breathing low, and not even allowing herself any needlework; and Eric
and Roland felt a peculiar of a calm mind, of deep insight, and wide
incitement in the presence of a third person, views. At first Roland
often looked up at her, but she always shook her head, to remind him
that he must give his whole mind to what he was about, and take no
notice of her. Eric was completely free from the first hour, when he
had caught himself giving such a turn to the lesson that his mother
might learn something new, and had met her gaze, which said,--That's
not the thing to be considered. He returned to his simple plan, without
regard to his mother's presence. She was pleased with the methodical
way in which Eric gave his instruction, and knew how to keep his
pupil's attention. She listened with pleasure, one day, when he said
that Indolence liked to say:--Nothing depends on me, a single
individual; but, a nation and humanity consist of individuals; a
scholar learns through single hours and days; a fruit ripens by single
sunbeams; everything is individual, but the collected individuals make
up the great whole. Eric had prepared himself, and read apposite
passages from Cicero, and from Xenophon's Memorabilia. Roland must feel
that he had the fellowship of the noblest spirits. But when they were
alone, his mother said,--"I think that in illustrating everything and
trying to give your pupil knowledge, you weaken and loosen his firm
hold on fundamental principles."
Eric felt a shock of disappointment; he had hoped that his mother would
express entire pleasure, and she was finding fault instead; but he
controlled himself, and she continued, smiling:--
"I cannot help laughing, because my two points of criticism are really
one and the same, looked at on two sides. The one view is this, that it
seems to me dangerous to give your pupil, as you do, just what he
desires: you follow the devious path of a young discursive mind, and
just there lies the danger of private instruction. I mean, in this way
it pampers the youthful mind by giving it only what it wishes for, not
what it ought to have. The discipline of a definite course of study
lies in the necessity of taking up and carrying forward what the
connected plan requires, and not what may suit the fancy; this fits one
for life too, for life does not always bring what we long for, but what
we need and must have."
"And what is your second point?" asked Eric, as his mother paused.
"My second point is only a repetition of the first. I remember your
father's saying once, that the first and only true support, or rather
the very foundation of education, must be:--'Thou shalt, and thou shalt
not; straight forward without comment, without explanation, without
illustration.' Now ask yourself whether you are not weakening his
character. When our Roland is brought into a conflict, I don't know
whether knowledge will help him, rather than the ancient command: 'Thou
shalt and thou shalt not.' I only say this to you that you may think it
over; others may praise you, I must warn you. I can say, though, that
you have attained one important point; the boy has a holy reverence for
the spirit of the Past."
Eric grasped his mother's hand, and walked on sometime in silence. Then
he explained to her how he wished to give Roland not only knowledge,
but a firm foundation of self-reliance, on which his life might rest.
"My son," replied his mother, "you have set yourself a difficult task;
you want to accomplish a three-fold work at once; that is not possible.
Listen to me patiently. You want to complete and perfect a neglected
education; you want to lead to higher aims, gaining at the same time a
moral foothold and moral elevation, without using the means handed down
to you; and, finally, you want to train a youth, who knows his own
wealth, to be a useful, unselfish, even self-sacrificing man. Now why
do you laugh, pray? I will stop, though I might add, that you want to
make a boy without a family affectionate, and a boy without a country
patriotic. Now tell me why you laugh."
"Forgive me, mother; there's reason in your being called Professorin;
you have discoursed like a Professor from his desk. But let me tell you
that the two-fold or the five-fold task is only a simple one in the
end. I confess I have often said to myself that I might make it easier,
but then I would ask myself whether this was not an attempt to excuse
my own desire of comfort. I must make the experiment of placing a youth
upon the platform of acting freely from----"
"Reason?" responded the mother. "Reason may give composure, but not
happiness nor blessedness; reason may not be the nourishment which
suits the young spirit. Remember, my son, that meat is good food, but
we do not feed a new-born child on meat instead of milk. Do you
understand what I mean?"
"Yes; you mean that religion is the mother's milk of the spirit."
"Exactly," said the Mother, in triumph. "Your father always said that
no man had ever produced any great work, or accomplished any great
deed, who did not believe in God; God is the highest object of
imaginative thought. So long as philosophy cannot show a moral law
which can be written, concisely and with perfect clearness, upon two
tables of stone, education must make its progress through religion."
"Mother," answered Eric, "we believe in God more truly than those who
would confine him within the limits of a book, of a church, or of a
special form of worship."
"Ah," said his mother, "let us drop the subject. Do you see that
butterfly, flitting in great circles against the window pane? The
butterfly takes the glass, from its transparency, to be the open air,
and thinks that he can pass through it, but dashes his head at last
against the glass wall that seemed to be nothing but air. But enough, I
am not strong enough for you. If your father still lived, he could help
you as no one else can."
The conversation, now turning on the father's death, wandered away from
the previous subject.
CHAPTER XI.
AN EXTRAORDINARY SCHOOL-COMMITTEE.
Frau Ceres was jealous because the Professorin devoted less time to
her, and surprised them by suddenly expressing the desire to be present
at the lessons, saying that she had more need of instruction than the
rest. And Sonnenkamp also betook himself to Roland's room. He could
never be idle, and so, when he did not smoke, he had the habit of
whittling all sorts of figures out of a small piece of wood; and he
was especially fond of cutting into grotesque shapes fragments of
grape-vine roots. This was the only way he could sit and listen.
Eric saw that his instruction was interfered with by this heterogeneous
assemblage. The Mother understood his disquiet, without a word being
said, and staid away from the lessons. Frau Ceres and Herr Sonnenkamp
soon did the same.
While Eric was enabled to banish, by a strict fulfilment of his duties,
every trace of the disturbing element introduced by Bella, the Mother
was full of restlessness. She had attained what had been the object of
her strongest wishes, access to a large garden of plants and unlimited
sway therein, and yet she was not quite content.
One morning, as she was walking early in the park with her son, she
said:--
"I have discovered something new in myself: I have no talent for being
a guest."
Eric interposed no questions, for he knew that she would reach the
goal, even if she took a roundabout way. The Mother continued:--
"I have the feeling that I must bring something to pass; I cannot be
forever a passive recipient; and here is the special danger of riches.
The rich look upon themselves as guests in this world; they themselves
have nothing to do, and others must do everything for them. I tell
thee; my dear son, that I cannot stand it, I must do something. You
men, you can work, create, influence, and renew your life by what you
do, while we women can only recreate and restore our life by loving."
Eric suggested that she accomplished her part by simply being, but the
Mother very energetically responded:--
"I am always vexed with Schiller for this: he should not have said, it
isn't like him to write, 'Ordinary natures pay with what they do; noble
ones with what they are.' That sounds like a carte blanche for all
do-nothings, with or without coronets upon their seals."
Eric held up to her the satisfaction arising from her influence upon
Frau Ceres; but the Mother shook her head without any remark.
She had placed great hopes in that, but such an enigmatical and
incomprehensible person was presented to her view, that she seemed to
herself wholly useless. She would not acknowledge to her son that the
house had something oppressive to her; that the family had all its
glory and pride in external possessions, so that everything here
appeared external, directed by alien hands, and altogether destitute of
any strength developed from within.
Fraeulein Perini spoke always of Frau Ceres as "the dear sufferer." From
what was Frau Ceres suffering?
The Professorin had once lightly touched upon the thought how greatly
Frau Ceres must miss her daughter; when, with eyes sparkling like those
of a snake as it suddenly darts up its head, she sent Fraeulein Perini,
who was at hand, into the garden; she then said to the Professorin,
looking timidly round:--
"He is not to blame; I, only I. I wished to punish him when I said that
to my child; but I did not mean she should go away."
The Professorin begged that she would confide the whole to her, but
Frau Ceres laughed like a person wholly beside herself.
"No, no, I shall not say it again, and certainly not to you."
The distress which the Professorin had experienced at the first
interview with Frau Ceres was felt anew. She believed now that she knew
the suffering of the dark-eyed woman, who, sometimes listless, and
sometimes restless as a lizard, was troubled by a thought which she
could not reveal, and could not wholly keep back.
Like a child to whom a story is told, she was urged by Frau Ceres to
tell her over and over again about the court fetes, which alone seemed
to awaken any interest. Frau Ceres was delighted to hear the same
things repeated.
But the mother took care to show that a princess has a special
employment for every hour, and that a regular performance of duty was
of great importance. She spoke earnestly, and came back often to the
consideration, that a woman like Frau Ceres, born in a Republic, could
have not the remotest conception of all this, and that it was like
being suddenly removed into another century.
"I understand everything that you and your son say," Frau Ceres stated,
"but what other people say, except the Major, I hear it indeed, but I
don't know where I am. Just think, I was afraid of you at first."
"Of me? No one was ever afraid of me before."
"I will tell you about it some other time. Ah, I am sick, I am always
sick."
The Mother did not succeed in arousing Frau Ceres out of her life of
mere alternate sleeping and waking.
Sonnenkamp met the Mother with demonstrations of deepest respect, and
seemed to practise upon her his airs and attitudes of genteel behavior.
He delicately hinted that he had faithfully kept the agreement, and had
never asked her what his wife said and desired; and now he would only
beg to be permitted to make one inquiry, whether Frau Ceres had never
spoken of Manna.
"Certainly, but very briefly."
"And may I not be allowed to know what this brief communication was?"
"I don't know myself; it is still a riddle. But, I beseech you, do not
lead me to disloyalty and breach of trust."
"Breach of trust." cried Sonnenkamp with trembling lips.
"Ah, it was not the right word. Your wife has confided nothing to me,
but I believe,--I pray you not to mistake me,--I suspect, she is
secretly afraid of Fraeulein Perini, or is vexed or angry with her. As I
said before, I am very far from meaning to blame Fraeulein Perini, and I
almost repent of having said as much as I have."
"You can be at rest on that point. My wife would like to send Fraeulein
Perini out of the house ten times every day, and ten times every day to
call her back again. There is no person, not even yourself, who is more
needful to her and more useful than Fraeulein Perini." The Professorin
longed to be out of the house, and she could find no adequate reason
for the deep hold which the desire had taken upon her. She had no
desire to be made the depositary of secrets, nor to solve riddles, and
yet she was incessantly occupied with the thought of the daughter of
the house. A child, a grownup girl, whom such a family abandoned,
perhaps this maiden was a charge for her; but how it was to be, she
could not perceive, and yet the thought would not leave her.
She wanted to question the Major, Clodwig, and Bella; and she would
even have liked to have recourse to Pranken, but Pranken had not been
visible for several weeks. She got Joseph to show her Manna's room one
day; and while there, it seemed to her as if the dear child were
calling her, and as if it were her duty to lend her a helping hand.
She wrote a letter to the Superior, informing her that she would pay
her a visit at the first opportunity.
CHAPTER XII.
FRAU PETRA.
When Sonnenkamp was alone in the garden, in the hot-houses, in the
work-room, or his seed-room, he wore perpetually a complacent,
triumphant smile, often congratulating himself upon his success in
making persons and circumstances play into his hands, ruling, bending,
and directing them, just as he did the fruit in the garden.
The refractoriness and the indolence of Frau Ceres were very
serviceable, at first, in lending to the whole establishment an air of
respectability. It gave the appearance of self-containedness, as if
there was no need of other people; as if there was everything in their
own circle, and what should be superadded to this would be received
graciously, but was not an absolute necessity. But this appearance of
seclusion soon became a sort of mysterious riddle, and excited
curiosity and scandal.
Sonnenkamp had foreseen this, but had not anticipated that this state
of feeling would last so long. The shyness and reserve of the dwellers
in the vicinity in forming any intimate relations with him, and their
failure to visit him on familiar terms, gradually disturbed him. This
distance must not be allowed to have too much weight, it had better not
be noticed; and complaisance must be shown towards these who hold
themselves thus distantly, and it must not be seen that their bearing
is remarked at all.
The relation to Otto von Pranken had begun with the stable, but
proceeding farther, by the connection of the families promised now a
firm basis in the future. Until now, Sonnenkamp's house, park, and
garden, considered as a whole, seemed like some isolated, alien, and
extraneous plant within a flower-pot. Through Eric and his family the
roots had begun to spread, and the plant to grow independently in the
open ground.
The intimate relation with Clodwig and Bella, which Pranken had not
been able to bring about, had been effected through Eric; and now the
Professor's widow was to carry that still farther, by giving and
receiving visits which would naturally unite the families.
Sonnenkamp very cautiously expressed to the Mother his regret, that his
wife did not incline to keep up a neighborly acquaintance with the
respectable families around. The Mother had a desire to get a look into
the life of this part of the country, and to express thanks to those
who had manifested so much friendliness towards her son. She wanted
first to visit the house of the Doctor. Sonnenkamp suggested that she
should then call upon the Justice's family. He placed his whole house
at her disposal if she wished to make invitations.
