, and how he oftentimes set out

a clump of trees, a little group of the same species; which he mingled

together not in sharp and distinct contrast, but in regular gradation

of colors, such as we see in nature.

Sonnenkamp smiled in a very friendly way, when Eric, in order to show

that he comprehended, replied, that a park must appear to be nature

brought into a state of cultivation; and that the more one knows how to

conceal the shaping hand and the disposing human genius, and allows all

to appear as a spontaneous growth, so much the more is it in accordance

with the pure laws of art.

A little brook, which came down from the mountain and emptied into

the river, was made to wind about with such skill, that it kept

disappearing and appearing again at unexpected points, saying by its

murmur, "Here I am."

In the disposition of resting-places, particularly good judgment was

exhibited. Under a solitary weeping-ash that cast a perfectly circular

shadow, a pretty seat was placed for a single person, and it seemed to

say invitingly, "Here thou canst be alone!" The seat, however, was

turned over, and leaned up against the tree.

"This is my daughter's favorite spot," Sonnenkamp said.

"And have you turned over the seat, so that no one may occupy it before

your child returns?"

"No," Sonnenkamp replied, "that is entirely by chance, but you are

right, so it shall be."

The two went on farther, but Eric hardly saw the beautiful, comfortable

benches, and hardly listened while Sonnenkamp declared to him that he

did not place these on the open path, but behind shrubbery, so that

here was a solitude all ready made.

A table was placed under a beautiful maple, with two seats opposite one

another. Sonnenkamp announced that this place was named the school; for

here Roland at intervals received instruction. Eric rejoined that he

never should teach sitting in the open air; it was natural to give

instruction while walking, but regular, definite teaching, which

demanded concentration of the mind, demanded also an enclosed space in

which the voice would not be utterly lost.

Sonnenkamp had now a good opportunity to tell Eric what conclusion he

had arrived at in regard to the matter in hand, but he was silent. As

an artist takes delight in the criticisms of an intelligent observer,

who unfolds to him concealed beauties which he was hardly aware of

himself, so he took delight in perceiving how understandingly, and with

how much gratification, Eric took note of the various improvements, and

of the grouping of trees and shrubs.

They stood a long time before a group where the gloomy cedar was placed

near the hardy fir, and the gentle morning breeze whispered in the

foliage of the silver poplar, and caused the white leaves to glisten

like little rippling waves upon the surface of a lake.

Near a little pond with a fountain was a bower of roses, upon a gentle

elevation, patterned according to a dream of Frau Ceres; and here

Sonnenkamp remained stationary, saying:

"That was at the time when I was still very happy here in our

settlement, and when everything was still in a sound and healthy

condition."

Eric stopped, questioning whether he ought to tell Herr Sonnenkamp of

yesterday's strange occurrence. Sonnenkamp said, accompanying his words

with peculiar little puffs, as if he were lightly and carefully blowing

a fire,--

"My wife often has strange whims; but if she is not contradicted she

soon forgets them."

He appeared suddenly to remember that it was not necessary to say this,

and added with unusual haste,--

"Now come, and I will show you my special vanity. But let me ask you

one thing; does it not seem dreadful to you, who are a philosopher,

that we must leave all this, that we know we must die; and while

everything around continues to grow green and bloom, he who planted and

acquired the means to plant is here no more, but moulders in the dust?"

"I should not have believed that you indulged in such thoughts."

"You are right to answer so. You must not ask such questions, for no

one knows their answer," said Sonnenkamp sharply and bitterly; "but one

thing more. I wish Roland to understand rightly this creation of mine

and to carry it on, for such a garden is not like a piece of sculpture,

or any finished work of an artist; it is growing, and must be

constantly renewed. And why should there not be granted us the

certainty of transmitting to our posterity what we have conquered,

created, or fashioned, without fear that strangers will at some time

enter into possession and let all go to waste?"

"You believe," answered Eric, "that I know no answer to the first of

your questions, and I must confess, that I do not quite understand the

second."

"Well, well, perhaps we will talk of it again--perhaps not," Sonnenkamp

broke off. "But come now and let me show you my special pride."

CHAPTER XI.

SONNENKAMP'S PRIDE.

They stepped immediately out of the shady, well-wooded park, whose

margin was planted with noble white-pines, into a wonderful and

complicated arrangement of orchard-trees, in a level field several

acres in extent, that had a truly magical effect.

The plats were bordered with dwarf-apple and pear-trees that looked

very much like small yews; their stems were hardly two feet in height,

and the branches on each side so disposed on wires, that they extended

to the width of thirty feet. These were now in full bloom the whole

length, and the arrangement exhibited man's energetic and shaping

volition, where nature was compelled to become a free work of art, and

even warped into a dwarfish over-refinement. Trees of all imaginable

geometrical forms were placed, sometimes in circles and sometimes in

rows. Here was a tree that, from the bottom to the top which shot up

into a sharp point, had only four branches at an even distance from

each other, and directed to the four cardinal points. On the walls,

trees were trained exactly in the shape of a candelabrum with two

branches; others had stems and branches adjusted obliquely, like

basaltic strata. All was according to artistic rules, and also in the

most thriving condition.

Eric listened attentively while Sonnenkamp was informing him that the

limbs must be cut in, so that the sap might all perfect the fruit, and

not go too much to the formation of wood.

"Perhaps you have a feeling of pity for these clipped branches?"

Sonnenkamp asked in a sharp tone.

"Not at all; but the old, natural form of the fruit-trees so well known

to us--"

"Yes, indeed,"' Sonnenkamp broke in, "people are horrible creatures of

prejudice! Is there any one who sees anything ugly, anything coercive,

in pruning the vine three times every season? No one. No one looks

for beauty, but for beautiful fruit, from the vine; so also from the

fruit-tree. As soon as they began to bud and to graft, the way was

indicated, and I am only following it consistently. The ornamental tree

is to be ornamental, and the fruit-tree a fruit-tree, each after its

kind. This apple-tree, must have its limbs just so, and have just so

many of them, as will make it bear the largest apples and the greatest

possible number. I want from a fruit-tree not wood, but fruit."

"But nature----"

"Nature! Nature!" Sonnenkamp exclaimed, in a contemptuous tone.

"Nine-tenths of what they call nature is, nothing but an artificial

sham, and a whimsical conceit. The spirit of nature and the spirit of

the age are a pair of idols which you philosophers have manufactured

for yourselves. There is no such thing as nature, and there is no such

thing as an age; and even if there were both, you cannot predicate

spirit of either of them."

Eric was deeply struck by this apparently combative and violently

aggressive manner of speaking; and yet more so, when Sonnenkamp now

leaned over suddenly, and said:--

"The real man to educate would be he who was able to train men as these

trees are trained: for some immediate end, with no superfluous trash

and no roundabout methods. What they call nature is a fable. There is

no nature, or at least only an infinitesimal particle. With us human

beings everything is habit, education, tradition. There's no such thing

as nature."

"That is something new to me," Eric said, when he was at last able to

put in a word. "The gentlemen of tradition call us men of science

deniers of God, but a denier of nature I have never until now become

acquainted with, and never have even heard him mentioned. You are

joking."

"Well, yes, I am joking," said Sonnenkamp, bitterly.

And Eric, who seemed to himself to be utterly bewildered, added in a

low tone:--

"Perhaps it may be said that those who derive the laws of our life from

revelation deny nature, or rather they do not deny her, but disregard

her."

"I am not a learned man, and, above all, I am no theologian,"

Sonnenkamp abruptly broke in. "All is fate. Damage is done by worms in

the forest; there stands near us an oak-tree clean eaten up by them,

and there stands another all untouched. Why is this? No one knows. And

look here at these trees. I have watched what they call the economy of

nature, and here a thousand life-germs perish in order that one may

thrive; and it is just the same in human life."

"I understand," Eric said. "All the things that survive have an

aristocratic element wholly different from those things that perish;

the blossom that unfolds itself to the perfect fruit is rich, the

blighted one is poor. Do I rightly apprehend your meaning?"

"In part," Sonnenkamp replied, somewhat weary. "I would only say to you

that I have done looking for the man, for I despair of finding him, who

could train my son, so that he would be fitted in the most direct way

for his position in life."

For some time the two walked together through the marvellously-blooming

garden, where the bees were humming; and Eric thought that these,

probably, were the bees of Claus, the huntsman.

World passing strange, in which all is so unaccountably associated

together!

The sky was blue, and the blossoms so deliciously fragrant, and yet

Eric, deeply troubled in spirit, seemed to himself to be insnared when

he fixed his eyes upon a notice stuck up over the garden wall, which

ran thus:--

"Warning. Spring-guns and steel-traps in this garden."

He looked around to Sonnenkamp, who said, smiling,--

"Your look asks me if that notice yonder is true; it is just as that

says. People think that no one dares to do that now. Keep always in the

path near me."

Sonnenkamp appeared to enjoy Eric's perplexity and annoyance. And yet

it was a lie, for there were no spring-guns nor steel-traps in the

garden.

On this part of the wall, stars, circles, and squares, were shaped out

of the tree-twigs; and Sonnenkamp laid his hand upon the shoulder of

Eric, as the latter asserted that number and geometric form were given

only to man. Geometric form, indeed, was the basis of all

manifestation, and the straight line was never actually seen, but must

be wholly the product of man's conception. This was also the

characteristic mystery in the doctrine of Pythagoras.

"I have thought for a long time," Sonnenkamp said with a laugh, "that I

was a Pythagorean. I thank you for nominating me as one of the sect. We

must christen our new art of gardening the Pythagorean."

This outburst was in a bantering tone of contempt and satisfaction.

They came to the place called Nice, by the colonnade constructed in the

Pompeian style, which extended very far on the second terrace of the

orchard.

"Now I will show you my house," Sonnenkamp said, pressing against a

little door which opened upon a subterranean passage, and conducting

his guest into the habitation.

CHAPTER XII.

A LOOK INTO THE HOUSE AND INTO THE HEART.

Men-servants and maid-servants in the under-ground rooms were amazed to

see Sonnenkamp and Eric make their entrance. Sonnenkamp, without

noticing them, said to Eric in English:--

"The two things to be first considered by a man consulting for repose,

as I am, are the kitchen and the stable."

He showed him the kitchen. There were dozens of different fire-places

for the different dishes, and each kind of meat and vegetables; each

viand had its special dish and pan, fire on the side and behind. The

whole science of the preparation of extracts was here transported into

the art of cookery. Eric was delighted with it as with a work of art.

Sonnenkamp pointed out to his guest for special notice the fact that

every fire-place and every stove in the house had its own chimney; he

considered that as of great importance, as he had by that means made

himself independent of the direction in which the wind might blow. The

architect had resisted him on that point, and he had undergone great

trouble and expense to have the requisite flues constructed, but by

this means new beauties had been developed.

Sonnenkamp now showed him the greater part of the house, through which

electromagnetic bell-wires ran in every direction. The stairs were

richly carpeted, everywhere were costly candelabra, and in the chambers

broad double-beds.

Everything was arranged with elegance and taste, a truly chaste

elegance and refined taste, where gold, marble, and silk contributed to

the artistic decoration, with no overloading of ornament, and with a

preservation of the appearance of home-like comfort. The furniture was

not standing about like things looking for some fitting place, but

every piece was adapted to the building itself, and seemed fixed, and

at home; and yet the arrangement had this peculiar feature, that all

the furniture appeared waiting for the inmates to come and occupy it,

and not placed there to be gazed at by them in passing to and fro.

The heavy silk curtains, hanging in thick folds, were matched with the

carpets; the large clocks in all the saloons were ticking, and the

delicate works of art on the mantles and brackets were tastefully

arranged. But it was plainly to be seen that this arrangement gave no

physiognomical indication of the character of the owner, but was only

the tasteful skill which every good upholsterer supplies to order; and,

above all, one felt the absence of anything like an heir-loom. Eric

could not rid himself of the impression that the persons here lived in

their own house as if it were a hired one, and it seemed to him that

Roland was following him, and that he must enter into the soul of the

boy, who was already aware that some day he would call all this his

own.

Sonnenkamp declared that he thought it contemptible for people to

embellish their houses with mediaeval furniture, or the imitation of

that, while it answered the purpose neither of ornament nor of comfort.

When Eric replied to him, that Goethe had expressed the same thing,

Sonnenkamp answered: "That is very pleasant to me. I think that Goethe

understood life."

He uttered this in a very condescending tone, as much as to say, that

any one must esteem himself fortunate to have Herr Sonnenkamp recognise

his worth.

On the north side of the house in the large saloon, covered with a red

Persian carpet, was a half-octagon recess, in the middle of which stood

a handsome malachite table surrounded by fixed chairs.

Four large windows, or rather four single panes of glass six feet in

height, gave a free outlook; and in the spaces between the windows

tablets of marble were inserted, half way up, on which were sculptured

the four parts of the "Day" of Rietschel. The ceiling was ornamented

with fine stucco-work, from which a silver lamp seemed to fly forth,

rather than to hang down, for it took the form of a flying Cupid of

bronze, holding a torch in his hand, and this torch, as Sonnenkamp

immediately illustrated, could be lighted as a gas-burner.

"Only here," he said smiling, "do I have works of art, insomuch as I

would neither deceive myself nor others--I have no taste for creative

art. You, as the son of a Professor of AEsthetics, perhaps consider this

very barbarous?"

"Not at all, only honest; and I think you are so far entitled to do as

you think best."

"It is a duty for every one to be honest, and there is no choice in the

matter."

"Pardon me if I have expressed myself badly. I mean, that even the

realm of art is not free from rival claims; and he who has such a

manifest gift for landscape-gardening, ought to be content with that,

and can refrain from expressing himself in any other art."

Sonnenkamp smiled. This man, he thought, knows always how to come down

on his feet.

He led his guest into the music-saloon. It had no gilding nor satin,

only a centre-piece on the ceiling, and sea-green hangings on the

walls. In the niches made by two small chimneys were brown, stuffed

damask seats and sofas. This saloon seemed to be continually waiting

for a social company, either moving about, or quietly seated.

Sonnenkamp smiled when Eric said that he was pleased to see the

music-saloon so unadorned. The plain white had a sunshiny appearance,

as if the sun lingered on the walls, and the eye was not attracted to

any particular object, so that one could listen all the more

attentively, only one sense being called into activity.

Sonnenkamp was yet more and more delighted; and when Eric inquired,

"Which one of your family is musical?" he answered,--

"This saloon is intended for my daughter."

"Wonderful," said Eric; "yonder in the garden the upturned seat, and

here the music-saloon, is expecting her."

Sonnenkamp, as he often did, took his under-lip between his fore-finger

and thumb; he appeared to be either intending to say something, or

wishing to keep something back.

"As we are talking about my daughter, I will just show you her room,"

he said suddenly, opening a side-door.

They entered a little apartment, in which the Venetian blinds were

down. Sonnenkamp at once drew them entirely up. The prospect extended

over the long vine-arbor and beyond the Rhine. The room was plain, but

all was extremely pretty. A number of photographs, wreathed with blue

ribbon into a circle, in the centre of which was a large picture of the

pope, hung upon the wall. The white curtains of the white bed, now

drawn back, allowed a beautifully carved ivory crucifix on the wall to

be seen, while below it hung a neatly framed colored engraving, a sort

of diploma, admitting Hermanna, styled Manna Sonnenkamp, into the band

of good children.

A writing-table, a small book-shelf, tasteful chairs, everything showed

that here was the abode of a maiden who quietly lived within herself,

occupied chiefly with religious meditations. In the chamber itself

there seemed to be the hovering spirit of prayer, and one involuntarily

looked round to see the maiden herself come in, with those large

childlike eyes immediately cast down at beholding her sanctuary

intruded upon.

Eric's glance became fixed upon a handsome chimney-piece of green

marble, whose semi-circular edge was bordered with living ivy, while

the entire chimney-place was filled with flowers and growing plants. No

flower-pots were to be seen, for they were skilfully concealed; it was

all a mysterious growth of leaves and flowers.

"Does that please you?" Sonnenkamp asked. "Yes, my daughter always has

the chimney-place filled with flowers in summer, and I think that

Fraeulein Perini has continued the practice in memory of her."

Eric continued to stare at the plants; and he fancied that he could

read something of the character of the maiden who in summer kept the

fire-place covered with flowers. Here Sonnenkamp laid a heavy hand on

his shoulder, and said:--

"Are you entirely honest? You have not come here on my son's account,

but on my daughter's."

"I do not comprehend," Eric replied.

"Were you not at the convent? Have you not seen my daughter?"

"Yes, both; but I had not the most remote knowledge of you, or your

daughter, or your son."

"I believe it. But have you not conceived the idle fancy, that by

taking up your abode in my house, you may perhaps win the affections of

my daughter?"

"I thank you for this directness," Eric responded, "and I will use

equal directness in my reply. I should consider it the misfortune of my

life, if I should have the feeling of love towards your daughter."

"Towards my daughter? Why so?"

"Because I should esteem it a misfortune to love a maiden of such great

wealth, without taking into view her Catholic opinions. I would never

marry so rich a girl, and I would let my heart break before I would do

it. I now beseech you--it is not entirely impossible that mistrust, by

and by, may be awakened from this source--I beseech you, openly and

directly, not to give me this situation in your family. It is better; I

have been this short time your guest, and I thank you for your great

kindness."

"Young man, you remain. I believe you, and I trust you. I thank you for

teaching me to have confidence again in a human being, and to believe

in a human being. You remain! Give me your hand--you remain! We will

settle all quietly. Moreover, my daughter is--and I give you here the

best testimony of my confidence--my daughter is as good as betrothed to

the Baron von Pranken. Now come into my own work-room."

They entered it. Everything here was arranged with a special attention

to convenience. For every frame of mind, and every season of the year,

for solitude and for society, chairs, tables, and sofas were disposed

everywhere for comfort, as much as one room could contain. There was a

vast space, and yet a homelike seclusion; and this south side was

admirably situated for a view of the landscape. Here could be seen,

outside, the smooth beeches and plane-trees, which hid from view the

bare-looking vineyards, and suffered the eye to rest upon the summits

of the wooded heights; and directly in front of the balcony window

there was a full view of the ruins of the castle, which, as Eric had

already heard, was being rebuilt by the order of Herr Sonnenkamp, and

under the special supervision of the major.

A single, beautiful painting hung here; it was a life-sized portrait of

Roland, in his seventh year. The boy sat upon an overturned antique

column, his hand upon the head of a splendid Newfoundland dog, and

gazing into the distance.

A large arm-chest stood here with weapons of all sorts.

While Eric was looking about, Sonnenkamp shoved back two doors which

were let into the walls, and he led the way into what he called his

library. No books were to be seen, nothing but great boxes, vessels of

porcelain and clay, as in a well-arranged apothecary's shop; and

Sonnenkamp explained that these contained seeds from all the different

parts of the earth.

From the seed-room a special stair-case led into the garden, and this

stair-case was entirely grown over with the Chinese honeysuckle, which

was now in full bloom with its clusters of blue papilionaceous flowers.

Sonnenkamp conducted his guest back into the large work-room, and there

said that it had, formerly, been his desire that Roland should have an

inclination to enter upon the active life which he himself had now

retired from. He spoke of trade. Eric was amazed at the vast,

comprehensive glance which Sonnenkamp took of the business of the

world: for him there was no isolated activity, no isolated product; one

part of the world subsisted only through another; and the whole earth

was for him one great market-place, where iron, wool, tobacco, and

grain received his attention at the same time, and whether in Sweden,

Scotland, the East Indies, or Havana, were brought to one common

warehouse.

Sonnenkamp seemed to be desirous, today, to compensate Eric for his

unreserved communication, and Eric was astonished at the broad and

strong grasp of the man's view, so that all his schemes were well

calculated and sure of success; this vast power of insight was visible

in all his talk. He had seen the wide world with that keen-sightedness

characteristic of the English and Americans, who, of all nations,

consume the smallest number of spectacles. He seized hold of the main

features, without burdening himself with the incidental, and without

being hindered by any afterthought; he described with great objectivity

what he had seen in foreign lands, as well as what he had done in his

own.

Sonnenkamp was well aware of the impression he had made upon Eric, and

nodded, smiling, when the latter expressed his opinion how grand it

must be not only to possess, but also to acquire and to be.

"Reflect seriously upon this," Sonnenkamp said,--"what would you make,

and what am I to make, of Roland? You have seen so much," he added with

a look of elation, "that you would not seek to change me and my family,

if you should undertake the education of my son."

This last remark dissipated, to a certain extent, the deep impression

which Sonnenkamp had made upon Eric. The whole appeared a premeditated

affair.

A servant came to inform Herr Sonnenkamp that Herr von Pranken wished

to take leave of him.

CHAPTER XIII.

DEVIL GETTING WONTED.

Pranken's horse stood saddled in the court, and Pranken himself was

walking up and down, snapping his riding-whip. In exceedingly good

spirits, and in a very amiable mood, he hastened to meet Sonnenkamp,

saying that he must take leave of him. There was a tone of bantering

politeness in their manner towards each other. When Sonnenkamp remarked

that Pranken was always surprising one, never saying that he was going

away until the very moment of starting, Pranken answered, with mock

modesty, that he was sure that he must in that way meet the approval of

his friend Sonnenkamp, for nothing was more disagreeable, and made life

more insipid and dull, than a constant talking over and discussion and

cooking up of plans; he shot the hare, and left it to be dressed by the

artists of the kitchen.

Pranken said all that with his usual rattling manner, as he twisted the

end of his light moustache. He took a cool leave of Eric, saying that

he hoped to find him still there on his return from a short journey.

"Should you, however, leave before I come back, have the kindness to

present my respects to the gracious--" he paused a moment, then added,

"to the Professor's lady, your mother."

He had taken off his glove when he said good-bye to Sonnenkamp, but

drew it on again before he held out his hand to Eric, and it was

evident that he did so intentionally. This coldness was rather

agreeable to Eric; a part of his debt of gratitude was removed as

Pranken treated him more distantly, and they could perhaps be more

harmonious and independent when they were thrown together.

Pranken called Sonnenkamp aside, and said, though he certainly

had recommended the young scholar--haughtily emphasizing this

expression--he would beg him not to conclude any hasty engagement

without making a strict examination himself.

"Herr Baron," replied Sonnenkamp, "I am a merchant--" he made a

watchful pause before continuing,--"and I know what recommendations

are, and how often one is forced to give them. I assure you that you

are free from all responsibility, and as to the examination myself--I

am a merchant, Herr Baron--" again the wary pause,--"the young man is

the seller, and a seller always has to lay himself open, and to show

what he is, more fully than the buyer, especially here, where the

seller is offering himself for sale."

