X. ENTICEMENTS ABROAD…

X. ENTICEMENTS ABROAD

Eric and Roland lived together in the castle, for so the rooms in the turret were called, as if they had taken possession of a new abode, and were all alone; no sound from the human world penetrated here, nothing but the song of birds, and the ringing of the bells of the village church on the mountain.

A regular employment of the time was instituted; until noon they knew nothing of what was going on in the house, and Roland lived almost exclusively in the thought of Benjamin Franklin.

New analogies were continually presenting themselves, and it was especially productive of them that an American youth, a rich youth besides, who had never been deprived of anything, should lay out for himself a life full of deprivations. Roland lived and moved wholly in Franklin; he spoke, at the table, of Benjamin Franklin, as if he were a man who had just appeared, and was invisibly present and speaking with them. Roland wished to keep a regular record of what he thought and did, exactly as Franklin had done, but Eric restrained him, knowing that he would not persevere in it, being as yet too fickle. And this calling one's self to account was peculiarly adapted to one who stood alone, or was seeking the way by himself. But Roland was with Eric from morning till night. They repeated Franklin's physical experiments, they entered into his various little narratives, and Roland would often ask on some occurrence:--

"What would Franklin say to that?" Eric had been in doubt whether he should say anything to Roland of the interview with Herr Knopf. He was waiting for a more suitable time; he felt that the fixed order of Roland's method of life should not now be disturbed.

There was a great commotion at the villa, for the entire contents of the hothouse were brought out into the park, and a new garden was made in the garden. Roland and Eric did not see it until everything was arranged.

Pranken made a brief visit almost every day, and when he remained to dinner, he spoke a great deal of the princes of the church; he always called the bishop the church-prince. A second court-life seemed to have been opened to him, and this court had a consecrating element, was self-ordering, and needed no Court-marshals.

Herr Sonnenkamp enquired with much interest about all the arrangements at the Episcopal court; but Frau Ceres was wholly indifferent, for she had discovered that there was no court ball given, and no ladies were visible, except some very worthy and respectable nuns. Frau Ceres entertained a great dislike to all nuns, principally because they had such great feet, and wore such clumsy shoes and cotton gloves. Frau Ceres hated cotton gloves; and whenever she thought of them, she affirmed that she experienced a nervous shiver.

The days were still; the trees from the South grew green and fragrant, with those that were native to the soil; but the quiet days came to an end, for they were packing up and making other preparations in the house. Lootz was the director, and huge trunks had already been sent off.

It was a rainy morning: Eric and Roland were sitting together with Franklin's life again before them. Eric perceived that Roland was inattentive, for he often looked towards the door.

At last there was a knock, and Sonnenkamp, who had never before disturbed their morning's occupation, now entered the room. He expressed his satisfaction that the course of instruction had been so regularly arranged, and he hoped that it would suffer only a temporary derangement from the journey, as they could immediately resume it on arriving at Vichy.

Eric asked in amazement what this reference to Vichy meant, and was told that the family, with the whole corps of servants, male and female, as well as Roland and Eric, were going to the mineral baths of Vichy, and from there to the sea-baths at Biarritz.

Eric composed himself with great effort; the struggle had come sooner than he anticipated, and he said that he did not know what Roland thought about it, but that, for his own part, he had made up his mind, that he could not take the journey to the Baths.

"You cannot go with us? Why not?"

"It is unpleasant to me to make this declaration in Roland's presence, but I think that he is sufficiently mature to comprehend this matter. I think, I am firmly convinced, that a serious course of study cannot be resumed at a fashionable watering-place, and then continued at Biarritz. I cannot begin the instruction after my pupil has been hearing, in the morning, all kinds of music at the fountains. No human being can be confined there to earnest and fixed thought. As I said, I consider Roland mature enough to decide for himself. I will remain here at the villa, if you desire it, until your return."

Sonnenkamp looked at Eric in astonishment, and Roland, supplicatingly. Sonnenkamp did not appear to rely upon his self-command sufficiently to meet the family tutor in the requisite manner, and he therefore said in a careless tone that the matter could be discussed in the evening. In a half-contemptuous manner, he begged pardon for not having informed Eric of his plans for the summer at the University-town.

Eric now sat alone with Roland, who, in silence, looked down at the floor. Eric let him alone for awhile, saying to himself. Now is the critical time, now is the trial to be made.

"Do you understand the reasons," he at length asked, "why I cannot and will not continue our life of study, this life that we pursue together, in a place of amusement?"

"I do not understand them," said the boy, perversely.

"Shall I explain them?"

"It is not necessary," replied the boy, sullenly.

Eric said nothing, and the silence enabled the boy to realize how he was behaving; but there was something in the soul of the youth that rebelled against anything like subjection. Taking up a different topic, Roland asked:--

"Have I not been diligent and obedient?"

