FRESH WINE, FRESH SONG, AND FRESH FAME.
The Doctor had called, in the meanwhile, but only for a brief quarter
of an hour at a time; he commended Eric for so taking upon himself the
entire direction of Roland, and devoting himself to him so exclusively;
he desired that no intervention of his should interrupt the inflowing
of the moral and spiritual influence.
Eric now detained him, speaking of Roland's paleness, which he thought
an indication of sickness.
"Indeed?" cried the Doctor. "Has it taken so soon? I am glad that it
has made its appearance on the surface so early and so decidedly."
"What is it? What is it, then?"
"It's all right and normal; symptoms all good. My dear young friend, I
call it usually the May-cold. Just consider a moment! Roland was
born for a huntsman, and I was afraid you would turn him into a
pebble-gatherer or a beetle-sticker. I see very plainly, that you would
like to give him a deeper apprehension of life, but there lies the
danger that he will take it too seriously; now the best prescription
for life is, to take life easily."
Eric chimed in with this, acknowledging that he was far from desiring
to make Roland a pattern youth, perfect in every particular. The Doctor
continued:--
"As I said before, our lad is troubled with the May-cold. Whenever
there is a change in the relations of life, as change of occupation, or
marriage, where the previous independence is given up, after the first
weeks of bloom, notwithstanding all the happiness enjoyed, comes in the
May-cold, just as we see in nature. They say that it comes from the
Alps, from the melting of the icebergs there; perhaps icebergs of
egotism melt within, and at any rate, it is like a renewed struggle of
winter with summer, like a struggle of solitariness with sociality.
Don't be despairing! Let the days of chilly convalescence pass over the
lad, and all will be well. Don't press him hard in these days; he is
already beginning to feel as if he had come under a yoke. Moreover, I
will give him some medicine, so that he shall think he is not well;
this will be an advantage to him, and to you too, for you can then give
way to him, as an invalid is expected to be perverse, and to be
humored, as a matter of course."
The Doctor now came more frequently. He proposed to Eric to make a
longer visit at Mattenheim, in accordance with Weidmann's invitation,
as the contemplation of a life full of a many-sided activity would
refresh both teacher and pupil. Eric replied that he did not consider
it right to leave, for any length of time, the house that had been
entrusted to his care. The Doctor assented, thinking it better that
Roland should first become thoroughly familiar with the Rhine-home.
Eric and Roland now often accompanied the Doctor some distance on his
rounds, and both acquired together a deeper acquaintance with the life
of the Rhineland. The Doctor explained that he had an object in this,
holding that it was a very important thing in a man's life to make a
point of getting the best wines that could be had, and carrying out his
point. Roland could and should do that. It was no less important to
procure the good wine of the world, than its beautiful works of art.
And if a sense of his dependence upon the Rhineland were instilled into
Roland, much that was noble would result, especially if he could be
brought into connection with the family of Weidmann.
The Doctor was the best of directories, knowing every house and its
inmates very intimately, and speaking of everybody with discriminating
justice, showing the dark as well as the bright side with equal
impartiality. House after house furnished them with a refreshing sketch
of life, and cellar after cellar with a refreshing draught.
"They talk about the deterioration of the race," said the Doctor
edifyingly, "and there seems to be a chronic ailment, but it is not
dangerous. People use themselves as filters and pour in wine; so it has
always been; and so it will be. If the sun shines very hot, they think
they are entitled to drink; and if the weather is disagreeable and wet,
they must strengthen themselves with a good draught."
They alighted at a house, which had in front a statue of the Holy
Mother with a lantern in her hand.
"Up-stairs here," said the Doctor, "pure genuine wine is sold; the man
here supplies the church and the church dignitaries with the communion
wine, which must be unadulterated. This man's father is a famous
embroiderer of church-cloths, and his brother an illustrious painter of
saints; and when people can turn their religion to any profit, they it
hold it in sacred earnest. The main point is, not to impugn the
uprightness of believers, and then they are inclined not to question
the uprightness of us unbelievers."