Pranken smiled, and said that was the deepest diplomacy. He went to his

horse, vaulted nimbly into the saddle, and set off at a gallop.

Sonnenkamp called after him that he must see whether the magnolia in

the convent yard was thriving; he waved his hat to show that he

understood, and rode away at full speed.

"A charming, agreeable young man! always bright and merry," Sonnenkamp

said, as he looked after Pranken; and he went on to remark, at some

length, on his constant light-heartedness.

Eric was silent. There seemed to prevail in this circle into which he

was introduced, a perpetual commenting and remarking upon others. He

knew Pranken, he knew tins everlasting galloping style of utterance,

which is always so extremely animated, and even becomes enthusiastic

when the conversation can be turned into an emulous contest of

raillery. But this galloping genius had a deep foundation of

insincerity, for it was not possible to be strained up every moment to

this pitch: it could only be the result of violent tension, which must

perpetually make a show of energy, and in this constant effort the soul

must, consciously or unconsciously, put on a false appearance.

Eric quietly listened to his remaining statements, and only when

Sonnenkamp asked him whether he did not think that the man, who had

from his youth been conscious of a superior rank, could alone attain to

this regal and sportive mastery over life, only then did he answer,

that no fair province of life was shut out from the middle class.

Sonnenkamp nodded very acquiescingly. His saddle-horse was now brought

to him, and he immediately mounted and rode off.

Eric went in search of Roland, and found him with his dogs. The boy

desired that Eric should at once select one of them for himself. "And

only think," he added, "a day-laborer just informs me that the dwarf

has received a bite from Devil. Served the stupid fellow exactly right,

for trying to do what he wasn't fit to do."

Eric was shocked. Was it possible that a young heart could already be

so stony? He laid down to Roland at length how inhuman it was to regard

a human being as a mere puppet, and to have no further concern about

him, after one has had his sport out of him. His whole heart was moved

with feeling as he spoke. Roland disdainfully threw back his head.

"Why do you make no reply to me?" Eric asked.

"Ah! I had no idea that you would preach to me like all the rest."

Attracted by the beauty of the boy, and his bold spirit, Eric had come

to the determination to devote himself to him, and now, for an instant,

he experienced a revulsion of feeling, but only to devote himself with

fresh earnestness to his resolve. He would soften and thaw out this

soul, naturally hard, or made so by the training it had received.

Roland went up quietly to Eric, and requested him to ride out with him.

They rode together to the village. But Roland could not be induced to

visit the dwarf, whom Eric found lying on the bed, moaning and

groaning. When he arrived at the house of the huntsman, he did not find

Roland, who had gone with Devil into the woods upon the height.

The huntsman greeted Eric less submissively; he lifted his cap, indeed,

but only to cock it a little one side; he approached him in that

familiar way so common on the upper Rhine, where it always seems as if

one would touch glasses, and make himself friendly with you.

"Captain," he asked, "have you settled matters?"

"No."

"May I be permitted to say something to you?"

"If it is something good, why not?"

"That's just as one takes it. That one, down there"--he pointed

with his thumb back to the villa--"that one is buying up the whole

Rhine-land. But see you, that fox-hound there--"

"Stop," at once exclaimed Eric, proceeding to point out, in a very

decisive manner, that he had no right to speak so to him, and about

another person.

Eric was aware that he had not properly preserved his own dignity, or

this man would not have been able to approach him so familiarly; and he

was now more severe in repelling this forwardness than he intended. The

huntsman only puffed the more vigorously at his pipe, and then said,--

"Yes, yes, you are the one to seize the man down there by the throat,

and I see that you are too smart for me. You wish to get off from

thanking me; I want no thanks, and no pay."

He muttered to himself, that everything which came near the rich man

was always spoilt.

Eric must undo somewhat the impression he had made, for the huntsman

was the only one who could rival him in his influence over Roland. The

huntsman took, in very good part, Eric's expressions of friendliness,

but he remained silent. When Roland came back, Eric asked him nothing

about his excursion to the woods, and told him nothing about the dwarf.

It was Roland's place to ask him, but the boy said nothing, and they

both rode back in silence.

Eric immediately caused himself to be announced to Herr Sonnenkamp, and

informed him that he now felt compelled to assume a definite relation

with Roland.

"You find Roland, then, an excellent youth?"

"He has great boldness, determination, and--I know that a father can

only hear it with unwilling ears, but after your searching inquiries

yesterday, I may be permitted to hope that you are sufficiently free

to--"

"Certainly, certainly; only speak out."

"I find a degree of hard-heartedness, and a want of sympathy with the

purely human, surprising at such an age;" and Eric related how Roland

had deported himself in regard to the dwarf.

A peculiar smile darted over Sonnenkamp's features, as he asked,--

"And do you feel confident that you can make a corrupted nature noble?"

"Pardon me, I said nothing about a corrupted nature; I should say,

rather, that Roland is just now changing his voice, in a spiritual

sense, and one cannot judge what tone it will take; but so much the

more necessity is there for care in the kind of influence exerted."

"And what is your opinion of Roland's talents?"

"I think that he is not superior to the average. He has a good natural

understanding, and a quick comprehension, but persistency,--_that_ is

indeed very questionable, and I have already observed that he goes

along well enough a certain distance, then comes to a standstill, and

will pursue the thought no farther. I am not yet very clear in regard

to this mental characteristic; if it cannot be changed for the better,

I should fear that Roland would be unhappy, for he would experience no

abiding satisfaction, nor would he feel the delight, nor the

obligation, of perseverance. Yet this is, perhaps, drawing too fine a

thread."

"No, no, you are right. I place no reliance upon my son's stability of

character; he only lives from hand to mouth. It is a bore to him to do

anything of which he cannot see the direct result.

"That is the way with children. But such children never make sterling

men; therefore I wanted Roland to love plants, as he would then be

obliged to learn that there was something which can at no time be

neglected or forgotten."

"I am rejoiced," Eric replied, "that you here remind me of the most

vital points. First of all, the rich man, and the son of a rich man,

like the prince and the son of a prince, have only subservient friends.

Against my will I have become Roland's play-fellow, and so the

subsequent serious work will be interfered with."

"Is it impossible then, to combine work and play?"

"I hope to do so. But the necessity of work must be recognized." Eric

continued silent, and Sonnenkamp asked,--

"You have still another point?"

"Most certainly, and it is this. As I have already suggested, Roland

must acquire a steadfast relation to external things, an intimate bond

of union with them, as then only will he be at home in the world. He

who has no recollections of childhood, no deep attachment to that which

has transpired around him, is cut off from the very fountain-head of

genial and hearty affection. Question yourself, and you will find--your

return to Germany fully proves it--that the heartfelt, endearing

recollections of childhood were the very sustenance, what one may

perhaps call the spiritual mother's milk, of your deepest soul."

Sonnenkamp winced at these words, and Eric added,--

"Homelessness is hurting the soul of your son."

"Homelessness?" Sonnenkamp exclaimed in astonishment.

His face quivered for an instant, and his athletic strength seemed

eager to make some outward demonstration, but he restrained it within

the bounds of forced composure, asking,--

"Do I rightly apprehend you? Homelessness?"

"That is what I think. The inner life of the child needs training, that

it may cling to something; a journey is, perhaps, not harmful to the

soul of a child; at the best, it has little effect upon him. A child in

travelling has no distinct impression from all the changes of the

landscape; he takes delight in the locomotive at the station, and in

the wind-mill on the hill. One fixed point in the soul anchors it

firmly. I said that the human being ought to have an object to strive

for, but permit me to add to that, that he must also have a fixed point

of departure, and that is the home. You said, and I see it myself, that

Roland takes no real delight in anything; and is not that owing to the

fact that the boy is homeless, a child of hotels, with no tap-root in

any place, and still more, no deep-seated impressions, no pictures in

his memory which have become a portion of his very life, and to which

he returns from all his wayward fancies? He told me that he had played

in the Coliseum at Rome, in the Louvre at Paris, in Hyde-park at

London, and on the lake of Geneva,--and now, living in Europe, yet

always proudly conscious of being an American,--this causes--pardon me,

I only ask the question--does this not cause a restlessness of spirit,

which may be fatal to any growth?"

"I see," Sonnenkamp answered, leaning back his head, "you are an

incarnate, or one might rather say, an insouled German, who runs over

the whole world, in reality and in thought, and cajoles himself always

with the self-complacent notion, 'I am so whole-souled, and that is

more than the rest of you are.' Pah! I tell you that if I bestow

anything of worth upon my child, I believe it will be just this, that

he will be free from that sentimentality of a so-called settled home.

The whistle of the locomotive scares away all the homesickness so

tenderly pampered of old. We are in fact cosmopolites, and that is just

the greatness of American civilization, that, not being rooted in the

past, national limitations and rights of citizenship have no narrowing

influence upon the soul. The home-attachment is an old nuisance and a

prejudice. Roland is to become an untramelled man."

Eric was silent. After a considerable time, he said:--

"It is, perhaps, not beneficial, but tiresome, both to you and to me,

to deal in generalities. I would only say, that however little

calculated travelling may be to create an inner satisfaction, when

there is no definite object to be attained that one can all along hold

in view, much less can a life that has no special aim of action,

thought, or enjoyment, confer any central peace. If Roland now had some

special talent--"

"Do you find none at all in him?"

"I have discovered none as yet; and still it seems to me, that if he

had been born under different circumstances, he would have made a

serviceable lock-smith, or a good groom. I hope you do not

misunderstand that--I consider it a guaranty for human equality, that

what a man becomes, wholly or chiefly depends upon circumstances.

Hundreds of judges would have become, under different circumstances,

common laborers, and hundreds of common laborers would have become

judges. As I said before, it is to me a direct proof of the universally

diffused capacities of human beings, that only the few have the genius

that absolutely demands a special work."

"I understand, I understand. And do you think that you can train a boy,

of whom you have formed so low an opinion?"

"I have not a low opinion of Roland, neither of his head nor his heart.

He seems to me not unsusceptible of love, but it is to him an

enjoyment, not also a duty; he has the qualities belonging to the

average of men not marked by any special characteristic, and those are

entirely sufficient to form him, under judicious and proper direction,

into a good and honorable man, happy himself, and able to make others

happy. And I shall be very glad, in the meanwhile, if I am mistaken in

attributing to Roland no special genius."

"I honor and value highly your great earnestness," Sonnenkamp

interposed, "but I am just now in great haste. Inform Roland of your

position."

He seemed out of humor, as he rolled his cigar from one corner of his

mouth to the other, and busied himself with his papers, just as if Eric

were no longer present.

Eric left the work-room of Sonnenkamp, and betook himself to Roland. He

found the boy busily employed in chewing a piece of half-raw meat, and

giving the chewed morsels to the lately broken-in dog; the huntsman

affirmed that that would attach the dog to him inseparably. Eric looked

on a while, and then requested Roland to send the dog away, as he had

something to say to him.

"Can't the dog stay with us?"

Eric made no reply, for he saw that he must first settle whether he or

the dog had the deepest hold. On his casting a sharp look again upon

Roland, the boy said, "Come, Devil, wait here at the door," and

returning, he exclaimed, "There, now go on."

Eric took Roland's hand, and informed him that he had come to be his

tutor. Roland leaned his handsome head upon his partly closed hand,

gazing at the speaker fixedly with his large, restless, glowing eyes.

"I knew it," he said at last.

"And who told you?"

"The huntsman and Joseph."

"And why did you say nothing to me about it?"

Roland made no answer to this, only looking at the speaker, as if he

would say, "I can wait." He only once removed his gaze, when Eric

added, that he had wished to try first whether he was adapted to the

family. Roland still remained silent. The dog scratched at the door;

Roland looked towards it, but did not venture to open it. Eric opened

it. The dog sprang in, crouched down before Roland, and then went to

Eric and licked his hands; he seemed to be a mysterious messenger, a

silent yet eloquent interpreter between them.

"He likes you too!" Roland cried out in childish delight.

These were the only words spoken by the boy. Suddenly springing up, he

threw himself upon Eric's breast, where he was held in a firm embrace;

the dog barked as if he must express himself.

"We will be true to each other," Eric exclaimed, unclasping his arms;

"I had a brother of your age, and you are to be my younger brother."

Roland, without speaking, held Eric's right hand between both of his.

"Now let us at once begin our life, fresh and bright."

"Yes," replied Roland, "we'll make Devil fetch something out of the

water; he does it splendidly."

"No, my dear brother, we will go to work. Let us see what you have

learned."

Eric had noticed particularly, that Roland, who was deficient in every

other branch of knowledge, had a pretty good acquaintance with

geography. He tested him in this, and Roland was highly pleased to be

able to give him accurate answers. They gradually passed to the

consideration of other studies, and then Roland appeared confused, and

for Latin he had a hatred amounting to a personal hostility.

"We will quietly study what is necessary," Eric said consolingly, "and

then we will ride, drive, shoot, fish, and row."

This prospect cheered the boy very much, and when the clock struck in

the tower, he suddenly observed,--

"In one hour Herr von Pranken will be with Manna. I can learn to ride,

fence, and shoot, as well as Herr von Pranken, don't you think I can?"

"Certainly you can."

"I sent a letter, too, to Manna by Herr von Pranken."

"What language did you write it in?"

"English, of course. Ah! it just occurs to me,--all speak so highly of

your mother, let your mother come too; she might live out therein our

small, vine-covered house."

The boy could say no more, for Eric lifted him up, pressed him to his

breast, and kissed him. The boy had uttered what at first sight had

flashed through his own soul, and now it was evident that he bestowed

gladly, loved to confer benefits, and to contrive pleasure for others;

his hard-heartedness towards the dwarf disappeared as a mere

superficial blemish.

A servant came and announced that dinner was served. Holding each other

by the hand, Roland and Eric went to the dining-room.

CHAPTER XIV.

A RIVAL.

The dinner was as ceremonious as it had been the day before. Frau

Ceres, who appeared again at table, betrayed by no look or word that

she had conversed so confidentially with Eric; she addressed,

frequently, some brief remark to him; but again all were occupied in

urging her to eat something. Eric wondered at the patience with which

Sonnenkamp did this again and again.

After dinner, while they were taking coffee, Sonnenkamp observed to

Eric in a careless way, that a new applicant had presented himself, who

brought the highest recommendation from Roland's last tutor, the

candidate Knopf. He gave Eric to understand that they did not receive

every one at once to dinner, and ordered Joseph to introduce the

stranger.

A slim, sunburnt man entered. He was introduced to the company. Eric

was introduced by the title of Captain, Doctor being suffered

temporarily to rest in peace. The stranger, whose name was Professor

Crutius, had been a fellow-student with the candidate Knopf, had seen a

good deal of the world, and, finally, for several years, had been

professor in the military school at West Point, near New York.

He gave this information with great ease, but in rather a harsh tone of

voice.

Sonnenkamp seemed to have reserved this entertainment for the dessert,

to allow the two applicants to engage in a tilt with each other, while

quietly smoking his cigar. He was very shrewd in finding the points

where they could attack each other, but he was not not a little

surprised that Eric immediately laid down his arms; expressing his

thanks to the stranger, he said that he envied his rich experience in

life, and his wide survey of the world, while he himself had, to his

regret, been confined to the limited circle of the Principality and to

the world of books.

The stranger had made the discovery very soon that Fraeulein Perini was

the hair-spring in the watchwork of this household, and he found that

they had some reminiscences in common. Crutius had accompanied an

American family to Italy, and had gone from thence to the New World.

In a manner showing candor and experience, he described the

characteristics of an American boy of the upper class, and how such a

boy must be managed. Without directly pointing it out, this description

was evidently intended for Roland, who sat gazing at the stranger.

Eric, standing with Sonnenkamp by the balcony-railing, which he grasped

tightly in his hands, said that he himself was not sufficiently

prepared, and that the stranger would be, probably, the most fitting

person.

Sonnenkamp made no reply, puffing out quickly cloud after cloud of

smoke into the air.

"Magnanimity," he thought to himself. "Magnanimity,--nothing but smoke

and vapor."

The stranger was very zealously engaged in conversation with Frau Ceres

and Fraeulein Perini. Roland went to his father, and said, in a voice as

determined as it was low,--

"Send him away; I don't want him."

"Why not?"

"Because I have Herr Eric, and because Herr Knopf has sent him."

"Go to your own room; you have nothing to say about this," Eric

ordered.

The boy stared at him, and went.

Eric declared to the father that Roland's instinctive feeling was just;

the bitterness against his former teacher he could not at all judge of,

but it was evident that the boy wanted to be received by some entirely

unprejudiced stranger.

Sonnenkamp was surprised at this kindly appreciation on Eric's part,

especially when he went on to state how unpleasant a thing it must be

for the boy to be transferred in this way from one hand to another.

The stranger, in the meanwhile, had asked Fraeulein Perini whether

Sonnenkamp had any relatives, whether that had always been his name,

and whether he received many letters. He touched upon one and another

point in his conversation, evidently to reconnoitre the state of

feeling entertained by the family concerning America; and when

Sonnenkamp, with great energy, asserted that he should like a dictator

for America, who would put to rout the rascality there, Crutius said,

that there were very many in the New World who really cherished the

conviction and desire that America would establish a monarchy, but

didn't dare to say so.

Sonnenkamp nodded to himself, and whistled again inaudibly.

"Where did you put up?" he abruptly inquired of the stranger.

Crutius named an inn in the village.

"There you are very well quartered."

The stranger's countenance changed for an instant. He had evidently

expected that his luggage would be sent for, and that he would be

received as a guest in the house.

Sonnenkamp thanked him very courteously for the call, and requested him

to give his address in full, so that he might be written to if there

should be occasion. The stranger's hand trembled as he took out his

well-worn pocket-book, and gave his card. He took leave with formal

politeness.

Sonnenkamp requested Eric to escort his fellow-teacher a part of the

way, and handed him several gold pieces, which he was to give to the

needy-looking man in a suitable manner.

"Is this friendly confidence, or is it expected as a service?" Eric

asked himself, as he went after the stranger.

He overtook him near the park-wall, and when Eric represented himself

to be also a teacher, the countenance of the professor changed, and he

exclaimed:--

"Ah! a teacher then, and perhaps my competitor?"

Eric answered in the affirmative.

Crutius looked sour at this; he had been gratified at the friendly

encouragement of the captain, whom he took to be an inmate of the

family, and he was grateful to him for the praise he had given him; but

now he turned out to be a teacher too! He gnashed his teeth a little

over this mistake.

Eric tendered him the present of gold with great delicacy, putting

himself on an equality with the stranger, making known his own poverty,

and declaring how impossible it often was not to accept from those who

had means.

"Ha! ha!" the stranger laughed out. "He knows me; he wishes to put me

under obligation and release himself!"

Eric said that he did not understand such expressions.

"Indeed!" the stranger said, laughing. "So innocence with a captain's

rank allows itself also to be bought? The whole world is nothing but an

old rag-shop. What matter! The den where the tiger devours his prey is

very fine and very tasty! paint and tapestry can cover up a good deal!

I ask your pardon, I have taken wine this morning, and I am not used to

it. Well, hand it over! My most humble compliments to Villa Eden! Ha!

ha! a very nice name!"

Without adding a word more, the stranger, grasping tightly the gold,

touched his hat, and walked off at a rapid pace.

Eric returned to Sonnenkamp in a meditative mood. Sonnenkamp invited

him to be seated, in a very friendly manner, asking.--

"Did he take the money?"

Eric nodded.

"And of course, with hardly a thank you?"

Eric said that the man had acknowledged, of his own accord, that he had

been drinking wine that morning, and was not used to it.

Pointing to a great packet of letters, Sonnenkamp said that they were

all applications for the advertised situation. He expatiated very

merrily upon the great number of persons who depend upon some wind-fall

or other; if one should only open a honey-pot, suddenly bees, wasps,

and golden-flies appear, nothing of which had been seen before. Then he

continued:--

"I can give you a contribution to your knowledge of men."

"Anything about Herr Crutius?"

"No; of your very much be-pitied dwarf. It is really refreshing to find

such a charming piece of rascality. I have known for a long time how

smart he was in stealing the black wood-vetch from the hill above; but

now the bite received in training the dog is nothing but a lie. I have

already informed Roland of it, and I am glad that he can become

acquainted so early with the vileness and deceitfulness of men."

"You will not keep the dwarf any longer in your employment, I suppose?"

"Certainly I shall. I am delighted that the droll little man has so

much rascality. It is a perfect satisfaction to play with the villainy

and roguery of people, and I should like to have half a dozen such on

hand, so as to teach Roland how to deal with chaps of that stamp."

"I would rather not be able to give him that instruction," said Eric.

"It is not for you to do that; you are here for something else."

Eric left Sonnenkamp's room, greatly depressed.

A servant informed him that Roland was waiting for him at the

river-bank; he went there, and Roland invited him to take a sail with

him on the Rhine. He unfastened the pretty boat from the shore, and

rowed expertly out into the stream; it was now a dark green, and the

islands above, with their dense foliage, seemed to be growing out of a

soil of liquid emerald.

A fresh breeze rippled the surface; Roland was happy that he could

unfurl the sail, and showed himself skilful in his mastery over the

elements. Every movement was so graceful that Eric took great delight

in looking at him.

Eric was a novice on the water, and he was glad to give Roland the

satisfaction of instructing him, and of showing him how the boat is

made to turn, and to go in any direction. There was a joyous tone in

Roland's voice that Eric had never remarked before.

And while they were sailing along with a full breeze, the splashing

waves striking against the boat, Roland spoke of the candidate Knopf,

who first made him really at home upon the water. Knopf could row,

sail, steer, and make the boat describe a circle in the water, better

than the best boatman. Yes, better than the boatman's wife even, a

large, powerful woman, who now called out to him as she steered a large

boat made fast to a tow-boat, while her husband, a not less powerful

form, leaned against the mast.

Roland, steering towards the tow-boat, made fast to the boat which the

woman was managing. She chatted with him without looking round, for she

must keep the exact course. When they had gone far enough, Roland

unfastened the boat, and sailed back with the current.

He gave a humorous account of the helmswoman's rule over her husband,

but Eric led the conversation to the candidate Knopf. Roland was not

inclined to say anything more about him, nor to speak of his previous

tutors, who were evidently regarded by him with as much indifference as

is a yesterday's waiter at a hotel, or a discharged servant. Who will

ask about people whom they have dismissed? It was only apparent, from

some words dropped by Roland, that this candidate must have had a warm

affection for his pupil.