"As it is proper that you should be."

"Do I not deserve now some amusement?"

"No. The performance of duty is not paid for, and certainly not by amusement."

Again there was a long silence, the boy turning up and down the corners of the biography of Franklin, which he had just been reading. Without saying anything, Eric took the book out of his hand and laid it down. With his hand upon the cover, he asked,--

"What do you think that Franklin would now say to you?"

"I can't tell what he would say."

"You can, but you do not choose to."

"No, I cannot," said the boy. He stamped insolently with his foot, and his voice was choked with tears.

"I have a better opinion of you than you have of yourself," said Eric, taking hold of the boy's chin. "Look at me, don't look down to the earth, don't be out of humor."

Roland's countenance was unmoved, and the tears stood motionless in his eyes. Eric continued,--

"Is there any good thing in the world that I would not like to give you?"

"No; but----"

"Well, but what? Go on."

"Ah, I don't know any. And yet--yet--do go for my sake, go with us; I could not take pleasure if you were not with us--I there, and you here alone."

"Would you like to journey then without me?"

"I will not do it, you are to go too!" said the boy, springing up and throwing himself upon Eric's neck.

"I declare to you most decidedly, I do not go with you."

Roland let his hands fall, when Eric grasped them, saying,--

"I could also say in my turn, Do stay here for my sake; but I will not. Look up brightly, and think how it would be if we remain together here. Your parents travel to the Baths; we stay here and learn something regularly, and are happier than we should be on the promenade, with the music of the saloon, happier than by the sea-shore. See, Roland, I have never been to France, nor seen the sea. I renounce the pleasure, I prefer the duty; and do you know where my duty lies?"

"Ah, the duty can go with us wherever we go," cried the boy, smiling amidst his tears. Eric was obliged to laugh too; at last he said,--

"This duty cannot travel abroad. You have had distractions enough all your life. Come, be my dear comrade, my good fellow. Have confidence in me, that I can see reasons which you cannot."

"Yes, I do have confidence, but it is so splendid, you can't imagine it, and I will show everything to you."

A whirlwind seemed to have seized Roland, so that he turned round and round. It came over him with a rush, that he had forced Eric to remain with him, that he had forced his father to give Eric to him, and now he was about to desert him! But there was the enticement of the music, the pleasant journeys, the protecting ladies, and the roguish girls who played with him. Suddenly he cried,--"Eric! thy mother!" for she had said to him on taking leave, Be so worthy, that Eric will never leave you! This thought was now aroused within him, and on the other hand, there were the carriages driving, and the merry troop riding on horseback, and he among them. How could this old, grave lady, clad in mourning, who stood in the path, detain him? It was like a feverish waking dream.

"Eric! thy mother!" cried he again, and then he said, embracing him,--

"Eric! I remain with you! now help me, so that they shall not take me away without you."

"You are not to be obstinate with your parents, but you have now also a duty to me; you must not leave me, as I must not leave you."

It was a hard struggle to gain the consent of the parents to Roland's remaining at the villa with Eric. Frau Ceres was brought over the soonest, but Sonnenkamp held out, and Roland looked on in perplexity. The desire arose in him that his father would withhold his consent, and Eric be prevailed on to go with them.

Eric took the father aside, and told him that he considered it would be the ruin of Roland, if now when he had voluntarily pledged himself, and was constrained to do what was best, the whole should be upset; the youth had never, on account of various distractions, come to any knowledge of himself. He declared that, grievous as it would be to him, he should be obliged to leave the family, if Roland went with them. He had not said this to Roland, for Roland should not be permitted to think upon the possibility of the tie being severed. He besought Sonnenkamp to employ now a little policy; it would not be wrong. He was to say to Roland, that he wanted to test his constancy, and he was glad that he had stood the trial; that he had hoped Roland would make the proposal to stay with Eric, and he gave his consent.

Inwardly chafing, Sonnenkamp complied with this proposition, and Roland saw himself released on the one side, and bound on the other.

On. the next day, the parents set out on the journey.

Eric and Roland drove with them to the railroad station, and when the approaching train was signalized to be near, Sonnenkamp took his son aside, and said to him,--

"My boy, if it is too hard for you, jump into the car, and leave the Doctor to himself. Believe me, he won't run away from you; there is a golden whistle by which every one can be called. Be bold, young fellow."

"Father, is this also a part of the test you have put me to?"

"You are a plucky youth," answered Sonnenkamp, with emotion.

The train rumbled in. A great number of black trunks, studded with yellow nails, were put on board, Joseph and Lootz showing themselves expert travelling-marshals. Boxes, bags, portmanteaus, bottles, and packages were placed in the first-class car which Sonnenkamp, Frau Ceres and Fräulein Perini occupied. Roland was kissed once more, Sonnenkamp whispering at the same time something in his ear. The train rolled away, and Eric and Roland stood alone on the station-steps.