They went on farther to another house, and the Doctor said:--
"Here dwelt a merry rogue, who has actually made the house haunted; he
was an old screech-owl, a mason by trade. It's known that he had a
little chest made by a carpenter, with a lock by a lock-smith; and this
chest he walled into the cellar, which he built alone by himself. It is
now believed that there must have been a considerable sum of money
concealed therein; and yet he may have been rogue enough to hide there
an empty box, in order to play a joke upon those who should come after
him. And now the people are undecided whether to pull down the house or
not, in order to find the box. It's possible they may find an empty
one, and have a demolished house for their pains."
The Doctor gave such a turn to his information about men and things,
that Roland could derive advantage from it.
The Doctor greeted in a very friendly way an old man with a crafty
countenance, who was sitting in front of his house. The man asked the
physician if he would not take another drop of "the black cat," and
they went with Eric and Roland into the cellar, where they drank a
fiery wine from a cask on which, in fact, a black cat was sitting,
though it was an artificial one with shining glass eyes. The old man
was excessively merry; and clinking glasses with Roland, he said:--
"Yes, yes, we are all bunglers compared with your father."
Then, with great gusto, he praised the shrewdness and craft of
Sonnenkamp, and Eric looked timidly at Roland, who appeared to be but
little affected by what was said; when they went away the Doctor
said:--
"This is the genuine peasant, for the genuine peasant is really the
greatest egotist, thinking only of his own profit, though the whole
world beside should fall to pieces. This is the old burgomaster who
lent money to people needing it, and when a bad season came, he made an
immediate demand for it, with unrelenting harshness, so that their
vineyards were sold at public auction; and now he possesses a large
landed property, yielding the best wines. Yes; he is a cunning rascal."
This narrative produced a wholly different impression upon Eric from
what it did upon Roland, for the latter considered that the rascality
was a matter of course. Eric looked askance at the Doctor, for he could
not conceive how he could be on such friendly terms with the
burgomaster; and when he further asked whether the man was respected,
he received an emphatic response in the affirmative, inasmuch as
property secured respect in the country.
They also stopped at the gauger's, the good-humored brother of the
whole country around, and were led by him through the wine-vaults, and
supplied with many a good drop to drink. The gauger always liked to
tell stories that were not always fit for a boy to hear, but the Doctor
soon led him to a different subject.
The gauger always carried with him some flour bread, which he called
his "little sponge." "With straw," he said, "they tie up the wines, and
with this little piece of bread, that has been grown from the straw, I
fasten in the wine." They had calculated that the gauger had drunk,
during his life-time, seventy butts of wine; but he asserted that they
had been very tender to him, for he had drunk a great deal more than
that.
It was a merry, exhilarating life into which Eric and Roland were
inducted, and when they returned to their strict method of study, there
was a deep realization of the fact that they were living in the midst
of a merry region, where existence can be easily wasted in play.
It was midsummer, and there came cold, windy, disagreeable days, when
it seemed that summer had departed, and yet it could not be, it must
become hot again. The nightingale was voiceless; it had not ceased to
sing all at once, but seemed to utter occasionally single notes from
memory, while there were heard more frequently the thin voices of the
linnets, or the full, short call of the blackbirds. The summer shoots
on the leafy trees showed that the summer had reached its height, and
was declining; the forest-trees had attained their season's growth, and
the song of birds had ceased, except that the unwearied black-cap still
twittered, and the magpies chattered among the branches.
Eric and Roland often, sailed upon the Rhine, and Eric sang; he was
rejoiced to hear Roland say:--
"Yes, it is so. A person can sing at all seasons of the year, if he has
a mind to."
Eric nodded, feeling that the consciousness of art and of a free
humanity had been awakened in Roland; and he now said that they would
absent themselves for a few days from the house, and proposed to Roland
two plans: either they would go to Herr Weidmann's, of whom there had
been so much said, or to the great musical festival that was to take
place at the Fortress. Boats ornamented with parti-colored streamers,
having singers on board, went up the river and were greeted at all the
landings with the firing of cannon. Roland requested to go to the
festival, and he wanted to walk a part of the way, desiring to see
again, and this time in company with Eric, the road over which he had
wandered by night.
They set out in good spirits, and Roland was very talkative, relating
to Eric all his adventures. They came to the wood, and Roland gave an
account of his falling asleep, and of his wonderful dream. He blushed
while telling it, and Eric did not ask what his dream was. Roland went
silently into the wood.
