ever call your own, to become naked, poor, and helpless as you were by
nature? Will you relinquish all your wealth, whether justly or unjustly
acquired? Speak!"
"Speak, speak!" cried a chorus of voices. "Will you become poor?"
"Speak!" the voices repeated; and the question was asked for the third
time, "Will you renounce all, and become naked, poor, and helpless?"
"No. I will not!"
A pause ensued: then Weidmann said in a re-assuring tone, "And why
not?"
"Because it is not my duty, and I have no right to relinquish what was
intrusted to me,--to transfer my responsibilities even to the highest
and noblest. I am required myself to watch and work."
"Where is your obedience? Can you be a soldier, a fighter in the cause
of humanity, and not obey? Do you know what obedience is?"
"I think I do. I am ordered, for my part of the great campaign, to hold
a certain post, and I pledge my life that I will be faithful without
knowing why I am stationed just there. This is a soldier's duty, as I
understand it. But in life it seems to me different. What right have
you, more than another, to say, 'Intrust your possessions to us, that
we may dispose of them as we think fit'? Here I stand, with I know not
whom about me: I only know the voice of my noble friend Weidmann, and
him I trust: Wherever he is, I will take my place at his side, and
stand there blindfold. My eyes are bandaged; but I can look within, and
I know that I am in duty bound, according to my strength and my wisdom,
with the free assistance of others, to make the best of my life and
endowments; but I will not give myself and my life away blindfold. Take
me back! Reject me if I am wrong; but I cannot do otherwise."
"Off with the bandages! Off with the bandages!" was now vociferated for
the third time by the whole assembly.
The strains of an organ were heard in the distance. Roland's bandage
was removed, and a veil thrown over his head, that he might not be
dazzled by the light.
When the veil was removed, he stood with Eric on one side and Adams on
the other.
Weidmann spoke the words of initiation; and Roland, kneeling, humbly
took the oath, with Eric's hand resting on his right shoulder, and
Adams's on his left. Swords clashed, and in the distance singing was
heard with an organ accompaniment.
The powerful singer whom we heard at Herr Endlich's entertainment, and
at Wolfsgarten, sang here in the arched hall a pathetic air in a rich
bass voice; and all hearts were gently soothed.
Roland arose. Weidmann kissed him, and afterwards embraced his brother
Eric on the right, and his brother Adams on the left. They received the
signs; and the so-called sign of distress, in particular, moved Roland
deeply.
Eric, Roland, and Adams were now led out of the hall, and received back
their money and jewels, the Major remarking,--
"You did bravely, young--forgive me--my brother!"
On returning to the hall they all rose; and Weidmann, bidding Roland
and Eric take Adams's hand, began as follows,--
"Here, while we clasp our dusky brother in our arms, you see what we
are! Through the jubilations of our century, a sound pierces, which, in
time to come, shall be heard no more: it is the sound of clashing
chains, of the fetters wherewith our fellow-men have been bound.
Henceforth, these chains shall be but an emblem, a melancholy symbol.
We who are men, and who want to be men fully and entirely, we take one
another by the hand, and form a living chain. My brothers, you will be
told, and, perchance, will tell yourselves, that our Order is
antiquated, without significance in these modern times; but I tell you
it will never be antiquated, never insignificant, for they who are
dedicated to the service of the free Spirit must ever hold one another
in a living clasp.
"We know the deficiencies of our Order. It is a matter of great
difficulty to found an association firmly upon a universal thought
apart from any historical basis. This is our principal disadvantage as
compared with the Church. Hence enthusiasts and hypocrites seek for an
historical foundation; nevertheless, our Order is the stronghold of
virtue; and its unity is doubly formidable in that it is a league of
free men; for free men will not suffer themselves to be bound. Yet our
league, were its name never mentioned, would have a most important
bearing upon the solution of the social problem, as it is called, of
which the slavery question is only a part. And it is the thing we want,
not the name. No deliverance was ever wrought by mere calculation, and
there can be no permanent effect produced without the co-operation of
love. The lust of pleasure and the lust of gain would seem to be the
essential characteristics of our time; yet I, and we all, proclaim
aloud. Great is our century! Europe, with her ancient culture and her
waning nobility, is endeavoring to lay all men under an obligation to
labor: America and Russia, to render all labor free. Ever since I
beheld the great millennial wave bearing down upon me, I have lived a
new and happy life. I have been filled with holy confidence; and, all
unseen, our league is working towards the same end.
"Two principles are contending in this world, egoism and humanity. We
meet selfishness by benevolence. The more thou servest others in love,
the freer art thou. The more thou givest of thyself, the richer art
thou. To every man we say, 'First free thyself from servitude.' Great
things in this world come from small beginnings. To every one of you
and to myself I say, 'Begin by abolishing slavery in thyself!' We have
all a slave within us, a slave to precedent, to inertia, to
obsequiousness. Free this slave within, and then wilt thou be worthy to
emancipate the slaves around thee. And now, my new brothers, consider
this. As the signs of intelligence which you have received are not
verbal, but visible, sensible motions, as our own mutual understanding
supersedes and transcends speech, so is it with the idea of our Order.
It is something older and broader than all single religious
associations. We seek repose and peace in labor and trade. To our
doctrine each may give his own private interpretation, as every man
speaks in his own peculiar voice, which can never be exactly imitated.
The deed alone, the free, righteous, noble deed, cannot be explained
away, cannot be misunderstood, cannot be affected by any individual.
Ours is a brotherhood of noble deeds."
Turning to Roland he said,--
"To you, my young brother, much has been given; and you must say with
your brother here, so rich in intellectual gifts, and this your other
brother, now armed for free labor, 'What I am, and what I have, I have
not _of_ myself, and so I have it not _for_ myself.' Self-sacrifice is
self-exaltation. Your own highest good is the good of the whole world.
What you do, do not with the hope of reward from another; but be
yourself your own reward. A revolution is now taking place in the minds
of men, such as there must have been wrought when they first learned
the fact of the motion of the planet on which we live. Mankind, who had
always known slavery, and believed that its continuance was right, were
long unable to conceive a different state of things; and it was thus
with the authors of that great sacred book. I say, mankind could not
conceive of labor as other than a disgrace, a curse pronounced upon the
race. But now, not by any new and external revelation, but through a
free and natural unfolding of knowledge, we are enabled to get beyond
this view. A new age is beginning. Labor is no longer a disgrace, but
an honor; no longer a curse, but a blessing. No formal religion can
sanctify labor; for it belongs not to the other world, but eternally to
this. Were a medal to be struck to commemorate our century, it should
bear upon the face the symbol of free labor, and upon the reverse, that
of the love of nature. Neither has yet been represented by art. Our
idea has not yet attained to many-hued loveliness, and to a picturesque
variety; for philanthropy is colorless like pure light. Walk therefore
in the light, and die for the love of your kind. You have lived in the
light; live ever so, and in the eternal ideas of self-sacrifice and
brotherly love."
Deeply moved, Eric made a brief reply. Roland, too, was called upon,
but could only say,--
"My brother and teacher has expressed all that I feel."
Adams also offered a few words. He would try to show himself worthy the
honorable brotherhood which had been conferred upon him.
The three now seated themselves in the ranks of the brotherhood, and
took part in the transaction of some urgent and existing business.
With ready and practised eloquence, the Major's host, the Grand Master,
informed them that the Pope had condemned all Masonic leagues; and he
read a protest to be adopted by the present lodge.
Weidmann asked if any brother desired to offer any comment, and the
Doctor came forward, and said,--
"I move the rejection of this protest, and also the open acknowledgment
of that notoriously false principle with which we are reproached in the
bull of excommunication. I find Masonry as wordy at home as it is
dastardly abroad; for dastardly it is, not to be perfectly open. It is
all true! We recognize and acknowledge man to be morally complete,
independent of any positive church; not necessarily hostile to the
church, but independent of it. But this prevaricating, and ducking
under ecclesiastical phrases, this spiritless sailing under false
colors,"--
"A little less vehemently, if you please," observed Weidmann.
Quietly, but firmly, the Doctor continued:
"I move that the protest be rejected."
The Grand Master gazed helplessly about. He, with all his honors on his
head, bring forward a proposition, and not have it accepted!--
The Doctor at length begged Eric, as one not yet bound by the
traditions prevailing here, to explain his meaning more precisely.
Eric arose and said, that, though strongly inclined to agree with the
Doctor, he was not quite sure where right lay. He could only permit
himself to quote the words of a noble spirit now passed away. Clodwig
had seen, as in a vision upon his death-bed, the combatants of the
present day dividing into two hostile camps, one of which rallied
around the Pope, the other around the standard of free thought. A third
party, agreeing partly with the former, and partly with the latter, he
thought impossible.
The protest was rejected; but the Doctor's proposition, openly to
acknowledge the justice of the Papal animadversions, was also set
aside. At the close of the celebration the brethren sat down to a
banquet. Roland was once more welcomed by the Banker with peculiar
heartiness.
The youth asked the Major in a low voice, why Professor Einsiedel and
Knopf were not members of the order.
"They are natural members of the association," answered the Major.
As they left the castle by the light of the full moon, Roland said to
the Major,--
"To have lived a day like this makes death seem easy."
"I say with Claus," answered the Major, "we won't look for death till
the very last."
And so their high-strung mood passed over into merriment.
On the following morning, the Major begged for the Banker's advice on a
matter bearing decisively upon his life; and in which the Banker could
assist him more than any one else.
The Banker declared himself ready to render any assistance.
CHAPTER XIV.
A VOLUNTARY SACRIFICE AND A FULFILMENT OF DESTINY.
Flowers of all sorts were blooming in the conservatories, buds upon the
artistically trained espalier trees were opening, and the park was
resounding with songs of the birds, restlessly chirping and flying
about at this time of wooing and mating.
Never before had Eric enjoyed the dawn of spring so intensely as now.
He was filled with the joy of love, and the heavy burdens which Fate
had laid upon him seemed like an accident, a dream, which he could all
at once shake off.
Early in the morning he would stroll in the park; a peculiar feeling of
joyousness would come over him at the thought that Spring would soon
reign over this, his own estate. Why should not these trees, these
meadows, these plantations put on new bloom and verdure, now that they
were his? And while wondering whether it would really ever be his lot
to pass here an industrious and peaceful life, he could not free
himself from a feeling of compassion for Sonnenkamp. The man had
planted and fostered all this--where was he now?
Manna and the Professorin were walking with the Banker's
daughter-in-law, who had been drawn thither by her desire to know
Roland's sister, and her much praised mother-in-law. The three ladies
had quickly formed a league of friendship, based on the foundation of a
fine and liberal culture. Yet, though the inmates of the Villa were so
happy together, each one harbored the restless longing to depart.
The ladies entered the conservatory.
A wave of aromatic perfumes floated towards them, and flowed around
them. Their eyes were refreshed by the thousand hues of the
newly-opened blossoms.
The Professorin spoke of the rest she should find in watching over the
culture of these plants.
Manna expressed her intention of devoting herself, in the days that
were to come, to botany, both theoretical and practical. The Banker's
daughter-in-law promised soon to do the same.
With a feeling of pleasurable excitement, they sat in the green-house,
where to-day, for the first time, the great windows had been
opened. Manna sent for her harp, and they found that the Banker's
daughter-in-law could sing several songs of which the harpist knew the
accompaniment. It was an hour filled with the pure joy of existence,
untroubled by one thought of the past, by one anxiety for the morrow.