Mention was made, also, of the dwarf, and Roland took it very coolly

that he had turned out a rascal, for he regarded all poor people as

rascals.

Eric had gained in this sail a new and deeper knowledge of his pupil;

pity was now added to the love he felt for the boy, who had so early

acquired a contempt for the world, and who appeared to have no person

and no thing to which he clung inseparably, and the thought of which

gave him new inspiration. Only with his sister did he seem to have any

real bond of affection, for as they were approaching the villa, he

said:--

"Just as I am now walking with you, Manna is walking with Herr von

Pranken. I think that you and Manna, when she comes, will also be good

friends."

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.

THE SUBTERRANEAN CALL.

A fragrant strawberry glistens on the ground, beautiful to the eye, and

luscious to the taste. If there were some method of seeing, or even of

hearing, what was going on at the root of the plant, we might perhaps

be able to discern how the ammonia, homely, and of very pungent odor,

turned up conceitedly its nose, as much as to say, What indeed would

all this be without me?

The potash, on the other hand, brightly glistening and sweet-smelling,

is under no necessity of saying anything, for its very appearance says

already, All the scientific men of the upper world speak on my behalf.

And the hard, silicious earth, in its comfortable repose, might be

understood to say, I am an aboriginal inhabitant, and what do these

transient fellows want? To-day here, and to-morrow gone; I have already

lived through a great deal,--everything goes by fashion.

The maggot-worm grubs at the root, blinking with its cunning eyes, and

thinks, The rest are happy in rendering service, but I--I fatten

myself. The earth-worm rolls itself along in a proud feeling of triumph

that it can go through the streets and water-courses, whereon

everything is moving hither and thither. A mole, that has nestled in

the neighborhood, lies in wait for the moment when the maggot-worm is

taking a little nap, after its surfeit, and gobbles it up.

Such are the manifold operations of life and movement down there at the

roots, and such also are those in the servants' room of Villa Eden

above.

Herr Sonnenkamp has a wise rule, although many consider it

hard-hearted, that all his servants must be unmarried. They receive

good wages, are in want of nothing, but make no pretension to family

life. A beggar never comes into the well-kept garden, for he would

disturb its comfortable serenity. He receives alms, at the entrance,

from the keeper of the lodge, and the old cook oftentimes complains

that the remnants of food, which might nourish many a hungry one, go so

utterly to waste.

It is noon. They take their meals here, long before the table of their

master above is set. Two grooms and a third coachman, who keep watch in

the stables, eat by themselves in silence, for they must relieve the

others.

The superintendent here below is the head-cook, dressed in light

clothes, and called for shortness, "the chief;" of a burly and portly

figure, with a beardless face, and a large hawk-nose, he plays here the

marquis. His German is a sort of jargon, but he rules over the

subordinate cook and kitchen-maids, with absolute sway.

The watchmen have dined. A long table is laid for more than a dozen

persons, and they come in one after another.

The first who makes his appearance, or, rather, the one to whom the

first entrance is conceded, is the head-coachman, Bertram, with a

powerful, gigantic form. He has a great red beard, parted in two waving

masses coming to a peak, with an embroidered waistcoat covering his

hips, and over it a striped blue and white jacket, with just a slight

badge of distinction from that of the other coachmen.

With a greeting to the whole corps of servants, Bertram seats

himself at the head of the table with Joseph on his right, and the

head-gardener on his left. Next to this one, a little man, with seamed

face and rapidly glancing eyes, takes a seat; this is Lutz, the

courier. Then the rest seat themselves according to their rank, the

stable-boys and the men working in the garden being placed at the lower

end of the table.

The first female cook, a special favorite of Fraeulein Perini, insisted

strenuously upon grace being said before dinner. Bertram, the travelled

coachman, a decided free-thinker, always busied himself during the

blessing with his great embroidered waistcoat, which he drew proudly

down over his hips. Joseph folded his hands, but did not move his lips;

the rest prayed silently.

No sooner was the soup removed, and a little wine sipped,--for the

servants had their wine every day,--than Bertram started the talk, and

upon a very definite topic.

"I was just waiting to see whether Lieutenant Dournay would recognise

me; I belonged to his battery."

"Indeed!" Joseph delightedly chimed in. "He was right popular, I'm

certain?"

Bertram did not consider it incumbent upon him to give a direct reply.

He only said that he could never have believed that Herr Dournay would

ever become a servant.

"Servant?"

"Yes, a servant like us; and because he knows something of books, a

tutor."

Joseph smiled in a melancholy way, and took great pains to bring the

table over to a correct view. First he praised the celebrated father of

Eric, who had received at least twenty decorations; and his mother, who

belonged to the nobility; and he was very happy to say that Captain

Dournay understood all about the sciences, and, to throw at their heads

the very hardest names which he could get hold of,--Anthropology,

Osteology, Archaeology, and Petrifactology--all these the captain was

master of; he was a complete university in himself. But he did not

succeed in convincing the company that Eric was anything else than a

servant.

The head-gardener said, in a high-Prussian dialect:--

"Anyhow, he is a handsome man, and sits his horse well; but he don't

know a thing about gardening."

Lootz, the courier, praised Eric for speaking good French and English,

but of course, when it came to Russian, and Turkish, and Polish, the

learned gentleman didn't understand them; for Lutz himself, as a

journeyman tailor, having made the tour of all countries, understood

all languages. He had attended formerly Fraeulein von Pranken, the

present Countess Wolfsgarten, and two English ladies, on their travels;

now he acted as courier for Herr Sonnenkamp on his journeys, and was

idle the rest of the time, unless one calls work the carrying of the

letter-bag to and from the railroad station, and the playing of the

guitar, which the little man practised a good deal, with the

accompaniment of his own whistling. He had also a secret service.

There appeared to be a tacit agreement at the table, that they should

make no reply to anything that Lutz said; he only received a smile from

the second female cook, with whom he had a tender but not acknowledged

relation.

A man with Sarmatian features and a Polish accent claimed for Herr von

Pranken the credit of having brought the man into the house. Bertram

gave Joseph a slight nudge, and proceeded to praise Herr von Pranken in

the most eulogistic terms, while Joseph winked slyly, as if he would

say. Just so; this shows again that the Pole is in the secret service

of Herr von Pranken.

Now they speculated whether Herr von Pranken would take up his abode in

the house after his marriage with Manna, for this event was regarded as

a settled thing.

A gardener, who stammered a little, remarked that it was said at the

village inn, that Herr Sonnenkamp had been a tailor. All laughed, and

the stuttering gardener, who was the special butt of the circle, was

more and more spurred on to talk, and bantered till he became blue in

the face. Bertram, taking both waves of his long beard in his hands,

exclaimed:--

"If any one should tell me that, I'd show him how his teeth taste."

"Just let people talk," said soothingly the head-gardener, with a smile

in advance at his own wisdom, as he added, "As soon as a man gets on in

the world he must make up his mind to be slandered."

One of the hostlers gave an account of a scuffle which had taken place

between them and the servants of the so-called Wine-count, who

reproached them with being the servants of a man whom nobody knew

anything about,--who he was, or where he came from; and that one of

them had gone so far as to say that Frau Sonnenkamp was a purchased

slave.

The secret, and, in fact, not very edifying history of several families

was now related, until the stout female cook cried out at last:--

"Do stop that talk! My mother used to say, that

"'Whether houses be great or small.

There lies a stone before them all.'"

The second gardener, a lean, thin man, with a peaked face, called the

squirrel, who often had prayers with the pious people of the

neighborhood, began a very evangelical discourse about evil speaking.

He had, originally, been a gardener, then a policeman in a northern

capital, where Sonnenkamp became acquainted with him, and placed him

back again in his first occupation, employing him frequently in

commissions that called for special circumspection.

An ancient kitchen-maid, who sat apart, holding in her lap the plate

from, which she was eating, cried suddenly:--

"You may say what you please, the gentleman who has just come marries

the daughter of the family. Just bear that in mind. Mark my words. He

hasn't come for the young gentleman, but for the young lady. There was

once on a time a prince and a princess in the castle, and the prince

put on a servant's dress--yes, laugh away, but it is just so."

Joseph and Bertram exchanged glances full of meaning.

Now there was a general joking. Every one wished to have his fortune

told by old Kate. The courier made fun of superstitious people, but

assumed a very forced smile when Bertram called out:--

"Yes, indeed, the tailors are all enlightened, they don't believe in

hell."

There was no end to the laughing now. Suddenly a voice sounded from the

ceiling:--

"Bertram is to put the horses to the glass-carriage, and Joseph to come

up."

The company at the table broke up; the hostlers went to the stables,

where they smoked their pipes, the gardeners to the park and the

green-houses. Joseph told two servants to set the dinner-table, and

there was stillness under ground. Only the kettles bubbled and hissed,

and the chief surveyed with lofty mien the progress of his work.

An hour later, Lootz received the letters which he was to carry to the

station, and, in a very casual and innocent way, related that the new

tutor had as adherents in the house, Bertram, who was formerly

stationed in his battery, and Joseph, who considered himself committed

to him as coming from the University. It had never been said in so many

words that Lutz was to be a spy over the servants, but it was

understood, as a matter of course, between him and his master.

CHAPTER II.

A SUNDAY FILLED OUT.

Eric had wished to write a letter to his mother out of fairy-land, when

he rode as if under a spell of enchantment through the wood, where all

was music, fragrance, and brightness. Yes, then! It was only a few days

ago, and yet it seems as if years had elapsed. How much in these few

days had Eric thought, seen, experienced! The letter is an entirely

different one.

On Sunday there was a change in the household arrangements, no common

breakfast being served. When Eric met Sonnenkamp in the garden, the

latter asked him if he would go with them to church. Eric answered no,

at once, adding in explanation, that by going he should be guilty of an

act of hypocrisy; as a mark of respect for a confession not his own, he

might perhaps be willing to go, but a different view would be taken of

it.

Sonnenkamp looked at him in surprise. But this straight-forwardness

seemed to have an effect upon him, for he said,--

"Good; one is at no loss to find out your opinion."

The tone was ambiguous, but Eric interpreted it favorably.

After all had gone to church, Eric sat alone, writing to his mother. He

began by saying that he seemed to himself like Ulysses thrown upon a

strange island; he had, indeed, no fellow-voyagers to take care of, but

he had for companions many noble sentiments, and he must watch sharp

lest they be turned into----

Just as he was writing the word, he stopped; that was not the proper

tone. He destroyed the sheet, and began again. He narrated, simply and

briefly, the interview, with Pranken, Clodwig, and Bella, saying that

as the Homeric heroes were under the special protection of the gods, so

to-day a different and better one was vouchsafed, and he was

accompanied by the spirit and noble character of his parents. In

speaking of Roland, he said that wealth had a peculiar power to excite

the fancy, and a mighty energy in carrying out its purposes, for Roland

had already removed her into the small, vine-covered house.

The bells were ringing in the village, and Eric wrote with flying speed

about his conception of the noble vocation of guiding in the right path

a human being, upon whom was conferred the great and influential power

of wealth.

And now, mingled with the ringing of the bells, there came suddenly the

recollection of that narrative in the Gospel of the rich young man

coming to Jesus. He did not remember the precise question and answer,

and he looked for a Bible in Roland's library, but there was no Bible

there; yet it seemed as if he could go no farther, until he had become

exactly acquainted with that incident.

He went down into the garden; there he came across the gardener, the

so-called squirrel, who was very happy to be able to give an

affirmative answer to the question whether he had a Bible. With words

full of unction he brought one to Eric, who took it with him to his

room.

He wrote no more, he read for a long time; then he sat there

motionless, his head resting upon his left hand, which covered his

eyes, until Roland returned from church, and laid down his prayer-book.

As Eric grasped now the hand which had deposited the book, the inquiry

darted through his soul. Wilt thou be able to give the youth a like

firm trust as a compensation, if thou shouldest----

His thoughts were interrupted, for Roland said,--

"You have procured a Bible, then?" With childish pleasure he informed

him that, by means of the gardener, it had been reported all over the

house. Eric felt obliged to declare to the boy that he held this book

in high esteem, and thought there was no other to be compared with it,

but that he had none of the customary ecclesiastical reverence for it.

"Do you know this?" Eric asked, pointing to the passage about the rich

young man.

Roland read it, and when Eric asked him what he thought of it, Roland

only stared, for he had evidently not perceived the difficulty of the

problem there enunciated. Eric avoided enlightening him now in regard

to the meaning of the parable; he would wait. A seed-grain lies at

first motionless in the earth, until it is stirred into activity by its

own vital forces. Eric knew that at this moment such a seed-grain had

fallen into the child's soul. He would bide quietly the time when it

should germinate and spring up.

He complied with Roland's desire that he would go with him to meet the

major, who came every Sunday to dinner. They walked for a while in the

road under the nut-trees, and then up the hill through the vineyards.

They saw, near a large open space where stakes only were standing, the

Major, with whom we have already become acquainted at Wolfsgarten; he

was to-day in full uniform, with all his badges.

Whilst the established nobility of the region were very reserved in

their visits to the Sonnenkamp mansion, the Major was the banner of

distinction to this household, Frau Ceres being especially delighted

that a man with so many badges should devote himself to her in so

friendly a way. Evil tongues, indeed, reported that the Major, in

consideration of this attention to the ladies, and this Sunday display

of his badges, received no trifling addition to his not very large

pension, but this was pure scandal, for the Major, or rather Fraeulein

Milch, strenuously refused to accept presents from any one in the

region, nor would they allow themselves to be in any manner dependent.

The Major was very happy to see them both.

"Have you got him so soon?" said he to Eric. "Be sure and hold him by a

tight rein."

And, pointing to the vineyard, he said: "Next season we shall have

there--so Herr Sonnenkamp says--the first wine. Have you ever drunk

virgin wine?"

Eric answered in the negative, and the Major delighted in being able to

explain to him that the first product of a vineyard was so denominated.

The Major's gait was nothing but a perpetual plunge forward and a

recovery of himself again; every two steps he stopped and looked round,

always with a smile. He smiled upon every one he met. Why were people

to be made unhappy because he has lost his toes? Why should they see a

troubled countenance? He informed Eric that he had frozen his toes in

the Russian campaign, and had been obliged to have them amputated; and

he smiled very cheerfully, as he said:--

"Yes, truly our German proverb is right. Every one knows best himself

where the shoe pinches."

He nodded his agreement with Eric, who made an application of the

proverb to the various relations of life.

Then he asked Roland whether his mother had yet risen; for Frau Ceres

made the no small sacrifice of getting up at nine o'clock, and, what

will be considered a not much inferior one, of completing her toilet in

a single hour, and going with the family to church. She always made up,

therefore, for the lost sleep by going to bed again before dinner, and

putting on afterwards, for the first time, her real Sunday apparel.

When they reached the level road, the architect met them, on his way

also to dinner; he joined Eric, while Roland went with the Major. The

men were all obliged to look at Roland's dogs, before they assembled in

the balcony-saloon. They found the doctor and the priest already with

Herr Sonnenkamp.

Eric had scarcely been introduced, when Frau Ceres appeared in splendid

full dress.

The Major offered his arm, the servants drew back the folding-doors,

and they went through several apartments into the dining-hall.

The Major had his seat at the left of Frau Ceres, and the priest at her

right; next to him was Fraeulein Perini, and then the physician,

Sonnenkamp, the architect, Roland and Eric took their respective seats.

The priest said grace to-day aloud. The conversation was, at first,

wholly incomprehensible to Eric, for it was of persons and

circumstances that he knew nothing about. The great wine establishment,

the son of whose proprietor had bought, with Pranken, the beautiful

horses, was often mentioned. The head of the firm had realized enormous

profits, at a sale held at one of his wine-vaults up the stream. It was

reported that he intended to give up business entirely, and to reside

at the capital, for the shrewd old gentleman was very desirous of

gaining the consideration and good will of the court.

"I give him credit," cried the doctor, "of being infatuated with the

notion of getting ennobled."

Herr Sonnenkamp, who just that moment had put into his mouth some fish

cut up very fine, was seized with such a sudden and violent fit of

coughing, that all the table were anxious at seeing him turn so red in

the face; but he soon re-assured them, saying that he had only

incautiously swallowed a fish-bone.

The Major thought it unfitting that the great wine-merchant should

allow himself to stand as a government-candidate for the chamber of

deputies, and that, too, against such a man as Weidmann. Eric gave

attention when this name was now again mentioned; it was always as if

an indescribable train of honors waited upon it. But the doctor

continued, by saying that the Wine-count was only desirous of

satisfying his ambition, and his purpose to make himself acceptable to

the government, and that he would succeed even if he knew that he would

be beaten, for he appeared in the journals as a supporter of the

Government.

"Now, Herr priest," he directly asked, "which candidate will the clergy

vote for?"

The priest, a tall, slender form with white hair, and remarkably bright

eyes, which looked keen and quiet from beneath the massive eye-brows,

united both dignity and adroitness in his deportment. He would have

been very glad to remain silent, but he now said--moving his left hand,

with the thumb and forefinger joined--that there was really no

opposition to be made to Weidmann's good qualities as a citizen.

The doctor was obliged to put up with this indirect reply. But the

Major extolled very decidedly the noble character of Weidmann, who was

sure to triumph.

The Major always spoke with great difficulty, and turned purple even to

the roots of his white hair, whenever he was obliged to address not his

immediate neighbor only, but the whole table as well.

"You speak as a brother Freemason," said the physician, giving him a

nod.

The Major looked grimly at him, shaking his head, as if to say. One

should not jest about such things; but he said nothing.

Sonnenkamp was very free in declaring, that although he paid taxes in

this country, he should not vote; that he was cosmopolitan, and

considered himself and his family to be only guests in Germany.

Eric's glance and that of the doctor met, and both looked towards

Roland. What can be expected of a boy, to whom it is said. The State in

which you live is of no account to you at all?

The physician, having begun to make a butt of the Major, kept it up

incessantly. Known and liked as a jovial person, the physician was,

early in the day, in the hilarious mood of one who has just risen from

a well-spread table, and his very lively tone contrasted strangely with

the heavy delivery of the Major, who very willingly allowed himself to

be made the object of jesting. It seemed to him to be a man's duty to

minister, even passively, to his fellow-men; and his features always

said, My children, make yourselves merry, even if it is about me.

The priest, in the meanwhile, took the part of the persecuted Major,

but it was hard to tell whether it was not for the sake of keeping up

the raillery, for the Major smiled in a yet more puzzled way at his

advocate, than at his assailant. The priest always began in a sort of

narrative way, and as he went on, shot his well-aimed shafts on all

sides, preserving at the same time his polished and obliging manners,

and never losing sight, for a moment, of the respect due to his

spiritual calling; and he had, in particular, certain tranquillizing

motions with his handsome, delicate hands. The eyes of Fraeulein Perini

seemed to expand, more and more, and to feast in gazing, as she looked

at the ecclesiastic, and listened to him with her eyes. Only she could

not repress her discomfort, when the priest, after the fashion of the

snuff-taking clergy, rolled up his blue linen pocket-handkerchief into

a ball, and, in the full flow of discourse, tossed it from one hand to

the other. She breathed more freely when he put the horrible blue

handkerchief into his pocket.

Fraeulein Perini maintained a tranquil imperturbability towards the

rough and excitable temperament of the physician, while he regarded her

as a sort of colleague; and it was really the case, that she had some

medical knowledge. He had a particular respect for her, inasmuch as she

had never consulted him in regard to any ailment. She lived very

temperately, indulged sparingly in the luxurious entertainments and the

rich daily repast, seemed to have no wants, and devoted herself to the

service, or more properly, to the accommodation, of others. Doctor

Richard took the liberty, as a physician of extensive practice, to use

but little ceremony, and was as much the popular as the pampered despot

of the whole district, and especially of the Sonnenkamp household. He

was talkative at the table, eating but little, and drinking so much the

more to make up for it. He praised the wines, knew them all, how long

they had been kept, and when they were mellow. He inquired about an old

brand, and Sonnenkamp ordered it to be brought; the physician found it

harsh, rough, and immature. Herr Sonnenkamp would often look up

dubiously to the physician, before partaking of some dish, but he would

say in anticipation:--

"Eat, eat, it won't hurt you."

"The really best thing in the world would be to drink," Sonnenkamp

said, jestingly.

"It's a shame that you never knew the 'precious Borsch,'" cried the

doctor, "who once uttered that illustrious saying, 'The stupidest thing

in the world is, that one can't also drink what he eats.'" Turning to

Eric, he continued:--

"Your friend Pranken doesn't speak well of our Rhine-land, but this

ill-humor is only an epidemic catarrh while getting acclimated, which

every one must catch. I hope you will not be so long in getting over

it. Look at this bottle of wine,--all is corked up here that poetry,

the scenic art, and creative art can do to enchant and enliven us; the

drinker feels that he is not a common pack-horse, and though,

theoretically, he does not know what elements of the beautiful are

contained in such a bottle, he has no need to know, he tastes it; he

drinks in, in fact, the beautiful."

"Provided there is no adulteration," the architect suggested.

"Very true," the doctor cried in a loud voice; "we used to have very

few cases of delirium-tremens, now so common in our district; and

delirium-tremens is not from the wine, but from the alchohol in it. Do

you know anything about wine?" he asked, turning to Eric, and, as if

actual president, calling upon him for his opinion.

"Not any."

"And yet you have probably composed drinking-songs, where the chorus

always comes in, 'We will be merry, let us be merry, we've been merry,'

and after the first bottle, the merry gentlemen can't stand on their

rhimed feet any longer."

A glance towards Roland brought the doctor to his senses; it was not

well to make Eric a subject of ridicule in this way. He therefore

turned the conversation, and gave Eric, whom he called with special

friendliness Herr Colleague, an opportunity to narrate many interesting

incidents of the collegiate and military life. The Major nodded

approval; through Eric's conversation he was left in peace, and could

give his undisturbed attention to eating and drinking. Under the napkin

which he had pinned to his shoulders, he opened his uniform. It is

well, he thought, that Fraeulein Milch has furnished me with such a nice

white vest, and it ought to be seen. He was on the best of terms with

the servants, and whilst they were changing the wine, it only needed a

wink to Joseph, a universal favorite, and he immediately poured out

some choice Burgundy from the sparkling crystal decanter for the Major.

The Major drank no more. The conversation had taken a happy turn, after

Eric began to speak of the Geneva convention for the care of those

wounded in battle. This was a good common point of union for the

priest, the physician, and the soldier, and, for a time, the

conversation at table was harmonious and well-sustained.

