was introduced the next winter into society. She made a brilliant
appearance, and was much courted; everybody spoke with admiration of
the air of fresh youth that hovered around her. But she early exhibited
a sort of coldness, so that she was nicknamed the mer-maiden, and in
her eye there was what might be called a cold fire. Even the reigning
Prince singled her out. She still kept the engagement-card of her first
court-ball as a sacred relic, and with it a withered bouquet.
Now followed an unbroken chain of homage and attention. Bella, with her
ready and apt replies, was the life of the circle in which she moved.
While yet a child, her beauty had been praised in her own hearing, and
now that she was a woman, her remarkable mental powers were extolled,
either directly or indirectly, so that she was sure to be informed of
it. Her striking remarks and keen criticisms were quoted, and her
witticisms passed around. In this way she had acquired the reputation
of great knowledge, which, with her spirited piano playing, and above
all, her skill in painting, caused her to be regarded as a social
wonder, and to be held up as a pattern to many a young girl who came
out after her in society.
Before she was sixteen, she had refused many offers of marriage, and
she smiled when she heard of the betrothal of one and another, for she
could say, You could have married this man, if you had wished to. Her
mother would have been glad to have her married young, but her father
was not willing that his child should be separated from him so early;
he hoped that some prince of the collateral branch would unite himself
with her in marriage.
Her seventeenth birthday was ushered in by a morning serenade from the
band of the Guards, and congratulations poured in from all sides; but
if she could have been seen then, as the tones of the music awakened
her from sleep, and a new thought stirred within her, her large eyes
would have presented a look different from any ever seen in them
before. The thought was, I have no belief in love. All this singing and
talking of the power of love is nonsensical romance! Her mother's
teaching had contributed not a little to produce this conviction; she
had early uprooted the influences of love, perpetually representing to
her daughter that the main thing was, to make a brilliant match; and
Bella, in fact, had never loved any one, for she insisted upon the
submission of him towards whom she felt any preference. From one of her
mother's cousins she heard suggestions of an opposite nature; she
frequently said, half satirically and half seriously, that the only
right love was that directed towards a man of a lower condition. If you
should love the artist in whose studio you work, or your teacher of
music or of language, that would be genuine love. But it seemed to
Bella as if any special attachment to a teacher was like entertaining a
love for a livery-servant, or even for a being of a different species,
and choosing him for a husband.
On that seventeenth birthday, there was perceptible, for the first
time, that cold, glassy, Medusa-look, which regarded men with
indifference, as if they were nothing but shadows; but no one remarked
it, and it seemed as if on that day something was paralyzed within her
which would never again feel the stirrings of life.
Before she was twenty, after the year of mourning for her father had
elapsed, with feelings already cold and benumbed, Bella withdrew from
society, entering it only occasionally, as if she were performing a
burdensome duty. She studied, she painted, she practised music, she
occupied herself with artists, scholars, and statesmen; and she wore a
constant rigidity of countenance and look, except when she was flinging
around her criticisms, which always produced a greater impression from
the fact that her deep, masculine voice was in striking contrast with
her feminine appearance.
It created considerable excitement, when it was understood that Bella
had removed the opposition of her parents to her younger sister's
marrying before her. Bella stood before the altar by the side of her
sister, and through her sister's bridal veil she saw the dark brown eye
of the Adjutant General, who had been recently made a widower, fixed
upon herself. She moved her lips slightly, saying to herself with
self-rejoicing pride. You will woo me in vain. She took delight in
wounding, disturbing, breaking hearts, by turns enticing and then
repelling them. She had said to her father, I should be glad to marry,
if one can like to do what one cannot bring his mind to do; but to
stand up before the altar and say yes, for life and for death!----I was
frightened when I heard my sister say that, and I thought that I must
cry out, "No! No! No!" And I do not answer for myself, that I should
not involuntarily say no.
She proffered herself as companion of an invalid princess, who was
ordered to reside for a year at Madeira; on returning, after the death
of the princess at the island, Bella smiled when she was told of the
Adjutant General's marriage. She could not complain that suitors
gradually grew fewer in number, but still she was vexed at it.
She took now a journey with two English ladies to Italy and Greece,
with Lootz for her courier. She spent a whole winter at Constantinople,
and the malicious tongues at the capital said, that she was after a man
of exalted position, and that everything else was a matter of
indifference to her; that she would marry a gray-bearded Pacha. On her
return Bella generally appeared dressed in satin.
Then came Clodwig's suit; and, to the great surprise of the whole
capital, the betrothal and the wedding took place within four weeks of
each other. Bella retired with her husband to Wolfsgarten, not
essentially changed by marriage, and without gaining that full
development of the nature it gives to woman. What was there still to be
developed? She was accomplished, and she was specially happy, so far as
happiness was possible to her, in perceiving--what she had not looked
for, although she hoped to find it--Clodwig's nobility of soul.
For the first time, she felt humble and modest; her life was peaceful
and retired, and the days flowed on in uniform round. Clodwig was as
attentive, as sympathizing, and as full of devotion as at first; a
composure and a steadfastness, such as is assigned only to the gods,
was the prevailing characteristic of his spirit. He was personally
considerate and tender, to an extreme degree; and he exhibited his
vehement nature, which found vent in the strongest expressions, only
when dwelling upon matters of universal interest. Bella recognized in
this only a justifiable excitement, for Clodwig's active life had been
passed in a petty, crippled period, and wasted in the trifling affairs
of a lilliputian Principality, while he himself was fitted for grander
and more universal affairs.
Clodwig often reproached himself for the firm confidence that he had
entertained during his whole life, that the Idea would, of itself,
become realized; and he now saw, when it was too late, that one must
plunge headlong into the current of cooperating influences. As soon
as he went again among men, and especially when he entered the
court-circle, he was always gentle and indulgent. He was full of
admiration of his wife's talents, and if at any time he moderately
criticized and set forth her superficial and external mode of looking
at things, she was for an instant inwardly disturbed; but when she
looked upon the noble, refined form of the old man, all frowardness
vanished. She was happy to see herself, and to make the world see, how
she could cherish a great and good man. She knew that she would be
watched; and the world should never have occasion to remark invidiously
upon her conduct.
All at once there had now entered this peaceful circle a man who
disposed of her, her husband, and the whole house, without effort and
with irresistible power; and she had been opposed to him at first, had
expressed that opposition to Clodwig, and had zealously labored against
his becoming established in the neighborhood. But as Clodwig had
brought into prominent notice, with an enthusiastic kindness of heart,
the sterling traits of this man's character, had even drawn him towards
herself against her will, she resigned herself to the pleasure of this
enlivening intercourse.
Thus stood Bella before the portrait to which she still delayed to put
the finishing touch, inwardly chafing, and thoroughly vexed with
herself. She, the mature in experience, to be the subject of such a
girlish infatuation! "girlish infatuation," she called it, and yet she
could not free herself from it. Was it because her self-love was
wounded; was it because, for the first time, she had stretched out her
hand and it was not taken?
Her large eyes sparkled, and whoever had beheld her now would have seen
the Medusa-look.
She left the studio with all speed, and went to her dressing-room. She
stood there before the large mirror, and let down her luxuriant hair,
staring into the mirror, while upon her closely pressed lips lay the
question. Art thou then so old? She opened her lips, like one ill with
fever, like one parched with thirst, panting to drink. Her eyes beamed
with a joyous brightness, as she said to herself: Thou art beautiful.
Thou art able to judge of thyself as impartially as thou wouldest a
stranger. But what means this silly infatuation?
She took the long tresses of her hair in both hands, and held them
crossed under her chin; she was terrified as she now perceived, for the
first time, how strong a likeness she bore to the bust of Medusa in the
guest-chamber above.
"Yes, I will be Medusa! He shall be shattered, turned into stone,
annihilated! He shall kneel to me, and then I will trample him under my
feet!" She raised her foot, but immediately covered her face with both
hands, while tears flowed from her eyes.
"Forgive, forgive my pride, my madness!" was the cry uttered within
her. Fierce irritation and passionate emotion, pride and humility,
contended together within her breast, and it seemed as if the chill of
that morning serenade had been all at once removed, and the heart had
unfolded itself, as some long-closed calyx unfolds its petals. A
longing sprang up within her--a longing for home, as in some wayward
child who has run away from its parents into the woods--a longing for
some place of shelter and rest,--a home: where is it? where?
She yearned for a soul to which she could lay open all her own soul.
"Forgive me! forgive!" was echoed and re-echoed within her. At first it
was directed to Clodwig, and now to Eric.
"Forgive! forgive my pride! But thou canst not know how proud I have
been: and I sacrificed to thee more than a thousand others, more than
the whole world, can even conceive and comprehend."
She shuddered at being alone, rang for her dressing-maid, and made an
elaborate toilet.
"Tell me how old I am. Do you not know?" she suddenly asked.
The dressing-maid was startled at the question, and not returning an
immediate answer, Bella continued:--
"I have never been young."
"O my gracious lady, you are still young, and you never looked better
than you do now."
"Do you think so?" said Bella, throwing back her head, for a voice
within her said: Why shouldest thou not be also young for once? Thou
art! Thou art what thou canst not help being; and let the world be what
it must be too.
Leaving the house, she went around the garden, seeming to herself to be
a captive. Unconsciously she went into the room on the ground-floor,
and as she stood near the unearthed antiquities, a voice within her
said:--
"What are all these? What are these vessels? Lava-ashes! all ashes!
What is all this antiquarian rummaging? What is the use of this picking
up of old buried trash, this perpetual thinking and talking about
humanity and progress? all foreign, dead, a conversation over a
death-bed; nothing but distraction, forgetfulness; no life, no hope, no
future; never towards the day, always towards the night,--the night of
the past, and the ideal of humanity. But I am not the past, I am not an
ideal of humanity. I am the to-day, I will be the today. Ah me, where
am I!" She went into the garden, and watched two butterflies hovering
hither and thither in the air, now alighting upon the flowers, now
coming together, separating again, and again uniting.
"This is life!" was the cry within her. "This is life! they grub up no
ancient relics, they live with no antiquities."
Then came a swallow darting down, seized one of the butterflies, and
vanished.
What is thy life to thee now, thou poor butterfly?
Below, over the Rhine, clouds of smoke from the steamboats were
floating in the air, and Bella thought:--
"If one could only thus fly away! What do we here? We heat with our
blood this dead earth, so that it may have some little life. Our
life-breath is nothing but a puff of vapor that mingles with thousands
of other vaporous films; this we call life, and it vanishes like the
thousands----"
The children of the laborers upon the estate, coming out of school,
saluted the gracious lady.
Bella stared at them. What becomes of these children? What is the use
of this fatuous renewing of humanity?
As if to conceal herself from herself, she buried her face in a
flowering shrub. She left the park; she saw in the court outside the
dove cooing about his mate. The beautiful mate was so coy, picked up
its food so quietly, hardly paying any attention to the tender
gurgling, and then flew away to the house-top, where she trimmed her
feathers. The dove flew after his mate, but she shook her head again
and took flight.
Then as Bella was gazing with a fixed look, she saw a servant yoking
some oxen. He first placed a pad upon the head of the beast, and over
that a wooden yoke.
"This is the world! This is the world," said a voice within her. "A pad
between yoke and head, a pad of thoughts, of got-up feelings."
The servant was astounded to see the gracious lady staring so fixedly,
and now she asked him:--
"Does it not hurt them?" He did not understand what she meant, and she
was obliged to repeat the question; he now replied:--
"The ox don't know anything different, he's made for just this. Since
the gracious Herr has let the double yoke be taken off, and each ox has
now his own yoke to himself, they're harder to manage, but they draw a
deal easier than when they were double-yoked."
Bella shivered.
"Double yoke--single yoke," was sounding in her ears, and suddenly it
seemed to her as if it were night, and she herself only a ghost
wandering around. This house, these gardens, this world, all is but a
realm of shadows that vanishes away.
It was terribly sultry, and Bella felt as if she should suffocate. Then
a fresh current of air streamed over the height, a thunderstorm
unexpectedly came up, and Bella had hardly reached the house before
there came thunder, lightning, and a driving rain.
Bella stood at the window and stared out into the distance, and then up
at an old ash-tree, whose branches were dashing about in every
direction, and whose trunk was bending from the gale. The tree inclined
itself towards the house, as if it must there get help. Bella thought
to herself,--For years and years this tree has been rooting itself here
and thriving, and no tempest can wrench it away and lop off its boughs.
Does it know that this storm will pass over, and serve only to give it
new strength? I am such a tree also, and I stand firm. Come tempest,
come lightning and thunder, come beating rain, neither shall you uproot
me, nor lop off my boughs!
"Eric!" she suddenly exclaimed aloud to herself. Clodwig now entered,
saying,--
"Dear wife, I have been looking for you."
Bella's soul was deeply moved when she heard him call her "dear wife."
Clodwig showed her a letter that he had been writing to the Professor's
widow, inviting her, according to Bella's expressed desire, to make a
visit of several weeks at Wolfsgarten.