Manna had caused a beautiful myrtle-tree to be placed on the table,
wishing to weave from its boughs a crown for Lina, whose marriage was
to be solemnized almost immediately. As she sat thus, with the blooming
branches before her, Weidmann entered, and said joyously,--
"This tree bears leaves and blossoms enough for threefold bridal
wreaths, and I hope they will be worn."
Then he told them that he came as the Major's ambassador, to summon the
ladies' attention to the story of Fraeulein Milch.
The Major came in with the Fraeulein, who, casting a strange look at the
Banker's daughter-in-law, said,--
"You are to be present too."
The Major, having called thither the Banker and Professor Einsiedel,
declared his readiness to yield to the instance of his friends, and
reside at the Villa, in order to superintend and keep everything in
good condition; but only with the stipulation that Fraeulein Milch
should at last be released from her vow; stating that she was ready,
after having related her life-history, to submit to the verdict of
their friends, the Banker and the Professor.
"Another story!" moaned the Professor. He dreaded the idea of
pronouncing a judgment which was wholly without results, as in the case
of Sonnenkamp.
The Major, however, begged so urgently that he consented, and Fraeulein
Milch began:--
"You, Herr Professor, are just like my father, and yet you are very
different! He, too, was a learned man, but in a very different sphere.
"You have many of his habits, and, if you accompany me to the altar, it
will seem as though my father were with me, although you are much
younger. And you, my friends,--you, Frau Professorin, who have honored
me before knowing my life, and you, Fraeulein Manna, who, after
conquering a strong prejudice, have given me your rich love,--you shall
now be made really acquainted with me. But you (turning to the Banker),
you will best be able to pass sentence upon me; for you are a Jew, as I
am a Jewess."
All were astounded.
Fraeulein Milch waited quietly until her auditors had recovered from
their amazement, then continued:--
"I am the daughter of a learned Hebrew, and an only daughter. I had one
brother, of whom we shall hear later. My father was a noble and pious
man; he was considered a scholar of great discernment, with fine
polemical gifts; but in life he was childishly simple and--why should I
not say it?--shiftless. He read the sacred books from morning till
night.
"My mother sprang from a wealthy house, had once been blessed in early
childhood by the hands of Moses Mendelssohn; from this it was predicted
that she would one day marry a man of great knowledge. This proved
true. According to the will of her parents she became the wife of my
father, on account of his piety and learning.
"Such was the way in which the opulent Israelites formerly exhibited
their gratitude and respect for a learned man of their faith, as the
Christians bestowed gifts upon the convents. The Jews could found no
establishments. They had no protection; all their goods were movable,
and thus they devoted a portion of their wealth to the support of our
scientific men.
"My mother's whole being was absorbed in her adoration of my father.
The quiet and uniformity of life; the calm content which reigned in my
parental abode; how the poor were fed; how our entire existence was
nought save the pause between one pious deed and another, between one
festival and another, no one present can know but you (turning towards
the Banker), you alone can conceive of it. I myself often recall it as
a dream. In winter, when my father was unable to go out, the community
came to my father, to unite together in prayer in his study, and, while
a little child, I used to hear much discourse on worldly events.
"What did we know of the world?
"The world belonged to the officials outside, to the soldiers. They
were, in our eyes, beings moving in a fabulous realm, into which we
could never enter.
"My brother, who was a handsome man--he resembled Herr Dournay--formed
a friendship with a young drummer named Grassler, who was billetted in
our house. We were all made perfectly happy by the reverence which this
youth showed towards my father, whom he regarded as a saint, and by his
gentleness and timidity when in his presence. I yet remember, as though
it were but yesterday, how I stood on the steps, turning round and
round with my hand one of the knobs of the balustrade, when the drummer
said to me:--
"'Yes, Rosalie, when you are grown up, and I have become an officer, I
will come back and take you away with me.'
"He went away drumming; but I kept hearing those strange words in the
sound of the drum, and still stood on the steps, twirling the knob,
while the whole world seemed to whirl with me. But I beg pardon, I am
growing too prolix."
"No, go into details as much as you like."
"But I cannot," replied Fraeulein Milch. "Well, then, they went to the
war. My brother fell. Conrad came back. He had become an ensign, and he
brought back to my father my brother's little prayer-book, its cover
and leaves pierced by a ball. My father and my mother and I sat on the
ground, mourning for seven days. Conrad came and sat with us: he
honored our foreign observances.
"Father seated himself again among his sacred books; but, whereas he
used formerly to read with a low, humming sound, he now spoke the words
aloud and with violence. He seemed obliged to put a constraint upon his
thoughts, which would go out after his son.
"Time gradually healed our wounds. My brother had long been at rest in
his grave,--who can say where? Conrad had returned to his home. I was
seventeen. It was on Easter eve; we had solemnized the Passover, and my
father discoursed much on the liberation from servitude, in
commemoration of which we keep Easter, and lamented the oppression
beneath which we were sighing still. He loved Jesus heartily and
warmly, and only bewailed unceasingly the misuse of his name as an
authority for the misery into which we, members of his race, were
plunged. That night I heard him say that our great and wise Rabbi,
Moses ben Maimon, had taught that Jesus had overthrown heathen
idolatry; that he was not Messias, but his fore-runner!
"It was late at night ere we went to rest. I slept in a room adjoining
that of my parents. Thus I heard my father say to my mother:--
"'How wretched we Jews are! there is that splendid man, so loyal, so
good-hearted, Conrad Grassler, returned. He has worked his way up to a
captaincy, and retired on a major's pension, and now here he comes and
asks for our Rosalie. If the good man were only of our faith, if he
were a Jew, how gladly would I give him my child! I could not desire a
better husband for her; but, as it is, it cannot be, and God forgive my
sin in thinking of it!'
"I heard this from my chamber, and that night, though I was still under
my parents' roof, my spirit was already far away, out into the wide
world, where the officers lived, and the soldiers, and those who owned
it.
"Father had nothing against Conrad if it had not been for that one
thing. A voice within me repeated this all night long. And in the
morning, while my father and mother were in the synagogue, I sat alone
with my prayer-book. See this little prayer-book. It is a devotional
manual for women, composed by my father--but my thoughts were not upon
it. How still it was! I was alone in the house. No one was to be seen
in the streets, for the whole community was at the synagogue. I seated
myself in the middle of the room; I did not wish to look out of the
window; Conrad would surely be passing by.
"But how did he look? How wonderful that he had kept that promise made
to me in my childhood! What had he become? How would I seem to him?
"Then, I cannot tell how it was, but as I was standing at the window,
looking out, I saw Conrad, grown into a noble-looking man. I withdrew
from the window, but then, came footsteps on the stairway, and my heart
throbbed as though it would burst. Conrad stood alone in the world; he
is a military orphan."
A smile passed round the circle of listeners, and Fraeulein Milch went
on:--
"I told Conrad what my father had said to my mother, the night before.
I could give him up for my parents' sake; but he was not in duty bound
to renounce me, and I had not the right to relinquish for him, and it
was settled that I should elope with him.
"My father returned from the synagogue, and I have never felt a heavier
sorrow than when he laid his hand in blessing on my head, as is the
custom with us. I would not disturb the joy of the feast, and not until
it was ended--oh! I ruined the joy of his whole life! There were no
more feasts for him--did I flee with Conrad. I persuaded myself that my
father would give us his blessing, when he should see that it could not
be otherwise. We wrote to him, but he did not answer. He sent us word,
through a friend, that he had had two children, who were dead, and for
whom he earnestly prayed that it might be well with them in the other
world. And one word more he sent me,--'Thou seekest honor before the
world, and for honor hast thou forsaken thy father.' I wrote back
protesting with a solemn oath that I had wished to obtain no earthly
honor through Conrad, promising to clothe myself with humiliation and
shame in the eyes of the world, and that oath I have kept until the
present day.
"Conrad soon received tidings of my mother's death, and my father
followed her in a few months. I inherited a small fortune, and we went
to the Rhine. Down below, yonder, we lived twelve years in a little
lower Rhenish village, hidden from all the world, happy in each other.
We needed nothing from the world but ourselves. Conrad wished
constantly to marry me; but I had vowed to robe myself in ignominy
during the whole period of my existence. We might have been united here
by civil contract. That, too, I refused. I used to attend church,
impelled by the desire to pray in common with my fellow human beings. I
had my quiet corner, and while the organ was pealing, and a divine
service different from my own was being solemnized, I would sit alone
and pray out of the prayer-book which my father had composed, and from
the other, which my brother had had on the field of battle, and which
had rested on his heart till it beat no more. I was in the church and
was no stranger, for there were people beside me, praying after another
fashion, but to the same Spirit which I also invoke, and this Spirit
will know and explain why men turn themselves to him in such different
ways. Now I believe I may revoke my sentence of self-excommunication."
"You may, you must," said the Banker, speaking first, and rising as he
spoke. The Professorin rose and embraced the narrator.
"Well, then, will you hear the close, too?" resumed Fraeulein Milch. All
were still, and she proceeded:--
"We came hither. How I have lived here, you know. At our change of
residence, Conrad expressed his wish for a formal union, but I
preferred not to be called Frau Majorin; it was to me a constant
penance and chastisement for my faithlessness to my parents and my
desertion of all my people. Now we lived in faithfulness, in oneness,
without any formal tie. Thus we have lived, and now it is fulfilled."
"I shall go with you to the wedding," cried the Professor and Weidmann.
But the latter now took Manna's hand, saying:--
"Do you know for whom is the third bridal wreath which shall be woven
from this myrtle-tree?"
Manna trembled, and he went on:--
"It is for you. You have struggled and waited. Help me, Frau Dournay."
The Mother, too, took Manna's hand. The Major, hastening out, came back
bringing Eric, to whom, on their way, he said a great many things mixed
up in strange confusion.
The following day saw the three couples united, and no one can say who
were the happiest. Manna and Eric, the Major and Fraeulein Milch, or
Lina and the Architect.
Rooms were fitted up in the castle, and there Manna and Eric were to
pass the first days of their marriage.
They were sitting at the wedding-feast, which had been tastefully
arranged under the direction of Joseph, who was himself betrothed.
Manna and Eric had helped him to buy an inn at the capital, and he had
plighted his troth to the daughter of mine host of the Victoria. Now,
however, he had returned of his own accord, and was the servant of the
house as formerly.
Very modestly did Knopf bring forward three different poems which he
had composed for the triple wedding; into these he had skilfully
interwoven all sorts of little occurrences, to the amusement of all.
Eric whispered to Manna, as he sat by her side: "I am glad that I have
already danced with you. I feel as though I must now whirl round with
you in the dance, and forget everything. But I must hush: our good
teacher is about to speak."
Einsiedel arose, with a smile upon his face, saying with sparkling
eyes: "Come hither, you children of the Rhine, and I will teach you
something. My pupil, here, Dr. Dournay, knows it, I shall only remind
him of it; but to you I must say it:--
"All my theologies tell us of immortal gods; but they are not immortal
by nature, they are only so by the divine drink, by means of nectar,
wine, and mead: these are the potions which give eternal life; and,
floating in the clouds, and drinking from the clouds, the deities
become immortal, and with them the inspired breath of arisen souls.
Yes, it is by drinking! Look here, see how the sun shines in this
glass, and here the lightning is embosomed, the primitive life-fire. We
drink, and are immortal, like the gods. And this is my desire! Drink
always a drop of this divine draught from the ocean of ether, the
spirit-sea, which undulates and floats over the world. Then you will be
forever happy and immortal."