The Major, in a loud tone, declared that men who did not like to have

their names mentioned were the original movers in this, as in all other

humane arrangements. The physician remarked to Eric, in a lower tone

than ordinary, that the Major attributed to the Freemasons all the good

in the world, and if he wished to keep in his good graces, he must

never say anything against Freemasonry.

The entire table listened with great attention to Eric, as he asserted

that we ought to be proud to see in our century such an arrangement

established on the ground of pure humanity; and the priest himself

nodded in assent, when Eric added that the Christian religion, in its

self-sacrificing devotion to the care of the sick, had attained an

elevated position, purer and loftier than had ever before been reached,

in any age, and under any dispensation.

Roland was happy to see the gleaming eyes of all resting upon Eric, and

collected them all in one focus for him.

They arose from table, and a blessing seemed to have descended upon the

whole repast. The priest engaged in silent prayer, and the Major,

coming to Eric, pressed his hand rather tightly, saying in a subdued

tone:--

"You are one already, you must learn the signs."

Eric was so excited, that he hardly heard what the old man said,

although he expressed his highest possible esteem in this readiness to

accept him as a Freemason.

"See," cried the doctor, impudently, "see how much whiter the hair of

our Major has turned."

And it actually seemed so, for the face of the Major was so permanently

red, that its color seemed incapable of being deepened, and now from

the excitement of the conversation and the wine, the whiteness of the

hair was in reality discerned with greater distinctness.

"The Major's hair has become whiter," everybody now said, and the

bewildered smile, that was always round his mouth, exploded in a loud

laugh.

CHAPTER III.

THE WORLD OUTSIDE.

The doctor was informed, immediately after dinner, that many patients

were waiting for him, for it was generally known that he dined on

Sunday here at the villa. He hastily took a cigar from Sonnenkamp, and

said that Eric must accompany him, as he wished to speak with him. He

said this in a positive manner admitting of no refusal.

After they had turned the corner, the physician extended his hand to

Eric, saying in a hearty tone,--

"I am the scholar of your grandfather, and I also knew your father at

the University."

"I am very glad to hear it; but why did you not tell me that at once?"

The doctor looked at him awhile from head to foot, then he laid both

hands on his shoulders, and shaking his head, but in a cordial tone,

said,--

"I have been mistaken in you. I thought that the species idealist had

died out; you are doctor of world-wisdom, but not doctor of worldly

wisdom. Dear captain-doctor, what's the need of their knowing yonder

how you and I stand with each other?--So you wish to live with Herr

Sonnenkamp?"

"Why not?"

"The man can't weep if he would, and you--?"

"Well, and I?"

"With you the tear-sack is filled at every emotion, as when you spoke

there of your father, and of the noble care of the sick--you have a

talent for hypochondria."

Eric was struck. This style of personal criticism was novel to him, but

before he could reply, the doctor called to the waiting group of

patients standing at the entrance of the porter's lodge,--

"I am coming in a moment! Wait here for me, and I'll come back soon,"

he said now to Eric, and went up to the group, all of whom took off

their hats and caps. He spoke with one and another, taking out a blank

book with loose leaves, and writing several prescriptions, with the

back of a broad-shouldered man for a desk, and giving to others only

verbal directions.

Eric stood in a fixed attitude, and he realized that he was wanting in

worldly wisdom, but a deep feeling of happiness took possession of him,

that his grandfather and father sent him here a friend. An unknown and

inestimable inheritance was awaiting him in all places, like a harvest

gathering in from all quarters; he regarded the family and its rich

possessions with a different feeling; he was no longer poor.

The physician, coming back, said with a more cheerful countenance,--

"I am now free. Count Clodwig has told me about you, but he has given

me a wrong impression of you. Never mind! Every one sees, standing in

the centre of his own horizon, his own rainbow. I wished only to say to

you, that what one--pardon me--what one does for you, is hardly the

payment of interest, for no human being has done more for others than

your grandfather and your father. Now allow yourself for once to

undergo a regular examination. I saw you years ago, when you were

coupled with the prince."

The doctor receded a step from Eric, and continued,--

"The crossing of races is a good one. Father, Huguenot,--Mother, pure

German, real blond, delicate organization,--proper mixture of

nationalities. Come with me into the arbor. Will you allow me a brief

and concise diagnosis?"

Eric smiled; the physician's method of passing him under review and

pronouncing verdict upon him seemed extremely odd, but yet he felt

attracted.

Striking off on a twig the ashes from his cigar, the doctor asked,--

"Can you have intercourse with any one day by day, and not like him, or

at least have some regard for him?"

"I have never tried it, but I think not; and such an intercourse

assuredly hurts the soul."

"I expected this answer. For my part, I say with Lessing, It is better

to live among bad people, than to live apart from everybody. May I ask

still another question?"

But without waiting for a reply, he continued,--

"Have you ever experienced ingratitude?"

"I think that I have, as yet, done nothing which deserves gratitude.

Especially may we ask, Ought we to lay claim to any thanks, inasmuch as

what we do in behalf of others, we do, first of all, to secure our own

self-approval."

"Good, good. Wise already. Yet one thing more. Do you believe in

natural depravity, and if you do, since when?"

"If by depravity you mean the conscious delight in injuring others,

then I am no believer in it, for I am convinced that all evil doing is

only a stepping over the limits of a justifiable self-preservation; it

is only an excess caused by sophistry or passion. Perhaps the belief in

depravity is also merely passion."

The doctor nodded several times, and then said,--

"Only one question more. Are you sensitive--vulnerable?"

"I might perhaps urge your friendly testing as a proof that I am not."

The doctor threw away the cigar, which he had not wholly smoked up, and

said,--

"Excuse me, I was in an error; my final question has another at the end

of it. Now to conclude: Are you surprised, when you find simply stupid

some little man or some little woman in fashionable clothes, and with

polished address, and are you willing to take them as simply stupid,

without attributing to them principles of action, and a comprehension

of the principles of others?"

In spite of the evidently friendly intention, Eric's patience was

exhausted; he replied to this, not without some irritation, that he had

been through a great many surprising examinations here, but the present

was the most surprising of all.

"You will perhaps have some light upon it, by and by," the physician

said in a low tone, stealthily pressing Eric's hand, for he saw

Fraeulein Perini coming along the path, and he went to join her.

The company at table met again at the fountain, chatted awhile, and

then separated. The priest and the Major invited Eric to call upon

them; the physician asked Sonnenkamp if Eric and Roland might not be

allowed to drive with him upon his round of visits. Sonnenkamp appeared

struck that Roland and Eric were linked together in this way, but he

nodded his assent. Eric and the doctor seated themselves in the open

carriage, and Roland took his seat with the coachman, who gave him the

reins.

The day was bright and full of the fragrance of flowers, bells were

ringing, and larks were carolling.

They drove to a village lying at a distance from the river. From, a

garden where the elder was in bloom came the beautiful music of a

quartette song, and under a linden in an enclosed place, boys and

youths were engaged in gymnastic sports.

"O this magnificent German land of ours!" Eric could not refrain from

exclaiming. "This is life! This is our life! To cheer the soul with

inspiring song, and the body with brisk motion,--this makes a people

strong and noble, and honor and freedom must be theirs! All that is

great belongs to us, as well as to the classic world."

The doctor, laying his hand quietly upon Eric's knee, looked him full

in the eye, and then begged him, if he remained here, to make himself

thoroughly acquainted through him with the Rhine life, and not allow

himself to be misled, if he should find much that was repulsive both

inside and outside of the house. "And if you can--I believe you alone

can, if you can't, I give it up--confer upon the boy there, not merely

joy in what he has, but joy in the great life of the nation and of the

community, which now he has not, then you will have accomplished

something that is worth living for. But the main point is, while you

are doing this, to have no thought of self, and then the blessing will

not fail. This is what I understand by the direction, 'Seek ye first

the kingdom of God--that is, the life of truth and of love--and all

things shall be added unto you.' Roland," he interrupted himself by

calling, "stop here."

The doctor got out, and went into a small but neat-looking house; Eric

and Roland went to the gymnastic-grounds. They were regarded at first

with great shyness; but when Eric readily showed a fine-looking youth,

who went through some exercise clumsily, how to do it better, and when,

stripping off his coat, he swung with agility on the horizontal bar,

every one became more familiar. Roland also attempted some of the

exercises, without much success, and Eric said that they would practise

them diligently, but it was unfavorable that they would be obliged to

engage in them by themselves, for there was much greater animation and

exertion of all the powers, when there was a common emulation.

A messenger came to call Eric and Roland back to the house where the

doctor had stopped. Just as the physician came out of the house, the

church-bell tolled; all the bystanders took off their hats, even the

doctor, and he said,--

"A human being is dead; the man has lived out the term of existence; he

was seventy-two years old, and yet yesterday, on his death-bed, he

gained comfort in the recollection of a little deed of beneficence.

In the year of the famine, 1817, he was travelling as a journeyman

cooper over the Lunenburg heath--he continually called it the Hamburg

heath--where there was no road; and after several hours he came across

a wretched hovel, in which were several children crying from hunger.

The cooper had some dried eels, and some bread in a tin box. He gave

all to feed the children, and they were happy. 'Mark;' he said to me

only yesterday,--'mark how it does me good, and always rejoices me,

that I could at that time feed the children, and perhaps they never

have forgotten it, that once a stranger appeased their hunger.' Is it

not beautiful that a man can gain solace from a single good deed? He

has suffered much, and death is a release to him. Yes, my young

friend, such is the world! There outside all is in bloom, people are

singing, exercising, sporting, and in the meanwhile, a human being is

dying--pooh!" he cried, recovering himself, "I have not brought you

with me to make you troubled, Roland; drive the whole length of the

village to the last house." And turning to Eric, he said,--

"We are going to see cheerful poverty; you are now to look upon the

bright side. The man is a poor vine-dresser; has seven children, four

sons and three daughters, and in their poverty they are the merriest

people to be found anywhere, and the merriest of all is the old father.

His real name is Piper; but because he sings with his children and

practises them finely as often as he can get a chance, he is called

Sevenpiper."

They drove to the house; the daughters were sitting before the door,

the sons were at the gymnastic-ground. Sevenpiper immediately made his

appearance, and said that his sons should be sent for. The doctor then

asked how things were going with him.

"Ah, Herr doctor," he replied, in a loud tone, "it is always so; my

youngest always has the best voice." And turning to Roland, he added,--

"Yes, dear sir, I make my children rich too; each one receives from one

to two hundred songs as an outfit, and if they can't make their way

through the world with that, then they are good for nothing."

The sons came, and now a cheerful song was struck up, so that the

doctor and Roland were put into excellent spirits, and Eric, who

quickly caught the tune, sang with them.

The old man nodded to him, and when the song was ended, said,--

"Herr, you can sing too, that's a fact."

The doctor always carried a bottle-case in his carriage, and drawing

upon it now, every one became exceedingly merry; and Sevenpiper

informed them, and more particularly Roland, that the best thing in the

world was to be in good health, and make music for one's self.

The physician took leave, and at evening, Roland and Eric, in a joyous

mood, left the house. Sevenpiper's two oldest sons went with them to

the bank of the river, where they unfastened the boat, and rowed to the

villa.

The water was now very still and clear, and reflected the red glow of

the sunset-sky. Eric sat by himself in silence, during one of those

blissful hours when one thinks of nothing, and yet enjoys all. Roland

kept time in rowing with the sons of Sevenpiper; then, without stroke

of the oar, they let the boat float, and it glided noiselessly along in

the middle of the stream.

The stars were glittering in the sky when they arrived at the villa.

CHAPTER IV.

THE GOSPEL OF THE RICH YOUNG MAN.

The architect came in the morning for Roland, who was to make, under

his direction, some drawings of the castle-ruins.

Herr Sonnenkamp reminded Eric that he was to visit the priest, and he

set out soon after he had seen Fraeulein Perini return from mass. The

priest's house had a garden in front, and was in silent seclusion in

the village itself silent. If the bell had not rung so loudly, and if

the two white Pomeranian dogs had not barked so loudly, one would have

believed that there could be no loud noise in such a well-arranged

establishment as this appeared to be at the very entrance-hall. The

dogs were silenced, and the housekeeper told Eric, who seemed to be

expected, to go up stairs.

Eric found the ecclesiastic in his sunny, unadorned room, sitting at

the table, and holding in his left hand a book, while his right lay

upon a terrestrial globe supported upon a low pedestal.

"You catch me in the wide world," said the ecclesiastic, giving Eric a

cordial welcome, and biding him take a seat upon the sofa, over which

hung a colored print, of St. Borromeo, which was well-meaning enough,

but not very beautiful.

A home-like peacefulness was in this room; everything seemed to express

an absence of all pretension and all assumption, and a simple desire to

pass the hours and the days in quiet meditation. Two canary birds,

here, however, in two cages, appeared to entertain a lively desire, as

did the dogs below, to give vent to their feelings. The ecclesiastic

called to them to be quiet, and they became dumb, as if by magic, and

only looked inquisitively at Eric.

The priest informed him that he was just following out on the globe the

journey of a missionary; and he caused the globe to revolve, while

saying this, with his delicate right hand.

"Perhaps you are not friendly to the missionary spirit?" he asked

immediately.

"I consider it," Eric replied, "to be the first step in the world's

civilization, and it is a grand thing that the missionaries have

everywhere spread a knowledge of written language, through

translations of a book revered as holy, and in that way have reduced to

an organic form, as it were, the inorganic languages of all peoples."

The priest closed the book that lay open before him, folded his hands

in a kind of patronising way, that seemed natural to him as the

official form of consecration, and then placing the tips of the fingers

of one hand upon those of the other, he said that he had heard of Eric

many favourable things, and that, from his own experience, he was

prepossessed in favor of those who changed their calling out of some

internal ground of conviction. To be sure, fickleness and restlessness,

never at ease in any regular employment, often led to this, but where

this was not the case, one could predicate a deep fundamental trait of

sincerity.

Eric thanked him, and added that the dignity of any vocation lay not in

the external consideration awarded to it, but in the preservation of

the purely human inherent in every calling.

"Very just," replied the ecclesiastic, extending one hand, as if with a

benignant blessing. "The ecclesiastical vocation is therefore the

highest, because it does not strive after gain, nor enjoyment, nor

fame, but after that which you--I know not for what reason--call the

universally human, when it ought simply to be called the divine."

A certain degree of humility, and a reluctance to make any opposition,

came over Eric, as he listened to the ecclesiastic setting forth in

such mildly discordant tones the precise point of difference. It

seemed, after every word, as if the sacred peacefulness of the place

gained fresh potency; nothing of the world's noise intruded there, and

all its busting activity was far away.

The park, and the country-house in the distance over the river, could

be seen from the window; the ecclesiastic took special notice of Eric's

lively interest in the beautiful, quiet view, and remarked,--

"Yes, Herr Sonnenkamp has arranged all that for himself, but the beauty

is also our gain. I really never go out of my house, except for some

parochial work."

"And do you never feel yourself solitary here in the country?"

"Oh no! I have myself, and my Lord, and God has me. And the world? I

had in the great city, even, nothing different--my parish, my church,

my house--what, besides these, is there, is not there for me."

A reminiscence of his early youthful years was awakened in Eric's soul,

and he told the priest that the thought had often presented itself to

him, in the midst of his jolly garrison life, that he had a fitness for

the ecclesiastical vocation, but that he could not devote himself to it

without a belief in revelation.

"Yes, indeed, one cannot make himself believe, but one can make himself

humble, and every one can and ought to do that, and then the grace of

believing is vouchsafed."

The ecclesiastic announced this as if it were a mathematical axiom, and

Eric replied in a modest tone,--

"Every man acquires a ground-work of thought and feeling, just as he

does his mother tongue, by hearing it spoken; and might it not be said

also, that his soul acquires a language which has no outward sound, but

which becomes embodied as a religious disposition and habitual

tendency, and which, if it is genuine, cannot be interfered with, for,

in this primitive stratum, root and soil are one and the same."

"You have studied the Mystics?" asked the ecclesiastic.

"Only partially. I should like to say further, that all fair

controversialists are obliged to agree upon something as unassailable,

or undemonstrable."

That holy stillness again possessed the place, where two human beings

were breathing, who desired each in his own way to serve the highest.

"You are at the age," the priest resumed, "when young gentlemen think

of marriage, and as is the prevailing fashion, marriage with a maiden

who has money,--a great deal of money. You appear so true-hearted, that

I must ask you directly, although I would much rather not, if it is

true that you are a suitor of Fraeulein Sonnenkamp?"

"I?" Eric asked with vehement astonishment. "I?"

"Yes, you."

"I thank you," Eric said in a clear voice, recovering from his

amazement, "I thank you, that you question me so directly. You know I

am not of your church."

"And Fraeulein Sonnenkamp is of our church, and it would be hard--"

"I was not thinking of that," Eric said, interrupting him. "Wonderful,

through what tests I must pass! First a supercilious cavalier, then a

nobleman, then a military officer, then a doctor, and now in the

priestly sieve."

"I do not understand you."

"Ah, truly," began Eric, "and I tell you, I confess to your noble, mild

countenance, and so I acknowledge to you, seeing you before me, that I

admire the undisturbed unity of your being from which comes the

Catholic law of celibacy as a dogma, and I allow myself to claim that

we have reached the same ideal stand-point. Yes, honored sir, I say to

myself, he who wishes to live for a great idea, whether he is artist,

scholar, priest, he can need no family, he must renounce its joys,

apart by himself without any hinderance, that he may fulfil his mission

in the perpetual service of thought."

"Divisus est! divisus est!" repeated the ecclesiastic. "The holy

apostle says that he who has a wife is divided, and he will be yet more

divided, whilst the lot of his children becomes his own. The

ecclesiastic has no changes of lot."

A smile passed over the countenance of the priest, as he continued:--

"Only imagine a priest married to a quarrelsome wife--there are also

peaceable women, gentle and self-sacrificing, and it is certain that

there are quarrelsome ones too--and now the priest is to mount the

pulpit in order to proclaim the word of peace and love, when an hour

before in dispute and scolding--"

The ecclesiastic suddenly ceased, placed the forefinger of his left

hand on his lips, and bethought himself, that he was wandering from the

real point. Did not Fraeulein Perini inform him that Eric had visited

the convent before he came to this place? He looked at Eric, who had

led him from the direct inquiry, wondering whether he had done it from

prudence, or whether it was really from excitement. He hoped, indeed,

to attain his end in some different way; and, apparently in a very

natural manner, but yet with a lurking circumspection, he now asked

whether Eric really felt confident, from his position, of being able to

train a boy like Roland.

When Eric answered in the affirmative, the ecclesiastic further

asked:--

"And what do you mean to give him first, and in preference to

everything else?"

"To sum it up in few words," replied Eric, "I wish to give Roland joy

in the world. If he has this, he will furnish joy to the world; that is

to say, he will desire to benefit it; if I teach him to despise the

world, to undervalue life, he will come to misuse the world and the

powers entrusted to him in it."

"I regret," said the priest in a gentle tone, "that you are not a

believer; you are on the way to salvation, but you turn aside into a

by-path. Do you know what riches are? I will tell you. Riches are a

great temptation, yes, perhaps the greatest of our time; riches are a

force in nature, perhaps the most lawless, most untamable, and the

hardest to be governed. Riches are a brutal power, for which there is

no ruler, except the Almighty Lord; riches are below the brute, for no

brute has any more force than it embodies in itself. Man alone can be

rich, can have what he is not himself, and what his children cannot

consume. Here is the misery of it! Whoever gains so much of the world

hurts his own soul. I have tried to bring this family and this boy to

this, that they should at least make the acknowledgment, before every

meal, that what they enjoy in such luxurious abundance is only a gift.

Do you believe that this boy, conscious of his riches, and this whole

family, can receive a moral culture except through religion? A prayer

before one sits down to eat is a meditation, a recollection of the fact

that thou hast some one to thank for what thou dost enjoy. This takes

out the vainglorious pride, and gives humility instead, and makes one

give, even as he himself has been given to. Only where the fear of God

is, yes, fear, is there also the blissful feeling of His Almighty

protection. On the table of this rich man there is placed, every day, a

display of sweet-smelling, bright-colored flowers,--what does that

matter? On the poorest table of the neediest cottager is placed a

bouquet more beautiful and more fragrant, from the higher realm,

through the utterances of prayer; and the soul is filled, and this

first makes the filling of the body conduce to its health. But this is

only one thing. Above there, on the Upper Rhine, they call personal

property movables, and so it is! The riches of the present world are

nothing but movables, moving possessions, and they will move away.

Believe me," cried the ecclesiastic, laying his hand upon Eric's,

"believe me, the public funds are the misfortune of the present age."

"The public funds? I do not understand."

"Yes, it is indeed not so easy to understand. Of whom can one borrow

millions? of no one but the State. If there were no public funds, there

would be no one to lend such great sums; that's the way it is.

Formerly, a man could not acquire so many millions, because he could

not lay out so many millions; but now there are the public funds, and

everybody lives on interest-money, and interest is very properly

forbidden by the canons. See, in old times the rich man had a great

deal of real estate, many fields and forests, and he was first of all

dependent upon God's blessed sun, and when everything in good time had

ripened, and lay there in the sight of all, then he gave a tenth part

to the church. But now the riches are tucked away in fire-proof,

burglar-proof safes, not dependent on sun, not on wind and weather, are

not visible to the world, and have no tenth of the profit to give,--at

the most a trifling discount on the coupons to the banker; the harvest

of the bond-holder is the cutting off of coupons; these are the sheaves

of his harvest-home. If the Lord should come to-day, he would find no

temple from which to drive out the money-changers and traders, they

have erected for themselves their own temples. Yes, the stronghold of

Zion, to-day, to which princes, as well as rich men, make their

pilgrimage and commit themselves to its protection,--it is the Bank of

England! Have you ever once thought of this, what is to become of

humanity; what of States, if this increase of state-debts continues to

go on in this way? of course not. The whole earth will be one

tremendous mortgage, and mortgaged to whom? to him who lends on long

credit, but who will, some time or other, demand payment. A universal

conflagration will come, against which no fireproof vaults will avail,

and a deluge, which will wipe out the millions and millions upon

millions of State debts. I am not a man who delights in seeing mischief

done, but this I would say,--I should like to live to see the Bank of

England bankrupt. Only imagine it! At night the news comes. It is all

gone. Then will thousands of small men and small women see, for the

first time, how small they are, when they see themselves at once

stripped of all their trappings, and set down upon the bare earth."