One beautiful Sunday in the latter part of summer was fixed upon for
visiting the neighborhood.
Frau Ceres had promised to go with them, but when the morning came for
them to start, she declared that it was impossible. The Professorin now
observed, for the first time, a spice of artfulness in her; she had
consented, evidently, to avoid being urged; and now she planted herself
upon her own will, without making any plea of ill health.
Fraeulein Perini remained at home with her.
They drove first to Herr von Endlich's, although they might have known
that the family were absent; they wanted only to leave their cards.
From Herr von Endlich's Sonnenkamp returned to the villa, and left
Roland, Eric, and the Mother, to proceed to the town. He called out to
them at parting, that they must take care not to drink all the wine
that should be offered them.
And when the Mother was now driving with Eric and Roland, the thought
occurred to her that she was not making these visits on her own
account; but she was just as happy in making them as the representative
of her friendly host.
Roland wished them to stop as they were going along, for they met
Claus, the field-guard. Roland introduced him to Eric's mother; she
extended her hand, and said she would soon give him a call.
Claus, looking very much gratified, and pointing to Roland, replied:--
"Yes, yes, if I had to turn out a grandmother for him, it would be
nobody else but you."
They laughed, and drove on. When they reached the town, the bells of
the newly-erected Protestant church were just ringing. It stood upon a
hill, from which there was a wide view of the country around.
The Mother stopped, and went with Eric and Roland into the church.
Roland had never been in a Protestant church while service was going
on. The Mother requested him not to go in now, when she heard him say
this, but to proceed directly with Eric to the town; he was bent,
however, upon remaining with her.
They entered the simple, plain building just as the congregation was
finishing the hymn. The Mother was pained to hear a discourse on
eternal punishment, delivered in a high-pitched voice, and regretted in
her own mind that she had yielded to Roland.
After they had taken a survey of the cheering landscape on coming out,
the Mother took Roland's hand, saying:--
"When you are prepared for it, I shall make you acquainted with one of
your countrymen, from whom you can get higher views."
"Is it Benjamin Franklin? I know him."
"No; the man I speak of is a preacher who died only a few years ago; a
man of the deepest religious nature. I am glad to have known him
personally; he has been a guest at our house, and I have taken him by
the hand. He and your father, Eric, became intimate friends at once."
"Do you mean Theodore Parker?" inquired Eric.
"I mean him, and I feel elevated to have had such a man live with us."
"Why have you never spoken of this man?" said Roland, turning to Eric.
"Because I did not wish to interfere with the faith in which you were
brought up."
Eric said this without meaning to reprove his mother, and yet she was
alarmed when she heard his reply; she repeated, that Roland would learn
about the man after his judgment had become more mature.
The mischief, however, had been done, of pointing out to the youth
something which was now withheld from him; and as he had never been
accustomed to being denied, anything, he would now, as usual, be eager
after what was forbidden, and if it was not given him, he would take
secret measures to get it himself.
Eric and Roland received the salutation of many coming out of church.
Eric introduced his mother to the School-director, the Forester, his
wife and sister-in-law, who all accompanied the friends into the town.
The walk along the public highway was pleasant; there is nothing, on
the whole, like this pleasant mood with which a large number of persons
of various condition and character return from church.
"Wasn't the Doctor's wife at church?" asked the Mother.
They told her that she never went on Sunday morning, but staid at home
to comfort the country people who came early on Sunday; she often gave
them simple household remedies, and arranged the order in which they
should be admitted to the Doctor on his return.
Eric now heard, for the first time, that they called the Doctor's wife
Frau Petra. She had something of St. Peter's office, the keeping of the
door into the heavenly kingdom of healing.
They entered the Doctor's house. The cleanliness of the entry floor and
steps was notable as usual, and on the walls good pictures were
hanging, no one of which seemed to owe its position to chance. Green
climbing-plants were standing upon pier-tables, and sending out their
tendrils in all directions. In the sitting-room the work-table was
placed under the window, before which was a street-mirror; and on the
table itself stood a camelia in full bloom. They heard the Doctor's
wife saying in the next room,--
"Yes, good Nanny, you are talking the whole time about religion and
conformity to the will of God, and now you are clear down in the depths
of despair, and out of patience, and unwilling to take kindly advice.
My husband can give medicine, but you must give yourself love and
patience. And you, Anna, you give your child too much to eat and then
you have to keep coming for help. One can't get understanding at the
apothecary's. And you, Peter, you go home and apply a bandage wet with
warm vinegar."
Nothing further was heard. Apparently the servant had come in and
announced the arrival of the visitors.
The door opened, and the Doctor's wife entered. She gave a hearty
greeting to the Mother, and ordered the servant to bring a bottle of
wine and three glasses. In spite of the Mother's refusal, the gentlemen
must drink.
When the Professorin lauded the beneficent influence of the Doctor's
wife, the latter at once accepted the praise saying,--
"One can learn something in more than forty years' experience, such as
I have had. At first I shuddered, but I was always angry with myself
for it; now I have learned from my husband what stands me in the best
stead."
"What is that?"
"Rude bluntness, the only effectual thing. Each one is thinking about
himself, but why talk about myself?"
She expressed her satisfaction at becoming acquainted with the Mother.
The two ladies smiled when Roland said:--
"We went to the church, and from there we came to you, and we think we
are much better off here."
The wine came, and Eric and Roland drank the health of the Doctor's
substitute. Then they went to the study of the Physician, and Eric
explained the anatomical charts to Roland.
The Mother urged the Doctor's wife, with whom she was visiting, to
return her visit soon, and expressed the hope of great good to result
to Frau Ceres from her resolute nature.
"I should be afraid of being too blunt," answered the Doctor's wife,
whose nature was in reality exceedingly gentle and considerate.
"I trust you will pardon my boldness; is it true that Manna is to be
taken from the convent, and have her education completed by you?"
The Mother was amazed. What was to her only a vague thought, was the
gossip of the neighborhood. She could not imagine what had given rise
to it, and the Doctor's wife could not tell where she had heard it.
When the Mother now made particular inquiries about Manna, the Doctor's
wife said that Roland was the only one of Sonnenkamp's family whom she
knew. She knew nothing at all about Manna; but Lina, the Justice's
daughter, had been her friend, and from her something definite might be
learned.
The Physician joined them, but did not stay long. He waited only to
get, as soon as he could, the report from his wife.
The Mother took leave, and Frau Petra did not urge her to remain,
saying that she had still to speak with several of the patients before
they went.
In lively spirits they left the house.
They had to wait longer at the Justice's, for wife and daughter must
first make their toilet. When they finally appeared, they had many
apologies to make for the disorderly appearance of the room, and for
their own hurried toilet; yet dress and room were as neat and pretty as
one could wish.
The messenger was sent after the Justice, who was taking his Sunday's
glass; and when at last the Professorin had taken a seat in the corner
of the sofa, where one could hardly find room among the embroidered
cushions, a pleasant conversation ensued. The Justice's wife had
adroitly made mention of her father, whom the Mother knew, and they
gradually established an agreeable intercourse, after the first awkward
preliminaries were all over. The Professorin knew how to draw Lina
out, and was greatly pleased with her bright description of the
convent-life. Lina was encouraged by this, so that she became more and
more animated and communicative, to her mother's great astonishment.
The Justice made his appearance. He had evidently swallowed down his
glass hastily, for nothing ought to be left unfinished. He shook the
hand of the Professorin longer and harder than was at all necessary,
and assured her humorously--humor seemed very odd on the little man's
grave face--of his magisterial protection. He then gave an account to
Eric and Roland of the Pole's having broken out of the House of
Correction, and of their having put up an advertisement for his
apprehension, but they would be glad never to see him again.
The Justice's wife and Lina put on their hats, and went with their
guests by a circuitous path along the Rhine to the house of the
School-director, not without some consciousness, perhaps, of the good
appearance they were making. Eric walked with the Justice's wife, the
Justice joined Roland, and Lina went with the Professorin.
Lina began of her own accord to talk of Manna, of her present
melancholy, and of her former liveliness; she had cherished the most
enthusiastic love towards her father, so that it seemed as if she could
not leave him for a single day; and Lina begged the Mother to use her
influence to have Manna return once more.
The Mother carefully refrained from making any inquiries, but it struck
her strangely that from these visits, made only out of politeness, a
new duty seemed to be unfolding before her.
If she had been able to imagine that she was only used by Sonnenkamp to
play into his own hands, she would have been still more astonished at
the various phases which one simple occurrence may assume.
They did not find the family of the School-director or of the Forester
at home; as they were returning in the carriage and driving by the
Doctor's house, his wife was standing in the doorway; she called to
them to stop.
She came out to them, and said that she had forgotten to remind the
Mother to call upon the Major and Fraeulein Milch to-day; the Major was
very good-natured, but he was very sensitive in regard to the respect
shown him, and he never forgave any one for neglecting to pay the
proper attention to Fraeulein Milch. Fraeulein Milch was a very
excellent, respectable person, if they could overlook one thing.
They returned to the villa in good spirits.
The first person they met in the courtyard was the Major. He looked
somewhat out of humor, but his countenance lighted up when the
Professorin said that she had intended to call upon him and Fraeulein
Milch to-day, and to get a cup of coffee, as she unfortunately could
not fall into the ways of this part of the country, and drink wine
every day.
The Major nodded; but he soon went off to send a child of the porter's
to Fraeulein Milch with the welcome message.
The Mother was very animated, and Eric expressed his joy that his
mother experienced something of that exhilaration produced by a sight
of the life of the people and the life of nature along the Rhine.
When Roland came to dinner, he said in a low tone to the Professorin:--
"I have looked into the Conversations-Lexicon, and to-day is Theodore
Parker's birthday; to-day is the twenty-fourth of August."
The Mother whispered that it would be well for him to speak of it to no
one but her.
CHAPTER XIII.
SOUR CREAM SWEETENED.
The Major had never been in better spirits at the table than to-day. He
forgot to beckon to Joseph to fill up a second time his glass with the
favorite Burgundy.
Frau Ceres smiled dubiously when the Professorin gave an account of the
excellent people she had seen, the refreshing influence of the prospect
of river and mountain, and the yet fairer one of such noble, genuine,
domestic life. She added that she had but little acquaintance with
other lands, but it was certain that no land surpassed Germany in real
depth of feeling and generally diffused culture. Cities and villages,
that were only empty names to the traveller whizzing by, concealed
within them the beautiful and the best adornments of humanity.
"Nowhere, not in any place where church-bells have rung, has a better
sermon been preached than that," said the Major to Eric. He then rose.
"Now, the Mother--all of you drink with me--now, long life to the
Mother; she enjoys life herself, and makes other people see life on its
beautiful and fair side, and the Builder of all the worlds will bless
her for it. My brothers!--I mean my--my--then, long life to the
Professorin."
Never before had the Major made so long a speech at table, and never
had he been so joyous as to-day. Soon after dinner he went towards
home, repeating over to himself by the way the words of his speech, for
he specially prided himself on being able to give it to Fraeulein Milch
word for word. All the reputation in the world is of no account if she
does not praise him, for she has the best insight into everything.
When he reached the house, and Fraeulein Milch complained to him that
to-day her sweet cream had turned sour, and not a drop was to be got in
the whole village, he signified to her by a wave of the hand that she
was to keep silence, so that he should not forget his toast. Placing
himself directly in front of her, he said:--
"This is the speech I made at dinner." Laadi looked up at her master,
when she heard him declaiming with such energy, and when the Major had
concluded, she signified by a bark that she comprehended him. The Major
did not mean to tell a lie, but the speech was assuredly better, at
least it was longer, as he rehearsed it now to Fraeulein Milch, than the
one he had made. She said, when he got through:--
"I am only glad that there were some good people there to hear you."
Fraeulein Milch did not take to Herr and Frau Sonnenkamp; but she
especially disliked Fraeulein Perini.
"Why haven't you spread our beautiful white table-cloth?" asked the
Major, when he surveyed the neat table set in the garden.
"Because the white is too dazzling in the sunlight."
"That's true; it's well. Mustn't I shut Laadi up? she's so
demonstrative."
"No; just let the dog be loose."
The Major was quite in despair that he could not do something to show
honor to his guests.
After a while he came back in triumph, for he had done something which
was a great sacrifice for him; he had begged the Grand-master's cook to
give him a pitcher of fresh cream. He scarcely ever borrowed anything,
but to-day an exception must be made.
He managed to place the pitcher upon the table unnoticed by Fraeulein
Milch, and put his hand up to his mouth to keep himself from laughing
outright, when he thought of the Fraeulein's astonishment at finding
sweet cream upon the table.