Evening came, and Manna and Eric went hand in hand to the castle.
The moon stood over the stream, bathing with trembling light tree and
bush, where the buds were gently bursting and the nightingale
unweariedly singing. The world was flooded with bliss.
For three days they remained alone at the castle, and on the third
evening they came down again to Villa Eden.
CHAPTER XV.
A JOYOUS FAREWELL, AND HUMBOLDT'S BLESSING ON THE JOURNEY.
In the Carp Inn was a noisy hubbub. The Cooper, as young host, was
merrily pouring the wine, and both fathers, the Screamer and the
Sevenpiper, looked on delightedly, often clinking their ribbed glasses.
It was known throughout the whole region that the Cooper was a
confidant of Roland and Eric. Now came the young men from all sides,
wishing to be enrolled for the American war; there was even a
deputation appeared from Weidmann's cement factory, begging for the
passage-money for thirty-two men.
The Cooper had given information of what was going forward to Roland,
who was highly excited by the news.
Now has come a use for his wealth. He would raise a regiment with which
he would go to America. They would land, and the columns would march at
once.
Eric, too, felt a great interest the carrying out of this plan, but
Weidmann opposed it stoutly, affirming that we had no right to withdraw
from Germany the strength needed for her development.
This objection was of no avail; but another remonstrance was decisive.
He told Roland that President Lincoln would be absolutely obliged to
take a step further,--he must arm the negroes. Then it might be
Roland's part to give pecuniary assistance, and it would be far grander
that the negroes themselves should fight for their own liberation and
for that of their brethren.
Roland had been before the court, where he had been declared of age; he
now came into the Carp Inn, where all were full of astonishment when
the young man informed them that he should only take with him three
young physicians--the Banker had undertaken the expenses of one of the
three--that he should engage no one else, as the negroes themselves
must fight for their liberty.
He went back to Villa Eden, accompanied by Claus. There lived the
Major.
He also made a wedding-tour, with the Frau Majorin. They stopped awhile
in that part of the garden called Nice.
They went through the park and ascended the hill, where there
was a view down the Rhine. The Major said in a tone of supreme
satisfaction:--
"Now, Frau Majorin, here we are, on the highest mountain in
Switzerland."
And at the lake he said:--
"Frau Majorin, will you have the goodness to admire the Lago Maggiore?"
They went through the conservatories, and the Major declared that the
world had collected here its most beautiful show of flowers, in order
to spare them the great annoyance of travelling. He besought his wife
to excuse him if he did not show her the devotion of a newly married
husband during the following days. So much had yet to be provided
before the departure of the new knights of the Brotherhood.
There were, indeed, so many things to be settled, that Eric was at last
obliged to entrust much that was essential to Weidmann and the Justice.
Before he could start, he must obtain his discharge, as he was in the
reserve corps. The reply to his application was, that the Prince
desired a personal interview. He was obliged to go to the city, and was
not a little surprised by the gracious and complimentary expressions of
the Prince. He said that he was not willing to give such a man his
discharge, but he would grant him leave of absence for an indefinite
time.
Eric's pride, however, was very soon humbled, for the Prince hinted
that Eric, now made the possessor of so much wealth, had better remain
in the country.
During his stay in the city, officers also came to Eric, offering
either to accompany or to follow him to America.
Eric positively declined all such offers.
Joseph the valet came with his betrothed. Means had been given him to
set up an inn of his own in the capital, but he conducted himself like
a servant of the house.
Fassbender's son, who had been working in the Banker's office, was
going to the New World, wishing to engage in the occupation of his
brother, who was an influential building-contractor. In compliance with
the urgent request of Claus, he took with him a great quantity of
birds, by which means he was to establish a regular bird-trade with the
Old World.
The deaf-mute from the cement factory, to whom Roland had given a
knife, came on the eve of their departure, bringing him a mug, on which
was marked in very clumsy letters: "Comeback."
Roland made permanent provision for the care of the forsaken youth.
It was very hard for Roland to take leave of the horses and dogs. He
had wished to take Griffin with him, but gave up the idea when the
difficulties of so doing were represented to him. Laying his hand on
the dog's head, he said:--
"My old friend, I can't take you with me; I must leave much more than
you behind me. I don't myself know how it will end. Just stay quietly
here, and wait till I come back."
The dog looked up sadly at his master.
On the morrow there was a great pilgrimage from the Villa to the
steamboat-landing.
They sent the carriages on before. Weidmann walked with Eric, holding
his hand, the Major with Roland, and Knopf with the negro. Manna walked
between the Professorin and the Major's wife. The Aunt and Professor
Einsiedel had remained behind at the Villa. Roland wept; and Manna,
weeping also, leaned on the arms of those who led her. Looking up at
the churchyard, she said:--
"On the bank of this river we are at home: here rests our mother
in the earth. I remember an old saying, but where it came from I do not
know:--
"'The nomadic races wander and wander; but where they have dug a grave
for one of their number, there they must finally remain.'"
Her voice failed her. After a time she went on:--
"There stand the trees which father planted."
Tears choked all further utterance.
Arrived at the landing, they found a great assemblage of people. Claus
kept laughing and nodding, having made a merry night of it at the Carp,
wishing to have one more good time before he went forth into the wide
world.
The Cooper, now landlord of the Carp, and the Sevenpiper presented, in
behalf of a large number of donors, a keg of virgin wine, crowned with
fresh garlands.
Now the Screamer became animated, and speedily reckoned up what would
be the daily portion of each of the travellers until their arrival in
New York. It would be at least two bottles apiece; and he instantly
tendered his services in despatching the virgin wine, as probably Eric
would not drink his whole share, and perhaps Roland too would fall
short.
The Gauger told in doleful fashion how the voyagers would to-day have
the good luck of travelling with a young married couple, for the
steamboat which was coming was called the "Beethoven," and the steward
of the "Beethoven" had married the "Lorelei."
Eric and Manna sat by their mother, holding her hand; and she said to
them consolingly:--
"Eric, spare your life; but should you fall in the great cause, I shall
mourn, but I will not bewail your loss."
"Mother, I am confident of returning home alive out of this struggle;
and yet, if I should fall, mother, be steadfast: I have lived the
highest life, through you, through my father's, and through my Manna's,
love."
The Mother silently pressed his hand.
Now came the Doctor and the Justice with their wives, and Lina with her
husband. The Doctor put the finishing touch by imparting the
intelligence, agitating to all, that Pranken had entered the Papal
army.
Weidmann was much moved by this news; he exhorted Eric to keep
uppermost in his thoughts, even above the grief of parting, the
wonderful way in which all this had come to pass: Pranken there and he
here. He expatiated on this with emphasis, and succeeded in his
intention of dispelling personal sorrow by the consideration of
universal views. That which this man and this youth had done in
accordance with their own choice and the leadings of destiny, _that_
was no longer at the disposal of their own individual free will, but
was absorbed into, and had become a part of the great whole.
And now the real mirthfulness of Rhenish life began to display itself.
The glee-club made its appearance with a band of music, and clear songs
rang out from the pretty and graceful steamer which now came down the
stream. The cannon were fired; the boat stopped; and hurried partings
were made. Eric, Manna, and Roland kissed the Mother, who cried:--
"Be faithful to the end."
They were soon on board.
The steamer had pushed off, when a cry was heard. The dog Griffin had
broken loose from the Cooper's hold upon his collar, sprung into the
Rhine, and was swimming after the boat. She stopped once more; the dog
was hoisted out of the water and taken along with them.
The party on shore waved their farewell signals, and were answered from
the boat, as long as they could see each other; but for a long time
after this, the gaze of the departing ones lingered on the Villa.
What will become of the house? What shall they be when they return?
What kind of life will there be established?
As Manna stood leaning on Eric, something came softly up to them.
The dogs, Rose and Thistle, had forced their way aboard. Roland, who
had likewise been standing lost in thought, suddenly brightened up, for
Griffin was also with them.
And now they had a fresh surprise. No one had noticed that the Major
had not been among those who had bid them goodbye. He now emerged from
the cabin with his wife. He was now making his wedding tour, and
accompanied the wanderers as far as the Lower Rhine. It seemed as if
they had with them a goodly portion of the home.
There was music on board, and the Major soon brought up the steward and
stewardess, to whom he introduced himself and his wife, and Eric and
Manna, as newly-married couples.
"Yes," said he to Eric, "you know I have been a drummer. I'll tell you
the story some time or other. Yes, when you come back you shall have
it."
At the station before the Island, the Major and wife disembarked. Here
they had dwelt in the first days of their union, and here they wished
to be again for a day, and to show themselves as married people to
those who had then been friendly toward them. The Major still waved his
hand from the row-boat, and strove to show a cheerful countenance, but
the tears ran down his cheeks, and as he bent over the side of the
skiff, they flowed into the Rhine.
Silently they glided on, and, as they passed the Cloister Island, a
flock of white doves were winging their way over it. The nightingales
were singing so loud as to be heard, in spite of the continual plash of
the paddle-wheels. The children of the Island were walking along the
shore, two by two, and singing.
Manna sighed deeply, and wafted a greeting over to them.
No one imagined, who was passing by, away, away to the New World.
When, at evening, the vessel stopped for the night, Eric remembered a
sheet of paper which Weidmann had given him. He read it. It contained
words from the close of Humboldt's Cosmos:--
"There are some races more civilized, more highly ennobled by culture
than others, but there are no races nobler by nature. All are equally
destined for freedom."
BOOK XV.
EXTRACTS OF LETTERS FROM AND TO THE NEW WORLD.
[Eric to his Mother.]
On board the BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
Our ship bears the name which my father always uttered with peculiar
fervor.
My mother!
I am transformed into a life full of novel excitement. I have seen the
sea for the first time. Now I am living upon it, and I seem to be
writing to you from another world.
A joyful event ushered us out of the Fatherland.
As we drew near the shore, on the first evening, I espied a broad,
benevolent, comfortable-looking man, at the window of the corner-house
at the landing. He bowed to me, I returned the salutation, but did not
recognize him. But when we were on board, he came up to us; it was
Master Ferdinand, whom I had helped out at the musical festival.
I quickly told him our story, and he, with a despatch which could only
have been inspired by disinterested kindness, collected his fellow
artists, together with some cultivated amateurs of the town, and we
sang and played far into the night.
With music in our souls we left the Rhine,--we left Germany.
Manna and Roland will write to you themselves; they are now on deck,
reading the Odyssey: it is the only thing one ought to read here. All
movement on the highways on shore, all household interests and
surroundings, seem far removed.
Such a ship is a world in itself.
Herr Knopf, too, has had a wonderful meeting. He is writing to the
Major: get him to show you the letter. One thing more I must tell you
about.
We reached Liverpool at evening, and intended to rest there a day. On
the next morning I was standing alone, looking at the harbor, and
thinking how Liverpool was the first English port in which slave-ships
were fitted out, when I was roused from my reverie over the changing
events of history, by seeing an outward-bound vessel weighing anchor.
On the deck stood a man, who, I cannot doubt, was Sonnenkamp. He now
wears a full beard; but I recognized him in spite of it. He has either
been in Europe all the time, or else has returned here. He seemed to
recognize me, took off his broad-brimmed hat, beckoned to some one, and
a figure appeared which I could not recognize with certainty, but I
think it was Bella.