"Here it is; here it is!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Here is my
porte-monnaie! God be praised and thanked, I have not been robbed.
Come, let us go to the village, where the hostler lives whom I
suspected, and I will give him all the money."
They proceeded to the village, but the hostler was not there, having
been drafted into the military service.
Roland was very sorry at that, and wrote down the man's name in his
memorandum-book.
The two went on through the country clothed in the green of summer, and
when they reached the railroad, took the cars for the Fortress. All was
here decked with flags, and the whole town appeared in holiday attire.
Men and women streamed in from all quarters, some on boats and some in
the cars, singing in clear tones, and were received with a hearty
welcome. Eric was happy to be able to say to his pupil:--
"Remember that this belongs to us. Neither the Greeks nor the Romans
had such celebrations, nor any other nation but us Germans."
They spent the night at the Fortress, and the next morning all
assembled, the hundreds of male and female singers, and a great crowd
of listeners, in the festival hall now properly ornamented, but at
other times used as a fruit-market. A gloomy rumor was spread through
the assembly; the singers shook their heads, and clapped together their
hands, while among the audience there was a commotion and a rustling.
A man of fine voice, an experienced singer, had been suddenly taken
ill.
"Look yonder," said Roland; "there sit nuns, and there are pupils, in
the school-dress that they wear at Manna's convent. Ah, if Manna should
be here too!"
Eric said to Roland:--
"Stay here; I will see if I can be of any assistance. I depend upon
your not quitting this seat."
He went up to the singers on the platform, and spoke earnestly to the
leader, by whose side he stood. Men came up to them while they were
talking together, and went away again. Suddenly all eyes were turned
towards Eric, and a whispering and a buzzing went through the assembly.
Master Ferdinand, the conductor, tapped with his baton, and his look,
which directed and inspired all, was smiling. There was silence, and in
a tone that won all hearts he said:--
"Our baritone has unfortunately been taken ill, and this gentleman by
my side, who does not wish his name to be mentioned, has kindly offered
to undertake the solos for our absent friend. You, as well as we, will
be grateful to him, and willingly extend to him the requested
indulgence, as he has made no rehearsals with us."
A universal applause was the reply.
The choruses began, and their tones, like the voice of many waters,
moved Roland's soul. Now Eric rose. All hearts were beating. But at the
first tone he uttered, each one of the singers, and each one of the
listeners, looked to his neighbor and nodded. It was a voice, so full,
so deep, so penetrating the heart, that all held their breath as they
listened. And when he had ended, a storm of applause broke forth which
seemed almost to shake the hall.
Eric sat down, and the choruses and then other solo performers sang;
again he rose, and yet again, and his voice seemed to grow still more
powerful, and to penetrate more deeply into the hearts of all.
But how was it with Roland, one of the thousands who listened, and who
were thrilled by the sound of this voice, in the depths of their souls?
The choruses rolled in like billows of the resounding sea, but when
Eric sang, it was as if he stood upon the deck of a noble ship, and
ruled over all; and this voice was so near to Roland in its
friendliness, and yet so nobly exalted! The youth was possessed by that
feeling of blissful, dreamy gladness which music awakes in us,
transplanting it into the depths of our own life, and causing us to
forget our own dreams, and merging our own individual self in the sad
and blissful element of being.
Roland wept; Eric's voice seemed to waft him upwards into an invisible
world, and then the choruses began again, and he seemed to be
transported into a heavenly state of existence.
Roland wanted to tell his neighbor who the man was, for he heard on all
sides questions and conjectures; but he said to himself:--
"No one else knows who he is, except me."
His eye now swept again over the collection of girls dressed in blue,
and one of them nodded to him. Yes, it is she! it is Manna! He
requested those sitting near him to let him pass through them; he
wanted to go to his sister and to tell her who it was that had just
brought such blessedness into the hearts of all. But he was repelled
with vehemence, and his neighbors scolded about the saucy youth, who
was so restless and out of humor, and wanted to create a disturbance.
Roland remained quiet, and by that means let slip the suitable
opportunity of the intermission, for pressing through the crowd to
Manna.
The Oratorio was ended, but the applause of the assembly, did not seem
likely to end. There was a universal call for the stranger's name.