He did still more. He went into the sitting-room and dragged his great,
leather-covered easy-chair into the garden, for the Professorin to sit
in; but when Fraeulein Milch came out, she surprised him by pointing out
that the easy-chair would not bear the bright sunlight out-of-doors.
They carried it back together.
"Sha'n't we go to meet them?" said the Major, who had taken out his
spy-glass; "just look through,--stop, I'll alter it,--there; I think
there's somebody in sight down yonder."
Fraeulein Milch begged him to be quiet, and the Major looked now as if
he were ready to weep. Laying his hand on Fraeulein Milch's shoulder, he
said,--
"It's hard--very hard--cruel--bad--very bad--very cruel that I can't
say, Here, Frau Dournay, here is my wife."
Fraeulein Milch wheeled about swiftly, and there was a freezing coldness
in her whole demeanor.
"For Heaven's sake, what's the matter?"
The dog barked as if she would say, "What's all this? What do you look
so angry for?"
"I'm quiet now--I'm quiet now! Be easy, Laadi," said the Major
soothingly. He was so exhausted, that he was obliged to sit down; he
tried to light his long pipe, but it went out.
He stood by the garden-fence, drumming with his fingers upon one of the
rails, and lost in so deep a reverie, that the guests stood before him,
without his having noticed their approach.
The meeting of the Mother and Fraeulein Milch was not so cordial as the
Major had hoped it would be. Each seemed to hold back a little, and
they evidently gave each other a close inspection. But the Major
laughed inwardly when he thought of the sweet cream, which Fraeulein
Milch poured out just as usual, without noticing it.
He soon tapped with his stump-finger upon his forehead, saying to
himself,--
"She's much too smart to make any fuss before strangers. O, she's wise;
one can't know how wise she is!"
How he would have liked to say that to the Professorin! But he resolved
to speak as little as possible to-day, and leave the field wholly to
Fraeulein Milch.
Just the right subject of conversation did not seem to come up; but
when the Doctor's wife was mentioned, Fraeulein Milch expressed her
respect for the noble woman, who had just the right sort of
aristocracy.
"And what do you mean by the right sort of aristocracy?"
"It seems to me to receive every one's respect and honor."
"Exactly so, and that perhaps is still truer of Frau Dournay,"
interposed the Major.
It seemed to him that Fraeulein Milch sneered a trifle, and it was not
pleasant to him.
The Mother asked Fraeulein Milch if she were a native of this part of
the country.
She answered curtly in the negative.
At last an expedient occurred to the Major. Two strange horses must be
left in the stable by themselves; perhaps they will kick a little at
first, but they are soon on good terms. He busied himself in giving a
long account to Eric and Roland of the vineyard, which would this year
yield wine for the first time, virgin wine as it was called; they must
go with him to see it.
The ladies were now by themselves. The Mother wanted to say something
commendatory of Fraeulein Milch, about whom she had heard so many
favorable things; but this did not exactly suit her, and by a happy
turn she referred to the strangeness of the change in her own life, and
how much she needed help.
This was the right key to touch, for Fraeulein Milch was in her element
whenever she could render any advice and assistance. She took an
unexpectedly deep view, saying that a firm position in life could be
kept, so long as one's self-respect was preserved. The Mother was
surprised at the tact and knowledge of the world she displayed. She
expected to see a narrow-minded, frivolous, talkative housewife, and
here was evidence of refined thought which could be the result only of
deep and mature reflection.
She wanted to say, You are more than your circumstances would indicate;
but she refrained, and expressed anew her satisfaction at the beauty of
the landscape, which was continually unfolding hidden charms, and at
the rich fulness of life, as revealed in human beings, who even in
solitude cherished refined thoughts and noble sentiments. Fraeulein
Milch, who had seated herself with her cup of coffee a little apart
from the table, now drew up nearer, and beginning with an allusion to
Eric's discreet management, she proceeded to give a clear-sighted
characterization of Herr Sonnenkamp and his wife.
She did not mention Fraeulein Perini. She only expressed her regret that
Herr Sonnenkamp, who was not really hardhearted, should have no
systematic beneficence. She drew a picture of the necessitous condition
of various people in the neighborhood, for she knew everybody for miles
around. The Mother said finally:--
"I thank you; you remind me of a work which I had lost sight of, and
which was the very reason of my coming here. If I have the disposal of
Herr Sonnenkamp's charities, will you assist me?"
Fraeulein Milch promised to do so; but she suggested that it would be
very much more expedient for the Professorin to have the cooperation of
the daughter of the house; in this way many good results could be
secured. The girl, who was serious and earnest, would take again her
proper place, and the immeasurable wealth of the father would have a
secure and immovable basis if it were intrusted to the care of the
daughter of the house.
The Mother's eyes gleamed as she looked, at Fraeulein Milch; yonder the
Doctor's wife, and here the housekeeper, are appealing to her to bring
Manna out of the convent, and initiate her into an active life of
common usefulness.
She made, very cautiously, further inquiries of the charitable and
sensible housekeeper concerning the people in the neighborhood, but
Fraeulein Milch evaded them. She affirmed that she did not have the
right view of people; she saw them on Sundays and holidays, when they
were in a merry mood, singing, and going up and down the mountain with
wreaths on their heads; but whoever was not in the very midst of this
hilarious movement, whoever observed it from the window, or from behind
the garden hedge, could form no suitable estimate of it; generally the
whole seems one undistinguishable jumble, just as when one stops his
ears and looks at people dancing, but hears nothing of the music.
The Mother led the talk back to Manna, and, forgetting her usual marked
reserve, Fraeulein Milch declared that Manna must have received some
severe shock, as it was not natural for any one to go from the extreme
of overbearing pride to the extreme of humility.
"I will relate to you one little incident of Manna, and you will know
what she is. A stinging fly, a Rhine-gnat, as it is called, alighted on
her hand, and sucked her blood; she quietly let it suck, and then said:
'The ugly fly! I have let it drink my blood without disturbing it, and
just for that it has stung me.' Now can't you know what the child is
from this little trait, supposing that they have not spoiled her in the
convent? I can speak of the child with so much the more freedom, as she
has a dislike to me, of which Fraeulein Perini was the cause."
Fraeulein Milch now launched out into a passionate invective against
Pranken.
She acknowledged that her aversion to him arose from his making the
Major the target of his wit, more than was attributable to youthful
arrogance; he was both witty and supercilious. And it was so much the
more remarkable that now he should pretend to be pious, and that too,
before he had married Manna; there must be some deep-laid game here,
not easily seen through.
Engaged thus in friendly intercourse, the two women got to know each
other. Frau Dournay, with her naturally ladylike and easy bearing,
imparted a great deal, without seeming to do so; Fraeulein Milch, with
her acquired culture, which did not sit gracefully upon her, in every
communication of deep thought showed plainly the difficult steps by
which she had made it her own. When the Professorin spoke with such
ease and fluency, Fraeulein Milch nodded, saying to herself; "Yes,
forsooth! this lady has sat down at the table all spread, and been
served by others, with all the means of culture, while I have had to
cook my own food and to set my own table."
The Major saw from a distance the two women take each other by the
hand, and he spoke to Laadi fondling words that he would like to have
spoken to Fraeulein Milch.
"You are a pretty creature, smarter than all the world put
together--clear as the day--quiet and steady--not you, Laadi,--what are
you looking at me so for?"
He returned to the garden, Roland and Eric following immediately.
As the Major was escorting the Professorin a part of the way home, she
said:--
"I believe that I am acquainted now not only with the two best, but
also the two happiest people in this region."
The Major remained some time standing in the same place, and looking
after the departing guests; then turning his eyes upward, he said:--
"Thanks to thee, thou Builder of all the worlds! Thou knowest what I
would say, without my speaking,--oh dear!"
BOOK VIII.
CHAPTER I.
ON GOETHE'S BIRTH-DAY.
The swiftly-flowing Rhine between its bends seems transformed into a
lake, until, curving around the jutting mountain, it continues its
course.
This is very much the case with the story we are narrating.
The Mother wanted to go straightforward to the goal she had in view,
but many obstacles interposed. First came a very pressing invitation
from Clodwig, for the Mother and the whole of Sonnenkamp's family to
celebrate Goethe's birth-day at Wolfsgarten.
The invitation was accepted; but Frau Ceres and Fraeulein Perini
remained at home.
They drove to Wolfsgarten. Eric did not say it in so many words, but
his eyes expressed how much he felt protected and supported by the
Mother's presence, in entering the house of his friend; she seemed a
living testimony that he crossed the threshold with a pure heart and a
pure eye. Yet he could not suppress all anxiety in regard to his first
meeting with Bella. She came with the Aunt, as far as the wood, to meet
them.
Bella embraced the Mother, and again thanked her for having subjected
herself to the self-denial of letting Aunt Claudine remain with her.
Extending her hand to Eric, she said, with a sort of chilled look:--
"You were his first thought to-day, my young friend."
She said nothing further, and did not mention her husband's name.
Rain began to fall before they reached Wolfsgarten, and it did not
cease during the whole day, so that they were confined in doors.
Clodwig was remarkably cheerful and happy, and the day passed off with
a joyousness that is possible only to persons in entire leisure, and
perhaps only on the banks of the Rhine.
Roland was the happiest of all; he seemed to be the life and connecting
link of the company, looking up at every one, as if he would ask:--
"Why are you not as glad as I am?"
He went from the Mother to the Aunt, from her to Bella and to Clodwig,
to and fro, as if he must let every one know how pleasant and home-like
a circle he had found. He was in such very good spirits, that at last
he said:--
"Ah! when sister Manna comes home, she will see at once that uncle,
aunt, grandfather and all are here, just as if they had grown upon
trees."
The inquiry was made where Pranken was.
They said he had gone to stay with an agriculturist devoted to the
church, the convent-farmer, as he was called; for there was nothing, at
the present day, to which an ecclesiastical coloring and characteristic
was not given. Pranken had the good fortune, by this means, to be near
the convent, whose lands were farmed by the agriculturist.
They assembled in the grand saloon, from which three doors opened upon
the covered piazza adorned with flowers and hanging-plants, and
furnished with comfortable seats.
As they were quietly sitting and chatting together, Clodwig suddenly
raised his hand as a signal for them to be silent; they understood his
meaning and ceased talking. He had taken out his watch, and now said:--
"This is the very moment Goethe was born. I beg," he added with a
kindly glance, "I, beg Bella and Fraeulein Dournay----"
The ladies understood what he meant, and seating themselves at the
piano, played Beethoven's Overture to Egmont, arranged as a duet.
Clodwig, leaning back in his chair, listened with closed eyes; the
Professorin was sitting near him, while Eric, holding Roland by the
hand, was upon the piazza.
At the conclusion of the Overture, Clodwig informed them that he had
been so fortunate as to know Goethe personally, and related a variety
of pleasing anecdotes.
The Mother expressed her regret at never having heard the voice of the
exalted genius, nor looked him in the eye, although she was old enough,
at the time he died, to know what he was, even if she could not fully
comprehend him. She recounted the fact of a man's coming to her
father's house, as they were sitting down to dinner, and informing them
that news of Goethe's death had just been brought. An elderly lady was
so affected by it, that she could not sit down with them to dinner.
In the qualified view he then expressed, she had gained an acquaintance
for the first time with her husband's mind; for while he held Goethe in
the highest veneration, he had asserted that the Master had made poetic
art too effeminate, in placing woman too directly as the central point
of living interests, and giving the impression to men, that poesy and
an acquaintance with it, were the province of woman, just as so many
Free-thinkers, as they were styled, regarded religion as belonging
peculiarly to her.
Clodwig opposed this view of Goethe; he dwelt with special emphasis
upon the difficulty experienced in our modern life, which does not
admit of the worship of genius, as it is termed; for this worship could
be possible only where a pure manifestation of God, a theophany, was
granted. When limitations were placed to this, worship was no longer
possible.
It was scarcely noticed that Bella, Claudine and Herr Sonnenkamp had
left the saloon, for Bella had requested Herr Sonnenkamp that he would
give her some advice about the new arrangements of her conservatory.
And thus Clodwig and the Mother were now left alone in the saloon,
while Eric and Roland were sitting in silence upon the piazza, and
listening to Clodwig as he added, that the future would no longer,
perhaps, have any formal cultus, when there was the true consecration
of the spirit in actual life.
Eric and Roland listened with bated breath, as Clodwig and the Mother
acknowledged to each other the influence which the Master had exerted
upon the development of their life and the training of their minds.
They thoroughly discussed that work too little known, "Goethe's
Conversations with Eckermann," which brings us into the living,
personal presence of the Master of masters. Clodwig represented that
the youth of today no longer had the same veneration for Goethe; and
the Professorin informed him that her deceased husband--she quoted him
repeatedly--had explained this by saying, that the youth of to-day
regarded themselves, first of all, as citizens, and this life as a
citizen, this active influence in the State, had not dawned upon
Goethe, and it was not his sphere.