I learned from the brother-masons, to whom Weidmann had given me a
letter of introduction, that a man quite answering to the description
of Sonnenkamp, was sending a shipload of arms and ammunition to some
Southern port.
I dare not think how terrible, at this juncture, a meeting would have
been.
Strangely enough, as I was walking with Manna at noon, through the
city, she said to me: "I feel as if I must meet father here. I keep
thinking he will come round some corner, on one side or the other!" I
do not think I have done wrong in not telling her of what I saw.
Most agonizing is the thought that, perhaps, father and son may fight
against each other in opposing armies. My consolation is, that
Sonnenkamp, being an old sailor, will probably enter the navy.
Roland is the darling of the whole ship. He is indefatigably zealous to
learn about the arrangement of the vessel, and about all the duties of
the crew. He is busy with them first in one place, then in another, and
I am glad to see that, by this means, all his hard thinking and
speculation are driven away.
We have favoring winds.
Very merry, too, is the chirping and singing of the birds that Claus
has brought with him. The blackbird strikes an attitude on her perch,
like that of a renowned singer on the stage, looks coquettishly round
on the bystanders, and sings her "Rejoice in your life." You know she
never gets beyond that: but we like to have it said and sung to us:
"Rejoice in your life."
On the second evening out.
Now it is night. Manna is alone on deck, looking at the stars. What a
wondrous world! Overhead the innumerable stars, and around us the
boundless sea. I feel as if I must, on this voyage, let all hard
thinking, reflection, and speculation take wings and fly away, in order
that I may tread the soil of the New World as simply a man of resolute
action. There has always been a vein of romance running through my life
and nature. What is it that leads me thither, to stake my whole being
in a great crisis of human history? No longer to be a mere spectator,
but to act, to live, and, perhaps--no, mother, an inward assurance
tells me I shall come home alive from this conflict.
Home! Home! Oh, mother, my soul wings its way across to it, over the
boundless billows of life: we are with you, and Villa Eden makes true
its name. And yet, if Fate has otherwise decreed, be firm: your son has
been perfectly happy; he has enjoyed all the fulness of life. I have
had you, father, Manna, knowledge, pure aspirations, action. All has
been mine.
Here I sit, and the billows bear me on. We rise and fall with the
waves, and well for him who feels, as I now do, that the goal at which
he aims is a good one.
It seems as if your hand were on my brow: I am well and free. And,
oddly enough, I see myself in my mind's eye, transported to the
University town again. Now it is evening; in the parlor at the "Post,"
the regular guests are seated, who meet there every evening, though, in
truth, they cannot endure each other. They sit round a table covered
with black oil-cloth, with their glasses before them, discussing the
affairs of the world, telling anecdotes, and hoaxing one another, and
then the talk turns upon that unsteady adventurer, Doctor Dournay. I am
a fruitful theme for them. Tall Professor Whitehead lights a match, and
says with satisfaction, "I always knew he would desert Science," and
then the everlasting "Extraordinary" says--Enough! I was once on
another planet, and believed myself at home there.
* * * * *
I have not written for five days, and now, mother, the man who is
writing to you has been, with his nearest and dearest, in the jaws of
death.
We have lived through a storm such as our captain, a seaman of
three-and-twenty years experience, has never seen before.
I must confess, I was not among the brave. And, in the midst of the
tempest,--such is the double-action of the soul,--I could not help
often thinking of the everlasting "Extraordinary," at the long table in
the Post, speaking of my death, and lamenting his having abandoned
poetical composition: our end would have made a fine subject. The
coolest in the midst of the storm were Roland and Knopf. The latter,
however, was not with us, but on the forward deck with his betrothed.
Manna held me clasped in her arms. We wished to die together.
Oh, why should I recount our dangers? They are past. Now that we are
safe, we talk of them no more.
On the next morning, when the sky was so clear, and the sea so calm, we
celebrated a betrothal on board. It was friend Knopf who was betrothed;
he will write you a more detailed account of it all. The cask of virgin
wine, which had been given to us, was shared among the crew on that
day. The Rhine poured joy into the veins of us all.
There was singing, dancing, jubilation. All the flags were hoisted, and
at table friend Knopf made an address no less amusing than touching. I
believe he is going to send Fraeulein Milch his speech. We had music,
too; Knopf played the flute, and persuaded Manna to bring her harp on
deck. All the passengers and the sailors stood around her with
suspended breath, and, when she had ended, shouted and huzzaed.
In three days we shall each land; I do not know whether I shall write
again till then; my first step on the soil of the New World will be to
send you this letter, unless we should meet, on the way, some vessel
which will take it to Europe.
To Europe!
I feel raised so high above the world, that it seems as if I could play
with whole continents.
Be joyful in thinking of your happy son,
ERIC.
[Knopf to the Major and Fraeulein Milch.]
DEAR BROTHER AND SISTER,
Oh, how delightful it is that I, who have never been able to call any
one by these names, can now apply them to you!
In the red blank-book which you, dear sister, gave me, are many notes
of travel, which I hope to be able, some time, to write out: now I
cannot. Out with the best thing: I am betrothed!!! It occurs to me,
while making these three exclamation marks, that their form has a
meaning. They seem to me like the image of a comet. Do ask Professor
Einsiedel if I have not made a great scientific discovery.
Do you remember, dear sister, my telling you of my meeting a girl with
two boys in the forest, that time when I was coming to find our friend
Herr Dournay? That girl is my betrothed. Her name is Rosalie, like
yours. She looks enough like you to be your sister. Yes, she is your
sister. She has brown eyes, like you.
"But who is she, then?" I hear you ask, laying aside your sewing and
looking at me with both eyes--I had almost said, with both hands.
Well, just let me tell you quietly.
Now, then, the maiden whom I met in the green-wood, my wood-maiden,
is the daughter of a teacher, and--I beg you to hear this
respectfully--she has passed her own examination as a teacher, and her
brothers are splendid fellows. I did not venture to approach the girl,
although I recognized her at the first glance. I tried to ingratiate
myself with the brothers and said one day to the smaller one, who took
to me at once--"Tell your sister I met her in the forest, last May, on
her way to chapel with you; she had on a brown dress."
"Why don't you tell her so yourself?" asked the little fellow.
I had no time to answer him; for just then my wood-maiden came along,
and began reproving her brother for annoying the strange gentleman,
when the little one shouted, "Why, it's the gentleman you imitate, when
you show how he looked over his spectacles at you."
Now it was out. She had made fun of me? She too? I took off my glasses,
and must confess, I should have liked to throw them into the sea, and
myself after them.
"What did she say?" you ask.
She spoke kindly and heartily: she said she had not ridiculed me--Oh, I
don't remember the rest--she gave me her hand, and----
I cannot write it; you shall hear all about it sometime, and, even if I
don't describe it, you know just the same: I, Emil Knopf, girls' tutor
through so many generations, am engaged to an angel. That is a
hackneyed phrase. Who knows whether angels could stand the teachers'
examination?
I say with Herr Weidmann: I should just like to know how men can manage
not to believe in God. Could only human understanding devise such a
story as this? I had not the slightest idea where she came from, or who
she was; and now she is put aboard the same ship for me, or you may
say, I am put on board, and now the war breaks out, and she has an
uncle in America--It is a fine thing that there is an uncle in America.
I think I have met my father-in-law. And do you know what is the best
thing?
To have a beloved one to live through a storm.
In the midst of the storm, and it was no ordinary one, I thought, How
would it have been, if you had been obliged to sink into the sea alone,
and had never known what it is to kiss a maiden's lips, and how it
feels to have a soft hand stroke your face, and even to be told, "You
are handsome,"--just think of it! I, Emil Knopf, famous as the least
dangerous of men, I am handsome! Oh, how blind were all mothers and
daughters in the blessed land of Uniformingen! Rosalie has a little
mirror, and when I look into it, I am really handsome--I am pleased
with myself. But do not think I have gone mad; I am in full possession
of my mental powers. Herr Major, I pledge myself to explain to you the
law of the centre of gravity and of the line of gravitation. I retain
my understanding intact.
One thing, however, is hard for me. I find that I am no poet. If I
were, I should now, of necessity, compose such poems that the whole
world would hear of nothing else. The sailors could not refrain from
singing them, nor the soldiers, coming away from the parade ground, nor
the white-handed young lady at the piano, nor the journeyman by the
roadside, when he takes off his oil-cloth hat and lays his head on his
pack. Oh, I feel as if I must have something which should appease the
hunger of the whole world, crying to all men, "Do you not see how
beautiful the world is?"
But now I beg for a wedding gift. You and Fraeulein Milch must have your
photographs taken, for my sake. Oh, excuse my writing Fraeulein Milch--I
mean the Majorin. I see that I have kept writing Fraeulein Milch
throughout the whole letter. Do not be vexed if I do not alter it.
In the New World I shall write again; but now not another word. I have
written enough, my whole life long, and now I wish to do nothing but
frolic and kiss. Oh! that beautiful air from Don Giovanni occurs to me.
I will say but this one thing more: Manna behaves sweetly and kindly to
my Rosalie, and so do Adams and our three doctors and young Fassbender.
Every one rejoices in our happiness, and my young brothers-in-law are
jolly fellows. We are all practising English, but we mean to remain
true Germans.
In sight of land.
In three days we shall be in New York.
I don't know what I may have to encounter there. Rosalie, says too that
I must write now: she is sitting beside me. But I really cannot write
my inmost thoughts, when any one is in the same room with me, and
especially when such dear eyes are looking at me. I will try, though:
Rosalie thinks I have spoken so beautifully that it ought not to be
lost. She makes me vain, she thinks so much of everything I say.
You know that we had a frightful storm, and that we were formally
betrothed the" day after. It was only a little betrothal feast; but in
spirit we invited the best people to it, and I summoned and addressed
you all; you first, dear Major--or, rather, pardon me, dear brother,
and then you, dear sister. Your cap with the blue ribbon was a good
centre for my thoughts.
I spoke as follows:--
Oh, you good people, I cannot. They all say, I spoke as if I had
received the gift of tongues. It may be so, but write it I cannot. I
must give my Rosalie a kiss. Major, give yours to the Majorin.
There, that's enough.
P. S. I have given Rosalie what I have written to read. She is taking
notes of a severe criticism for me. Yes, that is the way with teachers
that have passed their examination.
NEW YORK.
To put into a letter what one has experienced in New York in three
days, nay, in one, would be like holding fast in our hands the
changeful images in the clouds. I have given up writing in my diary;
there is too much to say.
When we landed, the Uncle was waiting for us, but did not accept me as
a nephew very willingly. I wish I had you here, dear Brother Major, to
explain to him who I really am, and how circumstanced. Now I must wait
till he finds it out for himself; perhaps that will never happen. I
don't blame the Uncle, he had already picked out a husband for Rosalie.
When I introduced Captain Dournay to him, he said:--
"Dournay--Dournay?" but nothing more. He must have had to do with one
of the family, some time or other.
The Uncle is very reserved; but great as his reticence is the openness
of every one in Dr. Fritz's house. Ah, dear brother and sister, now I
know what Herr Weidmann's home must have been when he was young, only
Herr Weidmann has more sons, and here there are daughters. And what
splendid creatures they are! And such a wife! I can only say, when she
looks at you with her great eyes you are satisfied.
Oh, what glorious people we Germans are! Wherever we are transplanted,
here in the air of freedom especially, we shoot up, and show, for the
first time, what we really are.