"Don't send the letter," said she abruptly, "let us again be quietly by
ourselves; I would rather not be disturbed now by the Dournay family."
Clodwig expressed his opinion that the noble lady, so far from
interfering with their quiet, would be an additional element of
beautiful companionship, and would be the means of their seeing Eric in
a pleasant way.
The storm had ceased, and when Bella opened the window, a refreshing
breeze drew in. She held the letter in her hand; it had been tempest,
lightning, rain, and thunder that raged to-day in her soul, and now
there was refreshing life. She agreed with her husband; she said to
herself, that intercourse with the noble woman would restore her to
herself; and for a moment the thought occurred to her that she would
confess all to the mother, and be governed by her. Then came the
thought that this was not necessary; it would be very natural for Eric
to come to Wolfsgarten, and her intercourse with him would fall back
into the old peaceful channels.
Bella wrote a short postscript to the letter of her husband; and the
Doctor also, who came in just as they were closing the letter, added a
few words.
CHAPTER XII.
AN OPEN COURT AND AN OPEN INVENTORY.
The fireworks were still crackling and snapping in their ears, the
dazzling lights still gleaming in their eyes, and the music of the band
still sounding in their recollection, when they were obliged to make
ready for appearance at court, as witnesses in the affair of the
burglary.
Pranken remained with the guests at the Villa, having undertaken to
show them the recently purchased country-house.
Sonnenkamp, Roland, and Eric, and also the porter, the coachman,
Bertram, the head-gardener, the little "Squirrel," and two gardeners
repaired to the county town to attend the trial. They went by the house
of the Wine-count, now styled Baron von Endlich, where the remnants of
fireworks were still visible, scattered here and there; the house was
yet shut up, the family still sleeping their first sleep as members of
the nobility.
Eric spoke of the beautiful and genuinely pious conduct of the priest
towards the prisoners. He was a living example of the grand doctrine
that religion required one to interest himself in the stumbling and the
unfortunate, whether they were guilty or innocent. The Doctor, on the
other hand, maintained in a very droll fashion that it was an extremely
beneficial thing for the Ranger to pass, once in his life, several
weeks within walls and under a roof.
There was little else said; they reached the county town in good
season.
Sonnenkamp went to the telegraph office, in order to send some
messages, one of which was directed to the University-town for the
widow of the Professor.
"At that time--does it not seem to you as if it were ten years ago?--at
that time it was very different from to-day. Don't you think that there
were villains also among the singers, perhaps worse ones than those in
prison yonder?"
It pained Eric grievously that Roland must be initiated so early into
the bitterness and the dissensions of life. They went together to the
court-house.
The president and the judges occupied a raised platform; on the right
sat the jury, and on the left, the accused and their counsel; the room
was full of spectators, for there was a general curiosity to hear the
mysterious Herr Sonnenkamp speak in public, and no one knew what might
be picked up in the way of information.
The dwarf, the groom, and the huntsman sat on the criminals' seat. The
dwarf took snuff very zealously, the groom looked around imploringly,
and Claus held his hands before his eyes.
The dwarf looked as if he had had good keeping, and thriven under it;
he gazed around the ball with an almost satisfied bearing, as if he
felt flattered that so many people concerned themselves about him. The
groom, whose hair had been very nicely dressed, regarded the crowd with
a contemptuous glance.
Claus seemed to have pined away considerably, and when the dwarf wanted
to whisper something to him, as he sat there at a little distance from
his fellow defendants, he turned away displeased. He looked up to the
space occupied by the spectators, and saw among them his wife, two of
his sons, and his daughter; but the cooper was not present. The
children appeared to have grown since he had last seen them, and
they were dressed in their Sunday-clothes, in order to witness the
disgrace--no, it must simply be the honor of their father.
The huntsman moved restlessly on the seat, and spoke to his wife with
his lips, uttering no sound. He meant to tell her to be undisturbed, as
in a couple of hours they would go home together.
Sonnenkamp, Eric, and Roland were in the witnesses' seat.
Roland sat between his father and Eric, to whom he clung as if he were
afraid. Knopf sat next to Eric, and nodded to Roland.
"Before the law the testimony of all men is equal," said Roland in a
low voice to Eric, who knew what was passing in Roland's mind.
His pride was a little touched that the testimony of the porter would
be of as much account as that of his father, but he had quickly
overcome the feeling.
The indictments were read. It had been found, on further investigation,
that one compartment of the closet built into the wall, separate from
the great safe, had been opened with a key and then closed again; a
considerable sum of money had been taken from it, the greater part of
which was found in the groom's possession.
At his own request, Sonnenkamp was summoned first, to identify the
stolen property.
Roland straightened himself up, when he heard his father give his
testimony in so plain and gentle a manner.
Sonnenkamp expressed regret that people should meet with misfortune,
but justice must have its course.
He was dismissed. He had already made his bow, and was about to leave
the courtroom, when the counsel of the accused groom asked the
President whether he intended to let Herr Sonnenkamp off from
testifying as to the amount of gold and valuable papers in the closet;
if Herr Sonnenkamp did not know this, he could not tell exactly how
much had been stolen from him in the part that had been broken into.
The whole assembly was breathless. Now it would be seen what was the
amount of Sonnenkamp's wealth, reputed so immeasurable. A perfect
silence prevailed for a time; it was broken by Sonnenkamp's asking
whether the court could oblige him to testify on his conscience as to
the sum, or whether he could reply, or not, as he saw fit. The
President said, that he must express the opinion, that the amount of
what was stolen was certainly of great importance in reference to the
sentence to be imposed upon the accused.
Again there was a pause. Sonnenkamp unbuttoned his coat, unbuttoned his
waistcoat, and taking out a little memorandum-book, he approached the
judge's seat, and offered it to him, saying:--
"Here is an exact inventory of the notes payable to bearer, of those
payable to my order, and of the sum in specie."
When half way up the steps of the platform where the president and
the judges sat, Sonnenkamp stopped, for the defendant's counsel now
cried:--
"We have an open court, entirely open, and there is nothing which the
Herr President is to know, and we to be ignorant of."
"Well then," said Sonnenkamp, turning round, "it shall be told openly:
Twelve millions of paper payable to the bearer, three millions to my
order, and only two hundred thousand in gold coin. Is that
satisfactory?"
A bravo was uttered by the spectators, and the President was obliged to
threaten them with clearing the hall, if it were repeated.
Sonnenkamp descended; he had desired to leave the court-room at once,
but now he seemed otherwise determined, for he took a seat again on the
witnesses' bench. Roland cast down his eyes, and tremblingly seized
hold of Eric's hand, which he held firmly. There was a low talking
among the crowd, a movement this way and that, so that the President
was obliged to command quiet by violently ringing his bell; and
Sonnenkamp left the hall.
The head-gardener gave his testimony, which was scarcely listened to.
When Eric was summoned, there was again silent attention.
Eric narrated the whole story, and the huntsman's uniform expressions
of bitterness at the difference between the rich and the poor, but
protested that he regarded the man as incapable of committing any crime
against society.
A strange whispering pervaded the whole assembly when Eric narrated the
inquiry of Claus: What would you do, if you were the possessor of
millions? The question had now, in a manner, gone forth to the whole
world.
Knopf was summoned. He offered first a written testimony of the old
Herr Weidmann, with whom the huntsman had lived several years as a
servant, who testified to his uprightness, his incapability of any
deceit, much less any positive crime. Then Knopf added from his own
knowledge, how the huntsman was always racking his brains over many
matters which he could not master.
Roland was summoned, and advanced with an erect attitude to the
witness-stand; Claus nodded to him.
Roland could not be sworn, as he was a minor; but it made a good
impression when he said in an unembarrassed voice, that he considered
his word as good as an oath.
He identified the articles that had been stolen from him; he asserted
that his father's rooms had been locked, but he should not be willing
to swear to that, as he had not been near those rooms for several days
before the burglary. And now, without being asked, he expressed his
conviction that Claus could have had no participation in the crime.
The huntsman got up at these words, and the forester, who sat behind
him, obliged him to sit down again, putting his hand upon his shoulder.
The evidence against Claus seemed to be only as the receiver of stolen
goods. The two others could make no defence, and each sought to lay
upon the other the guilt of the burglary.
Eric was recalled, in order to testify more in detail concerning the
huntsman's request to be shown all over the house, a few days before
the robbery. When Eric had sat down, Roland got up and asked:--
"Herr President, may I be permitted to say one word more?"
"Speak," replied the President encouragingly; "say all that you wish
to."
Roland stepped forward quickly, with head erect, and said, in a voice
that had now a full, manly tone,--
"I here raise my hand in testimony, that my poor brother here is as
innocent as he is poor. It is true he has often complained that one man
should starve while another gormandizes; but before God and man I
declare that he has often said to me: The hand must wither that grasps
unjust possessions. Can a man do that, and then go away by night and
break into another's house, and rob? I beseech you, I conjure you
earnestly, to declare that this man is as innocent as all of you are;
as innocent as I am!" He ceased, standing as if he were rooted to the
spot, and for a while there was a breathless stillness in the assembly.
"Have you any thing more to say?" asked the President. Roland seemed
now to wake up, and said,--
"No, nothing more. I thank you." He returned to Eric, who grasped his
hand; it was cold as ice, and he warmed it in his own. On the other
side, Knopf also tried to grasp the hand of his former pupil, but he
could not, for he was obliged to take off his spectacles, which had
become wet from the great tears rolling from his eyes.
The proceedings were brief. The Headmaster was one of the jury, who now
withdrew into their room for consultation. After a short absence they
returned, and the head-master, who had been chosen foreman, laying his
hand upon his heart, announced the unanimous verdict:--
The dwarf and the groom, guilty; the huntsman, not guilty.
Outside, in front of the court-house, as his wife and children,--the
cooper among them now,--crowded round Claus, Roland pressed up to him
and seized his hand.
The huntsman turned from them all, saying that he must speak to young
Weidmann, who had been one of the jury; the young man came up just
then, and Claus cried out to him, with a great flow of words, that he
must tell his father that all his troubles were wiped out, since every
one had heard what Herr Weidmann thought of him.
Young Weidmann went to Eric and congratulated him on having formed such
a pupil; others came also to offer congratulations and shake hands.
Eric begged young Weidmann to remember him to his father, and say that
he should soon pay the promised visit to Mattenheim.
Knopf stood in the midst of a group of people, begging them not to
spoil the boy with their praises; and, in his effort to keep others
back, he refrained from going himself to shake hands with Roland.
Sonnenkamp appeared, and all took off their hats to him respectfully.
Here was the man possessed of such incredible wealth, and he wore a
coat like other people, and had to stand on his own feet. Sonnenkamp
seemed a prodigy to them all. How was it possible for a man to possess
such wealth? But there were some knowing scoffers who declared that
Herr Sonnenkamp had overstated his property, and others, still more
knowing, who were willing to swear that he was even richer than he had
said, but they were hardly noticed. Sonnenkamp, greeting all around in
a most friendly manner, went to Claus to congratulate him, and then
called Roland aside. Roland stood before his father for the first since
he had learned his great wealth; his eyes fell; looking up to him
seemed like looking up to a high mountain, but Sonnenkamp laid his hand
kindly on his shoulder, and told him that he might drive home alone
with Eric, as he was himself obliged to remain in town to wait for a
telegram.
Roland begged Claus and his family most pressingly to ride home with
him; the huntsman refused, but Roland urged it so warmly that he at
last yielded, and entered the carriage with his wife, leaving the
children to walk. Roland took the released prisoner in triumph through
the town and villages; the wife was embarrassed at riding in such
state, but Claus himself looked round without constraint, only saying
several times:--
"All has gone on very well without me, and will do very well, when I am
across the ocean."
To Eric he expressed his determination of emigrating to America with
his family.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE MAJOR MAKES A CONQUEST.
The same sun that shone at Wolfsgarten, where Bella was maintaining a
severe internal struggle, and that shone through the lowered green
shades in the court-room upon the bench of the accused, glimmered also
through the closed Venetian blinds in the quiet sitting-room of the
Professor's widow in the University-town. Eric's mother sat by the
window filled with flowers, in the piano recess, at her silent work,
thinking of her son; it was a subject of constant thought with her, why
he had to enter upon a mode of life so out of the ordinary course.
She often looked up sadly to the portrait of her husband, which seemed
to say to her: My child, both of us entered upon a path in life out of
the ordinary course, thou even more than I: and that is transmitted as
an inheritance from generation to generation; we ought to rest content,
as thereby we keep a firmer hold upon the spirit of our son, and though
he may be thrown down to the ground by fortune, he can never be held
there permanently.