They again extolled, as in an alternate chant, the influence of Goethe
in enriching and in deepening their life.
Eric and Roland listened in silence; once only, Eric said in a low
tone,--
"Note, Roland, this is glory, this is renown, this is the noblest
good-fortune, for a man to exert such an influence that his spirit
always gives fresh inspiration; that two persons shall sit in after
years, and derive mutual edification from recalling what one who is
dead and gone has been the means of establishing."
Roland looked into the large, gleaming eyes of Eric, who could have
embraced the youth as he said,--
"For once, I am present at your devotions."
Again the two in the saloon spoke, and now Eric heard his name
mentioned, as the Mother said,--
"Eric reads Goethe's poems aloud very well."
He got up at once, and was ready to do it.
Bella, Aunt Claudine, and Herr Sonnenkamp were called in, and Eric read
aloud, but to-day not so well as usual, for there were many things
which might be taken as the embodiment of emotions in his own heart and
in that of Bella.
They sat down to dinner in an elevated frame of mind, as after a
religious service.
Clodwig could not speak often enough of the good-fortune, which had led
the son of one of the guests to become the life-guide of the son of
another.
He plunged deeply into the consideration that one Spirit, who presided
over all, had prepared and fitted the one to impart the highest he
possessed to the other.
He said very naturally, that Manna ought to leave the convent, as no
one could aid her to complete her education more worthily than the
Mother.
Sonnenkamp and the Mother looked at each other in amazement, for
another was expressing their own silent convictions.
Sonnenkamp thanked Clodwig very meekly for the deep interest he felt in
his family, and said that a suggestion of Clodwig's had to him the
weight of a higher command, and he hoped that the Professorin would
receive it as such. She promised to undertake the charge, as her only
satisfaction was in being useful.
The rain still continued. Again they assembled in the grand saloon, and
now Bella displayed her proficiency in arts that no one knew her to be
mistress of. She appeared, having a red velvet curtain draped about her
in the Grecian style, and imitated a famous Italian player with
wonderful fidelity to the life. She went out, and appeared again as a
Parisian grisette; then she afterwards appeared as a Tyrolese singer,
every time wholly different, and hardly recognizable.
She excited the most merriment when she imitated in succession three
different beggar-women,--a Catholic, a Protestant, and a Jew. She
enacted also, with the same applause, a scene in which a Catholic, a
Protestant, and a Jewish woman came separately to the dentist, to have
an aching tooth extracted. And without degenerating into caricature,
she took off her acquaintances, all with such perfect grace and such
accuracy of delineation, that words failed to express the admiration.
Clodwig said in a low tone to the Mother: "You may well be proud that
she makes this exhibition before you, for she cannot be easily induced
to do it in any one's presence whom she does not value highly."
Sonnenkamp added that it was a magnificent but wasteful luxury to
possess such talent, and not to exhibit it to the delight of the whole
world.
Eric, meanwhile, watched with a mixed feeling these dramatic
representations, which he could not help admiring. How rich a nature
Bella possessed! And how hard it must be for her to circumscribe her
manifold activity within the narrow bounds of a limited sphere of duty!
But Bella, to-day, had thrown herself into the various parts with all
her energy; she desired to have every feeling and every remembrance
effaced from her own and from Eric's soul. Eric had this impression,
but he made no remark. Bella spoke to him once only, telling him that
the Russian Prince, who was staying with Weidmann, wrote frequently to
her, and desired to be remembered to him; and that he also wrote in the
warmest terms of esteem concerning Roland's earlier tutor, Master
Knopf.
In the emphasis which she placed upon the word tutor, Bella seemed
desirous of setting up again between her and Eric the old boundary line
that had disappeared.
Towards evening the rain held up, and the sun came out with that
inexpressible glory of coloring only to be seen when the mountains
glow, and seem transfigured with its misty beams. They immediately set
out towards home.
The whole day seemed a perfect series of fantastic forms. Roland was
continually giving expression to his astonishment at the versatility of
the Countess; but Sonnenkamp offered his hand to the Mother, saying,--
"If agreeable to you, we will to-morrow pay a visit to my daughter."
The Mother nodded assent. Sonnenkamp was highly pleased; he had perfect
confidence in the nobleness of her motives, and, for awhile, he himself
experienced a like elevation. It is such a fine thing, and people are
so happy in taking up with things of that sort, and it always pays
well, at any rate, in making one feel comfortably.
But very soon the consciousness of his own triumphant power came
uppermost; the world subserves his plans, and it is his chief delight
to make people his tools and playthings, and balance himself on their
shoulders. And it exactly suited his purpose that Clodwig and the
Professorin adopted his own secret plan; they must now feel grateful to
him for carrying out their desires, at the very time they were of
service to him, and were helping him to bring to a successful issue his
main design. He saw in this a confirmation of his claim to be a being
of a higher species, one who disposes as he will of others, and at the
same time makes them feel under obligation to him.
On the evening of his return, Sonnenkamp ordered the gardener to place
the next day Manna's favorite flower, the mignonette, in every part of
her room.
CHAPTER II.
AN ISLAND PLOUGHED UP.
Humility, respect, and helpful kindness were manifest in Sonnenkamp's
whole demeanor, as he extended his hand to the Professorin on her
getting out of the carriage; as he conducted her to the steamboat; as
he looked out for a seat protected from the draught and giving an
uninterrupted prospect; as he supplied all her wants and asked if there
was any thing he could do for her.
The Professorin was startled when she perceived that she had forgotten
a book which she had laid upon the table, intending to take it with
her, but had left it there. She evaded Sonnenkamp's question what was
the name of the book, for she could well imagine, that the writings of
the man she held in such high veneration would not be agreeable to
Sonnenkamp. She said in a joking way that she had lived so long in the
society of the learned world, that even making a trip on the Rhine, in
a clear, bright sunshine, she thought she must have a book with her.
She must give herself up wholly to the scenery and to her own thoughts.
Sonnenkamp seated himself near her, and said in a tone of genuine
emotion, that he could not but congratulate his children, nay, almost
envy them, that they were to live in the society of a woman of such a
youthful spirit.
The more he talked, the tenderer he became, and his eyes glistened as
if moistened with tears. He frequently said that he could not speak of
his youthful years, which were arid and desolate, with no gentle hand
of woman to soothe him with caresses. The strong man was deeply moved,
as he spoke of his childhood in words that partly veiled and partly
revealed his meaning. At last he came to the main point, composing
himself by a violent effort. The Professorin felt that she must first
inquire into the reason why Manna had became so alienated from him.
Bending down his head, he proceeded to say:--
"They may have told her something that I disdained to contradict. Were
you, honored lady, to know what it was, you would without hesitation
pronounce it to be a falsehood devised by the most malignant
hostility."
The Professorin desired to know what was said, but he replied that if
he should repeat it, he should run mad here on board the boat. His
features, that had been composed and placid, were suddenly distorted in
a fearful manner.
The Professorin now dwelt upon the visit that she was going to make to
the Superior, the friend of her youth, and begged Herr Sonnenkamp to
avoid all direct endeavor to influence his daughter in favor of
herself.
"Children," she said, "must make their own friends, and they cannot
receive them ready made from others. One must be careful not to intrude
one's self upon them, and to wait quietly and patiently, until they
come of their own accord."
Sonnenkamp considered this so judicious, that he promised not to go
with her, in the first instance, to the island, but to remain at the
inn on this side of the river until the Professorin should send for
him.
"You are as good as you are wise," he said praisingly, for he detected
as he thought in the lady's unobtrusiveness a politic motive; and he
was pleased in the notion of circumventing all cunning with a deeper
cunning still.
While Sonnenkamp and the Mother were sailing down the Rhine, a strange
circumstance occurred on the convent-island From one end of the year to
the other, no horse was to be seen upon the island, except when the
ground was ploughed. The pupils in amazement pointed out to each other
a plough, which a horse was drawing up and down the extreme point of
the island. A noble-looking farmer in a blue blouse, and with a gray
hat drawn down over his eyes, was guiding the plough. The children
stood at a distance watching the plough, as if it were some novel
wonder, and looked at Manna for permission to go nearer in order to
observe it. She nodded permission, and they walked along the gravelled
walk by the side of the field. Then the ploughman, taking off his hat,
made a salutation; Manna remained standing with a fixed look as if she
were under a spell. Is that not Herr von Pranken? He continued his
ploughing and said nothing. As he turned the plough, to come back, he
looked towards her and smiled; it was he.
"He's a splendid-looking ploughman," said one of the girls.
"And he seems so genteel," exclaimed another.
"And he has a seal ring on his finger," cried a third. "Who knows that
this is not a knight in disguise!"
Manna called to the children to return with her. She went into her
cell, from which the field could be overlooked, but she kept away from
the window. She felt flattered that Pranken should subject himself to
the most humble condition, in order to be near her, and she felt
grateful to him for being so modest and considerate as not to speak to
her. She debated with herself whether she should not mention it to the
Superior, but she came to the conclusion that she had no right to
betray Herr von Pranken's secret; besides, so far from there being any
harm in it, it was the noblest tribute of respect.
Going to the window, she saw that he kept steadily at his work, and he
had never seemed to her so pure and noble, so lovable as now, engaged
in this rustic labor.
On the window-sill was a rose-bush with a late rose in full bloom.
Looking up she caught sight of it, and took hold of the stem, thinking
she would pluck and throw it to him as a sign of recognition; but just
then, a lay-sister came in and informed her that a visitor had come who
asked to see Manna. The rose remained on its stem.
Manna turned round and seemed perplexed. Pranken is still there
ploughing. Could he be the one who was announced? or has the Countess
Bella arrived? With wavering step she descended to the reception-room.
The Superior introduced to her a good-looking, portly lady, saying:--
"This is my friend, Professorin Dournay, the mother of your brother's
teacher."
CHAPTER III.
"OUT OF THE WORLD, AND OUT IN THE WORLD."
The first feeling was surprise, the second, quiet confidence, as the
eyes of the Professorin and Manna met; each found the other different
from the preconceived image.
Manna remembered Eric's tall figure, and his resemblance to the picture
of St. Anthony, and before her stood a short, fair, gray-haired woman.
Frau Dournay had pictured to herself Roland's handsome sister as like
him, and now she saw a slender, delicate creature, who, at first sight,
gave no impression of beauty. A mole on her left cheek, and one on the
right side of her upper lip, were quite conspicuous; her complexion was
rather dark, and her wonderful brown eyes glowed with deep and quiet
warmth upon every one who looked into them.
Manna bowed ceremoniously to the Professorin, who rose and held out her
hand with maternal kindness, saying that she was very glad to become
acquainted with the daughter of her host, while paying a visit to her
friend, the Superior; and she added, with special emphasis, that she
had been so fortunate as to become quite intimate with Manna's mother.
"Is my mother well?" asked Manna, with a sweet tone of warmth in her
low and quiet voice. The Professorin told her of her mother's health,
and added that the doctor said he had never known her so constantly
cheerful as now.
"Now, I have a request to make," she continued in an animated tone;
"since I have had the good fortune to be your parents' guest, I have
insisted that the daily course of your brother's studies should not be
in the least interfered with, and now let me beg you, my dear young
lady, to go on with your usual occupations. I shall have the pleasure
of dining with you, and after dinner, I shall be very glad if you will
spare me a quarter of an hour."
"If you have any private message for Manna," said the Superior, "I will
leave you together."
"I have not any private message."
Manna gave the Professorin her hand, and left the room. She did not
know what to make of it all; why had she been summoned when there was
so little to be said to her? It offended her a little to be so pushed
about by a stranger--for the lady was a stranger. But as she walked
through the long passage, she still saw before her the sincere and
gentle countenance of the stranger, smiling at her as if saying, You
are a strange child!
Manna returned thoughtfully to her cell; she looked out of the window
and saw Pranken just entering a boat with his horse, and he was soon on
the opposite shore.
"Ah, Herr von Pranken!" cried a loud voice, and the echo repeated the
sound.
What voice was that?
Pranken hurried up the bank and vanished behind the willows.
Manna longed for the time when the world would be shut out from her,
and no more unrest could come over her, for now she was deeply
disturbed. There was Pranken; here, the tutor's mother--what did it all
mean? She took her book of devotions, but could not succeed in drawing
her thoughts from the subjects which occupied them.