I stood by when Roland and Lilian met; they must have some secret sign
of recognition, for their first word was "Pebble." Yes, in love affairs
some secret understanding is always formed. They merely held each other
by the hand, and then went out together. Children live here in great
independence.
Things go on beautifully at Dr. Fritz's, only nobody has any time.
I now understand the American saying, 'Time is money.' There is an
extraordinary restlessness everywhere.
Here is war--war! Most people think it will soon be over, but Dr. Fritz
says that the obstinacy of the Southern States is great, and that they
are the better armed.
What is to become of me? you ask. Dr. Fritz thinks it strange that I
still wish, in earnest, to become a teacher of negroes, especially as I
do not yet speak the language with ease. He gives me hope, however, of
being able to carry out my plan, by-and-by. And my thoughts go even
further. A Normal School must be founded for negro youths; I shall keep
this in view. Meantime I am giving music lessons here, and it seems so
strange, when I come out of a house where we have been practising, to
hear in the street the noisy roll of the drum.
Adams is in despair; the President will not yet permit any blacks to
enlist. Adams has been told to work on the fortifications, but this he
will not do.
Young Fassbender will have nothing to do with the bird-trade which
Claus wanted to draw him into with his brother; he has undertaken to
furnish supplies for the army. I hope he will behave honorably, for,
sad to say, I hear that a great deal of cheating and embezzlement is
carried on even in this Republic.
[Knopf to Fassbender.]
.... and tell me, did I ever meet at your house a teacher by the name
of Runzler? It is very important to me to know, this, for he was my
father-in-law.
I think he was at your house, and took snuff out of a large box.
Yes, it is so. I have just, asked my Rosalie. Her father used to take
snuff from a big beech-wood box. So my idea was correct. Memory is a
whimsical thing. We ought, professionally, to take it into
consideration far more than we do. I remember actually nothing but the
beech-wood snuff-box; but I beg you to tell me what we talked about at
that time. You recollect, or rather I remind you, that I was at that
time much saddened by the childish prank which Roland had played off
upon me. I was so troubled, that I cannot remember any thing that
passed. So write me all about it, and you will be doing me a great
favor. You will soon receive a card inscribed thus:
EMIL KNOPF,
ROSALIE KNOPF, _nee_ RUNZLER,
Married.
I tell you the world is full of romances; the whole of life is but a
romance.
The philosopher Schelling is right; poetry, art, government, religion,
everything, had their origin in myths.
My good Roland has described to me his visit to Abraham Lincoln, and I
have a good poem about it in my head. Unfortunately I have as yet only
the title; but it is a beautiful one, for the piece is to be called:
'In Abraham's bosom.' Think how much can be included under such a
heading!
Your son is an extremely practical man, you will have much satisfaction
in him.
If your under-master chooses to come here, I can procure him much
employment in piano lessons. We have teachers enough in Germany to
export some.
[Roland to the Professorin.]
Pardon me if I no longer venture to call you mother. It seems to me
like an injustice to my dead mother that I ever did so. I entreat you
to have her grave carefully attended to, and to keep it strewn with her
favorite flowers, ericas and pinks.
Now that is off my mind, I will write of other things.
When I think of the green cottage, it always seems to me as if it were
floating on the sea, and must come hither to us.
Eric and Manna have, of course, described our voyage to you. While at
sea, I learned tolerably well how the ship was managed, and I should
have liked best to enlist in the navy; but Eric would not hear of it.
It is probable that my father is fighting against us by sea, so it is
better for me to be in the army.
I have seen Lilian again. I can say to you alone that we are engaged.
Do not say that I am but seventeen, and she but fourteen years old.
Events have made us older. Why, Franklin wanted to marry Miss Read,
when he was only eighteen. We have vowed to belong to one another when
the war is over.
Please let these lines be seen by no eyes but yours.
We have been at Washington; I have seen the Acropolis of the New World.
I wished first to make a pilgrimage to Franklin's grave, but it was
better for me that I could first see one of his greatest successors,
Abraham Lincoln.
I have seen, for the first time, a man of immortal glory. Face to face
with him, I have uttered the name which will be handed down to
posterity. Those lips, whose words now resound throughout the world of
to-day, and shall be reechoed by future ages, have pronounced my name.
I have looked on greatness, and how simple it is!
It was at Carlsbad, in the course of that memorable conversation,--I do
not remember much of it, but this struck me,--that some one, the
Cabinetsrath, I think, said: "He who has walked through a portrait
gallery of his ancestors, traverses the whole of life accompanied, as
it were, by those eyes." Oh, from Lincoln's eyes the spirit of Socrates
and Aristides, the spirit of Moses, of Washington, of Franklin, gazed
upon me. And then I felt those to be the forefathers whom every one can
earn for himself by honorable labor, by loyalty and self-sacrifice. I
have the loftiest ancestry, and I will be worthy of it.
I enclose a photograph of Lincoln. He resembles Weidmann, not in
appearance, but in the impression he makes on one. I told him about
Adams, and how unhappy the negro was that he could not enter the army,
but could only be employed on fortifications. Lincoln told me to trust
mature discretion, and not to forget, in the exuberance of youth, that
we must use all means in our power to bring about an understanding, in
order to be justified before our own conscience and before God, if
obliged to go further, saying that this was a fraternal strife, a war,
not of annihilation, but of reconciliation.
I should like to enter a negro regiment, and told him so. He was
silent, and only laid his broad, powerful hand on my head. Manna
remains at Dr. Fritz's. Eric has probably already told you of his
entering the army with the rank of Major. I have a comrade, Hermann;
Lilian's brother, who bears a strong resemblance to Rudolph Weidmann,
and is of the same age, but much older in character. Here, one is much
older at eighteen than with us. He talks very little; but what he says,
is so sensible and decided! Ah, he has had a beautiful youth!--but I
will say no more of that. I left Griffin behind, in Lilian's care. We
are in the cavalry. If we only had our Villa Eden horses here! Tell the
Major to write me word who has bought them. My heart aches if I think
of Villa Eden.
Just now, having written that word, I was obliged to stop. Have
patience with me: you shall see that your great goodness to me has not
been thrown away. You shall hear of manly behaviour on the part of
Your
ROLAND DOURNAY.
I have taken the name of Dournay here. You will understand why.
[Manna to the Professorin.]
.... I long to throw myself upon your breast, and there to say,
"Mother!" and nothing more. The pen trembles in my hand, but I hear you
say, "Be strong." I will. I dare not think how it will be when we are
again with you. You are our home. We must wait, who knows how long? Who
knows with what sacrifices? I dare, not think that Eric may be taken
from me--from us.
It seemed like a dream to me, when we trod the soil of this
continent--of my native land. I would gladly have floated on with the
ship forever. I am living in the house of Dr. Fritz. Eric and Roland
have to-day gone to Washington to see Lincoln. I do not realize that
Eric is not with me, and yet I must soon let him go, how differently!
We will not be afraid, will we, mother? A wonderful destiny has brought
us together and preserved us together; it will remain true to us.
I should like to tell you much of the home where I dwell, and of all
the good, intellectually wide-awake people, and often, when I hear the
wife and children talking and see them acting, I want to say, "That you
get from Eric's mother, from my mother." There exists, over the whole
earth, a common fund of noble thought, as every one finds who bears a
portion of it within himself. This is, to me, the meaning of the words,
"Seek and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you." You
have given me the power of seeking, of knocking, and I find that it is
opened unto me. Oh, mother! Why must it be by means of such tremendous
events, poised so narrowly between life and death, that the greatness
and goodness, the readiness for martyrdom of the human heart, must be
developed? Why not in peace, in love, in quiet cares?
That will be the millennium, you have often said, when the best
qualities will no longer unfold in struggle, but in beauty and
peacefulness. You, my mother, are a messenger and a witness from the
paradise-world beyond the strife. Rejoice, as we rejoice, that you are
this messenger, this witness. I will become like you, I am and will be
your daughter, and will grow ever more truly so.
It is well that I was interrupted in this. Lilian has a fresh voice,
and our friend Knopf's betrothed sings beautifully. We have practised
pieces in which I accompany Lilian's singing on the harp. Oh, if we
could send some of those tones over the sea! In the midst of the uproar
of life around us, here we sit and sing by the hour together. Now I
understand anew that saying, that art is a redeemer;--that saying of
father's.
Why is the word father so harrowing to my soul? How happy it was for my
mother to be snatched away as she was! When I fall into this train of
thought, I always feel as if entering a desert, far, far away; nowhere
anything cheering to the eye or refreshing to the soul. We must bear
it.
I see with sorrow that I am writing confusedly; but you know and
believe me, when I say that I am really calm, and, above all, you are
to know that I never burden our Eric with these heavy thoughts. It is
less from intention than--no, as soon as he comes, all dread and grief
vanish; everything is light, sunshine, day.
Three days later.
Eric has returned with Roland from Washington. They have much to tell,
and Roland is in a state of enthusiasm which you can easily picture to
yourself.
Have I already told you that our friend Knopf has found a charming
little wife? She is full of intelligence, modesty, and energy. She,
too, has had religious conflicts to undergo, as I have, not so severe;
but then she has had a hard fight with herself. Lilian, too, young as
she is, is far riper than her years, on account of her zeal for making
converts.
She was sent to Germany, and our friend Knopf there accomplished a good
work. Lillian has become a sister to me, and we talk much of how she
shall go with us to the Rhine. She thinks, however, that Eric and I
will remain here; but that will never be. Our home is there. You are
our home. I kiss your eyes, cheeks, mouth, hands. Ah, let me kiss you
once more, once more! You are my--ah! you do not know at all what you
are; but you know that I am
Your daughter,
MANNA DOURNAY.
P.S. Dear Aunt Claudine, send me a great deal more good music, some
soprano songs with harp accompaniment, and send them soon. At every
tone I will think of you, and my naughty little finger, which you took
so much trouble to train, is now perfectly obedient.
[Eric to Weidmann.]
When I stood before Abraham Lincoln, I thought of you, my revered
friend. And because I have known, in my short life, what purely noble
men breathe the same air with me, I was unembarrassed and at my ease.
My lot is an exalted one: I can look in the faces of the best men of my
age. And if wiseacres ever again tell me, condescendingly, that I am an
idealist, I can reply to them, "I must be one, for I have met some of
the noblest of men on my life-road; I not only believe in the elevation
of pure humanity--I know it."
I will only give one incident of our interview.
We heard the opinion expressed, among those who surrounded Lincoln,
that the negroes ought not to be set free, because they would do no
work unless forced.
Roland said to me in a low voice:--
"Do the slaveholders work without being forced?"
Lincoln noticed that the boy was saying something to me, and encouraged
him to speak without reserve. Roland repeated his question quietly but
earnestly. You, who have helped me to awaken this young spirit, will
sympathize in my pleasure.
And now I will tell you about your nephew.
Oh, our blessed German life! In old times travellers took with them
into foreign countries the images of their saints. We Germans carry our
poets, our philosophers and musicians over the face of the whole globe;
and your nephew's pleasant, comfortable, free home is the abode of true
culture. Here, in the midst of the tumult of political and private
life, reign immortal spirits, who bring a devotion, a serenity, a holy
quiet, of a peculiar sort.
Your nephew has done well in always telling me not to believe, with
most people here, that this war will be over in a few months. I now
think not of the end, but only of the next day.
And, in the midst of this growth and change of historic movement, I
feel that the individual is like the single cell in a tree, or else
that we are like boys on the school-bench. We do not know the entire
educational plan. We do not know the end to which all this leads. We
must learn our lessons; and cell is built upon cell, knowledge is added
to knowledge, until--who knows the end?