So did the mother console herself; and Eric's letters were also a
source of consolation. He had made a faithful report to her, then he
excused himself for the irregularity and haste of his letters, on the
ground that he must forget, for a time, himself and everybody else
who belonged to him, as only in this way could he hope to gain
possession of another soul. At first he mentioned Clodwig and Bella
frequently,--his home feeling with these friends, and the happy
realization of a state of tranquillity; then, for a while, there was
nothing said of Bella, except sometimes a brief greeting from her at
her request. The mother had not noticed this, but aunt Claudine, who
seldom said any thing unless her opinion was asked, and then had
something to say very much to the purpose, did not hesitate to remark
unreservedly, after Clodwig's and Bella's visit, on being asked what
impression it had left, that she had noticed a certain restlessness in
Bella's look, and she feared from the manner in which she had looked at
a likeness of Eric, taken when he was young, that there was here a more
than common interest. The mother was forced to assent to this, for she
had also noticed how deeply interested Bella had been in making
inquiries concerning Eric's youthful years. But she said further to her
sister-in-law that Bella was an artist, at least was more than a common
dilettante, and had observed with the eye of an artist the picture,
that was exceedingly well painted; a considerable sum had already been
offered for it in order to be put into an art-collection.
There was stillness in the abode of the two ladies, who lived almost as
quietly as the flowers which throve so well under their watchfulness
and care. The postman, brought a letter in Clodwig's neat handwriting,
in every word of which the man himself could be discerned, so neat and
regular were the letters, with no stroke hastily made, and none too
elaborately precise; the whole had an appearance of uniformity, and the
lines were straight and at an equal distance apart, though the paper
was unruled. A feeling of pleasure was awakened by the mere sight of
the letter, and the contents were such as to strengthen this quiet
satisfaction. He said that the Professor's widow would lay him under an
obligation of gratitude by accepting an invitation to make a visit of
several weeks. He appealed to the friendly relations with her deceased
husband, and the beautiful renewal of them in his intercourse with
Eric, who gave to him a youthful friendship such as he had scarcely
dreamed of. Lastly, he appealed to their mutual personal acquaintance,
and there was a written smile when he added, that, during his whole
life, he had never made a demand upon the heart which had not met with
a response, and he prayed her now not to shame him in his old age. He
closed by saying that he entreated the mother of his friend Eric to
permit him to call himself "her friend Clodwig." There was no formal
politeness in the letter, and yet it was full of a delicate
friendliness.
Bella had hastily scratched underneath, in a coarse hand, a request
that the mother and aunt would honor her with a visit; she said that
she wrote only a few words, as she felt sure that she should be favored
with the intimate intercourse of the respected mother and the amiable
aunt. In a postscript she besought them to bring with them Eric's
music.
In the letter there was enclosed a second one from the Doctor, who
claimed to have been a scholar of the old Professor. He offered
good-humoredly his professional services, and there was only one brief
sentence in which he suggested that it would be a protection and a
safeguard to his young friend Eric, to be again under the eye of his
mother.
This awakened in her many thoughts, and she resolved to accept the
invitation. Sonnenkamp's telegram was delivered.
Just as she had finished reading this, there was another knock, and the
Major entered.
When the mother saw him, at first she was frightened, not recognizing
him, as she looked at the red face, the short, white hair, and the
decoration on his breast. For a moment it seemed to her that he was
some messenger of justice, who had come to execute some commission or
other, she knew not what, that endangered Eric's welfare.
The Major did not mend matters at all, when he said,--
"Frau Professorin, I come to execute a warrant of ejection; but I am
not indeed to drive you out of Paradise, but to shut you up in the
Garden of Eden."
He had been making up this pretty speech during the whole journey, and
he had said it over inaudibly to himself certainly a hundred times: and
now it came out so clumsily, that the good lady trembled so that she
could not rise.
The Major cried:--
"Don't get up; everybody knows that there's no ceremony at all to be
made with me. I don't desire to incommode any one; I greatly prefer
that people would sit when I enter. Isn't it the same with you? One
feels sure in this case that he doesn't make any disturbance."
"Have you come from my son?"
"Yes, from him too. Observe, I'm not one of the best people in the
world, neither am I one of the worst; but there's one thing I can say
to my credit, that I have never in all my life envied anybody but you,
and you I did envy when you said, 'my son;' that I did envy you for.
Why can't I say this too? If I only had such a son as you have!"
Now there was tranquillity at last. The Major delivered a letter from
Sonnenkamp and the Cabinetsraethin, and desired that the letters should
be read immediately, as they would render it unnecessary for him to say
anything.
The Professorin read, and the Major watched her countenance while she
was reading, with peculiar marks of quiet satisfaction.
The Professorin bade him welcome, and called her sister-in-law, who
came in.
The blinds were opened, and the instreaming light shone upon cheerful
faces.
"What shall we decide upon doing?" asked Aunt Claudine.
"There is no longer any question of deciding; we accept the hearty
invitation."
"Which?"
"Of course Herr Sonnenkamp's."
"That's right," said the Major with a broad smile. "Will you allow me
to light a cigar? Did your husband, now gone to his eternal home, smoke
too?"
"Yes, indeed."
Aunt Claudine had quickly lighted a match, and held it up to the Major
with her delicate fingers.
"That's fair! that's fair!" cried the Major. "You've given me fire, and
I promise to go through fire for you."
He was very happy over this turn, and he puffed away yet happier.
There were, of course, a great many things to be got ready, before they
could set out. The Major promised that Joseph should come and bring
everything away after they had departed; not one thread should be left
behind. He then withdrew for a few hours, in order to pay a visit to
some brother free-masons.
At midday, the Major was riding with the two ladies in a first-class
railroad car towards the Rhine, and he was as proud and as happy as if
he had carried off the army-chest of the enemy.
CHAPTER XIV.
POTATOES AND SOMETHING BETTER BESIDES.
Claus and his wife were in the same carriage with Eric and Roland. When
Claus reached the line where his beat began, he asked them to stop, and
got out.
"No, I go in no carriage here," he said. "And look here at my hands; my
hands have been hand-cuffed. What now are they to do? Are they to
avenge themselves? On whom? And if I should know on whom, what then?"
He took up a clod of earth, raised it up towards heaven, and cried:--
"By thee I swear that I will emigrate. The New World must give me some
land of my own; I have long enough looked after the land of other
people in the old."
Eric and Roland also got out, and went with the couple into their
house. Then a sudden call was heard from the vineyard, and Sevenpiper
came from it with the halberd which Claus had always carried as the
badge of his office as field-guard. He handed it over to Claus,
saying,--
"Take this now again; I have kept it faithfully for you."
He joined the escort of the couple to their home. The dogs barked in
the yard, and the birds flitted here and there, and twittered all
together, for their master had come back. But the black-bird sang
louder than all, caroling, Rejoice in your life; but she stuck fast at
the second bar. The field-guard gazed round upon all, as if he had just
waked up. At last there was a calm, and the whole family sat round the
table, and ate the first new potatoes which a neighbor had boiled for
them. Never had Roland eaten any food which had such a relish, and all
laughed when he said,--
"Claus, these potatoes originated there where you are going and where I
came from; they were born in America, and we have immigrated hither."
They had a pleasant time together, and Roland presented the stolen
watch which had been restored to him to Claus, as a lasting token of
remembrance. He was not willing to take it, not even when Eric and
Sevenpiper joined in the request.
"Just take it, father," finally said the cooper, and Claus yielded.
Sevenpiper led the talk to-day. He made fun of the field-guard for
being a great deal too uneasy; and for continually worrying how people
got to be so rich, which was wholly needless. A man might, indeed, be
empty, but one couldn't eat more than his fill, or do more than quench
his thirst; and the rich man couldn't get any more out of sleep than to
sleep sound, and sleeping sound didn't depend upon the bed in which one
slept, but it was just sleeping sound; and to ride in one's coach
was pure nonsense; it was much better to go upon one's own good
walking-sticks.
There was also some mention made of the dwarf, and Sevenpiper said,--
"Yes; if any one wants to visit the grave of this mannikin, he will
have to carry a ladder along with him."
"What for?" asked Roland.
"Because he will be hanged."
Claus did not like to have them talk of bad people.
Sevenpiper was a good representative of "blessed be nothing." He had
sent a child to his house, and just as some bottles of wine arrived
which Fraeulein Milch had sent, there was heard singing at the entrance
of the house. The whole organ was there with all its stops, and soon
Eric and Sevenpiper were singing too.
At last Eric insisted that they must be on their way home; and as they
were turning from the village path into the road, a carriage drove up,
from which signals were made, and the powerful voice of the Major
cried:--
"Battalion, halt!"
They halted; in the carriage with the Major were the mother and the
aunt.
"This is the only thing which I had yet to wish for," said Roland.
"Herr Major, Claus has been released; he is innocent."
The mother embraced her son after she had first embraced Roland. They
got out, and Eric walked to the villa arm-in-arm with his mother, who
held Roland by the hand on the other side. The Major politely offered
his arm to the aunt, but she declined, excusing herself by saying that
it was a peculiarity of hers never to take any one's arm.
"That's really the better way; Fraeulein Milch thinks so too. You'll get
acquainted with her; you'll be good friends with one another, you may
rely upon that. She knew every thing--every single thing. It's
incomprehensible how she picked it all up. She knew that Count Clodwig
had sent you an invitation. But we know a stratagem or two; we've been
beforehand with him. 'He whom fortune favors leads home the bride,' as
the saying is."
Music was heard in the distance, and the Major informed them that it
was a part of the wedding celebration at Herr von Endlich's.
"O mother, if I am ever again desponding and low-spirited, I will call
to mind this hour, and be again happy!" The mother could not speak; her
heart was too full.
There was a very friendly welcome at the villa. The Cabinetsraethin
embraced and kissed the Professorin; Frau Ceres sent an excuse for not
appearing. Sonnenkamp came after nightfall.
The moon shone brightly when Eric and Roland escorted the mother and
the aunt to the vine-embowered dwelling. And as she stood here upon the
balcony, Eric's mother took his hand again, quietly, and said,--
"If thy father could see thee, he would rejoice in thee; thou hast
still thy pure and good glance; yes, all is well, thou hast the old
pure glance."
BOOK VII.
CHAPTER I.
THE MOTHER IS HERE.
"My mother is here!"
A dewy atmosphere of inexhaustible freshness encompassed Eric; he heard
the voice of a child awakening from a dream, and yet it was he himself
who had spoken. He closed his eyes, and went back in thought to the
days of childhood; all that had since excited and oppressed his spirit
was torn into fragments, and had sunk out of sight.
"My mother is here!"
This was now a call of duty. Eric stood by Roland's bedside; it was
never necessary for him to speak in order to waken him, for as soon as
he looked directly upon him, Roland waked up. Now he opened his eyes,
and his first words were:--
"Thy mother is here!"
Eric heard these same words, now spoken by another, which he had heard
in his own dreamy reverie, and, placing his hand upon the brow of the
youth, he regarded him with a mingled feeling of joy and sorrow. Why
has this poor rich boy not the blessedness of a mother's love?
The new day received its consecration, for Eric and Roland began it by
going to give a greeting to the mother.
As they were walking along the river, Roland shouted across it:--
"Father Rhine! Eric's mother is here!"
Eric smiled; the youth's face was all a-glow.
They went to the mother as to a temple, and they came away from her as
from a temple, for this gentle, peaceful spirit conveyed a benediction
in every word, in every movement of the hand, in every glance of the
eye; and she it was who appealed to the sanctity of established rule,
and the persistent continuance in duty, for she said to them that she
should regard it as the most perfect proof of love and loyal
attachment, if they would go on with their work to-day just as they did
yesterday; in every situation in life, whether in tribulation or in
gladness, the appointed duty must be performed.
They were again seated at their work, and they read together, to-day,
the return of Ulysses to Ithaca. Eric was somewhat absent, for
everything took the hue of the feeling that he was with his mother; he
overcame this,--he would be wholly engaged in what was before him, but
he caught himself unexpectedly drawn away in this direction as he
looked at Roland. "Ah! why can you not have the same feeling? The best
refreshment and blessing for a human being is the mother's love. Every
other love must be sued for, be obtained by conquest, be earned, be
struggled for through obstacles; a mother's love alone one has always
unsought and undeserved."
Now Bella came again into his mind. Eric hoped to have annihilated
everything in himself that was false to human nature and to purity, and
summoning up a greater, strength than ever, a strength obtained by hard
wrestling, he devoted himself to the work of instruction, and succeeded
in projecting himself and the youth into the life of another, so that
they forgot everything immediately around them.
At noon, the realization of the mother's presence came to them as a
fresh gift. They were in the garden together; Frau Ceres was not
visible, and she begged, through Fraeulein Perini, to be excused.
Sonnenkamp smiled, for he knew that it had never occurred to Frau Ceres
to send an excuse, and that Fraeulein Perini had done it of her own
accord; and it was well for her to do so, he thought, for the
refractory disposition of his wife led her to turn away from the guests
intruding upon her privacy and her strong point was in declining; she
allowed nothing to approach her. Fraeulein Perini manifestly took very
great pains to render herself as agreeable as possible to the
Professor's widow, and was grateful as a child when she was shown how
to execute a new piece of handiwork.