Eric smiled. Every man placed in solitude, without an environment of

equalizing conditions, entertains readily peculiar notions that dart

through his mind; and he said that the earth would be burdened with

greater debts than it could pay, if it could only find those who would

advance the money. But the real possession of humanity was of more

value than the whole earth could pay for, as its greatest possession

was its ideal being, its power of working; and while, formerly, all

property was in the soil, it was just the problem of the modern age to

make available ideal and personal property. He wished further to add,

that even among the Romans in the time of the Republic itself, the

wealth of individuals was thus enormously excessive; but the

ecclesiastic, in his great excitement, seemed scarcely listening to

him, went to his book-case, took down a great Bible, and opening to a

passage, handed the book to Eric.

"There, just read; that is the only way that Roland can be educated.

Read aloud."

Eric complied, and read:--

"And when he was gone forth into the way, there came one running, and

kneeled to him and asked him, Good Master, what shall I do that I may

inherit eternal life? And Jesus said unto him. Why callest thou me

good? there is none good but one, that is God. Thou knowest the

commandments,--Do not commit adultery, Do not kill, Do not steal, Do

not bear false witness, Defraud not, Honor thy father and mother. And

he answered and said unto him. Master, all these things have I observed

from, my youth. Then Jesus beholding him loved him, and said unto him.

One thing thou lackest; go thy way, sell whatsoever thou hast, and give

to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven; and come, take up

the cross, and follow me. And he was sad at that saying, and went away

grieved; for he had great possessions. And Jesus looked round about,

and saith unto his disciples, How hardly shall they that have riches

enter into the kingdom of God! And the disciples were astonished at his

words. But Jesus answereth again, and saith unto them. Children, how

hard is it for them that trust in riches to enter into the kingdom of

God! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than

for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God!"

"And now stand up and tell me," said the priest, in a trembling voice,

"tell me honestly, is not that the one and only method?"

"Honestly, no: I love and revere him of whom this is told, perhaps more

than many a church-believer, and it is particularly affecting to me,

and at this moment wonderfully touching is that passage, where it is

said here,--Then Jesus beholding him loved him. I see the handsome rich

young man in the presence of the sublime Master; the young man is

glowing and filled with a genuine ardor; then the Master dearly loves

him as he looks into his countenance. However--"

"That is incidental, that is incidental. Speak to the main subject,"

the priest interrupted.

"According to my view of the subject," Eric replied, "I must own that I

consider this teaching to have been given at a time when all actual

might, the power of the State, riches, and all the good things of life,

were contemned, and when they were obliged to reject everything which

had no reference to their purely ideal view. That could alone maintain

the uprightness of noble souls in a time of oppression under foreign

rule; and this teaching could have been given at a time only, and by a

soul, which sees all that is worth living for vanishing away, which

builds up a new creation, and in which pure thought has entire sway.

But if each one gives away, and gives away continually, who is there in

that case to be the recipient? And why is it that this doctrine, that

no one is to possess anything, has not become a command of the Church?"

"I am glad," answered the ecclesiastic, "that you have touched the real

point. Our Church has commands which are not universally binding, but

are only so for him who wishes to be perfect, as, for instance, the law

of chastity and of poverty. Only he who wishes to be perfect comes

under it."

"I ask," interposed Eric, "is the teaching of revelation, which is

amply sufficient for the purely spiritual, sufficient also for the

worldly? In the course of the development of humanity do not new social

conditions establish themselves in the world, as out of nature new

forces, steam, electricity--"

"Man," replied the priest, "is always the same from eternity to

eternity, the citizen only changes. But I see now, you are letting

yourself be guided into the right path. I do not desire--the rich man

himself did not desire it--that the boy shall be perfect, and therefore

the command to sell his possessions is not applicable to him. I only

say to you, you will not be able to educate this boy unless you give

him positive religion. The brute does all he has power to do; with it

there is no word 'ought;' but man does not do all that he has power to

do. Simply to do that for which one has the strength, or, yet more

properly, the inclination, and to do everything purely from

inclination, that is not the human; the human begins there where one

tramples his inclination under foot, and does what God's law commands.

Were every one to act according to his inclination, then should we be

sure, at no time, what would become of humanity. The law of God holds

it together, and holds it erect. Here is the significance of the law of

God, here begins the fall, which the gentlemen of natural science have

never got over. The animal has urgent impulses; man can voluntarily

awaken impulse, excite it, goad it, multiply it; where is there a limit

here, except in God's law? I am not speaking of any Church. You have,

so much I know, busied yourself chiefly with history?"

"Not so particularly."

"Well, you know this much: no people, no State, can be free, at least

we have no historical instance to the contrary, no people, no State,

can be free without a positive Church; there must be something

immovably fixed, and at this very day the Americans are free, only

because they subject themselves to religion."

"Or, rather, enfranchise it," Eric interposed, without being heard.

The priest continued:--

"I think that you desire to make a free man of this youth. We also love

free men, we want free men, but there can be no free men without a

positive religion, and, in truth, without one requiring a strict, legal

obedience. The highest result of education is equanimity--note it

well--equanimity. Can your world-wisdom produce a harmony of all the

tendencies and dispositions of the soul, a quietude of the spirit, a

state of self-renunciation, because our whole life is one continual act

of self-sacrifice? If you can produce the same result as religion,

then, justified by the result, you agree with us. For my own part, I

doubt whether you can; and we wait for the proof, which you have yet to

give, while we have furnished it now for a thousand years, and still

daily furnish it."

"Religion," replied Eric, "is a concomitant of civilization; but it is

not the whole of civilization, and this is the distinction between us

and the ecclesiastics. But we are not to blame for the opposition

between science and religion."

"Science," interposed the priest, "has nothing to do with the eternal

life. Although one has electric telegraphs and sewing machines, that

has no relation to the eternal life. This eternal life is given only by

religion, and its essence remains the same, no matter how many

thousand, and thousand upon thousand, inventions he may devise in his

finite existence."

Eric inquired now in a diffident tone,--

"But how can the Church itself possess riches?"

"The Church does not possess, it only administers," the priest sharply

answered.

"I think that we are getting too far away from the point," Eric said,

coming back to the subject. "As we cannot expect that Herr Sonnenkamp

and his son Roland will give away all their property, the question

returns, how shall we get the right hold?"

"Precisely so," cried the ecclesiastic, suddenly standing up, and

walking with long strides up and down the room. "Precisely so; now are

we on the very point. Hear me attentively. Observe well, there is

something new started in the world, a still more homeless condition yet

in the higher moral order, and that is the moneyed aristocracy. You

look at me in amazement."

"Not amazed, but expecting what will come next."

"Very right. This moneyed aristocracy stands between the nobility and

the people, and I ask what it is to do? Must not a rich young man of

the middle-class, like Roland, thrown into the whirlpool of life, be

inevitably ingulfed?"

"Why he," asked Eric, "any more than the noble youth in the civil or in

the military service? Do you suppose that religion saves them from

destruction?"

"No, but something positive of a different kind; the historic

traditions of the nobility save them. The man of the nobility has the

good fortune to complete the preliminary period of youthful training,

with the least amount of detriment. He afterwards retires to his

estates, becomes a worthy husband, and respectably maintains his

position; and, even in the city, in the midst of the mad whirl, his

position in regard to the court, and to the higher class in the

community, keeps him within prescribed limits. But what does the rich

young man of the middle-class have? He has no honorable rank, no social

obligation, at least none of any stringency."

"Then it would be, perhaps, the greatest piece of good fortune to

Roland, if his father could be ennobled?"

"I cannot say," replied the priest. He was vexed that he had allowed

himself to be drawn so near to the subject of a very confidential

conversation with Sonnenkamp a short time previous to this. "I cannot

say," he repeated, adding besides, "If one could be ennobled with

seventeen descents, it might be well; but a new noble--let us say no

more of this. I desired to say, that the nobleman has honor,

traditionary, inherited obligation; the nobleman has established and

has to maintain the maxim, 'noblesse oblige,' 'nobility requires.' What

great maxim have riches established? The most brutal of all maxims, one

utterly bestial. And do you know what it is?"

"I don't know what you refer to."

"The maxim which this pursuit of gain sets up as its highest is, 'Help

thyself.' The beast does that, every one helps himself. Riches thus

stand between nobility and people; they occupy that morally homeless

position, without a recognized obligation, between nobility and people.

I understand by people, not only those who labor with the hands, but

also the men of science, of art, and even of the church. The people

have work; this moneyed class does not wish for honor, and only wants

labor so far as it can have others labor for it, and appropriate to

itself the product of their labor. What does it want? gold. What does

it want to do with the gold? procure enjoyment. Who guarantees this?

the State. What does it do for the State? There's the whole question!

Have you any answer?"

Eric's lips trembled, and he replied:--

"If the nobility feels itself obliged and entitled to assume the

leadership in the army for war, then are the young men of wealth to

feel themselves called to become leaders in the army of peace; and they

are to make good their position to the community, to their own circle,

and to their fellows, serving without compensation, and actively

engaged in entire subjection to authority, as a protection of the whole

State, and a sacrifice in all works of beneficence."

"Stop!" cried the priest; "the last is our work. You will never be able

to organize that without religion; you will never be able to effect,

that people, out of their opulence, out of their luxury, or, as you

would denominate it, out of purely humane emotions, shall visit the

dying in the huts of the poor, the helpless, the sick, and the

abandoned."

As if the ecclesiastic had invoked this high duty of his office, the

sacristan now came, and said that an old vine-dresser desired extreme

unction. The priest was speedily ready, and Eric departed.

When he came out into the road, and breathed the fresh air, he felt its

influence anew. Did he not come out of the atmosphere of incense? No,

here was more; here was a mighty power, which placed itself face to

face with the great riddle of existence.

Eric sauntered away, lost in thought, and it occurred to him again how

much more easy was the task of those who can impart some fixed dogmatic

principles which they do not originate, but receive; he, however, must

create all out of himself, out of his own cognition.

And can what comes out of your own cognition become a part of the

cognition of another?

Eric stood still, and the thought that he would educate himself while

educating another made his cheeks glow; the youth should acquire

knowledge from himself; for what is all culture which must be imparted

from one to another? nothing but help and guidance to him who has a

self-moving power.

Half way up the mountain, Eric stopped at the road which led to the

Major's. He looked down at the villa which bore the proud name of Eden,

and the Bible story came to his memory. In the garden are two trees,

the tree of life in the midst, and the tree of knowledge of good and

evil; Eden is lost for him who eats of the tree of knowledge. Is it not

always so?

Like a revelation the thought came to him, There are three things given

to man upon earth,--enjoyment, renunciation, and knowledge.

Sonnenkamp yonder--what does he wish for himself and his son?

enjoyment. The world is a spread table, and man has only to learn to

find the right means and the right measure of enjoyment. The earth is a

place of pleasure, and brings forth its fruits that we may delight

ourselves therewith. Have we no other calling than to drive, to eat, to

drink, and to sleep, and then to eat, drink, sleep, and drive again;

and is the sun to shine just for this?

What does the priest want? renunciation. This world has nothing to

offer, its enjoyments are only an illusive show, which tempt you hither

and thither, therefore turn away from them.

And what do you desire? And what ought those to desire whom you wish to

make like yourself? knowledge. For life is not divided into enjoyment

and renunciation, and knowledge rather includes both in itself,--is the

synthesis of both. It is the mother of duty and of all beautiful deeds.

In the old times, the combatants received out of an immeasurable height

a protecting shield from the hands of the gods; Eric received no

shield, and yet he felt that he was concealed from and protected

against all foes, and he was so happy in himself that he felt no desire

for any human being, no desire for anything beside; he was upborne by

the wings of knowledge.

He went yet farther on in the way. Peaceful, and enjoying an internal

satisfaction, he came to the Major's in the next village. He knew that

here he should have to stand no examination.

CHAPTER V.

THE GOOD COMRADE.

The Major lived in a beautifully situated house in the vineyard of a

rich vintner from the fortress, or rather, to use the proper

expression, of a brother of the order, for the central point of the

Major's life rested firmly, in Freemasonry, and he cherished it within

his life and thought, as his holy of holies; and if men talked of the

riddles of life, his face always said,--I see no mystery, all is clear

to me; only come to us, we have an answer to everything.

The small house which the Major inhabited was attached to the large

mansion; one side looked toward the highroad, and the other commanded a

view of the river and the mountains beyond. The Major confined himself

strictly to his little house, and his own special little garden with

its arbor. He watched over the larger dwelling and its garden, like a

castellan, but he never lived there, and often did not enter them for

the many months during which they stood empty.

Eric found the Major in his little garden, smoking a long pipe and

reading the newspaper, with a cup of cold coffee before him. An

exceedingly neat-looking old lady, with a large white cap, was sitting

opposite, engaged in darning stockings; she rose as soon as Eric

entered the garden, and hardly waited to be presented. The Major

touched his cap in military fashion, and took the long pipe from his

mouth.

"Fraeulein Milch, this is my comrade, Herr Doctor Dournay, lately

Captain."

Fraeulein Milch courtesied, took up her basket of stockings, and went

into the house.

"She is good and sensible, always contented and cheerful; you will

become better acquainted," said the Major, as she withdrew; "and she

understands men,--no one better,--she looks them through and through.

Sit down, comrade, you have come just at my pleasantest hour. You see,

this is the way I live: I have nothing particular to do, but I get up

early,--it prolongs life,--and every day I gain a victory over a lazy,

effeminate fellow, who has to take a cold bath, and then go to walk; he

often doesn't want to, but he has to do it. And then, you see, I come

home, and sit here in the morning:--and here is a white cloth spread

on the table, and before me stand a pot of coffee, good cream, a

roll--butter I don't eat. I pour out my coffee, dip in the roll which

is so good and crisp--I can still bite well, Fraeulein Milch keeps my

teeth in order--then at the second cup, I take my pipe and puff out the

smoke over the world, and over the world's history, which the newspaper

brings me every day. I still have good eyes, I can read without

spectacles, and can hit a mark; and I can hear well, and my back is

still good; I hold myself as straight as a recruit--and look you,

comrade, I am the richest man in the world. And then at noon I have my

soup--nobody makes soup like her--my bit of good roast meat, my pint of

wine, my coffee--with four beans she makes better coffee than any one

else can with a pound--and yet it has happened to me a thousand times

to have to sing this song to the fellow sitting here: You are the most

ungrateful fellow in the world, to be cross as you often are, and wish

for this and that which you have not. Only look round you; see how nice

and neat everything is,--good bread, a good arm-chair, a good pipe and

so much good rest,--you are the happiest man in the world to have

all this. Yes, my dear comrade, you may be deucedly learned--I beg

pardon--I mean, you may be very learned--look you--I never studied, I

never learned anything, I was a drummer--I'll tell you about it

sometime--yes, comrade--what was I saying? ah, that's it, you know a

thousand times more than I do, but one thing you can learn of me. Make

the best of life; now's the time, be happy now, enjoy yourself now,

this hour won't come back again. Don't always be thinking about

to-morrow. Just draw a long breath, comrade--there, what sort of air is

that? is there better anywhere?--and then we have our nice, clean

clothes on!--Ah, thank the Builder of all the worlds!--Yes, comrade, if

I had had any one, when I was your age, to tell me what I'm telling

you--Pooh, pooh!--What an old talker I am--I'm glad you've come to

see me!--Well, how do you get on? Are you really going to drill our

boy? I think you are the right man to do it, you will bring him into

line--you know, comrade, what that means--only a soldier can do that.

Only a soldier can school men. Nothing but strict discipline!--I'll

warrant, he'll come out right--he'll do well--Fraeulein Milch has always

said, 'He'll come out right, if he only falls into the right hands.'

The school-masters are all of no use; Herr Knopf was very worthy and

good-hearted, but he didn't hold the reins tight. Thank the Builder of

all the worlds, now it's all right!--Thank you for coming to see me. If

I can help you, remember that we are comrades. It's very fortunate that

you have been a soldier. I have always wished--Fraeulein Milch can

testify that I've said a hundred times, none but a soldier will

do!--Now let us make a soldier of Roland, a true soldier, he has

courage, he only wants the training!"

"I should like," answered Eric, "if I really have the position--"

"Really have the position? There's no doubt about it, I tell you--Pooh,

pooh; I'll wager something on that. But, I ask your pardon, I won't

talk any more--what were you going to say, comrade?"

"I think we ought not to train him for any special calling; Roland must

be a cultivated, wise, and good man, whatever his profession may prove

to be--"

"Just so, just so--excellently said--that's right--the fellow has given

me much anxiety! How foolish people are, to hanker after millions. When

they get them, all they can do is to eat their fill and sleep eight

hours, that's all any one can do. The chief point is--" here the Major

lowered his voice, and raised his hand--"the chief point is, he must

return to nature; that is all the world needs--to return to nature."

Eric luckily abstained from asking the Major what he precisely meant by

this mysterious proposition, for the Major would, unfortunately, not

have been able to tell him; but he was fond of the phrase, and always

used it, leaving every one to find out the meaning for himself.

"To return to nature, everything is included in that," he repeated.

After a while he began:--

"Yes, what was I going to ask?--Tell me, did not you have a great deal

to bear as a soldier, because you were a commoner and not a noble?"

Eric answered in the negative, and the Major stammered out,--

"Indeed, indeed--you--a liberally educated man, felt less of it. I

asked for my discharge. I'll tell you about it sometime."

Eric mentioned that he had been at the priest's, and the Major said,--

"He is an excellent man, but I call for no aid of the ecclesiastics.

You know I am a Freemason."

Eric assented, and the Major continued: "Whatever is good in me has its

home in that; we will talk farther of it--I will be your god-father.

Ah, how glad Herr Weidmann will be to know you."

And again, at the mention of Weidmann's name, it seemed as if a

beautiful view of the highest mountains of the landscape was brought

before the mind. The Major resumed:--

"But now as to the ecclesiastics. Look"--he drew his chair a little

nearer--"look at my drum, it's all there in that--look you, I was a

drummer--yes, smile away, if you like--look you, everybody says such a

drum makes nothing but racket, and I tell them there's music in

it, as beautiful as--I won't disparage any one--as beautiful as any

other--look you, then, I say,--mark my words--then I say, 'I will not

quarrel with you if you hear nothing but noise, but don't quarrel with

me, if I hear something else.' Look you, I have thought it all over,

everything else will be made by machinery, men are very clever, but

drum and trumpet-signals can not be made by machinery, human hands and

mouths are needed for that; I was a drummer, for example, I'll tell you

about it. Look you, I know by the sound what sort of a heart a man has,

when he beats a drum; where you, my brother, hear nothing but noise and

confusion, I hear music and deep meaning. Therefore, for God's sake, no

strife about religions; one is worth as much or as little as another,

they only lead the march; but the main thing is, how every man marches

for himself, how he has drilled himself, and what sort of a heart he

has in his body."

Eric was amused by the eccentricity of this man, who had a deep

earnestness and moral freedom peculiar to himself.

Standing his pipe near him, the Major asked,--

"Is there any human being in the world whom you hate, at the sight of

whom the heart in your body gives a twist?"

Eric answered in the negative, and said that his father had always

impressed it upon him, that nothing injured one's own soul like hatred;

and that for his own sake, a man ought not to let such a feeling take

root within him.

"That's the man for me! that's the man for me!" cried the Major. "Now

we shall get on together. Whoever has had such a father is the man for

me!"

He then told Eric that there was a man in the village whom he hated: he

was the tax-collector, who wore the St. Helena medal given by the

present Napoleon to the veterans, for the heroic deeds in which they

had taken part in the subjugation of their fatherland. "And would you

believe it!" exclaimed the Major, "the man has had himself painted with

the St. Helena medal; the portrait hangs framed in his room of state,

and under it, in a separate frame, the diploma signed by the French

minister. I don't bow to the man, nor return his bow, nor sit down at

the same table with him; he has a different principle of honor from,

mine. And tell me, ought there not to be some way of punishing such

men? I can only do it by showing my contempt; it is painful to me, but

must I not do it?"

The old man looked much astonished when Eric represented to him that

the man ought to be judged mildly, since vanity had great powers to

mislead, and besides, many governments had been well pleased to have

their subjects win the St. Helena medal, and the man, who was in the

service of the State, was not to be sentenced without hearing.

"That's good! that's good!" cried the old Major, nodding frequently,

according to his habit; "you are the right kind of teacher! I am

seventy years old, that is, I am seventy-three now, and I've known many

men, and let people say what they will, I have never known a bad man,

one really bad. In passion, and stupidity, and pride, men do much

that's wrong; but, good God! one ought to thank his heavenly Father

that he isn't such as he might very often have become. Thank you; thank

you: you have lifted the enemy from my neck;--yes, from my neck; he has

sat there, heavy and--look, here comes the man himself!"

The collector was walking by the garden; the Major went to the hedge

with many nods and gestures of his hand; he hoped, perhaps, that the

man would utter the first greeting; but as this did not happen, he

suddenly called out, with a voice like the explosion of a bomb,--

"Good-morning, Herr Collector!"

The man returned his salutation and went on. The old Major was entirely

happy, and passed his hand several times over his heart, as if a stone

or burden were removed from it. Fraeulein Milch looked out of the

window, and the Major asked her to come out, as he had something very

good to tell her. She came, looking still neater than before, having

put on a white apron, in which the ironed folds were still fresh. The

Major told her that the collector was not to blame, for he had received

the St. Helena medal only in obedience to the government.

They went together to the house, and the Major showed his guest the

rooms where simple neatness reigned; then he looked at the barometer,

and nodded, saying to himself, "Set fair."

Then he looked at the thermometer screwed up by the window, and wiped

his forehead, as if he had not felt till then how hot it was.

A shot was heard in the distance, and the Major pointed out to Eric the

direction whence the sound came, saying,--

"I can hear the gun-practice from the fortress. I find that the

rifle-cannon have just the same sound as the smooth-bore. Ah, comrade,

you must instruct me in the new art of war. I don't know anything about

it, but when I hear them firing down there, all the soldier in me wakes

up."

He asked Fraeulein Milch to bring a bottle of wine, one of the very

best. Fraeulein Milch seemed to have it all ready; she brought bottle

and glasses directly, but gave the Major a significant look, which he

understood, and answered:--

"Don't be afraid; I know very well that I can't drink in the morning.

Pray, captain, give me your cork-screw. I take you to be the right sort

of man, and the right sort of man always has a cork-screw in his

pocket."

Smiling, Eric handed him his knife, which was fitted with a cork-screw.