In the mean time, the Professorin was listening to the Superior's
account of Manna's strange nature, which seemed really to hold two
natures within it, one, humble and submissive, almost without a will of
its own; the other, struggling, defiant, and self-willed. She had a
true, earnest character, too serious, perhaps, for a girl of seventeen;
she was often unable to, hold her feelings under control, but who could
always do that at her age? A weight lay on her spirits which was
uncontrollable; it plainly had its source in the child's keen sense of
the discord between her parents and its influence upon herself. The
Superior asked Frau Dournay to tell her more of the characteristic
peculiarities of the parents, but she evaded the subject.
The appearance, as well as the bearing, of the two ladies offered a
sharp contrast. The Professorin's figure was full, and in her face
there was a constant expression of wide-awake animation; her hands were
round and plump; the Superior was tall and thin, her expression severe
and earnest, as if just a moment before she had given some positive
order, or was on the point of giving one; her hands were long and
perfectly shaped. Both women had experienced hard trials: the
Professorin had won a gentle, smiling content; the Superior, a complete
preparation to meet all events with firm and stoical endurance.
The first greeting between these early friends, after nearly thirty
years of separation, had been a strange one, the Superior not hearing,
or seeming not to hear, that Frau Dournay addressed her just as she had
in the old days.
"I did not think I should ever see you again in this world," she had
said directly, and when the Professorin tried to recall reminiscences
of their youth, she had replied that she knew the past no longer; she
had destroyed all its mementoes, and recognized only a future, the sole
object that ought to occupy our thoughts.
The Superior noticed that this distant manner of speaking startled her
old friend, and she said, with the same composure, that she made no
distinction among the relations and acquaintances of her early life; no
one was nearer to her or farther from her, and that any one who could
not attain this state ought not to devote herself to a spiritual life.
The Professorin felt as if she had been turned off and shown out of the
house, but she was calm enough to say:--
"Yes, you always had a strength of mind which used to frighten me, but
now I admire it."
The Superior smiled; then, as if angry at having been betrayed into any
self-satisfaction by this civil speech, she said,--
"Dear Clara, I beg you not to tempt me into vanity. I stand at my post,
and have a strict watch to keep, until the Lord of Hosts shall call me
to himself. Formerly, I must confess, I did not realize that you and I
lived in different worlds; in mine, it is one's duty not to rely on
one's own strength."
With all this self-denial, it seemed to the Professorin that the
Superior spoke of the power and the greatness of the sphere in
which she moved, with that pride, or at least with that lofty
self-confidence, shown by all who belong to a great and powerful
community. To the Superior, on the other hand, she seemed like an
isolated, detached atom, floating it knew not whither.
They soon found, however, a point on which they could sympathize, in
speaking of the difficult task of educating the young.
The Superior was rich in experience, while the Professorin depended
almost entirely on the precepts and opinions of her departed husband;
and now that she took the attitude of a scholar, and listened
gratefully, gentler thoughts rose within the Superior, who had felt
that she had been somewhat harsh towards the excellent woman; and in
this mood, she imparted some things that she really meant to hold back.
She told Frau Dournay that, at first, Manna's position in the convent
had been a very hard one, for a strange thing had happened. Her
entrance into the convent seemed to bring about a revolution. Two
Americans from the best families were then there, and they were not
willing to sit at the same table with the Creole, for such Manna
seemed; they told their fellow-pupils that, in their native country,
such half-bloods always travelled in separate cars on the railroads,
and, even in church, had places set apart for them. And as most of the
children were from noble German families, they united in a protest
against Manna's presence, without her knowing anything of it herself.
While she slept, three of the pupils had examined her nails, in the
presence of a nun, and as no black spots were found on them, it was
proved that both parents were of pure blood. Manna was tolerated, and
soon succeeded in winning the blue ribbon by her quick mind and great
industry.
The Professorin held back the words which rose to her lips, for she was
resolved to keep quiet and arouse no discussion; but her lips trembled
as she longed to tell the Superior that it was her duty to have shown
the children, by precept and example, that there can be no distinction
of blood before God, and that such exclusiveness was impious and
barbarous.
Frau Dournay had to exercise still more self-control when the Superior
asked her to be kind enough to fold her hands when grace was said at
dinner. The color flushed into her face, as she listened, and
answered,--
"My husband is gone to his eternal home, and I know that when he stands
before the judgment-seat the Holy Spirit will say to him: Thou hast
lived according to the purest convictions of thy soul; thou hast
honestly examined thyself, and hast attempted and done only what thou
couldst do in all sincerity. At our table, we had no formal prayer, but
before we sat down to eat and drink, each of us spent a minute in
silent self-communion, and in the thought of what it really is to renew
our existence from the Fountain of life; and our meal was consecrated
by pure and good thoughts."
"Well, well, I did not mean to wound you," said the Superior. "I heard
with sympathy that you had lost your husband, for whose sake you
sacrificed yourself so nobly and gladly."
"I was happy with my husband," replied the Professorin; "our love grew
stronger every day. But love for a lover or a husband is always dwelt
on; there is another kind of love, which, though very different, is
wonderfully fresh and noble, and I think I know it. Forgive me for
saying it, but I mean that it seems as if love only rightly begins when
one has a high-minded, excellent son."
"I am glad that you are so happy; but tell me sincerely whether you
have not found that of ten married women, nine, at least, are unhappy."
The Professorin was silent, and the Superior continued,--
"Your silence is assent, and now look at the great difference; among a
hundred nuns you find scarcely one unhappy one."
Frau Dournay was still silent; she did not wish to debate this
assertion: she was a guest, and would not try to convert or correct;
but the Superior seemed to try to draw her out as she asked,--
"Do you know a more unhappy position than that of a girl who knows
herself, and whom others know, to be the heiress of millions? Is she to
believe in the love of frail human creatures? Is she to believe that
she is wooed for her own sake? There is nothing for her, but to give
herself and her wealth into the hands of the Eternal. This I say to
you--I know not what commission you have, and even if you have none,
you can report it. We do not try to gain Manna and her future wealth,
we insist that she shall go back into the world, and return to us only
on her own free decision. There is neither compulsion nor intimidation
on our part, but it is our duty to protect those who prefer the
imperishable to the perishable, wherever they may be. Now you know all,
and we will say no more on the subject."
The Superior left her, and Frau Dournay walked out alone upon the
island. It seemed to her that it would be a bold act, one of
unjustifiable rashness indeed, to take this child by force, even the
force of affection, from this sphere where she lived at peace and
wished to end her life. She stood on the shore, and almost without
knowing why, allowed herself to be taken across to the main-land, where
she was not a little astonished to find Herr Sonnenkamp and Herr von
Pranken, taking wine together, under the shady lindens of the inn.
Pranken was dressed so strangely that she thought she was mistaken, and
she was about to turn back; but she heard her name called, and
approached the two men in the garden.
Sonnenkamp was in high spirits, declaring himself very fortunate to
have met his friend Pranken here; he considered it a fine thing that
the Baron had changed himself into a husbandman, hinting that he
himself had once been something of the kind; then he said,--
"We have no secrets from our friend, will Manna go home with us, Frau
Professorin?"
The Professorin replied that not a word had been said on the subject,
and that it seemed hardly to be wished; it would be well to let Manna
complete her time at the convent, and certainly to refrain from all
compulsion.
Pranken agreed very emphatically, but Sonnenkamp was much put out; it
seemed to him dreadful that his daughter should be living here in the
midst of a crowd of other girls, when a free and happy life was waiting
for her.
The noon-day bell rang from the Convent, and Frau Dournay said she must
go back. Sonnenkamp accompanied her to the shore, and there said in a
low voice:--
"Do not trouble yourself about Pranken. We will leave my daughter free
in every respect."
The Professorin returned to the island; the children were already at
table when she entered the dining-room; she stood with folded hands
behind her chair for a few moments before seating herself. When dinner
was over, and thanks had been returned, the Superior said to Manna,--
"Now go with the friend of your family."
Frau Dournay and Manna walked towards the shady grove on the upper end
of the island; and Heimchen, who was quite confiding towards the
Professorin, went with them; but she was quite willing to sit down with
a book, under a tree, and wait till they came back for her.
"But you must not take Manna away with you," cried the child from her
low seat; they both started, for the child had given utterance, from an
instinctive feeling, to the fear of one and the hope of the other.
CHAPTER IV.
THE IRON MUST ENTER THINE OWN SOUL.
For a long time neither uttered a word; at last the Professorin said,--
"You seem to be called to a higher life, from having been obliged in
early youth to suffer so hard an experience, and to feel deeply the
discord among men."
"I? How?" asked Manna. "What do you know?" She trembled.
"I know," answered the Professorin, "that you have suffered under that
cruel burden which weighs upon your great and noble father-land."
"My father-land? I? Speak more plainly."
"It pains me that I tear open a wound which is scarred over, but this
scar is a mark of honor for you, and it is not your fault, my child,
that you are set in the midst of this life-struggle."
"I?"
"Yes."
"How? Tell me all; what do you know?"
"I mean that it should elevate you to have been obliged to bear
humiliation and bitterness in your own person; it gives you a loftier
consecration."
"Tell me plainly what you mean."
With an altered tone, like the hiss of a serpent. Manna spoke sharply
and angrily; her gentle eyes sparkled restlessly.
"Heaven knows," said the Professorin, "I would not wound you; no,
protecting and blessing you, would I lay my hand upon you."
She tried to place her hand on Manna's head, but the girl shrank back
and cried:--
"Tell me distinctly, who knows it? What do you know? Pray speak."
"I know nothing, except that you had to suffer severely on your
entrance into the convent; that two American girls took you for a
half-blood, and would not associate with you."
"Yes, yes, that's it! Now I know why they examined my nails, and Anna
Sotway stood by, Oh, it's well! it's well! I thank thee, holy God, that
thou hast suffered me to experience this. In myself, in my own person,
I was to feel the suffering that a slave feels in being examined! Why
did they not open my veins? I thank thee, O God! But why dost thou
suffer them to worship thee, and then to scorn thee in thy creatures?
Then it was not because I tried to be reverent and obedient, no, but
because I was of pure blood, that I was tolerated here! Pah!"
It was a different being who spoke these words, and cried aloud in the
wood:--
"Ye trees, why does each of you grow after its kind, and blossom and
grow green and flourish, warmed by the same sun, and with the birds
singing in your branches? Alas! alas! where am I?"
"In the right path," answered the Professorin. Manna gazed at her as if
she were a spirit, and she continued:--
"A pure spirit is speaking again through you, my child; you have spoken
truth. When Lessing said, 'I would not have all trees covered with the
same bark,' he had no presentiment that his spirit would manifest
itself anew here in the cloister, in a child just waking to life. His
pure and holy spirit is between us now, my child, and I think Lessing
would say: Forgive them; they will learn that God alone is constant,
while the races of men are only the ever-varying, ever-returning
figures of a dream."
Manna appeared hardly to have heard her, for now she grasped her arm
asking:--
"Did you not tell me, that you were specially in the confidence of my
mother?"
"Yes."
"And has she told you the secret too?"
"I do not understand you."
"Speak openly with me. I know all."
"Your mother has told me no secret."
Manna seized the cross on her breast convulsively, and gazed silently
before her for a long time.
With heart-felt earnestness, the Professorin expressed her deep regret
at having moved her so greatly, and her desire not to force herself
upon her, but to be her true friend.
Manna made no answer. At last she turned and kissed the lips of her
startled companion.
"I kiss the lips which have spoken the dreadful words, and all the
rest. Yes, I must experience it, I, myself. I believe that I am now
first consecrated as the sacrifice."
The Mother stood helpless before this enigmatical being, and Manna at
last promised to be quite calm. She seated herself on a bench which
stood under a fir-tree, leaned back against the tree, and gazed up at
the sky.
"Why," she said to herself, "does there now come no voice to us from
the air? Ah, I would so gladly follow it forth over mountain and
valley, to darkness and death."
Manna wept; the Professorin reminded her of her promise to be quite
calm, but the girl declared she could not, it grieved her so to be torn
from this place, which she must leave, since she could not be true in
it. She would be living falsely, because people had not been true to
her.
Now, for the first time, the Professorin understood that Manna had
known nothing of what had passed, and she shuddered at what she had
done. She mourned over having so disturbed Manna's young soul, saying
that she could never forgive herself. And now Manna turned, and tried
to calm and console her unhappy companion.
"Believe me, pray believe me," she cried, holding up her clasped hands,
"only the truth can make us free, and that is the dreadful thing, that
the park, and the house, and all the splendor are lies--No, that I did
not mean--but one thing I beg, do not repent, when you have left me,
that you told me what you did; it does not hurt me, it helps me. Ah, I
beg--it helps me. I had to know it, and it is well."
The Professorin composed herself, and as she praised Manna's truthful
impulses, the girl shook her head, saying:--
"I will not be praised, I do not deserve it; I do not deserve the whole
truth, for I am hiding something myself."