They went silently back to the villa. Roland looked pale; every drop of blood seemed to have left his face. They reached the villa, where all was so silent and desolate.

After they had got out of the carriage, Roland grasped Eric's hand, saying,--

"Now we two are alone in the world. What can one undertake at such a time?"

The wind roared in gusts through the park, and shook the trees, whose blossoms went whirling into the air, while the river tossed up its waves; a thunder-storm was coming on.

Eric ordered the horses to be put again to the carriage, and entered it with Roland, who asked,--

"Where are we going?"

Eric quieted him with the assurance that he was about to show him a miracle. They drove down the road, where the wind was dashing about the branches of the nut-trees, while the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled overhead.

"Where are we driving?" Roland asked again.

"We are now going to school to Franklin. I can now show you how the lightning is tamed." And they drove on to the railroad station.

The telegraphist gave Eric a very friendly reception. Eric showed his pupil, in the office of the telegraph, the electrical current in a pretty little glass box, where a blue spark darted rapidly hither and thither, and then vanished over the connecting wires. At every flash a sharp click came from the connecting rods, and, at the same instant, the little blue flame appeared and then vanished.

Eric was glad to be able to exhibit this to his pupil, and the telegraphist added many important and interesting details. He related how they were inexpressibly troubled in their communications during a thunderstorm, for incomprehensible words came over the wires, and he was once hurled by a shock of electricity against the stove yonder. He showed the metal plates to draw off the lightning, which often struck and cut off the conducting rods as nicely as if done with a sharp file.

They had removed the lights, and saw only the little blue flame, which Roland watched with childish delight. It was easy to explain the operation of the electro-magnetic telegraph, and Roland said,--

"Even if Franklin was not acquainted with this, he yet first caught the lightning."

"Do you think that he could know what would be the results?"

Eric endeavored to explain to Roland, that in all discovery, invention, creation and action, there is a great bond of unity, a continual process of development. And here in this dark room, while the little blue flame was dancing, and the three persons hardly venturing to speak aloud soon became utterly speechless, the soul of the youth was touched with a feeling of devotion, and raised far above the range of ordinary experience. The separation from his parents, the pleasure that had allured him, all had vanished, had sunk out of sight, as if he were living on some star remote from the earth.

The storm had ceased, and a copious rain was falling; when the window was re-opened, Roland said, gently taking Eric's hand, and looking out into the night,--

"Can one not imagine, that the soul in the bodies of human beings moves like the electrical spark on the wire?"

Eric made no reply. He saw that the boy was beginning to see something of the enigma of life; he must work it out for himself, and could not and must not be helped at present. And this trifling question gave assurance that the higher life could be preserved in the youth; he had overcome the desire of dissipation, and had given himself up to what could not be made slavishly subject to his will.

The telegraphist gave an account of Sonnenkamp's frightful appearance and conduct on the night that Roland was missing. He said in a low tone to Eric, that he himself was afraid of the man, and that notwithstanding the considerable sum of money which he offered him to remain there through the night, he had pleaded as an excuse the want of official orders, because he would not remain alone with Sonnenkamp for all the gold in the world.

Eric perceived that Roland had heard the last remark notwithstanding the low tone, and said in a jesting way, that a man who has to deal with the nervous filaments extended over the earth might very readily become nervous himself.

The telegraphist assented, and had many wonderful stories to tell. When Eric went with Roland into the passenger's room, he was surprised to see Roland's quick eye for the laughable characteristics of people. He had observed very shrewdly the peculiarities of the telegraphist, and imitated him very exactly. Without a direct rebuff, Eric endeavored to explain to his pupil, that those persons who are partly engaged in work, and partly in science, in that middle region of the vocations of life, such as apothecaries, surgical operators, lithographists, photographists, and telegraphists, are easily carried from one extreme to the other. Telegraphy created a certain excitability, and susceptibility, on account of the direct arousing of the faculties and the operation at great distances, which give to the soul a certain tension and excitation.

Eric sought to explain all this to his pupil; he would have liked to give him the just views which are embraced in the knowledge of psychological principles, but he led him back to the wonderful in what they had seen, and he succeeded in his purpose of deeply impressing this upon the soul.

The stars were glittering in the heavens, when they returned home from their glance into the mysterious primitive force of earth's being.

Eric could not restrain the impulse to picture to his scholar what had been probably the feelings of that people of the desert, on the evening of that day when Jehovah had revealed himself to them in thunder and lightning upon Mount Sinai; how it must have been with them when they went to rest, and how it must have seemed to the souls of thousands, as if the world were created anew.