The Cabinetsraethin served as a very excellent means of bringing them
together. There was something exceedingly captivating in the way in
which she so very modestly placed herself as the inferior of the
Professorin, giving to her the position of honor which she might
perhaps have attained as a right, but which was now conceded to her by
sovereign grace; for the Cabinetsraethin repeatedly said, that the
Professorin had been the first lady at the court in her day, and that
even now, if the court circle wanted to specify any exalted excellence,
they pointed to her. She found herself, at first, put under some degree
of constraint by being placed upon such an elevated pinnacle, but she
was grateful to the illustrious lady for her evident endeavor to
convert her condition of dependence and poverty into one which was
regarded with respectful homage.
Fraeulein Perini herself was subdued by this character so calmly
dignified, this countenance so placid and open, so beaming with
youthful brightness, so benignantly radiant that nothing unworthy or
impure could approach; and in this countenance the heart manifested
itself, always young, full of the inspiration that had been awakened by
the ideal life of her husband, and that was now called forth by the
presence of her son. She said the simplest things with such charming
grace, that they appeared to be of great importance, and with such
freshness, that it seemed as if this were the first time they had ever
been known.
While they were together at noon, a letter came from Bella. She sent a
welcome to the Professor's widow, and appointed the next day for a
visit.
Frau Dournay wished to send back an answer by the messenger, but he had
been immediately sent off, no one knew why. It was Sonnenkamp who had
given the order, and when she despatched her letter through a messenger
attached to the house, it strayed first into Sonnenkamp's cabinet, who
understood how to open it very dexterously, and who read with great
satisfaction the reply which was no less decided than it was delicate
in expression. Sonnenkamp smiled as he read where the lady laid stress
upon the fact that she was the guest of the family, received as such in
the kindest manner, and begged that the promised visit might be made to
them, and to herself as their visitor.
Sonnenkamp smiled again and again, for he confidently expected that the
Professor's widow would compel the whole neighborhood to accept
himself, finally, as a member, in full standing, of their social body.
CHAPTER II.
THE IGNORANT IS READY TO BE TAUGHT.
Sonnenkamp went from his cabinet to the room of Frau Ceres; she sent
word to him in the ante-chamber by a maid, that she desired to see no
one. Paying no attention to the message, he went in and found her lying
on the sofa, with the curtains drawn, so that in the large room there
was a dusky twilight. Frau Ceres looked at him with her large dark
eyes, but spoke not a word, only extending to him her delicate, small
hand with long finger-nails. He kissed the hand, and then seated
himself by the side of his wife.
There was silence for sometime, and then he began to explain to her
that a nearer approach was to be made to the accomplishment of his plan
through the guest now in the house, for this lady's hand would open the
folding-doors of the apartments of the princely palace.
At the mention of the palace, Frau Ceres raised herself a little; her
restless look showed how she was stirred by hope; for, beyond the sea,
and in all his devious wanderings, Sonnenkamp had always held before
his wife this idea, like some bright fairy-tale, that she would be able
to enter into the court-circle, and it seemed to her as if she were to
be introduced into some heavenly sphere, where everything was
resplendent and glorious, a perpetual round of godlike existence. Such
was the idea Frau Ceres had entertained of court-life. She was aware
now that this was an exaggerated notion, but, wherever she went, she
heard of this good fortune, and saw that every one was striving towards
the court-circle, and she was angry with her husband, that his promises
made so often and so long ago had never been fulfilled. They came to
Europe; they had retired into seclusion, where people said everything
was so beautiful, but whence she was continually expecting to be
summoned to Court.
Why is there so long delay? Why are people so distant? Even Bella, the
only one who exhibited any friendliness, treated her like a parrot,
like some strange bird whose bright plumage she was amused with, but
with whom she had nothing more to do than from time to time to give it
a lump of sugar, and address to it some casual, pretty word. Even the
recollection of her having surpassed all others in splendor at the fete
of Herr von Endlich was only half satisfactory to Frau Ceres.
In the midst of all her apparent listlessness and want of interest in
external things, she was continually harping upon one thought, and this
thought had been instilled into her by Sonnenkamp; but it had become
stronger than he desired, taking exclusive possession of her being.
He understood how to represent in a very plausible way, that the
Professorin--to whom the Cabinetsraethin herself looked up, because she
had been the favorite and most influential lady of the Court, even the
friend and confidante of the Princess-dowager--that this lady would
give to the whole family a new splendor, and surely be the means of
their attaining the desired end.
Sonnenkamp succeeded in impressing her so deeply with his sagacity,
that Frau Ceres at last yielded, saying,--
"You are, in fact, very wise. I will speak to the tutor's mother."
He now proceeded to give some instructions, how she should bear herself
towards her, but, like a spoiled child,--even almost like an irrational
animal, Frau Ceres shrieked out, clapped her hands, stamped her feet,
crying,--
"I won't have any instructions! not a word more! Bring the lady to me!"
Sonnenkamp went to the Widow, deeply moved and troubled; he wanted to
give to her some directions in regard to her interview with his wife,
but was afraid of every hint, and only said,--
"My dear little wife has been a little spoiled, and is very nervous."
Eric's mother visited Frau Ceres, and found her lying quietly upon the
sofa; she had sense enough to know that the less demonstrative one is,
the more effect does one produce upon others.
When the visitor on entering made a very graceful courtesy, Frau Ceres
suddenly forgot everything, and before a word could be said, she
cried,--
"You must teach me that! I would like to courtesy in that way. Is not
that the way they do at Court?"
The visitor knew not what to reply. Is this something worse than a
nervous person,--is she insane? She retained self-command enough,
however, to say:--
"I can very well conceive that our forms must be rather strange to you,
in your free Republic; I think that it is better at the first interview
to shake hands."
She extended her hand, which Frau Ceres took, and rose as if forgetting
herself.
"You are ill, I will not disturb you any longer," said the Professor's
widow.
Frau Ceres considered it would be better to pass for a sick person, and
said,--
"Ah, yes! I am always ill. But I beseech you, remain."
And when the Mother now addressed her, the sound of her voice, its
tones of deep feeling, made such an impression upon her excitable
nature, that she closed her eyes, and when she opened them, great
tear-drops stood upon her long lashes.
The Mother expressed her regret that she had made her shed tears, but
Frau Ceres shook her head violently.
"No, no, I thank you. I have not been able to weep for years--these
tears have lain here--here." She struck her bosom with violence. "I
thank you."
The Mother wanted now to withdraw, but Frau Ceres rose up quickly, went
up to her as she stood there struck with astonishment, and shrinking as
if from a crazy person, fell on her knees before her, and kissed her
hand, crying,--
"Protect me! Be a mother to me; I have never called any one mother; I
have never known a mother."
The Mother raised her up, saying,--
"My child, I can be a mother to you--I can and will. I am happy that
such fair tasks are assigned me here, tasks that I can lovingly fulfil.
But now be composed."
She led Frau Ceres back to the sofa, carefully helped her to lie down,
and covered her with a large shawl; it was an odd complication of soft
cushions in which she always lay muffled, as if she were buried.
She held the Mother's hand fast, and sobbed without cessation.
The Mother now extolled their happiness in having each of them such a
son, speaking less of Eric than of Roland; and as she went on to relate
how in the twilight he had appeared like the transfigured form of her
own dead child, Frau Ceres turned towards her and kissed her hand. She
proceeded quietly to speak of herself as a person of many
peculiarities, which rendered it no easy thing for any one to live with
her; she had been in the habit of being too much alone, and she feared
that she was not young enough and had not animal spirits sufficient to
be the companion of a lady who had every claim to the brilliancy and
joy of a stirring life.
Frau Ceres requested her to draw back the curtains a little, and as she
saw her more plainly she smiled; but immediately her countenance, with
the fine, half-opened mouth, assumed again the listless look which was
its habitual expression; she took the fan and fanned herself.
At last she said,--
"Ah yes, to learn! You cannot think how stupid I am, and yet I would so
like to be clever, and I would have learned so many things, but he
never wanted me to, and has not let me learn anything, and always said:
'You are fairest and dearest to me just as you are.' Yes, it may be to
him, but not to myself. If Madame Perini were not so kind, I don't know
indeed what I should do. Do you play whist? Do you love nature? I am
very simple, am I not?"
Perhaps Frau Ceres expected that the mother would contradict her, but
she did not, only saying:--
"If there is anything that I can teach you, I'll do it cheerfully. I
have known other ladies like yourself, and I could tell you why you are
always ailing."
"Why! Do you know that? you?"
"Yes, but it is not flattering."
"Ah, no matter; tell me."
"My dear child, you are all the time ill, because you are all the time
idle. If a person has nothing to do, then his health gives him
something to do."
"Oh, you are wise, but I am weak," said Frau Ceres.
And there was in her an utter helplessness and weakness; she looked
upon herself, and was looked upon by Sonnenkamp, as a fragile toy; and
at the same time she was indolent, and the least effort was a burden to
her. She did not know whether to hear or to see required the greater
exertion; but she found the latter the greater bore, for while one was
reading one must hold the book and hold one's self in a particular
position, and therefore she always let Fraeulein Perini read aloud to
her; this had the advantage that one could go to sleep whenever there
was the inclination.
This was the case now.
Whilst the Mother was speaking, Frau Ceres suddenly let go her hand,
and it was soon evident that the reclining one had fallen asleep; Frau
Dournay sat there in that chamber furnished splendidly and richly as if
it were an apartment in some fairy tale. She held her breath, and did
not know what course to take. What is the meaning of all this? Here are
riddles in plenty. She did not dare to change her position, for she was
afraid of waking the sleeper. The latter turned now and said,--
"Ah, go now, go now,--I will come down soon myself." She left the room.
Sonnenkamp was waiting for her outside.
"How did she seem?" he asked anxiously.
"Very gentle and quiet," replied the Mother. "But I have one request. I
hope to cure the excitability or lassitude of your wife, but I beg you
never to ask me what we have said to each other. If I am to gain her
entire confidence, I must be able to say to her in good faith, that
what she tells me is told to me alone; and that what she imparts to me
will never pass my lips. Are you willing to promise that we ladies
shall do as we like together?"
"Yes," answered Sonnenkamp. It seemed hard for him to consent, but he
felt that he must.
CHAPTER III.
A NEIGHBOR SECURED.
Pranken came the next day, and when he met the widow of the Professor,
summoned to his aid his most polished manner; she gave him to
understand at once, that she regarded him as a son of the house. She
did this with so much delicacy and such a charming tact, that Pranken
was extremely delighted.
When she thanked him for having been the means of obtaining such a
position for Eric, he declined receiving any thanks for what he had
done, as it was only a trifling amount toward the payment of his debt
to the late Professor, to whom he owed all the culture he possessed.
He said this with a tone that entirely won the Widow's heart; she could
make allowance for the exaggeration of politeness, but she felt there
was a basis of sincerity, inasmuch as no one, unless he were utterly
abandoned, could have come within the sphere of her husband's voice and
eye, without receiving therefrom a good influence for life.
Pranken spoke of his brother-in-law and his sister, and how much Eric
was liked and loved at Wolfsgarten; and he conveyed in a happy turn,
how much he expected the lady's presence would effect in composing and
calming the recently excited and disturbed state of his sister. He
hinted at this very guardedly, representing only how difficult a task
it is to live with an elderly man, even a very noble one, and how in
some unexpected way the apparent harmony might be disturbed.
She understood more than Pranken imagined, and she was very glad to
find the young man disposed, in the retirement of country life, to a
deeper consideration of the influence of one human being upon another.
Pranken could not refrain from disclosing something of his religious
transformation, but he did it as an act of special confidence. There
was suddenly presented to him the vision of this lady near Manna, who
would lay open to her her whole soul, and would be assured that he
acknowledged his inward change to the whole world; and it just occurred
to him now, that the Superior had spoken in high praise of this lady in
Manna's presence. A smile came upon his lips, for he thought how
excellent a use could be made of her in diverting Manna from her
childish intention of taking the veil, although it was in every way to
be deplored that this lady was not a member of the same church.
He then invited the Professor's widow, by Sonnenkamp's request, to
drive with them to the country-house which the Cabinetsraethin--he
corrected himself immediately and said the Cabinetsrath--thought of
purchasing; she would certainly do her part towards securing such an
agreeable neighbor for Herr Sonnenkamp. Her objection, that she was
hardly yet settled, was flatteringly set aside.
The carriage drove up.
The Cabinetsraethin and Sonnenkamp entered, and the mother must drive
with them to the villa now for sale. They were in extreme good humor on
the way, but involuntarily there came over Eric's mother the thought
that she was mixed up in some sort of intrigue, and that her simplicity
was made use of for some interested purpose. What it was, she was
wholly ignorant. She felt serious anxiety, and this positively
increased when Sonnenkamp said, as they entered the house, that it
belonged to him, and he was glad to be able to pass it over to his
noble neighbor.