The Professorin felt what a heavy weight she had brought upon the
child, and she explained to her how the Superior had cured her
troubles, like a physician who does not tell his patient all. Manna
gazed wonderingly at her, as she said:--
"I am sorry that I too have not been quite sincere with you."
"You too?"
"Yes, I have not told you that your father came here with me; that he
is waiting for my return on the other shore, and hoping that you will
go home with us."
Manna rose and sat down again, hastily. "The father hides from his
child and sends strangers!" she murmured to herself. "Come with me to
the Superior," she suddenly exclaimed.
She seized the Professorin's hand, and drew her towards the convent.
Heimchen came towards them, crying:--
"No, Manna, you must not go away and leave me here alone."
"Come with us," answered Manna, taking the child by the hand.
She went to the Superior and asked permission to go with Frau Dournay
to her father, who was waiting for her on the main-land.
"Send for him to come here."
"No, I would rather go to him."
Permission was granted. It was difficult for Manna to free herself from
Heimchen, who could be pacified only by Manna's solemn promise to
return.
Manna sat gazing into the water while they were in the boat. With Frau
Dournay, she entered the garden of the inn, where they found Sonnenkamp
and Pranken sitting in the shade of the arbor.
"You are going home with us?" cried Sonnenkamp to his daughter.
She received his embrace, but did not return it. Pranken greeted Manna
joyfully, and as she extended her hand to him, said smiling:--
"I have hardened my hand, but my heart is still soft, perhaps too
soft."
Manna cast down her eyes. There was some merry jesting about the manner
in which Pranken had settled himself here in the neighborhood. He
described pleasantly how his new life struck him; there was a fresh
vigor in his bearing, and a tone of warm feeling in all his words. He
saw with satisfaction what impression his deportment made upon Manna,
who said, at last, that she believed she might speak openly before this
gentleman and lady, who were not really strangers though not members of
her own family. She was not yet quite resolved, but she felt a real
longing to leave the convent very soon, or still better, not to return
to it again, letting her father or the Professorin go over to say
good-bye for her.
"May a friend say a word about it?" asked Pranken, as Sonnenkamp loudly
expressed his joy.
Manna begged him to speak, and he explained that, as a friend, he would
urge Manna to act properly and worthily; whatever might have passed, it
was Manna's duty not to break too abruptly the close and holy ties
which had united her with the convent, and, above all, with the
Superior; hardness and ingratitude towards others left a weight and
bitterness in the soul. He must believe, that, as Manna had entered the
convent from her own wish and a pure resolve, she would leave it in all
kindness and friendly feeling. It seemed to him the right course that
Manna should return for a short time, to take leave of her companions
and the holy sisterhood quietly and considerately. He repeated, that
though he desired nothing more earnestly than to have Manna return to
the outer world as soon as possible, and as fully as possible, still he
considered it the duty of a friend to save from remorse and inward
disquiet one to whom he stood in any near relation. There was more than
excellence, there was a real nobility, in Pranken's manner as he said
all this, and various were the looks and thoughts of the three who were
watching him.
Sonnenkamp was angry, and yet he said to himself: "After all,
aristocratic blood knows what's the proper thing."
The Professorin believed that Pranken meant to win Manna anew by these
noble sentiments; Manna herself was quite subdued.
"You are right," she exclaimed, as she extended her hand and held
Pranken's firmly. "You show me what is right. I thank you, and will
follow your advice."
Sonnenkamp was beside himself as he saw his dearest wish again
disappointed; but still greater was his astonishment, when the
Professorin expressed her acquiescence.
After Manna had begged Pranken to avoid any meeting with her until she
returned home, they all walked down to the shore, and the two ladies
returned to the island.
Heimchen, who had wept constantly, had already been put to bed, and was
still mourning that Manna had gone. Manna went to her and found her
crying, and her pillow wet with tears; she dried her eyes and talked to
her till she went to sleep; and while pacifying her, and promising all
sorts of good things, she became calmer herself.
CHAPTER V.
NIGHT AND MORNING AT THE CONVENT.
Until it was quite late, Manna walked up and down the broad pathway on
the island, holding the Superior and the Professorin by the hand. It
seemed to her, that two loving potencies, each of which had its own
valid claim, were contending to get possession of her.
It would be difficult to say how they came upon the topic, but the two
ladies were discussing the subject of dogmatic belief. The Professorin
maintained that salvability consisted in a willingness to perceive and
acknowledge a wrong impulse, an error, or a transgression. The Superior
agreed with this, but showed that one was always liable to return to a
false view in the highest things, if a fixed and unalterable revealed
doctrine, continually published anew through some infallible medium,
did not provide a remedy against error; otherwise, one never knew
whether he had not fallen into it afresh, and can never be freed from
the pain of choosing.
The Superior had always a positive belief to fall back upon, while the
Professorin was obliged to find some new basis and reason for every
question that came up, which made her appear unsettled and doubtful.
And this apparent indecision was increased by the feeling she had of
not being justified in contending against a faith so firm and so
beneficent in its influence. An unrest, like that of a spy, who, from
the highest patriotic motives, inspects an enemy's camp, characterized
her whole manner, and she blamed herself for having undertaken the
commission. But she was now at the post, and must defend her views.
Wishing to find some impregnable position, she represented to Manna
that her father wanted to organize a general plan of systematic
charity, and that it would be a noble vocation for her to take part in
it. The Superior waited for Manna to reply, and she now said:--
"My father's donations do not fall into the right hands; we can do
nothing but restore the property to him who alone has the right to
determine what use shall be made of it."
There was more in Manna's reply than appeared on the surface.
The Professorin remarked that every poor man was a messenger of mercy,
and every one who needed help made a demand for sacrifices; that it was
not enough to bestow gifts, but one must personally devote himself to
the distressed. The alms was not the important thing, but the pains
which one must take on the supplicant's account. How often a man, as he
goes along the street in winter, well wrapped up in his furs, bestows
an alms upon a poor, freezing beggar! For him to unbutton his coat, and
to look for something to give, is of more account than the gift itself,
at least to the giver.
Manna answered that women could not do such a work by themselves. The
Superior joined in, saying that she had advised decidedly against
Manna's taking the veil, for it was to be feared that she had no
true vocation for it. Then she added in a sharp tone to the
Professorin:--"We are wholly indifferent to the accusation of having
tried to get possession of the child's property; we do not despise the
wealth, we can do a great deal of good with it; but it is the child's
soul that we value, and we do not stop to inquire whether worldlings
believe it or not."
The Professorin was glad to find herself at last in the cell where she
was to sleep. She had never slept at a convent, and she had again the
disagreeable feeling of being a traitress and a spy. She said to
herself with a smile:--
"I am rejoiced now that I forgot Parker's book; it would be a fresh
treachery to have and to read his words and his thoughts here in this
house."
She gave up the purpose of exerting an influence over Manna, for here
were prior experiences which were beyond her control, and relations
that were involved in obscurity. A deep sorrow preyed upon the child,
which could only be revealed at the confessional, and which perhaps
there only could find relief.
The Professorin was deeply disturbed, and had troubled dreams. She
seemed to be in the midst of Wallenstein's camp, and in fetters as a
spy; she was being interrogated by the sergeant of the guard, when, all
of a sudden, he was changed into Professor Einsiedel, who said to
her:--
"Be not afraid, I have influence on every one here, I will set you at
liberty."
Then she was standing in the midst of the court-circle, and all were
laughing at the _vivandiere_--years ago when she was a young,
frolicsome girl, she had once taken that part--and now, as she met the
glance of her son; she felt ashamed of her appearance.
These dreams whirled through her brain in strange confusion. She was
rejoiced, on waking, to find that it was all a dream.
The hour for rising at the convent was a very early one, but long
before the matin bell of the church rang, the Professorin had dressed,
and stood watching from her cell the breaking day. The impressions of
her troubled dreams faded like the mists on the river, which were now
struggling with the dawning light. She dwelt in imagination upon the
hundreds of young souls who now lay asleep, preparing to meet a
peaceful future. She thought upon the nuns who had renounced life, to
whom the day brought no event of personal interest, nothing but the
uniform round of duty.
She shuddered as she thought of venturing to disturb such a life.
There may be many incidental and casual irregularities here, she
thought, but a holy will has authority over these spirits; and at this
early morning hour, a saying of her husband's recurred to her:--
"You can oppose an established positive religion only by having more
religion than is embodied in it. The idea of the pure is persecuted,
hunted down, obscured, in the world; and the hand must be sure of its
high consecration, which ventures to attack a sanctuary of that idea."
The morning sun had become lord over the mist, shining brightly over
river and mountains. The convent bell rang, and the great house was all
astir.
The Professorin went down, and knelt behind a pillar; the sisters and
the children assembled together.
She remained until the morning service had ended, and then going into
the dining-hall, she begged Manna and the Superior to permit her to
take leave. They accompanied her to the shore.
The Professorin exhorted Manna to stay at the convent, and devote
herself to reflection and pure thought. She spoke with such earnestness
that the Superior, taking her by the hand, uttered in a low tone what
was evidently a prayer.
The Professorin perceived that her old friend was praying in her
behalf. And why should there not be just as good grounds for this form,
as for an inward thought and wish for another, on whom one would invoke
every blessing, unexpressed in words? With a light heart, she was set
over to the main-land.
Sonnenkamp was surprised that she did not have Manna with her; but she
said, in explanation, that she would not interfere any farther in this
matter. She went back with Sonnenkamp to the villa. On board the boat,
she sketched out in full the plan of an organized system of charity,
which must be so arranged that Manna could go from one sanctuary into
another.
Sonnenkamp listened in silence, but in no pleasant humor. The whole
world seemed to have entered into a conspiracy against him, to make of
him a sanctified hypocrite.
Yesterday, Pranken had made the same demand upon him, and he had said
in reply, that it was a contemptible thing for the very nobility to be
desirous of playing the hypocrite; but Pranken had insisted principally
upon the religious obligation.
Sonnenkamp had shrugged his shoulders, for the man kept his mask on
even when he was alone with him. He only consented after Pranken had
added, that, by this means, the Court would not only be justified in
conferring the title of nobility, but would feel bound to do it. Here
now was Frau Dournay making a similar demand; and this was so far good,
that her intentions were most likely honest.
The journey home was not very animated, for they were returning from a
bootless errand. Sonnenkamp was disturbed because he was called upon to
do this and that, and no object had yet been accomplished.
CHAPTER VI.
THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT IN EDEN.
A strange spirit, meanwhile, made its appearance at Villa Eden. It was
kept in concealment, and yet had nothing spectral; it was bright and
luminous, and yet produced a great hurly-burly.
The morning after the departure of Eric's mother, Roland had gone to
the vine-covered cottage, to get a book out of the library for Eric.
With the simple desire of seeing how it looked now the Mother was away,
he had entered the open door of her room. An open book was lying upon
the table, and on the fly-leaf there was written in English: To my
friend Dournay--Theodore Parker.
Roland was startled. This is the man, then, whom the Mother had spoken
of as a saint a few days ago, and whom he was to get acquainted with by
and by. He took the book and secreted it.
At noon, he asked permission to go and see Claus, and it was given.
Eric remained at home, for he wanted to finish a letter to Professor
Einsiedel that he had begun some time ago. But Roland did not go to see
Claus; he sat down under the lofty willows by the river-bank, steadily
reading, with occasional glances at the stream.
What does this mean? Here is a champion, an inspired one, a
God-revering champion, fighting for civilization and against slavery.
He read of a man, whose name was John Brown, who was hanged on the
gallows at Harper's Ferry for his attempts to abolish slavery. He read
and learned how Parker had prophesied a mighty struggle; and these
words fell into the youth's soul like a spark of fire: "All the great
charters of humanity are written in blood."
He read on and on, until he could see no longer for the darkness. And
now it occurred to him that he had meant to call upon Claus, and he
hurried towards the village.
Eric met him as he was going, and was very angry at being deceived.
"Where have you been?" asked Eric.
"With this man;" handing Eric the book.
Roland had eaten forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge, and Eric
was surprised to see how deep an impression had been made upon the
youth. A new and difficult task was before him, to keep the youth from
saying anything in his father's presence.
"Who is Brown?" inquired Roland. "Can you tell me about him?" Eric told
him. He narrated the martyr's history, and dwelt with emphasis on the
fact, that even in our day life is offered as a sacrifice, and that a
pure self-surrender raises to the sublime even the man wearing a
captain's gay uniform of the present day. He wanted to show,
incidentally, that the costume of every age and every condition in life
could be the symbolic expression of the highest greatness; but Roland
did not go along with him, and he had the apparently difficult task of
justifying, or, at least, of explaining the position of Sonnenkamp, who
had incontrovertibly taken the opposite side.