In the first great struggle, in the New World's war of independence,
there were Germans sold by German princes, to fight for the English
against the Americans, and but few of our countrymen, towering up among
them like Steuben and Kalb, did battle for the Republic. At that period
the French--Lafayette's name rings out clear among them--stood foremost
among the New World's champions of freedom. To-day the Union army
contains thousands of Germans, witnesses who have emigrated or been
exiled. Why are there no Frenchmen? I know the reason, and so do you.
I see the poet of the future draw near. The great drama of our epoch,
the strife between Caesarism and self-government, is presented to his
gaze in dimensions such as no past age could know; he will compress the
struggle within narrow limits.
The Republic of the United States has not yet existed a century. Oh,
how different is the aspect of things here from what we had pictured to
ourselves! I have found many who doubt the continuance of the Union;
cultivated clergymen even told me that there was certainly more power
of endurance in the monarchical form of government. That is the feeling
of dejection and despair: but it is, I believe, only to be met with in
single instances.
How often I am obliged to hear myself called a philosophical idealist!
And they tell me I shall soon be converted. Your nephew, whose
comprehensive glance sees all sides of a subject, has solved this
enigma for me. The people here have lived so long for their own ease
alone, feeling their claims of the State only occasionally, as voters.
They must now pass through the school of military discipline, of
staking their lives for the life of the nation--only as an education,
of course, to be free again afterwards.
The so-called slavery question is not so nearly decided, by a great
deal, as we supposed.
Your nephew thinks the complete abolition of slavery will become a
necessary war measure of vital importance to the continued existence of
the nation; that patriotism must be wedded to humanity--that the pure
ideal must give place to utilitarianism and necessity--that the logic
of events will bring about a decision not to be effected by the logic
of thought. There is still a strong party here in the North who do not
wish to proceed to the one extreme measure, as they call the absolute
abolition of slavery; but hope to subdue the South by war instead.
We hope they will not succeed. The words "necessity of State," so often
misused by tyrants, will now, we trust lead to Liberty.
How much one is obliged to hear against the negroes in this country!
That the four million slaves represent twenty hundred million dollars,
is, of course, the point first mentioned; then that the blacks have
many vices, as though a perfect model of virtue were to be expected
from a down-trodden race. Any nation, so long held in bondage,
tortured, martyred, condemned to ignorance, would have been just what
they are. Moreover, tyranny has, in all ages, proclaimed the oppressed
to be low beings, ignoring, of course, the fact that if they have some
base tendencies, it is the oppression that has prepared the soil and
implanted them.
I have made the acquaintance here of a distinguished negro, whose
oration on the present situation and the future of his race I had
heard. There was a touch of Demosthenes in it. He was a slave
twenty-two years, and has acquired a complete scientific education.
Sometimes there is in his voice a quivering tone of lament, as of one
drooping under a weight of sorrow, and I admire him for suppressing an
avengeful anger. If a single man can do much for his race, this man, or
one like him, might become an historic character.
But the heroic age is past, entirely and forever; now we must depend on
community of action.
We are transported into the midst of an historical or logical unfolding
of events. The attempts at peaceful reconciliation have been of no
avail. In spite of the cry "No coercion!" an army had to be raised, and
now the cry is, "No confiscation of property!" That means, no abolition
of slavery, and yet this must be the second result, since it could not
be the first.
The moral debt, neither noted down nor paid interest on, nor cancelled
on change, is now becoming a great national debt of the Union, which
the country will be obliged to liquidate with money and blood.
[Manna to the Mother.]
.... What a small matter was that night-riot made by men with blackened
faces! I have lived through a pro-slavery riot. Doctor Fritz says it
arose from the bitter opposition to the conscription. Many blacks were
murdered, our friend Knopf's school was laid in ruins, and the negro
orphan asylum burned to the ground, the poor black children rolling
crying on the pavement. We have much to do. The world has much to make
amends for.
[Eric to the Banker.]
.... I perfectly understand your sorrow over the fact that there are
some Jews among the Secessionists. General Twiggs, commanding in Texas,
who went over to the rebels with his army, fortress, and munitions of
war, was a Jew.
And that speculators on change also lend assistance to the defenders of
slavery! Why should they less than the professedly pious English?
Why do you require all the Jews, collectively and individually, to
stand on the side of moral principle? They have the right of equality,
even in ill-doing. They are, if one may be permitted to say so, equally
justified in crime with other men. It must be shown, it is now being
shown, that no religion has the monopoly of morality.
You complain that the passion for enjoyment has invaded even your
innermost circle of friends.
That belongs under the heading above indicated. The more I think over
your letter, the more surely I arrive at this conclusion; the Jews, so
long and so cruelly excluded from participation in national affairs,
and condemned to a sad cosmopolitism, will now, in their days of
liberation, behave like natives of the different communities in which
it is their lot to be, and will, above all, remain patriotic.
Moreover, I can assure you that many Jews are here among us, fighting
with valor and self-sacrifice.
The young physician equipped by you is exceedingly able.
The money which you sent over is being conscientiously expended.
I hope yet to sing with your daughter-in-law, to whom please present my
kind regards.
My wife joins me in cordial remembrances of you.
[The Professorin to Eric and Manna.]
All is well. Would that I, could send you some of the spring fragrance
and beauty which surround us here. No tree bears blossoms as countless
as the blessings which go out from my heart to you. Here we sit in
peace, and you are out there in the battle. We can do nothing for you,
only I say to you, my son, and to you, my daughter: whatever may come,
abide quietly in the assurance, that having followed the leadings of
the spirit, we must silently recognize and bear our part. I have been
in the next village; it must be like a recent settlement in America.
It is a beautiful and great thing to be able to help so many human
beings to a cheerful and active existence.
My son, why do you not write whether you have inquired for Uncle
Alphonso? Do not delay doing so. If he is yet living, tell him that I
have never judged him unkindly, though he has been so hard upon us; and
tell him that your father always preserved a brotherly feeling for him.
But ah, I do not know whether he is still alive. Do not delay to get
some positive information.
Our friend Einsiedel is busy in arranging your father's papers.
Our good Major wants to have a room built in the hot-house, and, next
winter, live there all day long among the plants, breathing in their
fragrance; then, he asserts, he should live to be a hundred years old.
[Claudine to Manna.]
If you feel overwhelmed by the hard experiences which you must bear, do
not forget to keep up your study of astronomy; it takes us out of all
our small troubles.
You will have to make new applications of your astronomical knowledge
to new conditions in America.
[Lina to Manna.]
To-morrow I give my first large coffee-party; look upon me with
respect. I spread fine damask table-cloths, and have my own gilt-edged
cups. Ah, why can you not be here? People say that my voice is much
stronger now that I am a mother. O Manna, the most beautiful song is
that which one sings to her child. I hope it won't be long before you
know it.
Pranken and his wife have come back, but they are not to remain with
us. He is to be ambassador somewhere on the Lower Danube, near Turkey;
I don't know the name of the country.
I have thought of a beautiful plan for you. When you come home, you
must establish a special singing-club of all the matrons and maidens
in the neighborhood, and we'll sing in your garden, and in the
beautiful music-room, and in the pretty boats on the river, and on the
flat-roofs, and everywhere. Ah, that will be life! If to-morrow were
only here!
[Einsiedel to Eric.]
Elevating thoughts are in these papers which your father left behind
him. It is much to be regretted that one of them has not been given to
the world before this. He foresaw this war in America quite clearly.
Connected and logical thought is a kind of prophecy. I shall publish
the sheets with my positive assurance that they were written by a noble
recluse many years before the events foretold.
[Weidmann to Eric.]
We are in the midst of all sorts of work. You wanderers took much of
our peace away with you, but now all is in its habitual order again.
Thank you, dear Dournay, for your letter. My nephew always sends me the
newspapers regularly. Do not allow yourself to be distracted by
thoughts of Europe, and by too great a variety of interests; you are
stationed at a post where you must keep only the next duty before your
eyes. Forgive me for permitting myself to admonish you thus. It was
high time that this disgrace should be wiped out from the consciousness
of our age, for it had begun to appear that long habit was weakening
the keen and bitter sense of its sin and shame.
I am finding surprising confirmation of this opinion. Herr Sonnenkamp
corrupted our district more than he knew; people now speak well of him.
"Ah, only a slave-trader!" "Nothing worse!" may be heard on all sides.
There is always something commanding in heroism; the bold scoundrel is
more attractive than the unobtrusively virtuous man. Not only the
frivolous, but quite sober-minded men think that the Prince was
unnecessarily scrupulous in refusing to ennoble Herr Sonnenkamp.
A plant has become common in Europe which is called the water-pest: you
may have read of it; it came from Canada, probably attached to some
vessel, and has almost choked the Thames with its roots and entangled
stems; it has crept far into the continent, and has now reached us, but
we will conquer it. Such a water-pest spreads too in spiritual matters.
[Doctor Richard to Eric.]
All the others have no doubt written most edifying and sentimental
letters; I have something better for you. First, let me tell you to
rejoice that you have something to do, and have done with speculating.
And now for a fine story:--
Otto von Pranken--for whom I always had a sympathy, like all the rest
of the profane world; he is no paragon of virtue, but there's a good
deal in him--has beaten the black-coats in shrewdness; he got himself
recommended to Rome by them and there he has played a smart trick. He
entered the Papal army with the rank of Major, but got into some
difficulty, on purpose, as I believe. He wrote a letter full of
dissatisfaction over the organization of the army, and this gave him an
excuse for resigning, and marrying the young widow, the daughter of
Herr von Endlich. When you come home you will have some new neighbors.
They say, though, that Pranken is to enter on a diplomatic career, and
I think he has talent for it.
Have you seen or heard nothing of Frau Bella?
[The Majorin Grassler late Fraeulein Milch, to Knopf.]
You can fancy how your letter rejoiced us. My good husband was cheered
up by it into better spirits than he has had for a long time. I am
sorry to say that since you all went off, he has been full of trouble.
For months he has not been able to get rid of the thought why he was
not younger, so that he could have gone with you. And then, don't laugh
at us, we have a real family trial, for our Laadi has grown blind, and
no physician can help her. People laughed at us for tending the dog so
carefully: they want us to have her shot, but that we can't do, and so
we take care of poor Laadi. My husband sits for hours by her, talking
to her, and even takes her out for a little walk every day. Why must
the dog grow blind? Ah, but I'm asking stupid questions; one has to be
careful not to grow sentimental; Mother Nature is a hard mother.
I knew the father of your Rosalie; he was once at our house with the
school-master Fassbender.
[Eric to Weidmann.]
Adams was ordered to work in the trenches, and a great number of
negroes with him, but he would not take the pick in his hand; then
Roland did what I once dissuaded him from doing, when he wanted to
labor among the workmen at the castle. I think I told you about it. Now
he joined the negroes and used his pick with them, and when I went to
him once, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, I saw a light
in the youth's eye, which said that the crown of human honor rests on
the brow from which runs the sweat of toil.
Beginning this letter to you composes me, in the midst of the constant
excitement of camp-life.
There is much discontent in the army; men are blaming Lincoln for
maintaining a vacillating, uncertain policy, or, to say the least, for
his extreme slowness.