While the Major was opening the bottle, he said,--

"And another mark of a genuine man is, that he can whistle. Comrade, be

so kind as to whistle once for me."

Laughter prevented Eric from drawing up his lips. The bottle was

uncorked, and they drank to good comradeship. The Major said,--

"Perhaps we are in better spirits here, than our friend Sonnenkamp in

his grand villa. But Herr captain, I say again, an elephant is happy,

and a fly is happy too; only the elephant has a larger proboscis than

the fly."

The Major laughed till he shook with delight at his comparison, and

Eric found the laughter contagious, and as often as they looked at each

other, the laughter began afresh.

"You show me the meaning of the proverb," cried Eric, "'a gnat may be

taken for an elephant,' and in fact it is correct; not the size, not

the mass, but the organism is the life."

"Just so, just so!" exclaimed the Major. "Fraeulein Milch, come in again

a moment."

Fraeulein Milch, who had left the room, re-entered, and the Major

continued,--

"Pray, captain, say that once more about the organism. That is the sort

of thing for Fraeulein Milch, for, look you, she studies much more than

she chooses to let any one know. If you please, comrade, the organism

once more. I can't tell it half so well."

What was Eric to do? He explained his figure again, and the laughter

broke out anew.

Fraeulein Milch recommended to Eric the school-master of the village, as

a remarkably fine writer, and the Major cried, laughing,--

"Yes, comrade, Fraeulein Milch is a living roll of honor for the whole

region; if you want information about anyone, ask her. And for Heaven's

sake, don't let the Countess Wolfsgarten give you any medicine.

Fraeulein Milch knows much more about it--and no one can apply leeches

so well as she can."

Eric saw the good old woman's embarrassment, and began to praise her

beautiful flowers, and thriving plants, which stood in the window. The

Major asserted that she understood gardening perhaps even better than

Herr Sonnenkamp, and if it were only known with what small means she

raised her plants, she would get the first prize at the exhibition,

instead of the gentlemen with their great forcing-houses.

Turning the conversation, Fraeulein Milch said to Eric that it was the

chief misfortune of Roland, the poor rich boy, that he had no real

satisfaction.

"No real satisfaction?" laughed the Major; "just listen to that!"

"Yes," asserted Fraeulein Milch, the ribbons and bows on her cap nodding

assentingly as she spoke, "he has merely pleasure and amusements that

money can buy, but they are not genuine; and any one who only drives

through the world for pleasure, with nothing to do in it, seeks

satisfaction in vain."

A gleam of pleasure from Eric's eyes rested on the good Fraeulein, and

at that moment a secret bond of union, a sense of mutual understanding,

was formed between them.

Accompanied by both as far as the garden-gate, Eric left the house.

When the door was opened, a brown and white spaniel jumped upon the

Major.

"Halloo!" cried the Major, in a tone of mingled scolding and caress,

"where have you been again, you disorderly vagabond, who can tell

where? and here we've had a visitor; old as you are, you will never

learn good behavior and regular habits. Shame on you--shame!"

So spoke the Major to his dog Laadi, well-known in all the country

round; he kept a female dog, because the village dogs never fought with

her.

As the Major left the garden with Eric, he said,--

"Look at these two posts, these closely-trimmed ash-trees. Several

years ago I noticed that the one at the left got its leaves ten or

eleven days before the one at the right. Now, once the frost came

unexpectedly, and the leaves withered on the left-hand one, and it

drooped all summer; since then it has been prudent, and lets the other

get its leaves first, and then itself leaves out. Doesn't it seem as if

trees had understanding? Yes, dear comrade, everything is better

arranged in the world than we understand, and, look you, though I have

a pension and nothing to do, I have so many things to keep in sight,

that the day is often too short. Now, good-by, and remember that you

can always feel at home with us."

And as Eric shook hands, he added:--

"I thank you, for now I have another man to hold dear, and that's the

best thing in the world to keep one young and sound."

Eric had gone several steps, when the Major called to him to stop, and

coming up to him, said:--

"Yes, as to Herr Sonnenkamp--do not be led astray, comrade. Men of the

world either make an idol of a successful man, or they abuse him. Herr

Sonnenkamp is somewhat rough outside, but he is good at heart; and, as

to his past history, who is there who can feel satisfied with all his

past life? can any man? certainly not I, and I don't know anyone who

can. I have not always lived as I wish I had. But enough, you are wiser

than I."

"I understand perfectly," replied Eric. "American life is an existence

without a seventh day of rest; there is a continual working and

striving to win money, nothing else. If men have led such a life for

half a score of years, they lose the power of turning to anything else;

they say to themselves that if they only had enough--ah, those who

strive for gold never get enough--they say then they would devote

themselves to nobler ends. If it were only still possible! I understand

you, and wonder at Herr Sonnenkamp."

"Just so--just so," said the Major, "he must have dragged himself

through a good deal of mud, as a gold-hunter, to get such a great

property together. Yes, yes, I am easy--you are wiser than I. But now,

just for the first time, the main question occurs to me--look at me,

tell me honestly, is it true that you have been to see Fraeulein Manna

at the convent?"

"I have been at the convent, and saw Fraeulein Manna, but without

knowing her or speaking to her."

"And you didn't come to establish yourself in the house, in order to

marry the daughter?"

Eric smiled, as he said in reply, how strangely this question came to

him from every direction.

"Look you, comrade, put the maiden out of your thoughts, she is as good

as betrothed to Baron Pranken--I would rather you should have her, but

it can't be changed."

Eric at last got away, and went back toward the villa with cheerful

thoughts. Good powers were working together to keep Roland constantly

in a circle of thought and feeling, from which he might not deviate

through his whole life.

He stopped before a wide-spreading walnut tree, and looked up smiling

into its rich branches.

"Sonnenkamp is right," he said to himself; "the planting of trees and

their growth depend upon the surrounding heights and the prevailing

winds. There are nervous trees, which are killed by the blasts, and

others which only strike root when they are blown this way and that by

the wind. Is not the life of man such a plant? the men around it

constitute its climatic zone."

Eric thought he was constantly getting a better insight into the

influences which were helping, and those which were hindering, the true

growth of his pupil.

How rich is the world! Up there at the castle sits the old count by his

young wife's side, and creates for himself an ideal realm of thought,

after a full and active life;--here sits the old Major with his

housekeeper. How Bella would turn up her nose if she were compared with

that housekeeper, and yet--

Suddenly Eric heard carriage wheels behind him, and a man's and a

woman's voice called out to him.

CHAPTER VI.

A THIRD PERSON.

On the day that Eric had left Castle Wolfsgarten, an habitual visitor

made his appearance there; this was the son of the eminent

wine-merchant, the so-called Wine-count. He came once a week, to play

chess with the count. He looked young, but he was worn out in soul, not

knowing what to do in the world; he derived no satisfaction from the

business of his father, had money enough, had learned a variety of

things, was something of a musician, drew a little, had very various

talents, but no one predominant. All was wearisome to him; hollow and

stale seemed that enjoyment of life which was to be decorously pursued.

Wherefore should he devote himself to the restricted limits of some

regular pursuit, in order to make money? That is wholly needless. He

was a director in several railroads, and for a period it had satisfied

him to oversee and to manage, to be saluted respectfully, and listened

to obsequiously, by the subordinates held strictly to their place; but

that too became distasteful to him. Travelling, too, proffered him

nothing further, one had to drag along with himself continually such an

extra weight of ennui. He turned a disgusted eye upon the world which

had nothing to do for him, and in which he could do nothing. He had

cultivated one talent, that of chess-playing, and as Clodwig also took

great pleasure in the game, and was skilful in it, he came every week

to Wolfsgarten, and played with Clodwig, for it conferred upon him a

special regard in his own eyes, and in those of others.

He had also a great reputation, among all those in the neighborhood who

prided themselves upon the same qualities as he, of being a rake, and

appearing to the world as a gallant. He had a collection of lewd

pictures of every kind, and one must be very intimate with him to be

able to say that he had seen them all, even to the most carefully

hidden. Of course the Wine-chevalier presented a very respectable

appearance before the world. No one had ever seen him intoxicated, and,

in general society, he always played the part of one very condescending

and indifferent, who is yet so noble as to remain in intercourse with

these inferior people, as much as to say. One owes that much for old

acquaintance' sake. Mothers always warned their daughters of the

Wine-chevalier, just as one speaks to children of the wolf howling

outside there in the fields, but the mothers themselves did not take it

in bad part when he sometimes cast a languishing glance upon them, and

even when he frequently said something to them in whispers.

The Justice's daughter, Lina, was not so simple as the mother always

said, for she declared that the Wine-chevalier was that transformed

manikin in the fairy-tales, who travelled to learn what shivering

meant.

The Wine-chevalier of course kept himself fresh in his toilet and his

anecdotes, and in everything, externally and internally, that the

prevailing fashion required, from year to year, living also for several

months in Paris. He did not, like his father, speak of his friend this

and the other ambassador, minister so and so, and prince so and so, but

he let it be known that he lived in the most inseparable intimacy with

the most famous members of the Jockey Club.

The Wine-chevalier always experienced, besides, some degree of pleasure

in devoting himself to paying courteous compliments to the virtuous

Frau Bella, but she looked at him to-day, as if he were not present,

and as if she heard not a word of what he was saying. The count also

was so abstracted and absent-minded; that he speedily lost all the

games, often gazing at him with wonderment, sitting there in the same

chair that Eric had occupied.

A new ally to the Wine-chevalier made his appearance, but this was also

of no avail to-day. A corpulent man dressed with fastidious nicety

likewise called at Wolfsgarten; he was formerly a famous basso, who had

married a rich widow from the neighboring commercial city, and settled

down here in this beautiful region. At other times he was well received

by Bella, for he sang very agreeably with the remnant of his voice.

When he perceived that his greeting to-day was not so cordial as usual,

he said that he only came to make a passing call, and Bella was vexed

so much the more; she did not like to have Wolfsgarten regarded as a

place for casual visits. When both had departed, Bella and Clodwig

breathed again freely.

Clodwig went into the cabinet, where he kept the collection of objects

that had been excavated from the ground; but all here seemed changed.

The urns, the vases, the lachrymatories, swords, necklaces, and many

figures in relievo looked so very desolate, and a warrior, only half of

whose face in burnt clay could be dug out, wore to-day such a hideous

visage.

All looked so forlorn, as if these thousand things, brought out of the

darkness under ground into the light, were making their moan to

Clodwig: What then are we here for? There is something wanting to

us,--a piece to each. And if Clodwig had been able to exhibit his soul

with all its emotions, he, the well-regulated, would have had nothing

but potsherds to show. Something was wanting to him since Eric rode

off.

With closed lips, and restless eyes that seemed to be in search of

something, he went all day long through house and park. Bella succeeded

at last, in bringing him to say that the ideal of his whole life might

have been realized, but that he had strangely wanted the requisite

energy. He complained, for the first time, of feeling the hesitancy and

timidity of age. He made a pause, hoping that Bella would complete the

suggestion, but she kept silence; and in a very roundabout way, he

explained that people indulged in many luxuries, and yet not the right

ones. Finally he came directly to the point, that he considered it

wrong to have permitted Eric to depart, he had long wished for such a

man, and he might venture perhaps to say, that he would also contribute

to the advancement of the young scholar with the Apollo-form.

The upper lip of Bella quivered, and she said,--

"The captain"--she was going to say, the captain in Goethe's "Elective

Affinities," and stumbling over this thought, she continued:--"The

captain,--I mean, the doctor,--would certainly consider himself very

fortunate. But--we ought surely to speak openly. I have the happiness

of a firmly established good name, and we do not ask what people say--"

"Speak out direct," Clodwig said encouragingly, and Bella continued

after she had passed a fine pocket-handkerchief over her face:--

"Do you not think that this young man--would often--how shall I express

it?"

"Put us into an awkward position?" suggested Clodwig. Bella nodded, but

Clodwig had already thought that matter over, and he combated the

notion, dwelling upon the consideration of how great an enslavement it

would be of the good, if they must omit doing what was noble because

the bad committed the basest things under the cloak of deceit.

Bella now advised her husband to send a messenger to Eric immediately,

so that he might not enter into any engagement. Clodwig pressed her

hand, and went into his study, with an elastic step not often seen in

him. He began to write there, but soon came to Bella and said that he

could not write, and the simplest thing to do was to order the carriage

and drive over at once to Villa Eden.

Clodwig avoided, as a general thing, all immediate connection with

Sonnenkamp and his family, so far as it was possible with the intimacy

of his brother-in-law there, but to-day nothing was said of this, and

they drove off in good spirits.

Frau Bella often drew her veil down over her face and raised it again;

she was very uneasy, for she thought over a great many things, and when

she noticed the quick beating of her heart, she grasped hastily her

husband's hand, saying,--

"Ah! you are so good, so angel-pure! I could never have believed that I

should be continually discovering new excellencies in you."

With the utterance of these words aloud, she silenced in some degree

the voice speaking within her what she was not willing to acknowledge

to herself,--yes, she consciously disowned it. It is an

incomprehensible whim, a freak--not of passion, no--how could Bella

confess that of herself? It was the freak of an evil spirit! This young

man must possess some incomprehensible, bewildering, magic influence!

Bella hated him, for he had disturbed the quiet of her husband, and now

was attempting to do the same with her. He should atone for that! She

straightened herself back; she was resolved to interrupt the childish,

enthusiastic plan of her husband by the very means of her going with

him, and if Eric did not perceive her opposition, she would acknowledge

it in so many words, and thereby induce him to decline.

Entertaining this thought, she looked up again in a cheerful mood, and

Clodwig, perceiving it, settled upon a room for Eric, and laid out the

new household arrangement.

A new member of the family too was to be added for Bella, as she was to

invite Eric's mother to visit them. It was fortunate that Bella had

already known her for some time before, and held her in high esteem.

Clodwig informed her that the Dournays also were really of the

nobility, and their appellation was Dournay de Saint Mort, and that

they had dropped the title only at the expulsion of the Huguenots from

France, and he would see to it, in case Eric made a suitable marriage,

that his title was renewed,--yes, he could probably do more in his

behalf.

Bella asked jokingly, whether he might not desire to adopt him as a

son. Clodwig declared that he was not disinclined to do so. With a

bitter smile, but to all appearance very lively, Bella answered that it

would seem very strange for her to have a son only a few years younger

than she was herself.

Now the disentombed antiquities danced joyously before the eyes of

Clodwig, and indulged in all sorts of antics. Frau Bella, on the other

hand, was exceedingly out of humor; it was a perpetual astonishment to

her, that her husband felt so deep an interest in these matters. She

had not used deception when, the winter before their betrothal, she had

appeared to be a cultivated nature, recognizing the more serious depths

of existence, and had manifested an interest in the art-productions of

the classic age, in the sciences, and in the higher realities of life;

she had, in fact, not wilfully misled him, for she had always supposed

that every one regarded these as conversational topics, proper subjects

for small-talk. And in regard to the study of the historical

development of the past and the present, it appeared to her as a

tacitly conventional pastime.

She was terror-stricken to perceive that these great thoughts

constituted her husband's very life, that he sorrowed and rejoiced in

all that related to the world's progress as in family occurrences, and

moreover that he was even religious. He did not speak, as she did, of

the dear God, but he would remain in devout contemplation at every

manifestation of the Eternal Providence, and wherever a contradiction,

a riddle, presented itself, he experienced even a degree of feverish

disturbance.

Bella did not confess to herself that the whole appeared to her

horribly pedantic, like a preacher or a pedagogue; she had not thought

that she was to marry a pedantic professor, instead of a live man.

But whether avowed or not, this whole matter of cherishing a so-called

higher interest was extremely wearisome to her. Every one plays only

his part in life, and who is to regard it in serious earnest? Those

poor devils, the scholars and the philanthropists, may do so, if they

please, but not a man of a higher station. Now it appeared that Clodwig

was ready to break up a regular routine existence, tedious indeed, but

yet tranquil and honorable, by the sudden introduction of a stranger.

It was pure calumny, when they said of Bella that she had married the

count in the hope of becoming soon a rich and attractive widow. The old

Head-equerry had looked out for a good marriage settlement, and a

certain part of the income of the great estate was retained and

invested yearly, which did not go to the heir by the collateral line.

As I have said, it was unmitigated slander that Bella had gone to the

altar cherishing a hope of widowhood, but to her alarm--she covered it

up whenever she became conscious of it--she found herself growing

prematurely old by the side of her husband, who was old enough to be

her father.

And who knows how much money Clodwig will spend upon this adventurer,

Dournay, who has no regular occupation, and besides, is not in favor at

court! But the worst is, that this young man, with his confident

expectation of success, will wholly withdraw from her the attention of

her husband. They will study with one another, and make explorations,

whilst thou wilt be sitting all alone, thou, the young and fresh heart

that has devoted itself so nobly, so truly, so self-forgetting, to the

care of the old man!

Bella was sorely vexed at Eric, because he made her entertain evil

thoughts, and suddenly, while looking at her husband, she cried,--

"In God's name! Your lips are white. What is the matter?"

Were her evil thoughts suddenly to be realized? But Clodwig answered,--

"It's nothing. Look! There he stands. What a wonderful form! I fully

believe that he is occupied with thoughts of deepest moment, as he

stands there dreamily, gazing down at the grass."

The carriage rolled on. Eric heard his name called, and looked in

amazement at the husband and wife, who gave him a cordial greeting. He

was made to take a seat in the carriage, and Clodwig's glance to his

wife said, "Hast thou ever seen a nobler specimen of a human form?"

Eric was asked whether he had accepted definitely the situation, and

when he replied in the negative, Clodwig extended his hand to him, and

said,--

"You will find a welcome with me."

Nothing farther could be said, for just then Sonnenkamp trotted up on

his black horse, and he was extremely glad to be able to salute such

visitors; he was very much surprised, however, to see Eric on such

intimate terms with them. He rode up to the coach-door, and very

joyfully and respectfully welcomed the guests to the villa.

Hardly had they left the carriage, when another drove into the court,

and the physician got out.

CHAPTER VII.

THE FIRST ROSE IN OPEN GROUND.

Eric acquired an entirely new regard by the arrival of Clodwig and

Bella. For the first time Sonnenkamp called him "dear friend."

Herr Sonnenkamp offered his arm to Bella, which she accepted, turning

slowly toward him, that Clodwig might see how great a sacrifice she was

making; her hand rested lightly on Sonnenkamp's arm. As she was thus

walking on, holding the arm of the master of the house, she stopped

full of wonder, for there was a rose blooming in full beauty upon a

rose-bush raised in the open air.

Herr Sonnenkamp hastened to pluck it, and presented it to her in some

pretty words. Bella said that she was very much obliged to him, and

seemed not to notice that he again proffered his arm. They went at once

to the hot-houses. Joseph, who was always present at the right time, as

if specially summoned, received from his master orders to inform

Fraeulein Perini and Frau Ceres of the visit. Joseph understood.

The doctor had been summoned to Frau Ceres, but when she learned what

guests had arrived, she immediately declared that she was well; but she

was cunning enough to say to the doctor, that merely seeing him had

made her well. Doctor Richard understood.

In the meantime, Clodwig had said to Eric, "You don't remain here; you

go with us. I can't leave you."

He jerked the words out briefly and rapidly, as one utters in a

compressed, uniform tone something which has lain in his mind for a

long time.

Just then, Roland came down the mountain, with his camp-stool and

drawing-board, and Bella called out to him, while far off, in a very

friendly "welcome."

"How handsome he is!" said she to those standing about her. "He who

could fix permanently this image of the marvellous boy as he is

coming along, would have a picture out of the Grecian age, by changing

camp-stool and portfolio into spear and shield."

Bella perceived the look of happiness in Eric's eyes, and said to

him:--"Yes, Herr Doctor, I once gave to an artist at the capital the

design for a picture as I saw Roland; he had sprung across the road,

and had cast an alms into the hat of a street-beggar sitting upon a

heap of stones; and as he sprang back, so well formed and graceful,

every muscle stretched, and his countenance so beaming with the delight

of beneficence, it was a wonderful sight that can never be forgotten."

Clodwig looked down to the ground; Bella was evidently not aware that

it was not she, but he, who had thus seen Roland and given the order to

the artist.

Roland was very much surprised at the visit, and the manner in which he

was greeted, Bella saying to her husband,--"Clodwig, kiss him for me!"

Clodwig embraced the youth, who now turned to Eric with a puzzled look.

"If the Herr Captain remains with us, you must visit us often, dear

Roland," said Bella.

Sonnenkamp was at a loss to know what that meant, but the danger of

losing Eric seemed immediately to affect the youth, so that he looked

up in a help-imploring way. And it was now clear to Eric, what was

intended in regard to him, and he now for the first time understood

what was interrupted by Sonnenkamp's coming up to the carriage.

They took only a hasty look at the greenhouses, for Bella said that

when it was green and blooming outside, the imprisonment of the plants

had something oppressive to her.

Fraeulein Perini soon appeared, sent by Frau Ceres, to make known her

intention not to be sick to-day.

Bella and Fraeulein Perini had separated themselves from the men; they

had much to say to each other, and Eric was naturally the first

subject. Bella could not forbear expressing her surprise to Fraeulein

Perini, that she had so completely seen through the singular man,

although Fraeulein Perini had not really yet said anything. But this

remark forced her to reply, though nothing of her real opinion was

given; for Fraeulein Perini said that she constantly felt fresh

admiration at the German learned world, meaning to include Bella, who

was to be almost looked upon as a learned woman.

Bella took no notice of this equivocal compliment; she assumed a

matronly tone, while confessing that she had no near relation to the

young men of the day, and was not sure that she understood them.

Neither one of the ladies seemed to come out fully with her opinion,

and each appeared to regard the other as cherishing a secret

inclination for Eric.

"Do you know," said Frau Bella, looking very attentively at the rose

which Sonnenkamp had given her, "do you know that this man with the

double title has an insultingly low opinion of the female sex?"

"No, I did not know that, but it may be a part of that radical heresy,

as Baron von Pranken calls it, which he parades with such manifest

conceit."

"But what opinion have you formed about Herr Dournay?"

"I have not formed any opinion about him."

"Why not?"

"I am not impartial; he does not belong to our church."

"But supposing that he did belong to our church, how would you then

regard him?"

"It is not to be supposed. This complacent self-assumption is not

possible with a person who has subjected himself to the divine law; his

deportment is that of a prince travelling incog., or more properly, as

Herr Baron von Pranken says, 'the man coaches round the world in a

lecturer's invisible chair.'"