"Yes, yes," exclaimed Roland; "now I remember you said, when we were
with the Russian at Wolfsgarten, 'You could not imagine that a white
boy and a negro boy could be comrades.' Are you, too, a friend of
slavery?"
Eric tried to explain his meaning; and, while striving to reconcile the
difference, he was pleased to notice how open the youth's soul was to
every impression, and how tenaciously it clung to things spoken of only
in a cursory and incidental way.
Eric sat with Roland until it was very late; he was obliged to satisfy
his ingenuous mind, and this was almost the hardest task that had ever
been laid upon him. The youth was to be made to perceive that there was
another way of considering the question, one that regarded slavery as
justifiable and a righteous necessity; he was never to let his father
know that he considered him in the wrong, and that he had happened to
become acquainted, through the Professorin, with a spirit that ought
not to have been conjured up in this house. Eric called to mind his
mother, who had admonished him, with reason, that he was to adopt that
course of instruction for Roland which was necessary, and not that
which the youth himself preferred. Circumstances now rendered it
necessary to follow only that track which the youth had entered upon
for himself. It was a matter of rejoicing that he had of himself struck
out the path; it was just what all education proposed: and now was he
to turn aside from this track, and to shatter in pieces the abiding
fundamental principle. Thou shalt, and thou shalt not?
"It seems to me like a dream," Roland went on to say; "a great negro
once held me in his arms; I remember distinctly all about him; I
remember his woolly hair, and how I pulled him by it; his face was
smooth, without any beard at all."
"The negroes have no growth of beard," added Eric, and the youth
continued, dreamily:--
"I have been carried by negroes--by negroes."
He continued to repeat the word in a lower and lower tone, and then
became silent. Suddenly he passed his hand over his brow, and asked,--
"Are the people who are slaves fond of their children? Do you know any
song they sing?"
Eric had very little to say in reply. Roland wanted to know how all the
ancient nations regarded slavery. Eric could give him only a
superficial statement; he proceeded to open his letter to Professor
Einsiedel, and requested that he would tell him what books treated upon
the subject of slavery among the Jews, Greeks, Romans, and especially
the ancient Germans.
When Roland was at last ready to go to bed, he produced Thomas a
Kempis, and placed it beside Theodore Parker.
"I would like to imagine," he said, "how they would regard one another,
if they stood side by side. I fancy Thomas a Kempis to be an extremely
devout, refined monk; and when I imagine Theodore Parker, I think of
him as a grandson or great grandson of Benjamin Franklin."
Eric was more and more amazed, for he saw how deeply Roland had thought
about them both.
Thomas a Kempis makes men recluses, leads them continually into
themselves, and then above the human world; Parker also leads men into
themselves, but afterwards out of themselves and into the world around
them.
When Roland and Eric went, the next day, to post the letter to
Professor Einsiedel, they saw the boat coming up the river, on which
were the Mother and Sonnenkamp. They made a signal, and repaired to the
landing. Roland was astonished that Manna had not come with them, for
his father had promised to bring her. Sonnenkamp went on in advance
with Eric, and asked after the household. He seemed in a very bad
humor.
Roland detained the Mother, and when the others were out of hearing, he
asked her:--
"Did Manna tell you too that she was an Iphigenia?"
"No. What did she mean by that?"
"I don't know."
The Mother pressed her lips together; she had some idea of what she
meant; she understood her lamentation, and her thankfulness to God, for
having called her to endure the extreme of woe. She inquired about the
connection in which the expression had been used, but Roland
interrupted her by telling her that he had read the book which she had
forgotten.
The Mother was startled, but felt more at ease when Roland related to
her that Eric had set him right in the matter, and that he himself
would be sure to keep the secret.
Nevertheless, she was deeply troubled, on reaching the villa, at having
brought hither a spirit which could not dwell under the roof. The
freedom of her soul was taken away, for that which she had kept in
concealment had now begun to exert an influence openly. It was no
longer subject to her control, and it might suddenly appear in a
frightful and perplexing form.
Frau Ceres was sick again. Fraeulein Perini could not be spared a
moment, and sent her thanks for the kindly greeting of the Professorin
and Sonnenkamp.
Like a child who is always bright and cheerful, always living in the
present moment, disturbed by no confusion, and no subtleties of
thought,--so appeared the Major, and every one took delight in his
steadfast and natural equability. He thought it was well that Manna had
not returned now; when the castle was completed, it would be just the
nicest thing: out of the convent into the castle. He should be glad
when they were all together again; he couldn't stand this everlasting
starting off and bursting away from each other like a bomb-shell; there
wasn't a better and finer place than right here in the country, and
they couldn't get anywhere more than sky, and water, and mountains, and
trees.
The Major cheered up the company, who were sitting at the tea-table in
a strangely absent mood. The Professorin afterwards accompanied him
home. She sat talking with Fraeulein Milch until it was quite late, and
appointed her as first assistant in the charitable organization. She
seemed exactly fitted for it, as she knew everybody and everybody's
circumstances. She desired that, for the first thing, a dozen sewing
machines should be distributed in the surrounding villages; she would
herself teach the women and girls how to use them.
The Major and Fraeulein Milch accompanied the Mother back to the villa
by starlight. She was refreshed and strengthened. Her soul was
peaceful, and a saying of Goethe's seemed to be sounding within
her:--"Thou canst not perceive what thou art by reflection, but only by
seeking to perform thy duty."
She had a work before her that would uplift her and the whole
neighborhood.
CHAPTER VII.
A NEW DOOR IN THE WALL.
The Professor's widow accompanied the Doctor for several days in his
professional rounds. She obtained in this way, by direct observation,
an insight into the country life.
She laid before Sonnenkamp a plan matured by herself and Fraeulein
Milch, which he very readily assented to, especially that part relating
to the furnishing of sewing machines. Besides being an American
"institution," this would create a good deal of talk. He made a trip to
the capital himself, and bought the machines.
He took great pleasure in hearing the widow speak of the satisfaction
she derived from having the ability to do so much good, formerly
through the Princess, and now through Herr Sonnenkamp.
"How does it happen," he inquired of her, "that the poor, or the
comparatively poor, are united together so much more closely than the
rich?"
"I have never reflected upon the matter," she replied with an
embarrassed smile, "but if I should now express an opinion upon it, I
should say, that the rich man clings to his property, and is obliged to
think of himself; he can't do otherwise. He is not permitted to survey
the lot of others; his soul, his eye, if I may use the expression, does
not have, the beseeching glance of him who sits forlorn by the wayside.
But the poor man is hoping, waiting; he has nothing but a bundle in his
hands, or probably nothing but his empty hands; he is independent of
others, and dependent on them too."
Sonnenkamp was very eloquent in praise of this considerate, indulgent
view, as he termed it; and the Professorin was delighted with the
polite manner and the delicacy of this man, apparently so bad and
selfish.
"Perhaps," she continued, blushing deeply, "perhaps we might take an
illustration from the animal world."
"In what way?"
She was silent, and only replied after Sonnenkamp had repeated the
question:--
"I will give you my thought, crude as it is. I was thinking of the
beasts of prey who live singly; and wolves only herd together when
there is some common booty to be got, the rest of the time, each living
by himself. The herbivorous animals, on the contrary, live together in
herds, and afford a common protection."
She interrupted herself smiling, and then continued:--
"My wisdom is of yesterday, and it is not worth very much. The
field-guard, Claus, told me that, in autumn, the birds which feed upon
grain assemble in flocks, but those which live upon insects do not."
Sonnenkamp was very amiable. The Professorin added in continuation:--
"But yet the granivorous birds are no more virtuous than the
insectivorous; each kind lives in accordance with its own law."
Sonnenkamp became more and more charmed with the Professorin; she
spread his table with viands which could not be imported from abroad,
and which the garden did not supply.
The journals, day after day, now published Herr Sonnenkamp's
praiseworthy endeavors to ameliorate the condition of the people. The
Cabinetsraethin came, and congratulated him upon the excellent result,
adding that, according to a report from her husband, this noble deed of
Herr Sonnenkamp had been noticed in the highest quarter.
Sonnenkamp was now exceedingly zealous. He was anxious that there
should be no intermission in the public notices, and that something
should be said about him every day. Pranken, however, who had returned
from his farming escapade, showed that it would be better to hold up a
little, and then to come down upon the public with a fresh sensation.
He had evidently heard of the good impression which the Professorin had
made at the convent, and of the earnest exhortation to Manna; and when
Sonnenkamp unfolded to him his plan of having the Professorin reside
there permanently, he immediately assented to it.
A path was laid out from the villa to the vine-covered house, through
the beautiful meadows and along the river-bank. Sonnenkamp invited the
Professorin, on a certain day, to accompany him into the garden, and
all the family must go with them.
A new gateway had been made in the wall which surrounded the park.
Sonnenkamp said that the Professorin should be the first one to pass
through it. He gave her the key, and she opened the gate. She went
through it and along the pathway, followed by the whole family, and
Pranken among them.
They proceeded to the vine-covered cottage, and the Professorin was
amazed to find here all her household furniture, and the library of her
husband arranged in good order.
Aunt Claudine was here too; for Sonnenkamp had contrived that she
should be released from Clodwig.
Sonnenkamp introduced, with a sort of pride, his valet Joseph, who had
made all these arrangements, as a native son of the university.
The Professorin expressed her thanks to Joseph, and shook hands with
him.
Pretty soon the Major came; and when the Professorin inquired after
Fraeulein Milch, he stammeringly made an apology in her behalf. It was
plainly wrong in his view, that Fraeulein Milch should so persistently
refuse to go into society.
The Professorin had not recovered from her amazement and satisfaction
when Clodwig and Bella arrived. Provision had been made for a cheerful
repast in the garden, and Roland gave expression to the general
feeling, when he said:--
"Now I have a grandmother and an aunt, safe in their nest."
In the evening, Eric received a large package of books and a letter
from Professor Einsiedel, and also a large sheet of memoranda. He
commended Eric's intention of writing a treatise upon the idea and
nature of slavery, as it would prove a very fertile theme.
Eric put away the books, for he regarded it as a fortunate thing that
Roland's thoughts were occupied neither upon slavery nor free labor,
nor any kindred topic, but with something entirely different.
The son of the Cabinetsraethin, the cadet, was now at the newly acquired
country-seat, on furlough, and he exhorted Roland to be diligent, so as
to be able before long to enter the military school.
Roland was now wholly bent upon entering the highest class, at the
earliest possible moment. He spoke of it daily to his father and
Pranken. The father one day took him aside and said:--
"My child, it is well, and I am glad that you are so diligent in
getting fitted, but you will not enter--take notice, I show my respect
for you by this communication; I look upon you as a grown-up and mature
man."
He stopped, and Roland asked,--
"When is it that I am to enter?"
"Come nearer, and I will whisper it to you; you are to enter when you
are a noble."
"I a noble? and you too?"
"Yes, all of us; and for your sake I must become ennobled, as you will
see by and by. Do you feel glad at being made a noble?"
"Do you know, father, when I first began to respect nobility?"
Sonnenkamp looked at him inquiringly, and Roland continued:--
"At the railroad station, where I saw a crazy, drunken man. Everybody
showed respect for him, because he was a nobleman, a baron. It is a
great thing to be a nobleman."
Roland now gave an account of the meeting on the morning after his
flight, and Sonnenkamp was surprised at the astonishing effect produced
upon him, and at the lasting impression everything made. He now said:--
"Give me your hand, as a pledge that you will say nothing about this to
your master, Eric, until I shall tell him myself. On the word of an
officer."
After some delay and deliberation, Roland gave his hand.
His father now proceeded to explain to him how disagreeable it would be
to enter the military school under a citizen's name, and while there to
be ennobled.
Roland inquired why he was not to say anything about it to Eric.
His father refused to tell him why, demanding unconditional obedience.
And so Roland had now a two-fold secret to keep, one from his father,
and the other from Eric. The youth's soul was distressed, and it found
an odd expression in the question he once put to Eric:--
"Do the negroes in their native land have nobles too?"
"There are no nobles in their own right," replied Eric; "individual men
belong to the nobility only when, and only so long, as others regard
them as such."
Eric had thought that Roland's zeal for the military school had
excluded all his former notions and speculations; but he now saw that
they were still active, and had become connected with odd associations,
which he could not explain to himself satisfactorily. But he took heed
to make no further inquiry.
During his furlough, the son of the Cabinetsraethin was very constant in
attendance upon the lessons given to Roland, and Sonnenkamp, having her
sanction, proposed that the young cadet should leave the school for a
time, and be instructed in company with Roland.