What does this mean? Has a surprise been prepared for her? Does
Sonnenkamp mean to give her the house?
She was soon aware of her mistake, for the Cabinetsraethin immediately
proceeded to assign the rooms to herself, her husband, and her
children. She had two sons in the army, and one invalid daughter; rooms
were also designated for her grandchildren, and when she was looking
for a choice spot for herself, Sonnenkamp promised to have the grounds
laid out anew. She was amazed to find what capabilities the grounds
possessed.
Sonnenkamp was extremely complaisant; it had been, indeed, his
desire to reserve the country-seat as the payment for his patent of
nobility,--for the sum to be paid by the Cabinetsrath was merely
nominal,--but he had been obliged to give way to Pranken's
representations that this was utterly impracticable, and that it was
much wiser to be on neighborly terms with so influential a man, as thus
every thing would come about much more naturally.
The Cabinetsraethin sat with the Professor's widow in the garden, and
endeavored to impress upon her that she would surely be glad, through
her great influence, to aid the Sonnenkamp family in obtaining the rank
which was their due; at first she went no farther, but it was her fixed
plan that the widow should apply the main lever, and that neither she
nor her husband should take a prominent part. Should the plan miscarry,
they would remain concealed, and the learned widow, who was reputed as
somewhat erratic, would be the only one committed.
Under high-sounding and lofty expressions of magnanimity and
disinterestedness, there was a hidden policy not easily unravelled.
When Pranken was alone with Sonnenkamp and the Cabinetsraethin,
Sonnenkamp smiled, as one does who considers it a good joke to allow
himself for once to be circumvented. He listened in a very friendly way
while Pranken was representing to him that the Cabinetsrath must be put
in possession of the house at once, for if it were done later, either
shortly before or shortly after the consummation of their wishes, it
would give rise to scandalous remarks.
Sonnenkamp smilingly congratulated his young friend on being so
well-fitted for a diplomatic career; it was not denied by Pranken that
he should adopt that as his employment, rather than the life of a
landed proprietor, provided it could be done with the consent of those
nearest to him, and of his fatherly friend, as he termed Sonnenkamp.
Pranken knew a very accommodating notary, who came that very evening.
The purchase was concluded, and the Cabinetsrath was the neighbor of
Herr Sonnenkamp.
As Sonnenkamp was taking a walk with Pranken in the mild evening, the
latter for the first time shrank from his expected father-in-law, when
he said,--
"My dear young friend, you must certainly have had something to do with
usurers before this. I know these tender-hearted brethren; they hang
together like a secret priesthood. But I would say to you, that the
most delectable insight into the so-called human soul would be
furnished by a history of bribery. I am acquainted with the different
nations and races, I have tried it everywhere, and it has hardly ever
been unsuccessful."
Pranken looked strangely at the man. He had confidence in him; but that
he should speak so freely of the bribery of all nations disturbed him
somewhat, and it pained him greatly to think that he himself was to be
son of such a man.
Sonnenkamp continued good-humoredly,
"You evidently entertain the old prejudice that bribery is a bad thing,
just as a little while ago usury was regarded to be. It's nothing but a
matter of business, and it's a stupid thing for the government to
require an oath from persons, that their transactions shall not be
affected by any receiving of money. As far as I am concerned, it may
be, and it usually is, with the judges, only a matter of form; when it
comes to that point, a rich man knows how to get off, provided he
hasn't foolishly gone too far. It's very curious, that among other
nations, among the Romans and the Sclaves, men took the offered money,
and, under some form or other, gave an opportunity for competition in
bidding; but among the simpering Germanic people, the women are
employed in this business. Of course! Among no people in the world are
so many cows employed in agriculture as among the Germans, and in this
business, too, they harness in the cows. Here the lady must be applied
to in extremely gallant style, and I must confess that I would much
rather deal with the women, for they keep their word; there's nothing
more common than to give a bribe, and to have the bribee fail to keep
his promise, unless another is added just as large. My father----"
Pranken started. For the first time in his life, Sonnenkamp spoke of
his father, but he went on quietly,--
"My father was a connoisseur in the art of bribery, and in Poland his
way was, to give a man a note for a hundred or a thousand dollars, as
it might be, but he tore the note in two, kept one part himself and
gave the other to the person bribed, surrendering his own half only
when he had gained his end. You do not think it is necessary to divide
thus with the Cabinetsraethin?"
Pranken felt hurt to hear a lady of the nobility pointed out and
arraigned in this style. He gave Sonnenkamp the most conclusive
assurances, who said further,--
"All proceeds in a regular order, and what is designated by the
old-fashioned word bribery, is a necessary consequence of an advanced
civilization. As soon as a people enters into complex relations,
bribery is there, must be there, sometimes open, sometimes concealed;
and I know this, that nothing has a greater variety of forms than
bribery."
As Pranken stood there in fixed amazement, Sonnenkamp, taking his arm,
continued,--
"Young friend, it is the same thing whether I buy an agent or a vote
for my election as member of Parliament or of Congress, or whether I
buy an agent or a vote to make me a noble. In America we are more open
about it. Why should not this Cabinetsrath and his spouse make some
profit out of their position? Their position is their whole property
and capital. I am glad--it's all in order. In Germany you are obliged
to cloak matters over respectably. It's all the same. If you take up
the diplomatic career, as I hope you will, I shall be able to give you
a good many lessons."
Pranken declared himself ready to learn a great deal, but inwardly he
had an inexpressible dread of this man, and this dread changed into
contempt. He proposed to himself, if he ever married Manna, to keep
away from this man as far as possible.
Sonnenkamp was so happy in finding a fresh confirmation of his
knowledge of men, that he endeavored to impart it to his own son.
The next morning, as they were leaving the breakfast-table, at which
the Cabinetsraethin had been present, he took Roland with him into the
park, saying to him,--
"Look, these noble people! All a pure cheat! This Cabinetsrath and his
family, they are beggars, and I make them persons of property. Don't
let it out, but you ought to know it. They are all a rabble; great and
small, high and low, they are all waiting to have an offer for their
souls as they call them. Every one in the world is to be had for
money."
He took delight in dwelling upon this at length; he had not the
remotest conception what a deep commotion and revolution this was
exciting in the youth's soul.
Roland sat speechless, and Sonnenkamp turned over in his mind
whether he had acted properly, but soon quieted his doubts. Religion,
virtue, all is an illusion. Some--this Herr Dournay is one of that
number--still believe in their illusions, and impose upon themselves
and upon the world. It is better, he quieted himself in conclusion,
that Roland should know all to be a mere illusion.
CHAPTER IV.
A DIFFERENT ATMOSPHERE.
After the first days, the Mother understood what her son meant when he
complained of the difficulty of maintaining a steady and firm hold upon
thought, in the midst of the distractions with which he had to contend,
like those upon a journey. In such a house as this, with extensive
possessions and a great variety of duties, that devotion of the mind,
which is so necessary for the thorough acquisition of any branch of
knowledge, is continually interfered with, and it is even difficult, in
such relations, not to lose one's self. Without laying out any
programme, at any rate without any announcement of one, she resolved to
regulate her own method of living; only when one possesses himself can
he have anything to supply to the calls of others.
Eric and Roland went every day to bid her good-morning, and a
consecrated sphere soon encompassed the mother; whoever approached her
acquired, in a degree, a nobler bearing, and pitched his conversation
to a musical and well-tuned key. She had sterling good sense, without
any claim to originality or genius either in her own eyes or those of
others; her mind was not intuitional but logical, and what she
comprehended and discovered by investigation appeared to her to be
necessarily true; she made as little show of knowledge as of dress, for
it is a matter of course that one should be neatly dressed.
Chasteness, in the highest and purest signification of the word, was
the impression which the Mother made, both in regard to her external
appearance and her inner being; she was pure in thought, and pure in
feeling; she had been for thirteen years a lady of the court, and knew
the world; but she retained something of an ideal atmosphere; she knew
vice and believed in virtue; she was quick and cautious, ready to
accept the gage of battle and nobly yielding, at the same time.
If she were externally and superficially compared with Bella, the older
lady would be at a disadvantage; but on a nearer consideration, she had
something satisfying in her presence and conversation, while Bella was
only exciting.
Bella not only desired to excite attention to her personal appearance
and her sentiments, but she was also fond of proposing subjects for
discussion, and propounding the most difficult questions; she was
always putting something forth and making a stir. She gave very cursory
and off-hand replies to what was said to her, and could set out in good
style what she heard, so as to be extremely taking at the first
acquaintance, but a longer familiarity with her showed that it was
merely fluent talk.
The Professorin, on the other hand, made no demands, was grateful for
all that was offered, and was ready to lend it serious thought.
Externally, the ladies could hardly be compared, for the personal
appearance of the Professorin was not what would be called
distinguished; she was somewhat plump in figure, of a pale blond
complexion, and that fresh purity of look which one sees portrayed in
the pictures of well-preserved women of Holland. Her strongest
characteristic was a uniform reserve; she could listen quietly to every
communication, and she could withhold her reply, if she had any opinion
to express, until she had patiently heard all that was to be said.
When questions were addressed immediately to her, to which she did not
want to give a direct reply, she had the faculty of not seeming to hear
them; and if she were pressed to give a decided reply, she answered
only just so far as she thought best, never allowing herself to be
urged beyond a prescribed limit.
She soon became the centre of the circle. The fundamental trait which
characterized all that she said and did was truthfulness; she never
spoke for effect, she never smiled when there was nothing to smile at;
she gave to every utterance of her own the natural tone, and to every
utterance of others the requisite degree of attention. This
truthfulness was not compromised in the least by her reserve, for she
never violated the truth in the smallest particular, and it is not
necessary to speak out everything that one knows and thinks. This is
not craftiness; it is rather the simple dictate of prudence, and
prudence is a virtue too; it is the same thing as goodness; nature
herself is prudent, that is to say, veiled.
She was very happy to indulge and cultivate her fondness for botany by
means of Sonnenkamp's splendid collection of plants, and his
essentially valuable communications.
The Mother and Aunt lived together in perfect harmony, and yet were
very different in character; and as they had very different spheres of
knowledge in which they found enlivenment, so also they had different
spheres of life. Their amateur-pursuits were the two most beautiful in
the whole circle of sciences. The Professorin was a botanist. Aunt
Claudine an astronomer, sedulously avoiding, indeed, every appearance
of the bluestocking; she passed many silent evenings in the tower
making observations of her own, generally through a small telescope,
without any one's being aware of the fact.
The Professorin took delight in spending several hours every day in the
hot-houses, and among the rare imported plants; and when Sonnenkamp one
day showed her his method of training fruit-trees, she did not express
admiration and astonishment as other people did, but exhibited a great
proficiency in the knowledge of the new French art of gardening, and
remarked how peculiar it was that the restless French people, when they
withdrew from the whirl of active life, should devote themselves with
such tender and persistent care to the cultivation of fruit.
Sonnenkamp's countenance gleamed with pleasure, when she maintained
that in orcharding, as he practised it, there was the unfolding of a
talent for military generalship, inasmuch as he was called upon to
decide what part of the fruit should be allowed to mature, and what
should be sacrificed and removed in its unripe state in order that the
rest might thrive.
Sonnenkamp expressed himself as very much obliged for the compliment,
but he smiled inwardly, thinking that he saw through the fine courtly
breeding; that this lady, before she came there, had read up in his
favorite pursuit, in order to render herself agreeable to him. He
received this homage in an apparently natural way, as if he regarded it
as sincere; but he determined not to allow himself to be taken in by
any such arts.
He meant to offset politeness with politeness; and he hastened to place
everything in a friendly way at the disposal of the Mother and Aunt
Claudine.
Towards Frau Ceres the Professorin soon established a definite line of
conduct, allowing her to claim but a limited portion of her time; and
now Frau Ceres went into other rooms than her own apartments, which she
had never done before, and she frequently sent to ask the Mother if she
might pay her a visit; the request was sometimes granted and sometimes
refused.
Frau Ceres soon felt her mental influence, for she was always
interested in some thought or other; she was like a priestess whose
vocation it was to cherish perpetually a little flame upon an altar.
When Frau Ceres was eager to make this and that inquiry about life at
Court, the Professorin was able, in an unlooked-for way, to arouse her
to think, and take an interest in general matters.
The Aunt, who was very reserved in her manners, brought a new element
of life into the house. The grand-piano in the music-saloon, that had
lain so long idle, now sent forth clear and brilliant tones; and
Roland, who had wholly neglected musical practice, entered into it with
zest, and became the aunt's scholar. The house, formerly called dry by
Eric because it was void of music, was now refreshed and steeped in
harmony; it was a cheerful time with the new guests. Sonnenkamp's
countenance acquired an expression of satisfaction such as it had never
worn before, when Frau Ceres, sitting by him in the music-saloon,
said--
"I cannot conceive how it used to be before these noble ladies were
here."