Eric hardly knew what he was saying, as he drove through the refreshed and glistening starry night. But the feelings of the boy and the man were devotional. And after they reached home neither wished to speak one word, and they quietly bade each other good-night. But Eric could not go to sleep for a long time. Is the light in the soul of a human being an incomprehensible electric spark that cannot be laid hold of, and which flashes up in resolve and act? So long as there is no storm in the sky we send at will the spark over the extended wire; but when the great, eternally unsubdued, primitive forces of nature manifest themselves, the human message is no longer transmitted, and the sparks spontaneously play upon the conducting wires. Chaos sends forth an unintelligible message.

A time will come when thou shalt no longer be master of the living soul of thy pupil, in which, with all thy heedful precaution, rude, uncontrolled elements are at work. What then?

There is no security given for the whole future, and in the meantime, what concerns us is to fulfil quietly and faithfully the duty of the day.

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XI. THE FRUIT IS SET ON THE GRAPE-VINE

There is stillness in the vineyards on the mountain-side, and no persons are among the green rows, for the vines, which until now were allowed free growth, have been tied up so that the blossoms may not flutter about. The hidden blossom makes no show, but a sweet fragrance, just faintly perceptible, is diffused through the air. Now, the vine needs the quiet sunshine by day, and the warm breeze by night; the bloom must be set as fruit, but the flavour, the aroma, and the strength are not brought out until the autumn. After the fruit has become set, storm and tempest may come; the fruit is vigorous, and sure of attaining its future noble destiny.

Roland and Eric went hand in hand over the country, with no definite object in view; the town was quiet, and the scattered country-houses were deserted.

Bella, Clodwig, and Pranken had set out on a journey to Gastein, the Major to Teplitz, the Justice with his wife and daughter to Kissingen. Only the doctor remained at his post, and he is now alone, for his wife has gone to visit her daughter and grandchildren. Eric had determined at the very first, before he knew of the journey to the Baths and of being alone, to decline every distraction and every connection with a wide circle of acquaintance, wishing to devote himself exclusively and entirely, with all his energies, to Roland. And so they were now inseparably together, from early in the morning until bedtime.

He only who lives with nature, day in and day out knows all the changes of light, so various and fleeting, and only he who lives exclusively with one person knows thoroughly the sudden upspringings of thought, when all is illuminated and stands out in prominent relief. Eric was well aware that Roland frequently dwelt upon the pleasures and dissipations of a life at the Baths, and that the youth had often to force himself to a uniform round of duty, struggling and inwardly protesting to some extent against it; but Eric looked upon it as the prancing of an untamed horse, who resists bit and bridle, but soon is proud of his trappings. Numberless elements influence, move, form, and expand whatever is in process of growth; man can bend and direct that which is taking form and shape, but to affect the changes beyond this stage is not in his power.

Eric brought three different influences to bear upon his pupil. They continued to read Franklin's life; Roland was to see a whole man on every side. The political career, which Franklin gradually entered upon, was as yet not within the range of the youth's comprehension; but he was to form some idea of such varied activity, and Eric knew, too, that no one can estimate what may abide as a permanent possession in a young soul, even from what is but partially understood. The White House at Washington took rank in Roland's fancy with the Acropolis at Athens and the Capitol at Rome; he often spoke of his ardent desire to go on a pilgrimage thither.

It was hard to fix the youth's attention upon the establishment of the American Republic and the formation of the Constitution, but he was kept persistently to it.

Eric chose, for its deep insight, Bancroft's History of the United States.

They read, at the same time, the life of Crassus by Plutarch, and also Longfellow's Hiawatha. The impression of this poem was great, almost overlaying all the rest; here the New World has its mythical and its romantic age in the Indian legend, and it seems to be the work not of one man, but of the spirit of a whole people. The planting of corn is represented under a mythological form, as full of life as any which the myth-creating power of antiquity can exhibit.

Hiawatha invents the sail, makes streams navigable, and banishes disease; but Hiawatha's Fast, and the mood of exaltation and self-forgetfulness consequent thereon, made upon Roland the deepest impression.

"Man only is capable of that!" cried Roland.

"Capable of what?" asked Eric.

"Man only can fast, can voluntarily renounce food."

From this mythical world of the past, which must necessarily retire before the bright day in the progress of civilization, they passed again to the study of the first founding of the great American Republic. Franklin again appeared here, and seemed to become the central point for Roland, taking precedence even of Jefferson, who not only proclaimed first the eternal and inalienable rights of man, but made them the very foundation of a nation's life. Roland and Eric saw together how this Crusoe-settlement on a large scale, as Frederic Kapp calls it, unfolded into a high state of culture; and that sad weakness and compromise, which did not immediately abolish slavery, also constituted a knotty point of investigation.

"Do you think the Niggers are human beings like us?" asked Roland.

"Undoubtedly; they have language and the power of thought, just as we have."

"I once heard it said, that they could not learn mathematics," interposed Roland.

"I never heard that before, and probably it is a mistake."