Roland was highly pleased with this plan, but Eric objected; and when
Sonnenkamp stated to him that he had formerly desired that Roland
should have a comrade who should receive instruction with him, Eric
found great difficulty in explaining to him that it was now
inexpedient; that the course of instruction he had undertaken with
Roland was adapted exclusively to him, and that now any comradeship,
and any reference to another's condition and progress, would be only a
disturbing element.
Eric, by this means, alienated not only Herr Sonnenkamp and the
Cabinetsraethin, but also for a time his pupil himself, who was out of
humor and refractory, after the cadet had returned to the capital.
CHAPTER VIII.
STEEL-TRAPS IN THE POETS' GARDEN.
Sonnenkamp prided himself in growing the best wines; but the
traditional account of the joyous celebration of the harvest-home is a
mere fable. In the morning the mists were hanging far and wide over the
valleys, and in the early evening they shut out the whole landscape.
The leaves had fallen from the trees, and the hoar frost glistened on
the bare twigs, when at last the grapes were gathered and pressed.
The Major would not allow it to be thought of for a moment, that they
should omit firing their salute; he took extreme satisfaction in his
two comrades, Eric and Roland, who fired at his word of command, so
that the three reports sounded as one. But this was the whole
celebration of the merry harvest-home.
Fires had been already made at the villa, and Sonnenkamp's pride in
each stove having its own chimney was shown to be well founded. But it
was a truly festive occasion when the Professorin had a fire kindled
for the first time in her sitting-room. She had invited Eric and Roland
to be present, and Fraeulein Milch happened to be there. And as they sat
together before the open fire-place, in serene and homelike content, it
would be hard to say precisely what it was that made them so cheery and
peaceful.
The Mother exhorted Eric to resume his habit of reading aloud, in the
cosy winter evenings, some great poems, and he promised to do so. He
felt that he must make some extra effort to dispel the coldness
produced by his refusal to receive as a pupil the son of the
Cabinetsraethin.
Sonnenkamp, who had an extensive hunting-park, sent out cards inviting
some persons of the best society to a hunting-party. Invitations also
came from the neighbors, and Eric was able to be present with Roland at
a great hunting-party as often as once a week.
Roland was proud of his father's skill in the chase; he was regarded by
all as the leader, and the whole company listened with pleasure to his
accounts of grand hunts in America. He had even made a short excursion
to Algiers, and there shot a lion, whose skin was now under his
writing-table; it was meant for a sleigh-robe, but here in the country,
a merry sleigh-ride was a rare thing.
The supper after the chase, in a large apartment fitted up for the
purpose, was always of the merriest sort. The Major was here in his
element, and officiated as lord of the castle; he spoke of the evenings
which Eric enlivened at Villa Eden by reading the ancient and modern
dramas; he never knew before that there were so many fine things in the
world, and that one individual man could make everything so plain
merely by his voice.
Eric had read aloud almost without exception one evening every week.
The impression made upon the hearers was various. The Major always sat
with his hands devoutly folded; Frau Ceres reclined in her easy-chair,
occasionally opening her eyes, to show that she was not asleep;
Fraeulein Perini was employed with some hand-work, which she prosecuted
steadily, exhibiting no emotion; the Mother and the Aunt sat there
quietly; Sonnenkamp had a standing request that they would excuse his
rudeness. Turning to Roland, he said good-humoredly,--
"Don't get this bad habit--don't get in the way of having a stick in
your hand to whittle."
And so he sat and whittled away, occasionally looking up with a fixed
stare, holding the knife in his right hand and the piece of wood in his
left; then he would resume his whittling.
Roland always seated himself opposite the reader, so that Eric must
look him in the face. Often, until it was very late, Roland would talk
with Eric about the wonderful things he had been listening to.
Eric had been reading Macbeth, and he was glad to hear Roland say,--
"This Lady Macbeth could easily be transformed into a witch, like one
of those who came in at the beginning."
Another time, when Eric had been reading Hamlet, he was not a little
surprised at hearing Roland say to him in the evening, before going to
bed,--
"Strange! Hamlet, in that soliloquy, speaks of no one returning from
the other world, when, only a short time before, the spirit of his
father had appeared, and he appears again afterwards."
One evening, after Eric had read Goethe's Iphigenia, Roland said,--
"I can't make out at all why Manna said once that she was Iphigenia. If
she were Iphigenia, I should be Orestes. I, Orestes? I? Why was it? Do
you understand Manna's meaning?"
Eric said no.
One evening when the Physician and the Priest were present, Sonnenkamp
requested Eric to read aloud Shakespeare's Othello. Eric looked at
Roland. Will not Roland be stirred up to fresh questioning concerning
the negroes? He had no reason he could assign for declining, and he
could contrive no excuse for sending Roland away.
Eric commenced reading. The fulness and flexibility of his voice gave
the requisite expression to each character, and he preserved the proper
distinction between reading and theatrical presentation. He brought out
no strong colors; it was an artistic embodiment that allowed the
outlines of form to appear, but gave no coloring; it was not an
imitation of life, but a simple outline drawing of the general
features, softened but sufficiently defined.
The Doctor nodded to the Mother, as much as to say that Eric's
interpretation was very pleasant.
For the first time, Frau Ceres listened with eager attention, without
leaning back once during the whole evening; she continued bent forward,
and her countenance wore an unusual expression.
Eric read on continuously, and when he was giving the close of
Othello's sorrowful confession of guilt, in a voice struggling with
tears, like one resisting the inclination to weep, great tears ran down
over the pale face of Frau Ceres.
The piece was ended.
Frau Ceres rose quickly, and requested the Mother to accompany her to
her chamber.
Fraeulein Perini and the rest of the ladies went away at the same time.
The men were standing up, and only Roland remained sitting, as if
spell-bound to the chair.
Glancing towards the Doctor, the Major said,--
"Isn't this a really wonderful man?"
The Doctor nodded.
The Priest had his hands folded together; Sonnenkamp surveyed his
whittlings, placing them in a little pile together, just as if they had
been gold-shavings, and even bending down to pick up some that had
fallen upon the floor. Now he straightened himself up and asked Eric,--
"What do you think of Desdemona's guilt?"
"Guilt and innocence," replied Eric, "are not positive natural
conceptions; they are the result of the social and moral laws of
humanity. Nature deals only with the free play of forces, and
Shakespeare's plays exhibit to us only this free play of natural
impulses in men and women."
"That's true," interrupted the priest. "In this work there's nothing
said about religion, for religion would necessarily soften, ameliorate,
and rule over the savage natures, conducting themselves just like
natural forces, or rather would bring them into subjection to the
higher revealed laws."
"Fine, very fine," said Sonnenkamp, who was quite pale; "but permit me
to ask the Captain to give me an answer to my question."
"I can answer your first question," Eric rejoined, "only in the words
of our greatest writer on aesthetics: The poet would characterize a
lion, and, in order to do it, he must represent him as tearing in
pieces a lamb. The guilt of the lamb does not come into question at
all. The lion must act in accordance with his nature. But I think that
the deep tragedy of this drama lies hidden."
"And what do you think it is?"
"This maiden, Desdemona, without mother, brother, or sister, grown up
from childhood among men, might love a hero, whose lyric, childlike
nature, craving love and clinging fast to her, would make him crouch
like a tamed lion at her feet. This submissive strength, renouncing no
element of its wild energy, but, as it were, purified and exalted,
opens the well-spring of that love which covers everything else with
oblivion, overcomes the difference of race, and washes clean out the
black color of the skin.
"When Othello kissed her for the first time, she closed her eyes, and
he kissed her on the eyes; and her eyes are closed not for one instant
merely, but for a long period. But an unparallelled horror, a wild
insanity, would be the result of this shutting of the eyes when
Desdemona should hold in her arms a child, who should appear, in its
whole exterior, strange, abhorrent to her, like some creature that did
not belong to the human race. Out from her heart, crushed and trampled
under foot, there must have come a shriek of agony. A child upon her
breast, a creature so unlike herself! That look, which Hegel describes
as the highest of all that the eye can express, the first look of the
mother upon the child, that first mother's look must have killed
Desdemona, or made her raving mad."
Sonnenkamp, who had all the time been rapidly shifting the whittlings
about with his fingers, now threw them all upon the floor in a heap,
and went up to Eric, holding both hands stretched out at length. His
huge frame trembled with emotion, as he cried out:--
"You are a free man, a freethinker; you are not to be humbugged. You
are the first one that ever gave me a reasonable explanation of this
antipathy. Yes, it's so. The instinct of the poet is wonderfully
prophetic. 'Against all rules of nature!' This is the expression of
Desdemona's father, and this is the whole solution of the problem. On
this expression the whole turns, and every part is in harmony with it.
The result must be, as it is, a product of nature. It's against
nature!"
The men who were present had never before heard Sonnenkamp speak in
this way, and Roland, who had been staring fixedly before him, looked
up as if he must convince himself that it was really his father who was
speaking. In an exultant tone, for he observed the effect produced upon
them all, he continued:--
"Marriage--marriage! The Romans understood what was meant by that.
Where marriage is in violation of nature's laws, there can be no talk
of rights of humanity, equality of rights. Apes, with all their boasted
reason, nothing but apes, are these silly preachers of humanity, who
build up their theories and universal crotchets, without looking at the
facts, and know really nothing of these brutes endowed with speech, who
are not human beings, but everlastingly apish and malicious! Ho, ho!
thou noble friend of humanity!" he exclaimed, striding up and down the
room, "Marry thy daughter to a nigger, do that! do that! Be in terror,
every moment, that he will tear her limb from joint. Hug a black
grandchild! do that, noble friend of humanity! then come to me and
harangue about the equality of the black and the white race!"
Sonnenkamp had clenched his fists, as if he were clutching an
antagonist by the throat; his eyes flashed, his lips opened, and his
jaws snapped together like a tiger leaping upon his prey. He now
suddenly placed his hand upon his breast, as if making a powerful
effort to hold himself in control.
"You, Herr Captain, and the poet, have taken me somewhat by surprise,"
he said, with a constrained smile; and then he again repeated that Eric
had gone to the root of the matter. That a white girl could not become
the wife of a nigger was no prejudice, but a law of nature.
"I thank you," he said in conclusion, turning once more towards Eric;
"you have given me a great deal to think about."
The men looked at each other in astonishment, and the Doctor added, in
a timid way very foreign from his usual manner, that he must give his
assent to this on physiological grounds, for it was a well-known fact
that mixed races, in the third generation, became sterile. A separation
of the races, however, does not exclude human rights, any more than it
excluded human duties; and religion laid them upon all alike.
While saying this he turned towards the Priest, who felt himself called
upon to state that the negroes were susceptible of religious
conviction, and capable of receiving religious instruction, and that
this secured to them the full rights of men.
"Indeed!" exclaimed Sonnenkamp. "Is that the fact? Why then did not the
Church ordain the removal of slavery?"
"Because the Church," replied the Priest quietly, "has nothing to do
with ordaining anything of the kind. The Church directs itself to the
human soul, and prepares it for the heavenly kingdom. In what social
condition the body of man, the outside covering of this soul, may be,
we have nothing to do with ordaining or determining. Neither slavery
nor freedom is a hindrance to the divine life. Our Lord and Master
called the souls of the Jews to enter into the kingdom of heaven whilst
they were Roman citizens, and under subjection. He called all nations
through his apostles, and did not stop to ask about their political
condition and constitution. Our kingdom is the kingdom of souls, which
are one and the same, whether they live in a republic or under a
tyranny, whether their bodies are white or black. We are glad to have
the body free, but it is not our work to make it so."
"Theodore Parker takes a different view," Roland suddenly exclaimed.
As if a bullet bad whistled close to his ears, Sonnenkamp cried,--
"What? Where did you find out about that man? Who told you about him?
How's this?"
Roland trembled all over, for his father seized him by his shoulders
and shook him.
"Father!" he cried out in a manly voice, "I have a free soul too! I am
your son, but my soul is free!"
All were amazed. Nothing more would be said about his voice changing.
Sonnenkamp let go his hold, his breast heaving up and down as he panted
violently for breath. Suddenly he exclaimed,--
"I am very glad, my son; that's noble, that's grand. You are real young
America It's right! fine! splendid!"
They were struck with fresh amazement. This sudden change of mood in
Sonnenkamp took all present by surprise. But he went on in a mild
tone,--
"I am glad that you were not to be frightened. You have good
pluck--it's all right. Now tell me where you found out about Parker?"
Roland gave a true account of matters, except that he said nothing
about Parker's name having been mentioned by the Professorin when they
were making their calls in the town.
"Why didn't you speak of it to me?" asked his father.
"I can keep a secret," replied Roland. "You've tested me yourself on
that score."
"That's true, my son; you have justified my confidence."
"We ought to have gone home a long time ago," said the Major, and this
was the signal for the company to break up.