One day, after Aunt Claudine had played beautifully, and had repeated a
piece twice at Eric's request, Frau Ceres said to the Mother:--
"I envy you, that you can so comprehend and enjoy all this."
She evidently plumed herself upon this little formula learned by heart,
but the Professorin unintentionally stripped off this pretty adornment
by saying:--
"Each one has his own satisfaction, either in nature or in art, if he
is only true to himself. It is not necessary to understand and know a
thing thoroughly before one can derive pleasure from it. I take delight
in these mountains, without knowing how high they are, and what strata
they are composed of, and many other things that men of science are
acquainted with. So you can take pleasure in music. Endeavor first of
all to get the simple truth, and try after nothing farther, and
everything else will be yours."
No one imagined, not even Frau Ceres herself, that she went out of the
music-saloon to-day a different being; for no one is able to say what
word will have a direct influence upon a thirsting, aspiring, and
receptive heart and mind. Frau Ceres was not conscious of the real
change in herself; without learning, without acquirements, one can
enter into the joys of life and of knowledge through one's own natural
susceptibilities.
The quiet, healthful life of the house was suddenly broken in upon; a
carriage rattled on the gravel of the courtyard; a silken train
rustled: Bella and her husband made their appearance.
CHAPTER V.
A DOUBLE GAME.
Like a bit of a home in a foreign land comes a meeting with friends
among new surroundings, and the visit of Bella and Clodwig was a true
pleasure to Frau Dournay; Bella embraced her rather impetuously, while
Clodwig took her hand in both of his.
"But where is Eric?" asked Bella very soon, holding the Aunt's hand
fast, as if she must cling to something.
With an uneasy glance first at Clodwig, then at Bella, the Mother
answered that it was a rule not to allow the study-hours to be
interrupted even by so pleasant a family occurrence as their welcome
visit; she emphasized the word _family_, and Sonnenkamp, acknowledging
it with a bow, said that an exception might be made to-day, but Clodwig
himself begged that this should not be. Bella dropped the Aunt's hand,
and stood with downcast eyes, while the Professor's widow watched her
closely.
Bella looked fresh and animated; she was in full dress, and wore a
large cape of sky-blue silk, under which her bare arm was seen in all
its roundness.
They went into the garden, and Sonnenkamp was pleased to hear Frau
Dournay explaining his system of horticulture, but he left them in
order to announce their visit to his wife, wishing to use every effort
to prevent her declaring herself ill.
Bella walked with the Mother, and Clodwig with Aunt Claudine, with whom
he was soon in animated conversation. The Aunt, who was an accomplished
piano player, was herself something like a piano, upon which children
or artists can play, but which, if no one wished to do so, remains
quietly in the background.
Bella asked Frau Dournay many questions as to the impression which all
the family made upon her, but she received only indirect answers: she
talked much herself; her checks glowed, she let her cape fall a little,
and her beautiful full shoulders were seen.
"It's a pity that Clodwig didn't know your sister-in-law earlier," she
suddenly said.
"He did know her well, and, unfortunately for herself, she was, as you
know, a much-admired belle at court; but that was long before your
time."
Bella was silent; Frau Dournay threw a quick searching glance at her.
What was passing within her? what did this restless fluttering from one
subject to another mean?
Eric and Roland came; Bella quickly drew her cape over her shoulders
again, and folded her arms tightly under it, hardly giving Eric the
tips of her fingers.
Roland was extremely lively, but Eric seemed very serious; whenever he
looked at Bella, he turned away his eyes again directly. She
congratulated him on his mother's arrival, and said,--
"I think if a stranger met you, even in travelling, he would feel that
you are still happy enough to have a mother; and what a mother she is!
A man seems to lose a nameless fragrance when his mother is lost to
him."
Bella said this with a tone of feeling, and yet her mouth wore a
peculiar smile, and her eyes seemed to seek applause for these ideas.
Sonnenkamp joined them, and, stroking his chin with an air of
satisfaction, asked the ladies to come to his wife, who felt quite
revived by a visit from such guests. He proposed that the gentlemen
should drive with him to the castle, to take a view of the progress of
the building, and of the place where the Roman antiquities had been
found. Bella merrily upbraided Sonnenkamp for robbing her of her
pleasant guests, then she went with the ladies to the garden-parlor,
while the gentlemen proceeded to the castle. Frau Ceres was soon ready
to go with them to the music-room, where the Aunt readily consented to
play to them; Bella sat between Frau Dournay and Frau Ceres, while
Fraeulein Perini stood near the piano.
When the first piece came to an end, Bella asked:--
"Fraeulein Dournay, do you ever play accompaniments for your nephew?"
The Aunt answered in the negative. Again the Mother threw a quick look
at Bella, who seemed to be thinking constantly of Eric, and not to be
able, nor indeed to wish, to conceal it. While Fraeulein Dournay was
playing again, Bella said to the mother:--
"You must give me something of yourself; let me have your sister-in-law
at Wolfsgarten."
"I have no right to dispose of my sister. But, pardon me, a word spoken
while she is playing annoys her, though she makes no claim for herself
in any other respect."
Bella was silent, and Frau Dournay also; but while listening to a
refreshing bit of Mozart's music, their thoughts took very different
paths. What Bella's were could hardly be defined; her whole being was
thrilling with joy and pain, renunciation and defiance. The Professorin
owned that her instinctive perceptions were confirmed, though she felt
as if they left a stain upon herself.
When the piece was finished, Bella said:
"Ah, Mozart is a happy being; hard as his life may have been, he was
happy always, and he still makes others happy whenever they listen to
him; even his sorrow and mourning have a certain harmonious serenity.
Did your husband love music too?"
"Oh, yes; he often said that men in modern times express in music that
imaginative romance of the human heart which the ancients wove into
their myths. Music transports us into a world far removed from all
palpable and visible existence, and transports us waking into the land
of dreams."
They went out upon the balcony, and played with the parrots; Bella told
one of them a marvellous story of a cousin at Wolfsgarten, which lived
in a wonderful cage, sometimes flying off into the woods; but it was
too gentlemanly to get its own living there, and always came back to
its golden cage.
Bella's cheeks burned hotter and hotter; her lips trembled, and all at
once it occurred to her that she must settle the matter then. She spoke
to Mother and Aunt so earnestly, and yet with such childlike
entreaties, that they at last agreed that the Aunt should go to her,
within a few days, and remain as her guest.
"You will see," she said, in low but half triumphant tone to the
mother, "Fraeulein Dournay will be Clodwig's best friend; they are
exactly made for each other."
Frau Dournay looked fixedly at her. Has it come to this, that the wife
wishes to give a compensation to her husband!
CHAPTER VI.
A TROUBLED BUT HOPEFUL MOTHER.
The ladies withdrew to dress for dinner. Frau Dournay had let down her
long gray hair, and sat some time speechless in her dressing-room, with
her hands folded in her lap. It seemed to her as if her brain had
received a heavy blow from what she had become convinced of by
unmistakable indications. Her heart contracted, and her tears forced
themselves into her eyes, though they would not fall. Was it for this
that a child was cherished, guarded, and nurtured by all that was best,
that he might end thus? No, not end,--begin an endless entanglement
which must lead to utter ruin. Was it for this that a mind was endowed
with all the treasures of knowledge, that they might be turned into
toys, and masks, and cloaks of baseness?
"O my God, my God!" she moaned, and covered her face with her hands.
Before her mind's eye everything seemed laid waste,--the pure, free,
upright, noble nature of Eric, and her own as well. She could feel no
more joy in the glance, the words, the learning, of her son; he had
used them all for falsehood and treachery.
Now the tears fell from her eyes, as she thought what her husband would
have said to this. How often had he lamented that every one said: "The
world is bad and totally corrupt; why should I alone separate myself
and deny myself its pleasures? And so every one became an upholder
of the empire of sin." But how the ruin embraces everything! This
noble-hearted Clodwig, with his unexampled friendship--they must meet
him, greet him, talk with him, and yet wish him dead. Shame! And he
goes on teaching the boy, teaching him to rule himself, and to work
with noble aim for others, while he himself--oh horrible! And this
passionate woman who could not endure to devote herself to the best of
men, what was to become of her? And this Sonnenkamp, and his wife, and
Fraeulein Perini, and the Priest? "Look," they would all cry, "Look!
these are the liberal souls! These are the people who are always
talking about humanity, and beneficently work for it; and meanwhile
they cherish the lowest passions: they shrink from no treachery, no
lies, no hypocrisy!"
Oh, these unhappy wives, these wives who call themselves unhappy! There
runs through our time a great lie concerning the unhappy wife. The fact
is this: girls want a husband of wealth and standing, and a young and
brilliant lover besides. Why will they not marry poor men? Because they
can give them no fine establishment. And these men, who offer
themselves as lovers,--
"Lovers!" she exclaimed aloud. Frau Dournay sprang quickly up and rang
the bell violently, for she heard the carriage drive into the court.
She told the servant to ask her son to come to her directly.
Eric came, looking much excited; he gazed in astonishment at his
mother, whom he had never seen looking as she did now, with her long
hair hanging loose, and her face looking gray like her hair.
"Sit down," she said.
Eric seated himself. His mother pressed her hand to her brow. Could she
warn her son plainly? What can a mother, what can parents do, if a
child, grown up and free from control, wanders from the right path?
And if he has already wandered, can he still be honest? He _must_ lie;
it would be double baseness if he did not shield himself with
lies,--himself and her!
"My dear son," she began, in a constrained tone, "bear with me if I
feel lost in this restless life, which has broken in upon my loneliness
and quiet. I wonder at your calm strength--But no, I won't speak of
that now. What was I going to say to you? Ah, yes, the Countess
Wolfsgarten, the wife of our friend,"--she laid a quiet but marked
emphasis on this word, and paused a moment, then continued, "wishes to
have Aunt Claudine go and remain with her."
"That is good! that's excellent!"
"Indeed! and why? Do you forget that it will leave me quite alone in a
strange house?"
"But you are never alone, dear mother. And Aunt Claudine can find a
noble vocation at Wolfsgarten; Countess Bella is full of unrest, in
spite of all the beauty which encompasses her life; a strong, true
nature like Aunt Claudine's, steadfast, and bringing peace to others,
will soften and compose her as nothing else in the world could do. I
acknowledge the sacrifice that you must make, but a good work will be
accomplished by it."
His mother's eyes grew loss troubled; her face quivered as from an
electric shock, as she said smiling:--
"At last we have all found our mission, we are all to be teachers. Let
me ask you how Countess Bella, our friend's wife, appears to you."
A two-edged sword went through Eric's heart; he saw how he was bringing
a weight upon his mother's spirit. And perhaps Bella had betrayed by
some passionate word a feeling which must not exist, and he appeared as
a sinner and a traitor! There was a short pause; then his mother asked,
with a sudden change of expression,--
"Why do you not answer me?"
"Ah, mother, I am still much more inexperienced than I thought myself;
I cannot put absolute trust in my judgment of people. I have no
knowledge of human nature, though my father used to say that psychology
was my _forte_. It may be so. I can follow a given trait of character
back to its remote causes, and forward to its consequences, but I have
no true knowledge of human nature."
The Mother listened quietly, with downcast eyes, to this long preamble,
in which Eric was trying to gain mastery of himself, but when he
stopped, she said:--
"You can at least say something, even if it is not very clear-sighted."
"Well, then, I think that in this highly-gifted woman a struggle is
going on between worldliness and renunciation of the world; between the
desire to _appear_ and the longing really to _be_. It seems to me as if
something had been repressed, checked, in the development of her life,
and as if she were not yet quite ripe for the beautiful work of making
life's evening full and perfect to so noble a man as Clodwig."
"Yes, he is a noble man, and to wrong him would be like the desecration
of a temple," said his mother significantly.
The words came out sharply, and she went on: "You have judged rightly,
the Prankens are a presumptuous and daring race. It was believed that
Bella would marry her music-master, with whom she played a great deal;
indeed she played with him in a double sense. But that's not to the
purpose. An apparently insignificant event brought about in Bella a
derangement--I don't know what to call it--a sort of overturn in
her character. In her youth, while she might still be considered
young,--she was twenty-two or twenty-three--she had to see her younger
sister married before her; she bore it with the greatest composure, but
I think that, from that time, a change came over her difficult to be
described; she had suddenly grown old, older than she would confess to
herself; there was something of the matron about her. This was
affected, but a bitter tone was real. Her sister died after a few
years, leaving no children. All these circumstances brought out
something discordant in Bella; she really hated her sister, and yet
behaved as if she were pining for her. She had no mother, or rather,
she had one whose highest triumph was to hear people say, 'Your
daughter is handsome, but not nearly so handsome as you were when you
were a girl.' To be handsome is the chief pride of the Prankens. Bella
is unfortunately a development of that unhappy class of society, in
which people go to the theatre only to satirize and ridicule the
performance, to church only to make a formal reverence to the mercy of
God; in which women are held in low esteem unless they are handsome,
and know how, as age comes on, to intrigue, and to affect piety. Such a
being can say to herself: I have in the course of my life adorned with
flowers eight or ten hundred yards of canvas, for perfectly useless
sofa-cushions. Is that a life worth living? Now she has no children, no
natural fixed duties--"
"And just for these reasons," interrupted Eric, "Aunt Claudine, without
knowing it, will have a softening and tranquillizing influence; her
calm nature, which never has to renounce, because it never longs for
any change, seems just chosen for the work. However highly I value Frau
Bella, our friend's wife, for herself, we must think first of all that
we are fulfilling a duty to the noble Clodwig; it will establish anew
and increase the purity and beauty of his life."