Eric did not go any farther in this exposition; he wished to cast no imputation upon the father, who had owned large plantations tilled by slaves. It was sufficient that questions were coming up in the boy's mind.

Nothing better could have been contrived for Eric and Roland; than for them to learn something together. The architect, a man skilled in his business, and happy to have so early in life such an excellent commission entrusted to him, was communicative and full of information. The castle had been destroyed, as so many others were, by the barbarous soldiers of Louis XIV. encamped in Germany, exactly a hundred years before the French Revolution. An old main-tower, the so-called Keep, had still some remains of Roman walls, concrete walls, as the architect called them.

"What is concrete?" asked Roland. The architect explained that the inside and outside layers consisted of quarry stone laid in regular masonry, and between, stones of all sizes were thrown in, and then the whole was evidently cemented together with a sort of heated mortar.

Only one-third of the tower had apertures for light; the rest was solid stone wall.

The whole region had made use of the castle as a stone-quarry, and the corners had especially suffered, because they contained the best stones. The whole was grown over with shrubbery, the castle-dwelling had wholly disappeared, and the castle itself, originally Roman, had probably been rebuilt in the style of the tenth century. From a drawing found in the archives only a few additional characteristics could be made out; but from single stones and angles much of the general structure could be copied, and the architect showed how he had planned the whole, and he was particularly glad to have discovered the spring, out of which they had taken, to use his own expression, "a great deal of rubbish and dirt."

The insight into the inner mystery of a man's active calling produced a deep impression upon the youth, and he followed out the whole plan of construction with great diligence; and he and Eric always placed before them, as a reward for actual work accomplished, this instructive conversation with the architect, and even frequently a permission to be actively employed. It was a favorite thought of Roland's to live here at some future time alone at the castle, and he wanted to have had some hand in the building.

Roland and Eric were regularly but not accidently, at the castle when the masons and the laborers engaged in excavation were paid off on Saturday, evening. The time for leaving off work being an hour earlier than usual, the barber came from the town and shaved the masons, and then they, washed themselves at the fountain; a baker-woman with bread also came out from the town, and the workmen placed themselves, one after another, under the porch of a small house that had been temporarily erected. Roland frequently stood inside the room, with the foremen, and heard only the brief words,--

"You receive so much, and you, so much."

He saw the hard hands which received the pay. Frequently he stood outside among the workmen themselves, or by their side, observing them; and the boys of his own age received his particular notice, and he thanked all heartily, when they saluted him. Most of them had a loaf of bread wrapped up in a cloth under their arm, and they went off to the villages where they lived, often singing until they were out of hearing.

Eric knew that it was not in accordance with Sonnenkamp's ideas for Roland thus to become familiar with different modes of life, for he had once heard him say,--

"He who wishes to build a castle need not know all the carters and quarrymen in the stone-pits around."

But Eric considered it his duty to let Roland have an unprejudiced, acquaintance with a mode of life different from his own. He saw the expression of Roland's large eyes while they were sitting upon a projecting point of the castle; where the thyme sent up its sweet odor around them, and they looked out over mountain and valley; with the bells sending out their peal for the Sunday-eve; and he felt happy, for he knew that an eye which so looked upon the hard-working hands, and a thought which so followed the laborers returning to their homes, was forming, an internal state that could not be hardheartedly unmindful of one's fellow-men. Thus was a moral and intellectual foundation laid in the soul of the youth. Eric took good heed not to disturb the germinating seed by exposing it to the light.

One evening, when they were sitting upon the castle, the sun had already gone down, and the tops of the mountains only were tinged with the glowing sunset, while the village, with its blue slate-roofs and the evening smoke rising straight in the air, seemed like a dream--Roland said,--

"I should like to know, how it is that no castles are to be found in America."

Eric repeated with pleasure Goethe's verses,--

"America, to thee is given A better fate than here is found! No mouldering castle-towers hast thou, No monumental columns fallen; No gloomy shadows of the past, No vain and useless strife Becloud thy heavens serene. To-day suffices with its good; And, sing your children in poetic strains, Be it on higher themes Than robbers, knights, and haunting ghosts."

Roland learned them by heart, and wanted to know more of Goethe.

In their quiet walks Eric repeated to him many of Goethe's poems, in which not man, but nature herself seems to have produced the expression. The towering spirit of Goethe, with Hiawatha and Crassus, was now added to the sedate and unexciting study of Benjamin Franklin.

Roland felt deeply the influence of the various moral and spiritual elements in whose circle he lived: Eric was able to quote apt passages from the classic poets of antiquity, as well as of his own country to his pupil. This revealed to Roland's perception the double manifestation of all life, and made him long for the real and true.

One day, when Eric and Roland were sitting on the boundary of a field, they saw a hare which ate a little, ran off, and then ate again. Roland said,--

"Timid hare! yes, why shouldn't he be timid? he has no weapons of attack or of defence; he can only run away."