The two women laughed. Bella had found out enough. She very carefully

impressed upon Fraeulein Perini the necessity of exerting all her

influence against the reception of a man proud of his unbelief.

Fraeulein Perini held her cross with her left hand, and looked somewhat

mischievously at Bella. Then the countess does not wish to have him

here. Is she trying to bring him into her own house, and getting up a

nice intrigue against her husband? She hinted, not without mischievous

satisfaction, that Herr von Pranken, who had occasioned all this, must

also find the proper remedy. Bella gave out also that Eric was,

perhaps, unsuitable in another view; and here, for the third time, it

was expressly said, that Eric was a "dangerous" man.

Fraeulein Perini had spoken of it as applicable, in two respects, to one

present and to one absent, for the special interest of Bella had not

escaped her penetrating eye.

Quickly, and in order to conceal how well she had hit the mark, she

added, that a man like Otto von Pranken had certainly no one to be

afraid of. She spoke with sympathizing eagerness of his journey, that

perhaps it was imprudent, but one must let the passionate youthful

heart take its own course, and it often brought about the right result

better than cautious deliberation and consideration. But Fraeulein

Perini spoke very plainly, and Bella replied as plainly, in

condemnation of Pranken's desire to go counter to the social

ordinances, but any such tendency must be indulged, though with great

reluctance on their part.

Again the conversation reverted to Eric; and Bella was now extremely

good-humored. She pitied the man's aged mother, regarded the

self-conscious bearing of the youth as in reality timidity; he carried

a haughty outside, that he might cover up thereby the menial

dependence. An elevation of the eyelids disclosed that Fraeulein Perini

was slightly hurt, and Frau Bella quickly added, that pious natures are

never really oppressed by dependence, for they, have in themselves a

higher position, yes, they are through piety constituted the equals of

anybody.

Fraeulein Perini smiled; she understood how kindly Bella; treated her,

and there was no need of the friendly pressure of the hand to make her

perceive it.

A servant came, and announced that Frau Ceres would receive the

gracious countess in the balcony-saloon; she was not allowed by her

physician to go out into the open air.

Fraeulein Perini accompanied Bella as far as the outside-stairs, and

made there a very polite courtesy; Bella, however, grasped both her

hands with irrepressible cordiality, and said that she should like such

a friend as Fraeulein Perini for daily intercourse; she pressingly urged

her to confer the honor of a visit without any delay.

When the rustling of Bella's garments was no longer heard, Fraeulein

Perini clawed with her little hand like a cat, which, silently lurking,

has caught something; contemptuously she opened her eyes, always so

veiled, and her small mouth almost uttered the words,--

"You are all deluded."

Frau Ceres complained of her constant suffering, and Frau Bella

attempted to console her, saying that she had everything, and

especially such splendid children. She knew not which to praise most,

the charming attractions of Roland, or the angelic nature of Manna.

Bella seldom came into Sonnenkamp's house, but when she came there, she

was always seized by a passion which is perhaps peculiarly a woman's

passion. She lived at Wolfsgarten in an abundance which left nothing to

be desired, but as soon as she drove through the gate of Villa Eden, an

evil spirit came over her; and the demon's name is Envy--envy of this

exuberant superfluity, where there was no dragging along under the

burden of old lumber and decaying remnants, but everything newly

created. And as often as she thought of Frau Ceres, sparkles flashed

before her eyes, for she saw then the diamond ornaments of Frau Ceres,

such as the reigning princess herself did not possess.

She was thoroughly condescending and gracious to Frau Ceres, and she

was happy that she could be condescending. These people can buy

everything for themselves, but not a noble, historically famous name;

and if the proposal of Otto succeeds, it is only the covering up of

lowness with a fresh varnish, which is always begging, "Do not touch

me, if you do, I shall rub off."

Eric was here also naturally a prominent subject of conversation, and

Frau Bella pressed the rose to her mouth, in order to hide her laugh,

when Frau Ceres said,--

"I should like to have the Herr Captain for myself."

"For yourself?"

"Yes. But I don't think I can learn anything more, I am too old and

too stupid. He hasn't let me learn anything."

Frau Bella contested very zealously this modesty. Was not Frau Ceres

beautiful and young? She might be taken indeed for Roland's sister. Was

she not prudent and elegant in her deportment? Frau Ceres smiled and

nodded continually, appearing to believe that it was all true. But now

Bella felt obliged to take her leave, as she desired to spare the

delicate organization of Frau Sonnenkamp.

Frau Ceres looked up timidly at these words; she did not know whether

that was praise or blame. Bella took leave, kissing Frau Ceres upon the

forehead.

Herr Sonnenkamp had left the count and Eric; he had many things to see

after in the house, also letters and despatches had come in, which

required an immediate answer. He sent moreover for the Major to dinner,

and gave orders that if they did not find him at home, they should go

for him to the castle.

Clodwig went with Roland and Eric to their room, and before they were

aware, they became engaged so earnestly in conversation that they

wholly forgot Roland. The youth sat there dumb, looking sometimes at

one, and sometimes at the other. He did not understand what they were

saying, but he could feel how much they were enjoying. When Clodwig had

retired to his own room, Roland seized Eric's hand and cried:--

"I will also learn, I will also study all, whatever you want; I want to

be like you and Clodwig."

A thrill passed through Eric's soul. The invitation from Clodwig was

exactly the ideal of all that he could desire, but here was an actual

duty of life; he could not choose any longer what course, to take.

CHAPTER VIII.

I SERVE.

The Major fortunately came as they were about to sit down to dinner. He

was extremely glad to meet Clodwig and Bella here; every manifestation

of friendliness between individuals was a cordial to him: it confirmed

his proposition that all human beings were immeasurably good, and he

could thereby silence the revilers and the doubters. He was grateful to

Clodwig and Bella, as if he had received a personal favor; he looked at

the chairs as if he would enjoin them to seat right comfortably their

occupants. He extended his hand to Eric as to a son; he had become

thoroughly attached to him, and now he complained to him, with the tone

of a child who has eaten dainties by stealth, that he had allowed

himself to be enticed; for, wishing to see for himself whether the

workmen at the castle had good food to eat, he had made trial of it,

and it tasted so unexpectedly good, that he had completely satisfied

his appetite.

Eric comforted him with the suggestion, that the nice dishes might yet

perhaps find some spare room.

The Major nodded; he said, to Joseph the magic word, "Allasch." Joseph

understood. At a small side-table he poured out from a bottle

surrounded by little glasses; the Major drank off the tonic.

"That's a quartermaster;" then he nodded to Eric, and his face laughed

all over, as Eric responded:--

"Of course, the spirit orders the vulgar mass to give way."

Frau Ceres did not come to dinner. They had hardly taken their seats,

before the physician was called away; he immediately rose. Sonnenkamp

entreated him to remain, but Clodwig said in a very decided tone, that

he would like to urge him to obey the summons, for if one placed

himself in the situation of those who were expecting the physician, it

would appear a cruel thing to be detaining him here meanwhile for one's

own enjoyment.

"That is a nobleman, a genuine nobleman!" said the Major to Eric, and

Roland, on hearing it, looked round as if somebody had suddenly seized

hold of him. Is his father, then, not noble, for desiring the contrary?

Eric had a feeling of what was passing in the boy's mind, and said to

the Major, so that Roland could not but hear him,--

"Herr Sonnenkamp spoke on the very just supposition, that the country

people very often exaggerate the danger, and needlessly hurry the

physician."

"That's true. I've made a mistake,--I thank you, comrade."

Roland drew a long breath, he gave Eric a smile; he would have liked to

embrace and to kiss him.

Eric understood this smile. The table seemed disturbed, for the

physician, who had easily and briskly led the conversation, left a gap

by his departure; and as they were obliged to sit more closely together

bodily, in order to fill up this vacant space, so it seemed as if they

must now also for the first time draw nearer together spiritually. And

the call made upon them to go, in imagination, with the physician to

the bedside of a moaning patient, and to the lamenting relatives, had

also interrupted the pleasant mood with which they had seated

themselves in good cheer at the table.

Eric, who might well consider that the visit of Clodwig and Bella was

meant for him, felt under a double obligation to entertain the guests

as well as he could, and bring the company at table into a congenial

mood. But while he was yet in search of some thoughts to direct the

general conversation, the Major stole a march upon him.

He smiled beforehand very pleasantly, for he had something to tell, and

now was the aptest time.

"Herr Sonnenkamp," he began, and his face again became blood-red, for

he had to speak in the presence of many persons,--

"Herr Sonnenkamp, it is said in the newspaper that you are soon to

receive a great number of visitors."

"I? In the newspaper?"

"Yes. It is not said in so many words, but I infer so. It is said

there, that an emigration is now taking place from America, on account

of the high cost of living there; many families are coming from the New

World to Europe, because they can live with us at more reasonable

prices, and in a pleasanter way."

The Major congratulated himself, that he had pushed forward into the

gap something very agreeable and very suitable. He drank off, at one

draught, with great gusto, a glass of his favorite Burgundy.

Sonnenkamp remarked in a careless way, that probably a prejudice would

be created against Americans, like that which existed against English

travellers.

No one again took up the conversation; they would gladly have heard

Clodwig talk, but he was constrained from the feeling that he had

intruded into a strange house, had there sat down as a guest, and yet

all the time, he was intending to commit a theft. This made him ill at

ease and reserved.

Eric took a different view of his deportment. He gave a fortunate turn

to the conversation, referring to Goethe's poem which extolled America

because it had no ruined castles, and passing on to the favorite

pursuits of Clodwig and of Sonnenkamp, and indeed drawing a parallel

between a fondness for antiquity and for the rearing of plants. Eric

was very animated and communicative, introducing matters which, he knew

would awaken interest, and yet in the very midst of his talk there was

an accompanying feeling of self-reproach. Until now, throughout his

whole life, he had simply replied to questions put to him, and had

always spoken either to impart something to others, or to enlighten

them; now he was speaking with the view, at any rate with the secondary

view, of appearing well, taking pleasure in the effect of this and that

expression. He was startled when he became aware of it, and continued

speaking further. He repelled the reproachful suggestion, saying to

himself that it was really his duty to play the part of host. His eyes

glistened, and he brought Sonnenkamp and Clodwig into a state of

pleasant animation. The ladies also received their share. But Bella had

a manner,--and since she had it, it must be well-mannered,--when she

was not leading the conversation,--no matter who was speaking, or what

was spoken about,--a manner of introducing into the little circle,

where it was a disturbing element, a dialogue with the person sitting

next to her, and hindering him, even if he wished to do so, from

falling into the general stream of conversation.

Eric had vanity enough to make him note her want of interest; it vexed

him at first, but afterwards he thought no more about it.

Herr Sonnenkamp was very well satisfied with the family-tutor, who not

only made a good appearance in his own sphere, and gave to him the

rightful consideration, but whose very presence was an ornament of the

house, and brought to his table the noblest of the land.

Clodwig again requested that he might be immediately informed of every

remains of Roman Antiquities discovered in the restoration of the

castle; Sonnenkamp promised it with readiness, and gave an extremely

humorous account of the silly motives attributed to him for rebuilding

the castle. Some said he wished to figure in "Baedeker's Traveller's

Manual," which people carried with them in the summer season, when they

passed up and down the river, so that the castle might be pointed at,

and the bored English, with finger upon the line of the book, might

gape at it awhile with open mouth; but that really an aesthetic reason

determined him. He honestly confessed that he intended, in rebuilding

the castle, to give a harmonious finish to the view from his work-room

window, desiring at the same time to make some contribution to the

beauty of the German fatherland.

There was always a peculiar tang in Sonnenkamp's utterance of these

words, "German fatherland;" one could detect therein something like

deep-seated savage hate, and yet the tone was rather that of tender

pity and commiseration. Sonnenkamp knew that Clodwig was, of all things

else, a patriot, and he was ready to strike this chord. Eric looked at

Roland, to see if he noticed the hypocrisy, for it was no longer ago

than Sunday, that Sonnenkamp had expressed himself so strangely and

contemptuously, when the conversation turned on the subject of voting.

But Roland's features were motionless.

In one view, it was encouraging that the inconsiderate mind of the

youth did not perceive the contradiction; while in another, Eric saw

here an enhancement of the difficulty of his work as an educator; it

was indeed his principal problem, to awaken and to establish in the

mind of his pupil the consecutiveness and interlinking of all thought

and all action.

Sonnenkamp expatiated, too, on the many strange things imputed to him;

and yet no one had really made the charge: but he himself, together

with Pranken, had spread the report, that he was desirous of giving his

own name to the castle, the line of the original family having long

since become extinct. It was reported that the Rauhenberg coat of arms

was not accurately known, and yet that it was purposed to place it

again over the entrance of the restored castle.

Clodwig, who prided himself, notwithstanding all his liberality, in

knowing the genealogy of all the princely and noble families, with

their coats of arms, affirmed that the Rauhenberg coat of arms was

unmistakably certain, and that it had as a device a Moor's head on a

blue ground in the left field, and in the right, a pair of scales. The

family had greatly distinguished itself in the crusades, and had been

at that time invested with a high judicial function.

Sonnenkamp smiled in a very friendly manner, and he almost grinned, as

he requested the count to favor him, as soon as possible, with a

drawing.

Eric's rich store of knowledge was again a matter of surprise, as he

excited attention by the information he gave concerning armorial

mottoes.

They were in very good spirits whilst assigning to some one of their

circle of acquaintance one and another motto, which sometimes seemed a

laughable contrast to the real character, and sometimes a striking

expression of it.

"What motto would you select for yourself?" Sonnenkamp asked Eric; and

he gave for a reply these two simple words:--

"I serve."

CHAPTER IX.

A DOUBLE RESCUE.

It happened, as if by accident, that Eric and Frau Bella walked

together, and Bella tried a little experiment to see in what direction

it would be safe to venture, by remarking that she was surprised at

Eric's understanding her good husband so thoroughly, for it was not so

easy to live with him as it seemed. She said this very warily, and it

might be taken for simple praise. Eric replied:--

"The world is so much the more indebted to you, gracious lady, for the

count has gained new youth through you."

Bella nodded. Eric had quietly and securely taken the first step toward

a good understanding; to recognize her sacrifice was a delicate

politeness on his part. She went on to speak very enthusiastically of

Clodwig, and of her happiness in being able to do anything towards

cherishing a pure spirit, without making any demand for herself. It was

so beautiful to sacrifice one's self, to serve quietly, unrecognized

and unnoticed; and here there came in a word about the childlike mind,

so placed that Eric could apply all she had said to his vocation as a

teacher.

Eric expressed his agreement with her, simply and without

embarrassment, and Frau Bella could not tell whether he had really not

understood her, or whether he chose to seem not to understand. She knew

how to intimate with delicacy how difficult it was to deal with just

such a man as Clodwig, though he seemed so unexacting and so yielding;

she begged Eric to help her in making the evening of his days

completely happy; she said all this with a tone of feeling which was

not to be mistaken.

Eric expressed his doubt whether it would be well to disturb so

peaceful a life by the introduction of a third person; he acknowledged

that he was still wanting in tact, was capricious, and passionate.

"You are so sincere that you have no need of being diffident," answered

Bella.

She looked searchingly at Eric; her fan fell, and as he picked it up

she gave him her hand in thanks. With much tact and elegance of

expression, but with emotion which made her breast heave, she extolled

the good fortune which allowed her to devote herself to a noble man,

and to have a friend who thoroughly understood her. Eric could not tell

whether the latter part of her remark applied to him or to Clodwig.

"There he comes!" cried Bella suddenly. "See, it is a peculiarity of

his never to carry a cane, though he needs it."

She went to meet her husband, and he turned his steps towards her.

Clodwig seated himself under a fine cedar, where pretty rustic chairs

were placed; Eric and Bella stood before him. And now Clodwig explained

his whole plan, painting so attractively the pleasantly busy life which

they would lead together, that Eric's cheeks glowed. In a voice full of

emotion he expressed his gratitude, and said that he felt bound by duty

to the decision which his heart had made.

Bella rested one hand on Clodwig's chair, and Eric went on to say that

he rejoiced that anything so attractive had been offered him, because

he derived thence an assurance that he had chosen the right course,

that which accorded with his duty. A great and difficult task was laid

upon him in Roland's education, and the very fact, that so different

and charming a life was now opened to him, made him happy by renewing

and confirming his confidence in his decision; and the offered

alternative helped him to recognize his choice as a real duty.

For a while Clodwig looked down, and Bella, taking her hand from his

chair, stood suddenly erect. Then, as Eric represented his delight in

Roland, and the mysterious, happy attraction which he felt towards him,

even towards his faults, Clodwig smiled, as he looked up into the

branches, for just as Eric felt drawn to Roland with enthusiastic love,

he was drawn to Eric; the sentiments were exactly analogous. Yet he was

unwilling to give Eric up, and pointed out to him again that he could

not cut off all other influences in educating Roland, but that he would

have to contend with elements which perhaps he could never conquer.

"Ah, there comes the doctor," he interrupted himself; "are you willing

to call in a third person to the decision?"

"No one but myself can make the decision," answered Eric, "however

difficult it may be; but I have not the least objection to entrust the

office of umpire to our friend."

This was done; but, to the surprise of all, the physician decided

against both parties; he expressed his wish that some one would enable

Eric to see Italy and Greece.

Before Clodwig could answer, Eric interposed, saying that he was bent

on finding some employment, so that he could support himself and his

mother from his own means.

Rising with difficulty, Clodwig said,--

"Young friend, give me your arm." He stood erect, and turned toward

Eric, on whose arm his hand lay heavy and trembling.

"I don't know," said he, "I should not think I was the man who had been

through such hard experience as I have; I am today undergoing a bitter

experience. Is it old age which makes it so difficult for me to give up

a desire? I have learned to do so before now. Yes, yes; a man becomes

childish--childish; a child cannot give up."

He leaned heavily on Eric, who was shaken to the depth of his soul by

the emotion of the noble man. He did not know what to reply, and

Clodwig continued:--

"I feel as if I knew not where I am. Do you not think it is very

close?"

"No. Will you not sit down?"

Hastily loosing his hold of Eric's arm to pass his hand over his face,

Clodwig said,--

"My young friend, when I die--"

Hardly had he uttered the word, when he sank down: Eric caught him in

his arms. Bella, who was walking behind with the physician, uttered a

cry; the physician hurried to the spot; Eric stooped, raised Clodwig in

his arms like a child--all this was the work of a moment.

Clodwig was carried into the great drawing-room, and laid upon a sofa.

Bella sobbed aloud, but the doctor soothed her. He had a remedy with

him which soon restored Clodwig to consciousness; he begged Eric and

Bella to leave the room as soon as the count had spoken.

Outside, Bella threw herself on Eric's breast, and he trembled as he

felt her breath on his face, and a thrill ran through him as the

beautiful woman leaned upon him in such passionate and unrestrained

excitement.

"You are our helper, our friend in need! O my friend, my friend!"

Sonnenkamp entered hastily, and Bella, standing erect, with wonderful

composure addressed him, saying,--

"Herr Sonnenkamp! our mutual friend. Captain Dournay, is a blessing to

us all; with the strength of a giant he carried my husband. Thank him

with me."

Eric was astonished at this rapid recovery of self-control.

The physician came out, and Sonnenkamp asked anxiously,--

"How is he? how is he?"

His mind was set at rest by the doctor's declaration that it had been a

very slight attack, which would have no bad consequences. Clodwig

requested that Eric would come to him.

Eric entered the drawing-room. Clodwig sitting upright held out his

hand to Eric, saying, with a wonderfully bright smile,--

"I must finish my sentence; I was going to say: When I die, my young

friend, I should like to have you near me. But don't be anxious, it

will not be for a long time yet. There, now sit down by me. Where is my

wife?"

Eric went to call her, and she entered, with the physician and

Sonnenkamp.

The doctor was not only willing, but expressly desired that Bella and

Clodwig should return directly to Wolfsgarten. Sonnenkamp raised

various objections, wishing to keep his noble guests with him, and

saying with great hospitality,--

"Consider my house exactly as if it were your own."

"Will you permit Herr Dournay to accompany us?" asked Clodwig.

Sonnenkamp started as he answered quickly,--

"I have no permission to give the captain, but if you are determined to

go, I would ask him as a favor to accompany you, with a promise of

returning to us."

"You will go with us also?" begged Bella of the physician, who

assented.

So the four drove off through the mild spring night; little was said,

though once Clodwig seized Eric's hand, with the words, "You are very

strong."

Eric and the doctor spent the night at Wolfsgarten. In the early

morning, the physician prepared for departure while Eric was still

sleeping soundly; he woke him and said,--

"Doctor, remain here to-day, but no longer."

Eric stared at him.

"Did you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Now, good-bye."

Again Eric spent a whole day at Wolfsgarten. Clodwig was as cheerful

and serene as ever; Bella's bearing toward Eric was shy, almost timid.

In the evening Sonnenkamp and Roland rode over, and Eric returned with

them to Villa Eden. Sonnenkamp was in very good spirits, and the blood

mounted to Eric's face as he said, looking sharply at him,--

"Countess Bella will make a beautiful widow."

On the evening of the following day the physician appeared again at

Villa Eden; he had been at Wolfsgarten and brought a good report. He

took Eric aside, and said,--

"You have confided to me that you neither expect, nor will accept in a

personal interview, a decisive answer from Herr Sonnenkamp. I approve

of that; it can be much better settled by letter. You will see more

clearly, away from him, and so will he. So I advise you to leave the

house; every hour that you remain is your ruin."

"My ruin?" Eric was startled.

The physician said, smiling,--

"Yes, my dear friend, this forced exhibition of yourself, which has now

lasted almost a week, is injuring you."

He continued, after a pause,--

"No man can be on parade for a week without receiving some harm. You

must go away, or you will become an actor, or a preacher, or both

together. You repeat what you have learned, and repeat it with the

conscious purpose of producing a given effect. Therefore away with you!

you have been examining, and examined, long enough. Come with me, spend

the night at my house; to-morrow return to your mother, and wait

quietly for what may come next."

"But Roland," asked Eric, "how can I leave the boy behind? His heart

has turned to me, as mine has to him."

"That's well, very well. Then let him wait and long for you. Let him

learn that the rich cannot have everything. Let him feel obliged to sue

for you. All that will give you a power of incalculable influence in

the family and over your pupil. Let me act for you now; to-morrow

morning you will see with my eyes."

"There is my hand. I'll go with you!" answered Eric.

There was great surprise in the house when the announcement of Eric's

sudden departure was made; an hour had scarcely elapsed when he entered

the physician's carriage.