"Well, Aunt Claudine is going to Wolfsgarten; and now leave me, my dear
son,--but no, I must tell you something, though it may seem childish.
When I saw you running so fast through the garden to-day, I thought of
your father's pleasure when he had been on a mountain excursion with
you; and once, when you were just eleven, when you had been in
Switzerland with him, he said on coming home, that his chief delight
had been in seeing you run up and down the mountains without once
slipping; and you never did get a fall, though your younger brother was
never without some bump or bruise."
It was with a glance of double meaning that she looked at Eric, as she
passed her hand over his face.
"But we have talked enough; now go. I must dress for dinner."
She kissed his forehead, and he left her; but outside the door, he
stopped and said, with folded hands:--
"I thank you. Eternal Powers, that you have left me my mother: she will
save us all."
CHAPTER VII.
STATISTICS OF LOVE.
When they assembled again at the villa, the Doctor chanced to be there.
Or was it not mere chance? Did he desire to note accurately, once for
all, the relation between Eric and Bella?
He saluted the Professorin with great respect; she said she must
confess that her husband, who made a point of mentioning frequently his
distant friends, had never uttered, to the best of her recollection,
the name of Doctor Richard.
"And yet I was a friend of his," cried the Doctor in a loud tone.
After a while, he said in a low voice: "I must be honest with you, and
tell you that I was only a little acquainted with your husband; but
your father-in-law was my teacher. I introduced myself, however, to
your son as the friend of your husband, because this seemed to me the
readiest way to be of service to him, exposed as he is here, in the
house and in its connections, to a variety of perils."
The Professorin warmly expressed her obligation to him, but her heart
contracted again. This man had evidently alluded to Bella.
The Artist who had painted the portrait of the Wine-count's daughter
was there; and soon the Priest came too, and regret was expressed that
the Major could not be present, having gone to celebrate St. John's day
in the neighborhood; he considered everything appertaining to the
Masonic order in the nature of a military duty.
The company in general were in a genial mood. The Doctor asked the
painter how he got along with his picture of Potiphar's wife.
The Artist invited the company to visit shortly the studio, which Herr
von Endlich had fitted up for him for the summer months.
"Strange!" cried the Doctor. "We always speak of Potiphar's wife, and
we don't know what her own name was; she takes the name of her husband,
and you artists don't refrain from painting nude beauties with more or
less fidelity. The chaste Joseph presents always an extremely
contemptible figure, and perhaps because the world thinks that the
chaste Joseph is always a more or less contemptible figure. AEneas and
Dido are just such another constellation, but AEneas is not looked upon
in so contemptuous a way as the Egyptian Joseph."
It was painful to hear the Doctor talk in this style.
The Priest said:--
"This narrative in the Old Testament is the correlative to that of the
adulteress in the New; and after a thousand years, the harmony is
rendered complete. The Old Testament strikes the discordant note; the
New Testament brings it to the accordant pitch."
Clodwig was exceedingly delighted with this exposition; there was
something of the student-nature in him, and he was always enlivened and
made happy by any new view, and any enlargement of his knowledge.
"Herr Priest, and you also, Frau Professorin," cried the Doctor, who
was to-day more talkative than ever, "with your great experience of
life, you two could render a great service to a friend of mine."
"I?" the priest asked.
"And I?" asked the Professorin.
"Yes, you. Our century has entered upon a wholly new investigation of
the laws of the world; and things, circumstances, sentiments, which one
would not believe could ever be caught, are now bagged in the
statistical net, and must be shown to be conformable to laws. Nothing
has been esteemed freer and more incalculable, even incomprehensible,
than love and matrimony, and yet there are now exact statistical tables
of these; there is an iron law, by which the number of divorces in a
year is determined. My friend now goes a step farther, and from facts
of his own observation has deduced the conclusion, that marriages in
which the man is considerably older than the wife, present a greater
average of happy unions than so-called love-matches; now, Herr Priest,
and you also, Frau Professorin, think over the list of persons you are
acquainted with, and ask yourselves whether you find any confirmation
of this law."
The Professorin was silent, but the Priest said that religion alone
consecrated marriage; religion alone gave humility, which was the only
sure basis of all beautiful intercourse between men themselves, and
also between man and God.
The Priest succeeded, continuing the conversation, in diverting it
entirely from the subject so flippantly introduced.
Sonnenkamp stated that the Major wished to have a grand masonic
celebration in the spacious knight's hall of the castle, when it was
completed; he asked in what relation the reigning Prince stood towards
Masonry.
Clodwig replied that he himself had formerly belonged to the order, and
that the Prince was at present a protector of the brotherhood, without
being a member.
The conversation was carried on in groups, and they left the table in a
cheerful mood. The Doctor took leave.
It was now settled that the Aunt should go to Wolfsgarten; and, in
order to give her time to make preparation for leaving, Clodwig and
Bella were to remain over night and take her in the carriage with them
on the morrow.
Bella was in very good spirits, and, on Sonnenkamp's offering to
present her with a parrot, requested that it might be the wildest one,
which she promised to tame.
In the evening Roland urged them to take a sail with him on the Rhine.
The Aunt and Bella went together; Fraeulein Perini withdrew with Frau
Ceres; the Professorin remained with Clodwig, and Sonnenkamp excused
himself to forward some unfinished letters.
On the boat there were laughter and merriment, in which Bella joined,
dipping her hand into the water and playing with her wedding-ring,
which she moved up and down on the finger, repeatedly immersing her
hand in the Rhine.
"Do you understand what the Doctor was aiming at?" she asked Eric.
"If I had been willing to understand, I should have been obliged to
feel offended," he replied.
"Now we are speaking of the Doctor," resumed Bella, "there is one thing
I must tell you that I have forgotten to mention before. The Doctor is
doughty, unadulterated virtue; but this rough virtue once wanted to pay
court to me, and I showed him how ridiculous he made himself. It may
very well be, that the man doesn't speak well of me. You ought to know
the reason."
Eric was moved in his inmost soul. What does this mean? May this be a
wily move to neutralize the physician's opinion? He could not
determine.
After a while, Bella asked,--
"Can you tell me why I am now so often low-spirited?"
"The more highly-endowed natures, Aristotle says, are always
melancholy," replied Eric.
Bella caught her breath; that was altogether too pedantic an answer to
suit her.
They did not succeed in keeping up any continued conversation, but
Bella said at one time abruptly to Eric,--
"The visit here of your mother vexes me."
"What! vexes you?"
"Yes, it wounds me that this man with his gold should be able to change
the position of people, as he does."
Eric had abundant matter of thought in this casual remark.
"You have the happiness to be greatly beloved," said Bella suddenly.
Eric looked up alarmed, glancing towards Roland, and Bella continued
aloud,--
"Your mother loves you deeply." After a time, she said in a low tone to
herself, but Eric heard it,--
"Me no one loves; I know why,--no, I don't know why."
Eric looked her full in the face, then seized an oar and made the water
fly with his rowing.
Meanwhile, the mother and Clodwig sat together, and the former
expressed her joy that Eric had been thrown into the society of men of
such well-tried experience; in former times, a man could have completed
his culture by intercourse with women; but now, that end could be
attained only by intercourse with noble men.
They soon passed into those mutual unfoldings of views which are like a
perpetual greeting, when two persons have pursued the same spiritual
ends apart from each other, in wholly different relations of life, and
yet with the same essential tendencies.
The Professorin had known Clodwig's first wife, and recalled her to
remembrance in affectionate words. Clodwig looked round to see if Bella
was near, for he had never spoken before her of his former wife. It was
pure calumny, when it was said that he had promised Bella never to
speak of the deceased, for Clodwig was not so weak, nor Bella so hard,
as this; it was only out of consideration for her, that he never did
it.
In low, half-whispered tones, the conversation flowed on; and finding
in each other the same fundamental trait, they agreed that it was happy
for human beings here below to pass lightly over what was untoward in
their lot, and retain in lively remembrance only what was felicitous.
"Yes," said the Professorin in confirmation, "my husband used often to
say, that a Lethe stream flows through the soul buoyant with life, so
that the past is forgotten."
It was a season of purest, interchange of thought, and of true
spiritual communion, for Clodwig and the mother. They were like two
beings in the spirit-world, surveying calmly and clearly what had
passed in this state of existence. There was nothing painful in the
mutual awakening of their recollections, but rather an internal
perception of the inexhaustible fulness of life; on this elevated
height the sound of desire and plaint was no longer heard, and the
individual life with all its personal relations was dissolved into the
one element of universal being.
But now there was a diversion, and Clodwig expressed regret at having
lived so much a mere spectator, and that he had without throwing
himself into the great current of influence, waited passively in the
confident expectation that the idea which was stirring in the world
would accomplish, of itself, its own grand fulfilment. He expressed his
satisfaction that the young men of to-day were of a different stamp,
and that Eric was to him an inspiring representative of youth as
thoughtful as it was bold, as moderate as it was active.
Bella entered just as they happened to refer again to the statistics of
love. She was pale, but Clodwig did not perceive it; sitting down near
them in silence, she requested them to continue their conversation; but
neither the Professorin nor Clodwig resumed the interrupted theme.
Clodwig spoke of Aunt Claudine, asked after her favorite pursuits, and
was glad to own a fine telescope, which she could use at Wolfsgarten.
After a brief rest, Bella left them and went into the park.
CHAPTER VIII.
A STRUGGLE BETWEEN DUTY AND PASSION.
"I must speak with you this evening in the park, under the weeping
ash," Eric had said to Bella as they were getting out of the boat.
"This evening?" she asked.
"Yes."
"And in the park, under the weeping ash?"
"Yes."
She had of her own accord placed her arm in his, and they walked
together in silence to the villa; then she relinquished his arm, and
went straight to Clodwig and the Mother.
She knew not what she desired here, but she was happy, or rather
soothed, when she saw them sitting so confidentially together. Yes, she
thought, every one who gives an ear to him, and returns a stimulating
reply occasionally, is as much to him as I.
She rose and went into the park; she walked about restlessly, knowing
that Eric must get released from Roland, in order to keep the
appointment with her. But she had no idea how hard it was for him to
effect this; not so much because Roland was not obedient, and mindful
every hour of the task set him, but because Eric was inwardly disturbed
that he was obliged to assign to his pupil as a duty and a theme some
noble thought, some lesson, some subject of study, merely to become
temporarily freed from his presence. The book he gave him, the place he
selected for him to read until his return, appeared to him perverted to
a wrong use, dishonored and profaned; yet nothing else could be done.
It was a bitter experience, but it was the last time; he would come out
from this final interview pure and strong; and have a plain and
straight path before him.
He became composed with this thought, and entered the park. He found
Bella on the seat upon the height; she had evidently been weeping
freely.
Hearing his step, she removed the handkerchief from her eyes. "You have
been weeping?"
"Yes, for your mother, for myself, for us all! O, how often have I
heard your mother ridiculed, blamed, pitied, and despised, for
following the impulse of her heart and the man of her choice. For some
time the saying was, To live on love and eight hundred thalers. She is
now more highly favored than any of us. With blessed satisfaction she
surveys now the past, and looks forward to the future in her son, and
what are her deriders? Puppets, dolls,--gossipping, music-making,
dancing, chattering, scandal-making dolls! They turn up their noses at
the man who has become so rich on the labor of slaves, and our
aristocratic fathers sell their children, and the children sell
themselves, for a high rank in society, for horses and carriages, for
finery and villas. The nobility, the poor nobility, is the inherited
curse from ancestral pride, from slavery to the ancestral idea! A
peasant woman, who gleans barefooted in the stubble-field, is happier
and freer than the lady who is driven through the streets in her
carriage, leaning back and cooling herself with her fan."
"I have one request," began Eric in a constrained voice; "will you
bestow upon me one hour of your life?"
"One hour?"
"Yes. Will you listen to me?"
"I am attentive." As she gazed at him, her eye-brows seemed to grow
larger and larger, the corners of her mouth to be drawn slowly down,
and her lips to open as if parched with a feverish heat; nothing was
wanting but the wings upon her head, and the snaky heads knotted under
her chin, to give the perfect Medusa-look.
Eric was for an instant petrified; then collecting himself, he
continued:--
"Two questions now rend my heart; one is, Has the violence of love
taken from me life, study, and the power of abstract thought? The other
is, Must a child of humanity, because destiny has once decided for him,
become a lifelong victim to this determination? And these two questions
resolve themselves into one, just as those snaky heads form one knot
under the chin of the Medusa."