Eric nodded, and the boy went on.

"Why are dogs the enemies of hares?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I can understand how the dog and the fox are enemies; they can both bite: but why a dog should hate and pursue a hare, that can do nothing but run, I can't understand." In spite of all his knowledge, Eric often found himself in a position where nothing but conjecture could help him; he said,--

"I think that the dog in a wild state found his chief food in the defenceless animals, as the fox does. The dog is really a tame cousin of the fox; education has changed him only so far that he now bites hares to death, but does not eat them. Animals that feed on plants live in the open air, but beasts of prey, in caves."

For a short time the boy sat silent, then he suddenly said,--

"How strange!"

"What is it?"

"You will laugh at me, but I have been thinking,"--as he spoke a bright smile broke over the boy's face, showing the dimples in his cheeks and chin,--"the wild animals have no regular hours for their meals, they eat all day long; dogs have only been trained by us men to take their food at certain times."

"Certainly," replied Eric; "the regulation of our lives by fixed hours only begins with education."

And without tedious or unnecessary diffuseness, Eric succeeded in bringing before his pupil what a great thing it is to measure time, and to set our daily life to the rhythm of the universe, of the whole starry world.

Improbable as it may seem, it was really the fact, that from the time of this conversation, which began with so small and insignificant a matter, but took so wide a range, the hours of study of the pair were strictly fixed: Roland wished to have no more unoccupied time. This was a great step in his life; what had before seemed like tyranny was now a self-imposed law.

A few weeks later, Roland himself gave up his favorite companions for Eric's sake. On their walks through fields and over mountains, and their visits to the castle, the dogs had been taken as a matter of course. Eric was ready to reply to every question of his pupil, but a disturbing companion was always with them so long as Roland never went out without one of his dogs, and there could be no connected thought while the eye rested on the animal, however involuntarily. The dog constantly looked up at his master and wanted his presence acknowledged, and wandering thoughts followed him as he ran. It was difficult for Eric to bring Roland to leave them at home; he did not directly order him to do it, but he several times replied to his questions, by saying that he could not answer when their attention was given to calling the dogs and watching their gambols. When this had been repeated several times, Roland left the dogs at home, and saw that Eric meant to reward him for his sacrifice by his ready answers to all his questions. Eric led Roland into departments of knowledge, but took care not to impart too much at once; on many points he put him off till a later period, drawing him constantly to follow out the suggestions of his own observations. Yonder lies the field, and there is the vineyard where the grapes grow, collecting and transmitting within themselves all the elements which float in the air, or repose in the earth; and more than all, the rolling river sends forth into the fruit an immeasurable strength and a mysterious fragrance. The growth goes on by day and night, through sunshine and dewy shade; rain and lightning and hail do their work, and the plants live on to their maturity. Each separate plant is at first hardly to be noticed, but it grows to meet its nature-appointed destiny.

Who can name all the elements which mould and build up a human soul? Who can say how much of what Eric cherished in Roland has grown and thriven up to this very hour? And yet this unbroken growth brings the mysterious result which forms our life.

Roland and Eric were present every morning and evening when the lawns were sprinkled, and when the shrubs and flowers in tubs and pots were watered; they helped in the work, and this endeavor to promote growth seemed to satisfy a thirst in themselves. There was a sense of beneficence in doing something to help the plants which gave beauty and freshness to day and night.

"Tell me," Roland once asked timidly, "why are there thorns on a rose-bush."

"Why?" answered Eric. "Certainly not that we may wound ourselves with them. The butterfly and the bee do not hurt themselves with the thorns of the rose nor with the spines of the thistle; they only draw honey and pollen from the flower-cups. Nature has not adapted herself to the muscular conformation of man, nor indeed to man at all. Everything exists for itself, and for us only so far as we know how to use and enjoy it. But, Roland," he added, as he saw that the boy did not well understand him, "your question is wrongly put. For what purpose? and why? these are questions for ourselves, not for the rosebush."

The park and garden blossomed and grew, and everything in its place waited quietly for the return of its master; in Roland, too, a garden was planted and carefully tended. And the thought comes, Will the master of this garden, and will his flowers and fruits, bring comfort and refreshment to those who live with him on the earth?

The nightingales in the park had grown silent, the intoxicating sweetness of the blossoms had fled, there was a quiet growth everywhere.

And while the days, were full of mental activity, in the quiet nights Roland and Eric walked along the mountain paths, and feasted their eyes on the moonlit landscape, where on one side the mountains threw their shadows, and in sharp contrast the moonlight rested on the vineyards, and the stars shone above and sparkled in the river. An air of blessed peace lay over the landscape, and the wanderers drank it in as they walked on, breaking the silence only by an occasional word. These hours brought the truest benediction; in them the soul wished only to breathe, to gaze, to dream with open eyes, and to be conscious of the inner fulness, and of the on-flowing, quiet, prosperous growth of nature. The vine draws nourishment from earth and air, and in such hours all that is developed in the soul by nameless forces ripens there, with all that streams into it from without.