I must leave it to Dr. Fritz, or rather to time, to prove the truth of
his words when he says, Lincoln is not a genius, an individual towering
above the mass; he is an average man, the exact exponent of the spirit
of the people at its present stage of progress. He is not remarkably
distinguished, but a man of just the right stamp.
Perhaps that is true, and it is much to say. This is not greatness in
the old sense of the word, and we may have entered upon an age which
has outgrown the heroic, and those representatives of heroism around
whom all others seemed grouped as minor figures.
Opposed to the Monarchic, the Aristocratic, and the Monotheistic, stand
the Republican, the Democratic, and the Pantheistic: they are only
three different names for three unfoldings of the same principle.
[Roland to the Professorin.]
My first lines from camp shall be to you, dear Frau Professorin. I
thank you for the motto which you once gave me; I feel as if I were not
the same person to whom all that happened. I promise you, and this is a
new oath of allegiance, to be true to your motto.
Ah, why do you not know Lilian? she deserves that you should know her.
I have told her a great deal about you; she thinks she should stand in
awe of any one so wise and learned, but I tell her she need not.
And oh, Dr. Fritz is such a noble man. He told me that he was a pupil
of your husband, and it must make you happy that your husband's spirit
lives on in such a man, here in the New World.
I must try not to think too much of you and of the past: I ought now to
give my thoughts only to what we have before us; and I am tired out. I
have had a very fatiguing drill.
Eric is held in great respect here. All is still; in camp it is said
that to-morrow we shall come under fire for the first time.
Morning.
The battle is beginning; I hope to do my duty.
Evening.
I have been promoted on the field.
[Eric to Weidmann.]
In Camp.
We have fought a battle; we have been defeated. Roland has
distinguished himself, and been promoted. I have to use all my
influence to restrain his daring.
The coolness and deliberation of your grand-nephew Hermann are a great
help to me.
The hardest thing in this war is, that thousands must necessarily be
sacrificed in order to teach the officers the art of war. There is a
deficiency of experienced and tried leaders; and it is no small thing
that the army, wholly without any confidence in the military skill of
its generals, maintains itself so bravely. They must learn how to fight
by fighting; and in this particular the Southern States have the
advantage.
I have very great doubts whether our opponents fight with the hope of
triumph; I mean, whether they honestly believe, that if they conquer,
their principle can be permanently established.
Their very bitterness, which exceeds all bounds of a common humanity,
the very vindictiveness with which they carry on the contest, shows me
that they believe in a victory by war, but not by peace. And here the
question presents itself to me: Why must an acknowledged ideal
principle always and forever be attained through blood?
This is the great enigma of history. But it is the same as it is in a
smaller sphere and in individual life; humanity is rational, but its
predominating characteristic is passion, impulsive affection, which
urges forward and renovates the life of humanity as it does that of the
individual. I am reminded of an expression of yours, that nothing is so
conducive to the growth of vegetation as a thunder-storm. It is perhaps
the same in the history of man and of humanity. Schiller's dream, that
the highest form of poetry would be the peaceful idyl of an equilibrium
of opposite forces without any great sacrifice, is but a dream. It is
not found in the sphere of pure thought or poesy, because it is nowhere
found in actual life.
As Goethe said, this America has no middle ages to conquer, but he was
mistaken in saying that it had no basaltic strata, for it is now just
coming out of its own peculiar condition of feudalism. Its history,
like that of a dramatic poem, is condensed into a briefer period of
time, and brought more directly under our view.
This America has been engaged in no war for dynasty or religion, and it
must now fight for an idea. Independence was the first great question,
and that may be also an egoistic question. The emancipation of others
is the second and purely ideal one; and to be taken entirely out of the
strife for wealth and material goods where external well-being is the
sole interest, the final and supreme concern, and to be placed in a
period of history where life must be imperilled for an idea, this gives
ideal power. America now for the first time brings her new element, her
sacrificial gift, into the Pantheon of humanity. Until now, it might be
said that the historical greatness of America bore no comparison with
its natural greatness.
America has had, compressed into a single epoch of existence, its
migration of the nations, its crusades, and its thirty years' war; and
there is something of the rapidity and the instantaneousness of the
electric telegraph in its history.
Here I am, sitting in camp, and writing like a schoolmaster. But it has
done me good. I feel collected, refreshed, and strengthened while
turning my thoughts to you.
[Roland to the Professorin.]
We have been beaten! Mother, we have been beaten! Eric consoles me and
consoles us all; he says that it is good for us, we must learn to stand
the brunt. Well, I will learn.
(Eric's Postscript.) Mother! I found these lines which Roland left
behind, and I send them to you. Roland is missing, and has either
fallen or been taken prisoner; he has borne himself bravely, and had
been promoted to be an officer. O my Roland!
[Eric to Weidmann.]
In Camp.
The great, the necessary step has been taken; the negroes have been
called to serve in the army, and we have enlisted in a negro
regiment,--Roland, Hermann, and I. Now the contest is for the first
time complete. The negroes show themselves willing and docile, and are
always merry. This discipline of the army is an excellent preparatory
school for life.
We have learned from one of our spies that a man who calls himself
Banfield, but who from the description I think is Sonnenkamp, is in the
army in front of us, and with him there is a woman in man's dress, a
great beauty, who receives the homage of all. I had hoped that he would
enter the Navy; it is horrible to me that he and his son are now
fighting in hostile ranks, so directly face to face with each other. I
trust that Roland will hear nothing of it.
But it is very pleasant to see the beautiful comradeship of Roland and
your grand-nephew, Hermann; they are inseparable.
[Roland to the Professorin.]
The final step has been taken. Eric, Hermann, and I have enlisted in a
black regiment. This, is just what I wanted. I may be allowed to say it
to you, these bondmen now struggling for a manhood which would not have
been accorded to them in peace, they love me. I think of Parker's word.
Oh, what a day that was when I heard his name from you for the first
time, there going out of church, and then----
Forward! this is now our watchword; there must be no looking back now.
One thing more. I have found a friend, and a better one you could not
have wished for me out of your own full loving heart; and my Hermann is
Lilian's brother. I dare not dwell upon the thought that he is fighting
from his own voluntary choice, and I--No, I, too, stake all freely.
[Eric to Weidmann.]
In Camp.
O my friend! Roland is missing. We have gained a victory. I have
searched the battle-field with our surgeon, Adams, and Hermann. O what
a sight! We did not find Roland. Our hope is that he has been taken
prisoner.
What a hope!
I am obliged to console myself while consoling Hermann. The youth feels
to the very depth of his true soul sorrow for the lost one, but he is
far from exhibiting any weakness; the good training of a free
Commonwealth, and of the German parental home, has now its effect.
Hermann is now my tent companion; he is entirely different from Roland.
Here in America every one has room for development, and all the
branches live and spread forth on the tree; and besides, Hermann has no
sorrowful conflict with fate in his soul, such as my poor Roland had.
I beg you, if any news comes from Sonnenkamp addressed to me, that you
would write to him that his son is a prisoner.
I am tired to death. The images of the wounded, the dead, the trampled
under foot, will never fade from my memory.
I don't know when I shall write you again, but I entreat you to let
Sonnenkamp know about Roland immediately; perhaps you could insert it
in some English newspaper which circulates in the Southern States.
Confer with Professor Einsiedel about everything, but I beg you not to
say anything about it to my mother.
[Lilian to the Professorin.]
"Write at once to Eric's mother," says Roland to me.
So you see, honored lady, that I have found him.
The terrible tidings reached us that Roland had either been killed or
taken prisoner, and I could no longer endure it. I went down into the
enemy's country. Oh, how much I have gone through! I have been on the
battle-field, and looked into the faces of hundreds of the mangled and
the dead. I have been in hospitals, and heard the moans and the groans
of the sick and the wounded, but nowhere Roland, nowhere any trace of
him.
I still travelled onward, and they had compassion for me, those
terrible people; they pitied the lonely maiden who was seeking her
beloved.
I found him at last--no, not I. Griffin found him, for the faithful
animal was with me. We found him in a barn. He is wounded. Oh, he
looked so emaciated, so changed, that I scarcely knew him! But now all
is well.
Roland relates that a woman in man's clothing had him taken into the
barn, and he asserts that it was the Countess Bella. I saw her
once when I was at Mattenheim, I have seen her now. I think it was
she--rushing past on horseback, and dressed like a man. She looked at
me, and must have recognized me.
On, mother! it is very wonderful. Perhaps Roland has told you that he
gave me a pebble, and I gave one to him, when we saw each other at
Mattenheim. This pebble he kept and wore over his heart, and the pebble
saved his life.
I have sent an account of everything to New York, but I do not know
whether the letter will get there. Letters will reach Europe, and I beg
you to forward the tidings to my father and to Eric. Say, besides, that
Roland is wholly out of danger; a German physician in the army here
gives me this assurance.
Send the news also to Mattenheim, to uncle and aunt and all the
relatives.
Roland has just waked, having had a good sleep.
He wants me to request you to take the deaf mute to the Villa, and give
him something to do in the garden; he talks a great deal about him.
[Eric to Weidmann.]
Now the worst is over! I don't know how to put it into words.
It was a hot day, and the battle was a severely contested one on both
sides. We have gained the victory, and our loss is great. Adams came to
me; he was bleeding, and foaming at the mouth. I wanted to bind up his
wounds, but he pushed me away, crying,--
"Come! come! I did not kill him, he gave the masonic sign--I dared not
kill him--he's lying outside there."
"Who?"
"The man--the man."
I had great difficulty in getting him to speak the name. It was
Sonnenkamp.
I took a physician with me, and we hurried past the wounded calling for
help.
We came to a hill; there he lay. I could hardly get my breath as I
stood there before him, but at last I cried,--
"Father!"
"Father!" screamed he. "Away! leave me!"
He stared at me with glassy eyes. He tore up the grass, and digging out
the earth, he buried his face in the fresh mould, trying to inhale that
peculiar odor which had always refreshed him; but he shook his head,
appearing unable to perceive the earthy smell.
He now turned round and stared at me.
The physician made preparations to dress his wounds, from several of
which the blood was flowing. He thrust the physician away with
violence.
"I will not be bound! Off with the whole of you!"
I kneeled down, and said that he had not been fighting against his son;
that Roland had, been missing for three months, and had evidently been
taken prisoner.
"A prisoner! woe! woe! woe!" he shrieked. "A prisoner! Oh, she is to
blame--she! she! I did not want to! I had to--she wanted to ride on
horseback--she sits splendidly--to play the amazon."
He burst into a scornful laugh. "On the sea--on the ocean--" continued
he, "there I wanted to be--I had to follow--I saw her fall--she was
beautiful even in death--an enchantress--an enchantress!"
The physician beckoned to me; I knew what he meant. I asked him if he
desired anything.
He stared at me.
"Yonder--give me that--give!"
He pointed to a beautiful heath-plant not far off. Adams had observed
our look and the words. He tore up a whole bunch of ericas, and gave
them into the hand of the dying man, who gazed at him with eyes almost
starting out of his head. Then a smile came over his face; drawing
himself up with a mighty energy, he fell back uttering one terrible
shriek, and his limbs were straightened in death. He died with the
heath-plants in his clenched hand.
Oh, how much I have gone through, how much I have been forced to
suffer! Nothing harder can ever befall me.
As we buried him in the earth, and covered him over with heaths, I wept
over a man whose vast powers had led him astray. What would have been
his fate, if----
Here I was interrupted in the midst of my writing. Since those lines
were penned, I have buried another corpse.