"Go on!" urged Bella.
"Well, then, there was one hour when I would like to have said to the
beautiful wife sitting before me, 'I love thee!' and I would have
embraced and kissed her, but then,"--Eric pressed his hand upon his
heart, and gnashed his teeth,--"but that hour over, I should have put a
bullet through my brain!"
Bella let her eyes fall, and Eric went on: "One hour, and then my peace
was gone; I had nothing left. I could not sleep. I could not think.
This could not last. I lost myself, and what did I gain? I saw all that
this love devastated, and could it be love? No. Could I take it lightly
like others, it would be light. But why is this the only thing to be
made light of? Why is not the ideal of life also to be made light of,
and why is not all feeling only a plausible lie?"
In a hoarse voice he added:--
"But I do not believe that love has the right to lay everything in
ruins; but then perhaps it may be said, it is not real love. Pluck up
heart, look at the world for yourself, see how pleasantly, respectably,
and shrewdly it lies, the women tricked out with artificial beauty, and
the men with superficial knowledge. Do you see the abyss on whose brink
I stood? And here I said to myself. We are placed in the world in order
to live, and knowledge and culture have been given us that we may get
from them life and not death. And how could I look a noble man in the
face, how could I look up to the sun in heaven, how was I to educate a
human being, to stand erect in the world, to abhor crime, to discern
the holy; how was I to take the word mother upon my lips, with the
consciousness that I was myself the vilest of all, and that there was
no moment in which I, and another also, must not tremble, and be filled
with cowardly fear and despair."
Eric paused and placed his hand on his forehead; his voice choked,
tears stood in his eyes.
"Go on!" cried Bella, "I am listening."
"It is well. This once do I speak thus to you, and only this once. You
have courage to hear the truth. Our relation is not love, must not be
love; for love cannot thrive on murder, hypocrisy, and treachery. I
clasp your hand--no, I clasp it not, for I know I could not let it go,
if I did. Here I stand--I speak to you, you listen to me--I speak to
you, as if I were miles away, as if I were dead; there must be
distance, there must be death, before there is any life."
"What do you mean?" interposed Bella.
She looked at Eric's hand as if he were about to draw a weapon from his
bosom.
Breathing deep, he went on: "It must be possible for human beings who
have been made conscious of where they are, to find again the right
path from which they have wandered. My friend! you are happy if you
understand the happiness, and you can and must learn to appreciate it;
and I am happy. Howsoever my heart may be shattered, I know I shall
come to understand my duty and my happiness. I have been, heretofore,
so proud, I thought I had mastered the world and brought it under my
feet, and so did you; and that we have met, is to be not for our
destruction, but rather for our awakening into a new life.
"I foresee that the days will come when we shall coldly extend to each
other our hands, and say, or even not say, though we feel and know it,
that there was one pure hour, an hour won by a severe struggle, when we
were exalted in our own souls, and because we held each other so
highly, we did not debase nor degrade ourselves. This hour is hard, is
overwhelming; but what is hard and overwhelming now, will be, in the
future, tender and full of restoring strength.
"We would hold each other high, that we may not destroy the laws of
righteous living. And here is life's duty. My friend, it was a saying
of my father, The man of understanding must be able to obey the command
of duty, with the same glow of zeal that others obey the command of
passion. So must it be. The stars shine over our heads, I look upon you
as upon a star that shines in its purity and in its ordained orbit. Ah!
I do not know what I am saying. Enough! Let me now bid you farewell;
when we meet again--"
"No, stay here!" Bella cried, grasping his arm, which she let go
immediately, as if she had touched a snake.
She withdrew two steps, and threw back her head, saying:--
"I thank you."
Eric wanted to reply, but it was better that he should say nothing; he
was about to go away in silence, when Bella cried:--
"One question! Is it true that you saw Manna Sonnenkamp, before you
came here?"
"Yes."
"And you love her, and are here on her account?"
"No."
"I believe you, and I thank you."
There seemed to be in this utterance something consolatory to her, that
she had not been sacrificed to love for another. She looked wildly
around, moved her head right and left, and when she had become calm
again, she said:
"You are right. It is well."
She seemed to be looking for something to give to Eric, without being
able to find it; and now, as if she were giving utterance to a thought
that had long lain upon her mind, and which anxiety for his welfare
forced from her, she cried,--
"Be warned! Be on your guard against my brother; he can be terrible."
Eric went away; it was a hard matter to return to Roland, but he must.
He sat still by Roland's side for a short time, with his hands over his
eyes; the light pained them, and he did not venture to look at Roland.
Then a servant, came with the message that the Count and the Countess
were going to take their departure at once; Eric and Roland could bid
them good-bye in the court-yard.
They went down, and heard that, contrary to the original plan, they
were to set out immediately, and send the next day a carriage for Aunt
Claudine.
Bella extended her gloved right hand to Eric, saying in a low tone:--
"Good-night, Herr Captain."
The carriage drove off.
CHAPTER IX.
THOUGHTS OF THE RELEASED.
Bella sat quietly as she rode homewards with her husband. After a long
silence. Count Clodwig said,--
"My heart is full of happiness and joy; it is a real blessedness to see
a woman who is sixty years old, and who has never had a thought that
she needed to repent of."
Bella looked up quickly. "What does this mean? Has he any idea of what
has transpired?
"That cannot be; he would not, in that case, have referred to it. But
perhaps it is his lofty manner of giving a hint towards a life of
purity."
She was fearful of betraying herself if she made no answer, and yet she
was at a loss what to say. Making a violent effort of self-restraint,
she said at last,--
"This lady is very happy in her poverty; she has a noble,
highly-cultivated son."
Clodwig now looked round as if some one had pulled upon him. Could
Bella have had any notion that the thought had crossed his mind,--What
if this wife--and then Eric be thy son?
He was better off than Bella, for there was no necessity of his making
any reply; but he inwardly reproached himself for having had the
faintest impression of such a thought.
They drove along in silence; there was oneness of feeling, and yet each
had saddening thoughts; for the rest of the way not a word was spoken.
It seemed to Bella as if some mighty force must come and bear her away
into chaos, into annihilation. The carriage rattled so strangely, the
wheels grated, and the maid and the coachman looked to her like
goblins, and the flitting shadows of the moon like pictures in a dream,
and the carriage with its inmates like a monster; anger, shame, pride,
humiliation, were stormily coursing through her heart, that had not yet
been calmed.
She was enraged with herself that she, who was mature in worldly
experience, had allowed herself to be carried away by such a girlish
infatuation, for that was the name she still gave it. And had not her
self-love been wounded? Was not this the first time that she had ever
stretched out her hand without its being grasped?
It came across her that Eric might have overstated his love to her, in
order to lessen the feeling of shame on her part. As she thought it
over, it seemed to her that she detected something unnatural in his
tone, something forced and constrained.
She thought again of Eric. Where is he now? Is he talking with any one?
He certainly suffers deeply; he has saved himself and thee. Her
thoughts were like a whirlwind. Now she scornfully exulted. It was only
a trifling jest, an experiment, a bold play! She, Bella, the strong,
had only tried to bring a young man to his knees before her, and she
would have thrust him away with contempt if she had succeeded. She can
say this--who can contradict her? Her whole past life was good evidence
in her favor, and yet she felt ashamed of this lie.
But what is now to be done? she asked again. She is simply to be quiet;
she will meet the man with indifference; her last word to him was to
warn him against any attachment to Manna. There was the whole! That was
the pivot on which, turned the whole bold game. She promised herself to
root out of her soul every passionate feeling, every violent emotion.
She was now grateful to the destiny that had aroused within her the
strong forces of nature--her virtue had now been tried in the fire.
She took the veil from her face, and looked up at the stars. They
should be witnesses that all immoderate, all childish allurements, that
were unworthy of her, should be put far away. Now she silently thought
of what Eric had said, "For this end are culture and knowledge bestowed
upon us, that we should rule over ourselves."
As they were going up the hill on which Wolfsgarten was situated, there
came over her a feeling of imprisonment; she thought her hands were
tied, and she put them outside of her mantle. Clodwig thought she was
seeking his hand; he took hers and held it with a gentle pressure.
They reached Wolfsgarten in silence, and Clodwig said, as they stood in
the brightly lighted garden-saloon,--
"We can be silent in each other's company; and this is the fairest
comradeship, when each one abides in himself and yet is with another."
Bella nodded, looking at the whole surroundings with a wondering
glance. What is all this? To whom does all this belong? What power has
brought her here? Where has she been? How would it be now, here alone
with her husband, if----
It seemed to her that she must fall on her knees, grasp his hand, and
beg for forgiveness.
But it is better, she thought, not for herself--she believed that she
was ready to humble herself to the utmost,--but better for him not to
know anything of what had transpired. It ought to be concealed from
him. She bowed her head, and Clodwig kissed her brow, saying:--
"Your brow is hot."
Each retired to rest.
Bella sent her maid away and undressed without her aid to-night.
After Clodwig and Bella had driven off, the Mother went to the
vine-embowered house with Eric. She led him by the hand like a little
child; she felt his hand tremble, but she said nothing; when they had
reached the steps, she said,--
"Eric, kiss me!"
Eric understood her meaning; she wanted to see if he could kiss her
with pure lips. He kissed her. Mother and son uttered no word.
Every pain was removed from Eric's whirling brain. And truth requires
it to be said, that the most painful thought was, that a feeling of
regret had come over Eric, a short time previously. The tempter
suggested that he had been too scrupulous, too conscientious. He had
thrust from him a beautiful woman, who was ready to clasp him with
loving arms. When he surprised himself in these thoughts, he was
profoundly wretched. All pride, all self-congratulation, and all
exalted feelings of purity, were extinguished; he was a sinner without
the sin. He had believed himself raised upon a lofty eminence; he had
even represented his love to Bella in stronger colors than the facts
warranted. Now there was a recoil, and the whole power of the rejected
and disdained love avenged itself upon his doubly sinful head.
For a long time he wandered about in the quiet night.
The soul has its feverish condition from wounds as well as the body,
and equally requires a soothing treatment.
Eric had amputated a part of his soul in order to save the rest, and he
suffered from the pain. But as the dew fell upon tree and grass, and
upon the face of Eric, so fell a dew upon his spirit.
The self-exaltation of virtue was now taken out of him, washed away by
his double repentance, and he was now again a child.
As he looked back to the vine-embowered house, he thought: I will, as a
man, preserve within me the child; and still further he thought: Thou
hast withdrawn thyself from temptation through the consciousness of
duty; be tender towards the rich and great, to whom everything is
offered, to whom so much is allowed; the consciousness of duty does not
restrain them so absolutely as it does him who is in the world, him who
must help and be helped by others, and who has lost everything when he
has lost himself.
He returned home late in the evening; and at night he dreamed that he
was struggling in the midst of the floods of the Rhine, and he, the
strong swimmer, was not able to contend against the waves.
He shrieked, but a steam-tug drowned his cry, and the helmswoman of a
boat looked down upon him with contempt--and all at once it was not the
helmswoman, but a maiden form with wings and two brightly-gleaming
eyes.
CHAPTER X.
THE GUARDIAN AND HELPER.
Early in the morning, a carriage from Wolfsgarten came for Aunt
Claudine and the parrot.
For the thirty years since her marriage with the Professor, Frau
Dournay had not passed a day without her sister-in-law; now, for the
first time, she was letting her go from her. It seemed to both of them
hardly conceivable that they could live apart from each other, but it
had been decided upon, and must be.
Sonnenkamp was most politely attentive; he charged the Aunt to consider
his house her home, and not to remain more than a few days as a guest
at Wolfsgarten. He gave a basket full of carefully-covered grapes and
bananas into the coachman's charge; the parrot's cage was on the seat
near Aunt Claudine.
The parrot screamed and scolded as they drove off, and kept it up all
the way, not liking, apparently, to leave Villa Sonnenkamp.
Herr Sonnenkamp proposed a drive to the Professorin, to help her forget
the parting, but she answered, that not by diversion but by quiet
reflection, can we compose and reconcile ourselves to the inevitable.
Roland looked at her in surprise; these wore Eric's thoughts, almost
his very words.
Several days passed quietly at the villa, which was hardly quitted even
for visits to the vine-covered cottage. Bella's visit had brought a
disquiet to the house, which still hung over them all, and they
realized it afresh as they constantly missed the Aunt; Bella had taken
something which seemed an essential part of their life. And besides,
the house was again without any sound of music.
Eric and Roland were more industrious than ever, for the Mother had
asked if she might not be with them in the study-hours, saying that she
had never heard any of Eric's teaching. Eric knew that she wished to
help him to keep a strict guard over himself; for though not a word had
been said, she felt that something must have passed between him and
Bella. And she not only wanted to watch over her son at every hour, but
to inspire him by her presence to keep true to his duty to Roland.