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XII. A HUNTER'S PLEASURE AND A HUNTER'S PAIN

Eric took great care not to change Roland's bold and determined character into one of morbid enthusiasm. He interposed between the studies an equal measure of physical exercise, fencing, leaping, riding, swimming, and rowing. He was glad that he had to call in no other teacher, and he gained new strength, and maintained his constant intercourse with his pupil, by taking the lead in these recreations.

With Fassbender's help, he also taught Roland to take measurements out of doors. Fassbender was extremely skilful in such work, but he constantly showed a humble submissiveness towards Roland, which caused Eric much vexation; and when he said one day that he should tell his friend Knopf how industrious and clever Roland was, the boy tossed his head in displeasure. He evidently wished to hear nothing more of Knopf; perhaps, too, he had something in his memory of which he would not speak to Eric.

Eric laid out a shooting-ground for Roland also, not wishing to withdraw him from his accustomed life out of doors, where he had roved at pleasure; only it was distinctly understood that exercise in the open air was to come after mental work, never before it.

One great difficulty lay in moderating Roland's passion for hunting. Eric did not wish to repress it altogether, but only to keep it within due limits. Now, in midsummer, there was only rabbit-hunting, and Claus came to take Roland out with him. Former teachers had left Roland to go alone with the huntsman, but Eric accompanied them, and Roland drew in new life as they went through the vineyards.

Eric's attention was roused at hearing Claus say that Manna had been an extremely bold rider, even as a little child, and afterwards as a growing girl, and that her father had always taken her with him on a hunt, where she showed the wildest spirit. Rose and Thistle were the dogs which had belonged to her, and now whenever they heard her name, they noticed it directly, and looked sharply round as if expecting her.

Eric would have liked to ask how it happened that a bold and spirited girl, who delighted in hunting, could now be living like a penitent in a convent. It was hard to bring this picture of her, hunting with her gun and with her dogs, into harmony with the picture of the winged apparition. But he took care to ask Roland no questions, and behaved to the huntsman as if he had known it all before.

His father had left Roland his favorite dogs, Rose and Thistle; they were small, but powerfully built, with broad chest and strong back, and they appeared to understand when Roland praised them. The smaller, the female, with red chops and many scars on her head, always licked his hand while he extolled her wonderful courage, and hung her head when he said he was sorry that she was not so obedient as the somewhat larger male, Thistle. With sparkling eyes, which seemed to glance with modest pleasure, Thistle looked at Roland when he explained to Eric that the dog would obey only English words, but by their use could be managed perfectly; if he called out to him "zuruck!" Thistle looked at him as if deaf; but the moment he said "Come back!" he fell back a foot behind him.

They passed a low oak-tree; Roland seized a branch, and shook it, crying "Hang!" and Thistle sprang up, caught the branch with his sharp teeth, and remained hanging to it till Roland told him to let go. Rose performed the same trick, and even outdid herself, for she whirled round several times as she hung, and then, with a sudden jerk, broke off the branch and brought it to Roland. The boy and the dogs were very happy together, and seemed to understand equally well where they were going.

They went by the huntsman's house, where the two ferrets were put into a basket. On the edge of the wood, Roland took out the pretty little yellow creatures, which moved in a sort of snake-like way, and put muzzles on them, caressing them as he did it. They then went into the thicket, where fresh burrows were soon found; over some of the outlets, nets were spread, and Roland was delighted at the skilful way in which Eric fastened them down with pegs, which he made from twigs cut from the trees. The ferrets were let loose, and very soon a rustling was heard, and some rabbits came into the nets, and were soon bitten and shaken to death by the dogs. The ferrets were sent in again, and the hunters stood before the holes to shoot the rabbits as they came out; Roland missed, but Eric hit his mark.

Eric was far from saying anything to Roland of the cruelty shown, especially in the net-hunting, and the manner in which the dogs bit at the eyes of the poor creatures, and never let go till all struggling ceased; he was enough of a hunter to overlook this. Claus knew how to smother pity by inveighing against the confounded rabbits, which gnawed at the young vines and spoiled them and all that was best in the fields; he imitated one of the peasants who always struck at a rabbit with his stick, crying,--

"Have I got you at last, you damned--"

After they had gone farther on, Rose went into a hole; and they heard her barking deep down under ground. She had found a fox. The hunter's excitement awoke in Eric, and they all stood quietly on the watch. Thistle was also sent into the hole, and his bark was heard far below, but the fox did not come out. Soon Rose appeared with her nose torn and bleeding; she looked up at the hunters and went back into the hole; whining and barking were heard, and at last the dogs came back, streaming with blood, but no fox appeared; they waited long, but in vain.