I was called to Adams, who had neglected having his wounds attended to,
and now it was too late. He asked after me. I stood at his bed-side,
and with a last exertion of strength, he asked me;--
"Herr Major, can any one steal a thing like that?"
"What do you mean?"
"Can a man like that belong to our order, and have the sign?"
"You see that he can."
"What do the brethren have swords for then? Why did I not--" cried he,
gnashing his teeth.
He clenched his fists, raised himself up, and then sank back. His
savage nature, which had been only repressed and held in constraint,
broke out in the last death-struggle.
Oh, I can write nothing more. I have been deceived in myself. I
believed myself fortified against everything, but I am not. I beg you,
dear Herr Weidmann, to inform my mother of the death of Manna's and
Roland's father.
If I could only go to sleep, if I could only rest!
[Postscript in Manna's hand-writing.]
This letter, written thus far, was found in my Eric's pocket when he
was drawn from under his horse's hoofs. In his excited, and, in fact,
delirious state, he had mounted his horse, thinking he was going into
battle. He was thrown. I send the letter. He does not yet recognize any
one, and is still delirious, but the physician gives me some hope.
I shall keep the letter until I can give some more favorable tidings.
Three days later.
My husband says that he finds invigoration in thinking of you. I have
also to-day written to the Mother.
[Manna to the Professorin.]
Mother, he is saved! All anxiety has fled. He is saved! He was down
with a fever days and nights, and did not recognize me; he knew my
dogs, Rose and Thistle, but not me. But once he exclaimed:--
"Oh, the harp-tones!"
I telegraphed at once to New York for my harp to be sent to me; the
telegraphist told me of a woman in the place who had a harp; she lived
alone, and her lot had been a hard one, as she had learned after her
marriage that her husband had another wife living. I went to see the
woman, and this woman is the mother of my Heimchen. The Superior had
written to her of the love of her child for me, and I had to relate
many things to the mother. And now--yes, we are always living in the
midst of wonders! Heimchen gave to me the harp from which the tones are
to come that will give my husband rest.
I stationed myself in the next room, and with the physician's consent,
I played upon the harp. Eric went to sleep, and when he waked, said:--
"Why does not Manna come?"
The physician forbade my entering the room, as it was important he
should receive no violent shock. And so I could see him only when his
eyes were closed, until at last the surgeon gave his permission.
In the wanderings of fever he always saw me as I was in the convent
when I had on the wings, and he spoke French and laughed at sister
Seraphine. The shock of my father's death had affected Eric so deeply,
that, as the physician told me, he had been for a long time without an
hour's sleep.
Sedatives were given to Eric, but they seemed to be attended with some
risk, and had to be discontinued. Then there was another battle. All
besought him to keep quiet, as he had already distinguished himself so
highly; but he mounted his horse and rode off. The horse stumbled and
threw him headlong, and he was taken up for dead and carried into the
hospital. I received the news and hastened hither. Everything is going
on well now, but he is still very weak.
But he begged me, and it is just like him, to confer the pleasure upon
the rest of the wounded, so I have to play the harp for hours together.
It is an unspeakable refreshment to the patients, and the surgeons
assert that the wounds heal more rapidly, on account of the cheerful
state of mind thereby induced. And when I come back to Eric, and the
surgeon tells him how beneficial the music is to the sick, his
countenance lights up. He speaks but little; he holds my hand silently,
and only says that he has, during his life, talked too much. But,
mother, you may feel easy.
Eric wants to be allowed to write a word to you.
(In a trembling hand was written as follows:)
Thy living, loving, beloved son Eric.
(Then in Manna's hand-writing:)
Don't be alarmed at these unsteady strokes. The physician says that all
danger is over, and nothing is needed but absolute rest.
Oh, mother! How can I adequately thank the Eternal Spirit that my Eric
lives; that I am not a widow, and that a life is not made fatherless
from its very birth? Be easy; I remain strong, and I have a threefold
duty in living.
[Manna to Professor Einsiedel.]
I was called in the hospital to a prisoner from the Southern army,
severely wounded, who had heard my harp-playing. He asked about me, and
was told that I was a German. The man related to me that he had an
uncle in Germany, who had been a book-keeper in a large banking
establishment. One evening when his uncle was at the theatre, he robbed
him and fled. I told him that I had become acquainted with such a man
through you at Carlsbad, that is to say, I had seen him; I gave as good
a description of him as I could. The wounded man asserted that it was
his uncle, and begged me to write to him that he repented of what he
had done. He had always hoped that he should become wealthy some day,
so as to return and make full restitution; this could not be realized
now, as he must die poor; but he desired that his uncle should know of
his repentance.
You will impart all this to the man.
[Eric to his mother.]
In the midst of the wanderings of my fever, I kept saying to myself:
Thou hast promised thy mother to return home safe and sound. Thou must
not be ill, must not die. Thou must keep thy word. And this thought was
ever by me, sometimes making me quiet, sometimes restless. I was
forever thinking that I could certainly do something to force nature to
remove the shadows, the heaviness, the dullness which weighed me down.
There were two souls in me. And once I very plainly heard you saying to
me: Keep perfectly quiet; you are undermining your life with your
perpetual thinking; for once let thinking alone. And then I was
standing on the stage at the music festival to sing, but I could not
bring out a solitary note. I have gone through a great deal of
suffering, but I am now in perfectly good spirits.
[Doctor Fritz to Weidmann.]
A strange riddle has been solved by means of Eric's being wounded, an
account of which was given in the newspapers in connection with the
victory. A small, delicate-looking old man came to me, who addressed me
in German, but with difficulty, showing that he had probably not made
use of the language for many years. He asked me if I was acquainted
with a Major Dournay. I said yes, and after a great deal of trouble, I
succeeded in finding out that this was Eric's uncle, a man of very
great wealth. He wanted to know all about the family, and especially
whether, his sister Claudine was yet living. Luckily, Knopf could tell
him all the particulars.
[Eric to his mother.]
Mother! My uncle has been found! Through my fall from the horse, but
yet more through Manna's playing on the harp, that was spoken of in the
newspapers as some marvellous tale, my uncle came to see Dr. Fritz. My
uncle visited me while I was very ill, and I thought that I had seen my
father. They tell me that I became so excited that my life was again
endangered, and they had to withhold the news until I had wholly
recovered. I showed your letter to my uncle, and the old man, who has
heard nothing from Europe for ten years, wept bitterly. He will go back
to Europe with us.
[Knopf to Fassbender.]
The classic age had great, noble, heroic forms, but it had no uncle in
America. And how did the world before Columbus' day get on without any
uncles in America? I think that our good Lord, as he rested on the
seventh day, dreamed, in his mid-day sleep, of the uncle in America,
meditated, and created him.
My friend, Major Dournay, has now found his uncle with a fortune; I
don't know how much it is, but a large one, and all honorably earned.
Now he is himself put in a position to solve the riddle of what should
be done with so much money. He will not build my music hall, but he
will do something else that's great.
[Doctor Fritz to Weidmann.]
Two children are born to us. Manna has a son, and Frau Knopf a
daughter. I was with Knopf when his daughter was born, and when he saw
her face the first time, he exclaimed aloud:--
"Pure Caucasian race!"
Then he acknowledged to me, that in spite of his liking for the
negroes, he had always feared that his Rosalie's child would be black,
because she had black children so constantly around her, since she had
been their teacher with him. And now he is delighted that his daughter,
who is to be named Manna Erica, is a pure Caucasian, and he merrily
extols the late which has decreed that the first-born of the girls'
teacher shall be a girl.
Manna's child has received the name of Benjamin Alphonso. Uncle
Alphonso is god-father; he has, in his will, divided his property
equally between his sister Claudine and his brother's son, and already
transferred one-half of it. He means to go to Europe with his nephew,
but I do not think the good little man will live long. I have already
told you that my daughter Lilian sought out our young Roland in the
enemy's country, and rescued him. Roland is still very weak, but his
youthful vigor will restore him.
The great war is drawing to a close, and with the rejoicings over
victory we shall celebrate Roland's and Lilian's wedding. They are to
remain here with us.
Roland has borne himself bravely. We are to use the greater part of his
property to buy land for the negroes, furnish them with all necessary
supplies, and establish schools for them.
[Eric to his mother.]
Mother! Grandmother! all is well. Ah, what more is there to say? After
all our suffering we are happy. And, mother, I am coming, coming home
with my wife and child, and Uncle Alphonso. The waves will bear us up,
the ship will carry us, the land will stand firm, and, mother, I shall
hold you in my arms again, and lay my child in your arms; we shall live
and work.
[Eric to Weidmann.]
We have entered Richmond with our black regiment.
The noblest experience has been mine: I have been allowed to take part
in the greatest struggle of our country.
Slavery is no more.
Now let the gentlemen in gowns and bands come, and show us heretics a
deed which shall bear such mighty consequences as this.
Later.
Read this! A murder, an assassination! Why was it not to be? Why can
nothing be carried out purely to perfection? Lincoln assassinated!
Does it not often seem as if a malicious demon ruled the world?
This deed is a standing proof of how far the supporters of an
aristocracy, the defenders of a privileged class, the deniers of human
rights, have sunk into barbarism. In future days such wickedness will
not be believed; but now it stands plainly before us as assassination,
and not the deed of a single individual; it is the work of a sworn band
of conspirators.
The fanaticism of the Southern States had burst forth in war, now it
has its seal of blood.
[Knopf to Weidmann.]
Our friend Dournay's uncle is dead; he was ill, and the news of the
assassination of President Lincoln killed him.
Eric, Manna, and their child are going home.
[Eric to Professor Einsiedel.]
What I am now interested in arranging is not the filling out of my own
life, the new calling into which I have entered. It is the torment
attendant on the self-renovation of the modern mind, that doubts and
questions immediately set themselves in opposition to action.
I want to establish a refuge for laborers in the intellectual field,
but the question comes up to me:--
Is not this a direct contradiction to the spirit of this modern age?
Is not the desire for solitude a necessary part of that free individual
life which is our noblest characteristic?
Could I imagine a Lessing, in his old age, in this house of refuge
which I would found?
Is not the quiet communion with one's self, which is our most precious
treasure, destroyed or banished by living in such close relations with
others?
I think that it is not, and only those who pine for rest shall enter
the home.
I beg you not to consider this as the roof of my life-building; it is
to be only a merry green bough which I would set up.
[Eric to Weidmann.]
This letter goes only three days before us to Europe, to the Rhine.
I am coming home.
Deliver the enclosed legal document to the proper authorities.
I herein declare that only a life interest is retained in Villa Eden
for myself and Manna, my wife. I herein declare the house, the garden,
the park, as described in the Registry office, and a sufficient sum,
hereafter to be determined, irrevocably assigned for the maintenance of
deserving scientific men and artists.
My friend and teacher, Professor Einsiedel, is commissioned to draw up
the rules regulating the admission and the mode of life of those who
are to be inmates of Villa Eden.
My wish is, that there should be a peaceful refuge for deserving
intellectual labor, a home for voluntary work, in VILLA EDEN, THE
COUNTRY HOUSE ON THE RHINE.
(P.S.) I have promised Roland, if I live until the year 1887, to come
back here to celebrate the hundredth birthday of the American Republic.
Then will we see and compare what each of us has accomplished in his
father-land and for his fellow-men.
Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "VILLA EDEN."
THE GREAT NOVEL OF THE DAY.
O N T H E H E I G H T S
By BERTHOLD AUERBACH.
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