"Name! Name!" resounded from a thousand lips, with noisy demonstrations
and shouts.
Then Master Ferdinand tapped with his baton again upon his desk,
nodding in a friendly manner to Eric, who held back, and all cried:--
"Silence!"
Eric rose, saying in a composed voice,--
"My sincere thanks. That I have been able to take part here, has been
to me a divine service, a service to divine art; and because I do not
desire by any unfamiliar name to lessen the feeling of devotion
awakened within you, and for this reason only, have I been reluctant to
give you my name."
"Name! Name!" was again called out by the assembly.
"My name is Doctor Dournay."
"Huzza! Huzza!" burst out the whole assembly, and the orchestra played
a threefold flourish, all shouting:--
"Huzza, Doctor Dournay."
Eric was almost crushed, and his shoulders ached with the
congratulatory strokes upon them.
He saw himself surrounded by those who were already acquainted with
him, and those who desired to make his acquaintance. The assembly
dispersed.
Eric looked around for Roland, but he was nowhere to be seen. He walked
about the square in front of the music-hall, and then returned to it;
here he found everything in confusion, for they were rushing in every
direction; setting the tables for the festival-dinner. He waited a long
time, for he felt convinced that Roland had got lost in the crowd, and
would come back here.
At last Roland came, with glowing cheeks.
"If was she!" he exclaimed. "I went with her and her schoolmates to the
boat, and they have now set off.
"O Eric, how splendid it is, how splendid, that you sang, for the first
time, to her! And she said you could not be so godless, for you sang so
devoutly. She said that I was not to tell you this, but she is a rogue,
she meant that I should tell you. O Eric! and the Justice's Lina, and
the Architect; too, are among the singers; they are walking arm in arm,
and they recognised you, but they did not betray you. O Eric, how you
did sing! it seemed to me that you could fly too; I was every moment
afraid that you would spread your wings and fly away."
The youth was in a state of feverish excitement.
An usher came to invite Eric and his brother--such he supposed Roland
to be--to be present at the dinner and to sit near the director.
Others came who knew him, and strangers who wished to be introduced.
A photographer, who was one of the solo singers, besought Eric to allow
him to take his photograph, while he was waiting for dinner, as
hundreds and hundreds of the singers wanted to have a picture of him.
Eric declined, with thanks, these manifestations of friendliness, and
took, with Roland the first boat to return to the villa.
Roland went into the cabin, and he was soon sound asleep; Eric sat
alone upon the deck, and he was troubled with the thought of having
been brought so prominently before the public. But he considered, on
the other hand, that there are times when our powers do not belong to
ourselves alone, and when we cannot ourselves determine what we will
do: I did what I was obliged to do, he thought.
When they came to the stopping-place, Roland had to be waked up. He was
almost dragged into the row-boat, and he was so confused and
bewildered, that he did not seem to know what was going on around him.
After they had disembarked, he said:--
"Eric, your name is now repeated by thousands and thousands of people,
and you are now very famous."
Roland, who had never sung before, now sang, the whole way home, a
strain of the chorus.
They found at the villa letters from Eric's mother and from Herr
Sonnenkamp. His mother wrote, that he must not mind it if he were
reproached with having sold so cheaply, and so speedily his _ideal_
views, for people were angry, and were partially right in being so, at
his abrupt departure without saying good-bye.
Eric smiled, for he knew right well how they would have their fill of
jesting about him around the so-called black table at the Club-house,
where, year after year, the shining oil-cloth was spread over the
untidy table-cloth. It appeared incomprehensible to him how he could
ever have fancied spending there a day of his life, or a bright
evening.
Sonnenkamp's letter made a wholly different impression; he authorized,
Eric, in case he thought it worth while, to take the journey to
Biarritz with Roland.
"My father will like it, too, that you have received so much honor; the
nun, indeed, who accompanied Manna, said that he would not take it
well, that you had made yourself so notorious."
Eric looked disturbed. The feeling of servitude and dependence came
over him. He had pledged his whole personal being to Sonnenkamp's
service, and in all his actions he must first ask himself the question,
how they may perhaps be taken by his master.
The whole day was now strewed over with ashes, and in place of the
lofty feelings that had animated him, he now experienced a degree of
depression of spirit.