Eric was glad that his leave-taking of Roland was hurried. The boy

could not understand what had happened; his emotion prevented him from

speaking. After Eric had seated himself in the doctor's carriage,

Roland came with one of the puppies and laid it in his lap, but the

physician gave it back, saying that he could not take it, it was too

young to be taken from the mother; but he would see that Eric should

have it eventually.

Roland gazed wonderingly after the departing guests. In the boy's heart

there was a confused whirl of all the feelings which he had experienced

in the few days since Eric's arrival; but Eric did not look back. In

his father's house the boy felt as if abandoned in a strange land. He

took the young dog by the nape of the neck, and was about to throw it

from him, but the puppy whimpered pitifully, and he pressed it to his

breast, saying,--"Be quiet, nothing is hurting you; but I'm not a dog,

and I don't whine, now don't you whine any more either. He didn't want

either of us." Roland carried the dog to its mother, who was very glad

to see her pup again.

"I'll go to my mother, too," said Roland; but he had first to be

announced. She allowed him to enter, and when he lamented that Eric had

gone so suddenly, she said,--

"That's right; I advised him to go."

"You? Why?"

"Oh, your stupid _why_! One can't be always answering your why!"

Roland was silent, and his mother's kiss almost pained him.

He wanted to go to his father, but found that he had driven to the

castle with the Major.

Deserted and lonely, he stood in the court; at last he went into the

stable, sat down by his dogs and watched their amusing actions; then he

went to his horse, and stood quietly leaning on his neck for a long

time. Strange thoughts rolled tumultuously through the boy's brain.

The horse and dog are yours; only what one can buy and possess is his

own.

Like a flash of lightning, just seen, then gone again, there woke in

the boy's soul the idea that nothing but love can give one human being

possession of another. He was not used to steady thinking, and this

into which he had fallen brought on a real headache. He had his horse

saddled, and rode off over the road which Eric and the doctor had

taken.

CHAPTER X.

THE PRACTICAL NATURE.

Eric sat quiet and thoughtful by the doctor's side, and was disturbed

by no word from him, seeming to himself to be driven hither and thither

by wind and wave. A few days before, he had ridden to this place on a

stranger's horse, and now he sat in a stranger's carriage; he had

become intermingled with the life and destiny of so many persons, and

this could no longer count for anything in his and their existence. He

could not anticipate, however, that an unexpected event was awaiting

him.

"You believe then in education?" asked the doctor at last.

"I don't understand what you mean."

"I place no dependence whatever on education; men become what nature

fits them to be. They attain, under all relations, what is called their

destiny. As the human being lies in his cradle, so he lies in his

coffin. Some little help comes from talents and capabilities, but as a

whole they are only incidental; the natural bias gives the home blow."

Eric had no heart to enter upon these discussions; he was weary of this

everlasting game of words.

The doctor continued:--

"I have a peculiar grudge against these people; it vexes me that these

rich people should buy for themselves the fragrant fruits of higher

culture; then, again, I am consoled by the word of Him who stood at the

very centre of thought, and said, 'A rich man cannot enter into the

kingdom of God.' The rich are too heavily ballasted; they have a

pampered existence, they are removed far from the actual needs of life,

and they withdraw themselves from the natural influences of the

seasons; they flit into different climates and out of them again, and

everywhere they have comfortably prepared swallow-nests. It would be an

intolerable heartlessness of fate, if, without any irksome toil, they,

are to have also the higher joys as a possession, which belong alone to

us."

"There is no royal road to geometry, is Euclid's saying," Eric

interposed; "science and knowledge are acquired only through labor, and

what I want to do with this boy can all be comprehended in one word: I

want to give him self-activity."

"Just so," replied the physician; "yes, that's it! we who live to the

spirit have the advantage over the rich in this respect, that we are

alone by ourselves; the rich man does not know the silent growth in the

dewy stillness of solitude; he always has so much, he never has

himself, and never himself alone. This is what I understand by that

verse of the Bible, 'What shall it profit thee, if thou shalt gain the

whole world, and lose thine own soul? That is to say, Art never alone

in thyself, with thyself? He who has nowhere to lay his head, he can

yet carry his head high and free. You see it was to some purpose that I

studied theology for two years, until I came to see that though much

cannot be effected, yet more is to be done by practising quackery on

the body, than on the soul."

The doctor could not speak, he laughed so heartily. At last he said,--

"The great question always is, how receptivity itself confers upon one

all that is desirable. That would be your principal task, to awaken and

to perfect in Roland his power of receptivity. He must first of all, be

taught in a regular way. In what he knows of the world, he is yet a

child, and in what he desires of the world, he is a man, one may say a

live man."

Eric had much to say in reply, but he smiled to himself, for he thought

how easy it is to theorize. The doctor had justly found fault with him

for enlarging upon so many topics, and now he was to perceive that he

could be silent. He said nothing, and the doctor continued:--

"As to the rest, I can tender you effectual aid, if you conclude to

accept the position. Pity that you are not a medical man; as I look at

it, no one but a physician should be an educator. Have you taken notice

that the young fellow has a poor digestion? a young man in these times

ought to be able to digest pebble-stones! I cannot bring it about that

only simple kinds of food should be given him. The noble and the rich

eat without hunger, and drink without thirst. This young man can have

everything but one real, substantial enjoyment. It is a small matter,

but take it just for an example: Roland receives no enjoyment from new

clothes. Now strike this joy out of your childhood, out of your youth.

I must confess, that I can take pleasure for weeks in a well-fitting

garment, as often as I put it on. What are you smiling at?" the

physician interrupted himself.

"I am thinking of a theological friend," answered Eric. "How he would

be astonished, if any one should say to him, that the fall, which

brought with it the consciousness of nakedness, has become the very

foundation of all the enjoyment that comes from weaving, making, and

sewing clothes."

The doctor smiled too, but he stuck to his subject, and went on,--

"Food and clothes are of the greatest importance, but the third most

important thing is sleep; it is the regulator of life. Air,

nourishment, and sleep are the three fundamental conditions of

vegetative life. I believe, captain, that I know something about you

already, but I cannot pronounce a full verdict upon you, until I have

seen you sleep. Our nineteenth century sleeps poorly; our education,

our labor, and our politics ought to be so arranged that people can

once more get better sleep. I should like to be able to write a history

of sleep, showing how different nations and different ages have slept;

that would lay bare to us the deepest roots of all the manifestations

of civilization. As far as regards Roland, there is in him a strange

blending of temperaments from the father's and the mother's

constitution."

The doctor pictured out the muscular organization of Sonnenkamp, and

the struggle he was obliged to make every moment with his violent

natural tendencies. "A certain indomitable energy in him always enters

a disclaimer against his mildness, which is at once seen to be a result

of self-compulsion and of voluntary effort. He is a suppressed

pugilist, and he has in fact, as he once himself boasted in an

unguarded moment, an iron fist. The old Germans must have possessed

this stalwart force, who, with their naked arms, overthrew and crushed

the mail-clad Romans."

The physician laughed, and he could hardly succeed in narrating how,

when he first saw Sonnenkamp, he always looked for the club which

seemed to belong to such a man's hand. When he behaved in a friendly

way, then it seemed always as if he said. Be quiet, I won't hurt you.

And moreover, Sonnenkamp had a heart-disease, according to all

pathologic signs, and he was obliged, therefore, to guard against every

agitating emotion.

He cautioned Eric, particularly, not to make easy terms with Sonnenkamp

when he came to a definite understanding, for if he did he would lose

all hold upon him.

"You see," he said, "the priests, and we physicians, always give our

masses and receipts in Latin; for who would gulp down for us sulphuric

acid, if that were written on the paper in good German? So you will see

that you can make an impression upon Herr Sonnenkamp only by a certain

mysterious loftiness; otherwise he fancies that he can make quick work

with you."

The doctor then gave a very humorous description of the sleepy

existence of Frau Ceres, to whom the sharp-tongued, but still more

envious Countess Wolfsgarten had given the epithet "crocodile," because

she really had some of the traits of that monster as he basks in the

sun. For Herr Sonnenkamp, there was no mode of activity in which he

could let out his energies; and for Frau Ceres, there was no exertion

that was not an effort. She was not really to be blamed for having her

dress changed three times a day, without sticking in a single pin

herself; that she walked about her chamber for hours together, looked

at herself from every point of view, fed her parrot, played "patience,"

and cherished her nails. The poor creature ought always to live simply

and naturally, but even those more highly endowed cannot do that. She

was indeed weak and dependent, but she was also artful and capricious.

Eric was on the point of confiding to the doctor his interview with

Frau Ceres, but before he could open his lips, the doctor began to

narrate:--

"It may be now almost a year since an occurrence took place which I

could not have believed possible. I was sent for to the villa. The

daughter of the house was in a condition of muscular rigidity, and at

the same time delirium, which I could not comprehend. Fraeulein Perini

told me that the girl had clasped her hands together so tightly, that

they had been drawn apart only by the aid of two servants, although the

girl herself opposed no resistance, and when I came the fingers were

still clenched. I could never find out what extreme mental excitement

could have produced such a condition of the body; I could only learn

this much, that Herr Sonnenkamp had refused his wife something or other

which she strongly desired. She revenged herself by confiding to her

daughter, who had hitherto reverenced her father as a higher being,

something which put the poor girl into this state of excitement. But

when she recovered, she continued melancholy, until they sent her to

the convent, where she gained new animation."

Eric turned the conversation to the reasons why Sonnenkamp was so much

hated and calumniated. The physician readily took up the subject, and

explained that the poor nobility looked out for every blemish as a

natural defence against a man of such immeasurable wealth, who almost

personally insulted them by his outlays. Herr von Pranken was the only

one favorably disposed towards him, and he was so, not merely because

he wanted to marry his daughter, but there was also a natural

attraction to each other, for Herr Sonnenkamp was deeply interested in

himself, and Herr von Pranken deluded his neighbor as himself. "And

now, my friend," concluded the physician, "now see to it, how you come

into this house with the right understanding."

"I have one request," Eric at last began. "Let me hear what you would

say to a friend concerning me, if I were absent. Will you do that?"

"Certainly; this is what I intended to do. You are an idealist. Ah! how

hard a time people have with their ideal! You idealists, you who are

always thinking, toiling, and feeling for others, you seem to me like a

landlord who has an inn on the road, or in some beautiful situation. He

must get everything in readiness, and pray to God all the time: Send

good weather and many guests! He himself cannot control either weather

or guests. So the counsel is very simple. Don't be a landlord of the

inn of ideality, but eat and drink, yourself, with a good zest, and

don't think of others; they will themselves call for their own portion,

or bring it with them in their knapsack; if not, they can go hungry and

thirsty. I have found that there are only two ways of coming to terms

with life: either to be wholly out with the world, or wholly out with

one's self. The youth of to-day have yet a third way: it is to be at

the same time out with the world and with themselves.

"That is, I am sorry to say, my case."

"And just for that reason," continued the doctor, taking off his huge

glove, and laying his hand on Eric's shoulder, "just for that reason, I

should desire for you some different lot--I don't know what--I cannot

think of any."

A long row of wagons loaded with stripped beech-boughs came along the

road. The physician gave the information that they had already

extracted from these branches various chemical substances, and now they

were carrying them to a powder-mill. Eric said that he knew it, that he

had been ordered to a powder-mill in the mountains for a long time, and

was employed there.

The doctor was silent, and looking up, he saw that some one was

greeting him. An open carriage drawn by two dapple-gray horses came

towards them, and a handsome young man, sitting in it and driving

himself, was already bowing from a distance.

The doctor ordered his carriage to be stopped.

"Welcome!" he cried to the young man. They shook hands from their

vehicles, and the doctor asked,--

"How are Louise and the children?"

"All well."

"Have you been to your mother's?"

"Yes."

"How are your parents?"

"They are well too."

The doctor introduced the young man as Herr Henry Weidmann, his

daughter's husband.

"Are you the son of the Herr Weidmann whom I have so often heard of?"

"Most certainly."

"Where is your father now?" asked the doctor.

"Yonder there in the village; they are considering about establishing a

powder-mill."

Something seemed to come into the doctor's mind like a flash; he turned

quickly round to Eric, but did not utter a word. The young man asked

excuse for his haste, as he was obliged to be at the station at a

particular hour, and soon took leave.

The young Weidmann said hurriedly to Eric, that he hoped this would not

be their last meeting, and that next time he hoped they would not pass

each other in this way, and that his father would be glad to see him.

The two carriages drove on, each in its own direction.

The doctor informed Eric that his son-in-law was a practical chemist,

and he murmured to himself,--

"Trump called for, trump shown." Eric did not understand him; he

thought, smiling, how Pranken had spoken of Weidmann's sons, with the

impertinently white teeth.

The carriage drove on. Just as they were entering the next village, the

steamboat from the upper Rhine came along; the doctor ordered the

coachman to drive as rapidly as possible, in order to reach the landing

in time. They went at a tearing gallop. The doctor cried,--

"I have it now! I have it now!" He struck Eric's arm at the same time,

as if he were giving a blow upon the table that would make the glasses

jingle, and he held it with no gentle grasp.

The carriage reached the landing just as the plank was thrown from it

to the steamboat. The doctor got out quickly, and told the coachman to

say to his wife that he would not be home until evening; then he took

Eric by the arm, and went with him on board the boat. Only after it had

got under way, could Eric ask him if he were going to visit a patient.

The doctor nodded; he thought that he was safe in saying so, for he had

a patient with him whom he was curing constitutionally.

The physician was immediately greeted by acquaintances on board, and a

company around a punch-bowl invited him and his friend to join them; he

touched glasses, but did not drink, for he said that he never took

mixed drinks. The company was merry; a deformed passenger played upon

an accordion, and accompanied the singing.

On the deck, at a little table upon which stood a bottle of champagne

in a wine-cooler, the Wine-cavalier was seated, and opposite him was a

handsome woman, with a great deal of false hair, and also peculiarly

attractive charms of her own. They were smoking cigarettes, and

chatting very fast in French. The Wine-cavalier avoided meeting the

physician's eye, and the physician nodded to himself, as much as to

say, "Good, a little shame yet left."

When they came in sight of the village which his son-in-law had

mentioned, the doctor told Eric that he would now inform him directly

that he was going with him to Weidmann's; he was the man who understood

how to help him, and his advice was to be unconditionally followed. For

a time Eric was perplexed, but then it appeared to him again as a

strangely interesting thing, that now perhaps he was to pass through an

entirely new and unanticipated examination. He and the doctor entered

the boat which landed the passengers from the steamboat, and those on

board, with glass in hand, bade them farewell; the steamboat was soon

out of sight. Even the boatman knew the doctor, and said to him,

greeting him in a familiar way,--

"You will find Herr Weidmann yonder in the garden."

They landed at the quiet village. Eric was introduced to Weidmann. He

was a lean man, and, at first sight, seemed uninteresting; his features

had an expression of quiet self-possession and intelligence, but in his

gleaming eye lay a burning enthusiasm. Weidmann sat with several

persons at a table, on which were papers, bottles, and glasses.

He nodded in a friendly way, and then turned to the persons with whom

he had been conversing.

CHAPTER XI.

STRIVE TO MAKE MONEY.

It is not well to hear a man so much spoken of and praised, before

seeing him face to face. It seemed incomprehensible to Eric how this

man exerted such a wide influence, and impossible for himself to enter

into his life. The doctor was immediately called away, for the

landlord's father being sick, his arrival was regarded as very

fortunate. Eric walked up and down the shore; he seemed to himself to

be thrown into a strange world, and to be borne along by strange

potencies. How long it was since he had left Roland, how long since he

went by this village, which was then to him only a name! Now, perhaps,

some eventful occurrence was to take place here, and the name of this

village to be stamped indelibly upon his life.

"Herr Captain! Herr Weidmann wishes me to ask you to come into the

garden," the boatman cried to him.

Eric went back into the garden, where Weidmann came to him, with an

entirely different mien, saying that he would now, for the first time,

bid him welcome; previously he had been very busy. A short time

afterwards the doctor also came.

The three now seated themselves at the table in a corner of the garden,

where there was an extensive prospect, and Weidmann began in a humorous

way to depict "the heroic treatment" of the doctor's, practice, who

liked to deal in drastic remedies. A suitable point of agreement was

established between Eric and Weidmann, while they united in a

facetious, but entirely respectful assault upon the doctor.

Eric learned that the doctor had already proposed that he should

undertake the superintendence of the powder-mill. Weidmann, in the

meanwhile, explained that the difficulties were too great, and that the

government threw in the way all sorts of obstacles, although they

wanted principally to open a market in the New World, and with this

view, his nephew, Doctor Fritz, had sent over from America, and had

well recommended, one of the men with whom he had just been conversing.

And his nephew desired that they would find some experienced German

artillery officer, who would emigrate to America, and there take charge

of a manufactory of gunpowder and matches, with the sure prospect of

soon making a fortune.

The doctor looked towards Eric, but he smiled and shook his head in the

negative.

Weidmann informed them further, that a discovery had been lately made

of a deposit of manganese, and that they were desirous of forming a

company to work the mine; that a man who knew how to regulate matters

might easily make himself acquainted with the business.

He also looked inquiringly at Eric, and then made him the direct offer

of a considerable salary, and an increasing share of the profits.

Eric declined, courteously and gratefully, as he had not entirely

decided whether he would engage at all in any new pursuit. The doctor

entered warmly into the matter, and extolled the superiority of our

age, in which men of ripe scientific attainments devoted themselves to

active employments, and, through their independent property; created a

commonalty such as no period of history had ever before known.

"'This is ours, this is ours,' we commoners can say. Don't you think

so?"

"Most certainly."

"Now then, go thou and do likewise."

And he added to this, how glad the Weidmann family would be to receive

him into their circle.

Eric smilingly replied, that he felt obliged to decline this very

friendly offer; that he valued very highly the independence which

property gives, but was not adapted to a life of acquisition.

"Indeed?" cried the doctor, and there was something of contempt in his

tone. "Do you know how the question of our age is put? It is, To use,

or to be used? Why are you willing to be used by this Herr Sonnenkamp?"

"You surely would not want me to use other people, and appropriate to

myself the product of their labor?"

"It is not well," interposed Weidmann, "to generalize in this way upon

a wholly personal question. I see--I expected that the utter separation

of the rich and the poor would vitally interest you; but here we have

our doctor, and he will agree with me, that it is with the so-called

social maladies as with those of the body. We know to-day, better than

any period has ever known, the scientific diagnosis of disease, but we

are ignorant of the specific remedy, and a disease must be known a long

time, and known very thoroughly, before its method of cure is

discovered; yet we must put up with it, in the meantime, and let it

pass."

"Have you had no craving to be rich?" the doctor cried, apparently

excited.

"It would be unwise to have a craving for what I cannot obtain through

my own capabilities."

Weidmann's eye was quietly fixed upon Eric's countenance; the latter

was aware of it, and whilst he thought, at this moment, that he could

with a motion of his hand quietly relinquish all the offered riches of

the world, the temptation came over his soul. What it would be for one

to be free from all the cares of life, and to be able to devote himself

to life itself; and he saw also how he could gratify every wish of his

mother and his aunt.

But no; the first wish of his mother will be that he should remain true

to himself. And the more Clodwig there, and here the physician, wanted

to turn him aside from his vocation, so much the clearer was it to him,

that he not only must abide by that vocation, but that he also had

incurred a moral obligation to Roland.

Weidmann related that he had received a letter from New York, from his

nephew. Doctor Fritz, who was going to send immediately his young

daughter to be educated in Germany. The conversation now turned upon

persons and things with which Eric was unacquainted.

The boatman came to inform them that the last steamboat was now coming

up the river.

The doctor and Eric took hasty leave of Weidmann, who warmly shook

Eric's hand, and requested him to claim his help in any situation in

life where he could be of service.

The physician and Eric got into the boat and were rowed to the

steamboat. Hardly a word was spoken by them during the passage to the

town, where they were to disembark.

When they reached it, men and women were walking under the

newly-planted lindens, for it is always a significant event of the day

when the steamboat arrives, which remains here over night. The wife of

the doctor was also at the landing, and she went homeward with Eric and

her husband. She was very friendly to Eric, whom she had already met at

Wolfsgarten; Eric, indeed, had no recollection of her, for at that time

he had scarcely noticed, in fact, the modest, silent woman.

Many persons were waiting at the house for the physician. Eric was

shown into his chamber, and then into the library; he was glad to see

that the physician kept abreast with all the new investigations of his

science, and he hoped through his help to fill up many a gap in his own

knowledge.

The twilight came on; as Eric was sitting quietly in a large chair, he

heard a horse trotting by the house. He involuntarily stood up, and

looked out; he thought that the rider who had just passed was Roland,

or had only his own imagination, and his continual thinking about the

boy, deluded him?

There was an air of comfort in the physician's house, and everything

gave evidence of solid prosperity; but the physician was obliged to go

from the tea-table to a neighboring village.

Eric walked with the doctor's wife along the pretty road on the bank of

the river, and there was a double satisfaction in her words, as she

said that she greatly desired that her husband could have constant

intercourse with such a mentally active friend as Eric, for he often

felt himself lonely here in the town, and he was often obliged to

depend wholly upon himself.

Eric was happy, for he perceived in this not only a friendly

appreciation of himself, but also the deep and intelligent esteem of

the wife, who would like to bestow upon her husband a permanent

blessing.

CHAPTER XII.

A CHEERFUL LITTLE TOWN.

There was a genuine neighborly feeling among the inhabitants of this

small town. People called out to friends who were standing at the

windows and on the balconies, or walking in the streets; groups were

formed, where much chatting and jesting went on, while from windows,

here and there piano-playing and singing were heard.

The justice's wife and her daughter Lina joined Eric and his hostess.

People were surprised that he was leaving Sonnenkamp's house, as the

report had already spread that he was to remain there. And now Eric

learned that Roland had really ridden through the town, passing several

times before the physician's house, and letting his horse prance so

that it frightened one to look at him.

Lina was burning with eagerness to speak to Eric alone for a moment,

and she found her opportunity when they met the school-director and his

wife, and the two elder ladies stopped to inquire about the health of

the forester's wife, who lived in the director's house. Lina went on

with Eric, and said abruptly:--

"Do you know that your pupil Roland has a sister?"

"Certainly. I have heard so."

"Heard so? Why, you have seen her. She was the young girl with the star

on her forehead, and the wings, who met us in the twilight on the

cloister steps."

"Ah, indeed!"

"Ah, indeed!" mimicked Lina. "Oh! you men are dreadful; I have always

thought that you----"