"They have killed him," said the huntsman in triumph; "we shall never get him."

Roland was full of "tender compassion for the dogs, but Claus consoled him with the assurance that they would soon get over their hurts. Roland said he could not understand how dogs could bite a fox to death, when a fox had such sharp teeth; the huntsman shrugged his shoulders, but Eric answered:--

"The fox bites sharply, but does not hold on."

Roland looked at Eric in surprise, feeling that he was a man from whom everything could be learned; all Eric's knowledge had hardly made so much impression as this single remark.

Again they sent the ferrets into a fresh burrow; only one came out; they waited long and left the huntsman on the spot, but the second ferret was not to be seen. Roland was inconsolable for the loss of the fine little creature, so bright and tame. When Eric said that the animal would die of hunger in the woods, with its mouth so firmly muzzled, Roland walked on for some time in silence. Suddenly he put his hand into the basket, took out the other ferret and let it loose, then took aim and shot it down; he left the dead creature lying undisturbed in the wood, and walked home with Eric without a word. He looked long at his gun; Eric knew that it would be many days before its report would be heard again, and so it was.

From the time of this last hunt, a coldness and ill-humor, reluctance and listlessness, appeared in Roland; he was not exactly rebellious, but did everything without interest, and often looked strangely at Eric.

Eric did not know what to do; for several days he was much disquieted, feeling that he was no longer a novelty to Roland, and that the sense of satiety which torments the rich, who never can long enjoy the same thing, increased as it was in Roland by his wandering life, was producing apathy and discontent in him; he must be taught to greet with pleasure the day which brought no new thing, but only a repetition of the day before.

The huntsman came to Eric, took him aside, and said:--

"I've found the ferret that ran away from us."

"Where?"

"In the wood yonder, there it lies with its muzzle on, starved to death, and eaten up by the ants."

"We will say nothing of it to Roland."

"Certainly not. Do you know what the ferret's name was?"

"No."

"It was Knopf. He only called it 'master,' because you were present. It always vexed me; Herr Knopf is certainly superstitious, dreadfully superstitious, but one of the best men in the world. Roland has told me in confidence, that, on the journey which he made to force you to come back, a spirit appeared to him in the wood one morning, a fairy-princess, as stupid, superstitious men would say,--a wonderful child with light curling hair, but she spoke English,--only think, spirits speak English too now,--she came to him early in the morning in the forest. That's the sort of stuff Herr Knopf has put into his head. I don't want to say anything against Herr Knopf; he's a good man, he taught poor children for nothing, and did good, much good, but belief in spirits and such nonsense ought to be put an end to. Don't you notice how bad Roland looks now? I think the belief in spirits is to blame for this. Drive it out of his mind right sharply."

Eric doubted whether this was what produced Roland's continued ill-humor, but he was struck by his having told the huntsman something which he had never confided to him. But he would not force his confidence and disturb the boy's mind; he would wait quietly till the cloud passed over.

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XIII. FRESH WINE, FRESH SONG, AND FRESH FAME

The Doctor had called, in the meanwhile, but only for a brief quarter of an hour at a time; he commended Eric for so taking upon himself the entire direction of Roland, and devoting himself to him so exclusively; he desired that no intervention of his should interrupt the inflowing of the moral and spiritual influence.

Eric now detained him, speaking of Roland's paleness, which he thought an indication of sickness.

"Indeed?" cried the Doctor. "Has it taken so soon? I am glad that it has made its appearance on the surface so early and so decidedly."

"What is it? What is it, then?"

"It's all right and normal; symptoms all good. My dear young friend, I call it usually the May-cold. Just consider a moment! Roland was born for a huntsman, and I was afraid you would turn him into a pebble-gatherer or a beetle-sticker. I see very plainly, that you would like to give him a deeper apprehension of life, but there lies the danger that he will take it too seriously; now the best prescription for life is, to take life easily."

Eric chimed in with this, acknowledging that he was far from desiring to make Roland a pattern youth, perfect in every particular. The Doctor continued:--

"As I said before, our lad is troubled with the May-cold. Whenever there is a change in the relations of life, as change of occupation, or marriage, where the previous independence is given up, after the first weeks of bloom, notwithstanding all the happiness enjoyed, comes in the May-cold, just as we see in nature. They say that it comes from the Alps, from the melting of the icebergs there; perhaps icebergs of egotism melt within, and at any rate, it is like a renewed struggle of winter with summer, like a struggle of solitariness with sociality. Don't be despairing! Let the days of chilly convalescence pass over the lad, and all will be well. Don't press him hard in these days; he is already beginning to feel as if he had come under a yoke. Moreover, I will give him some medicine, so that he shall think he is not well; this will be an advantage to him, and to you too, for you can then give way to him, as an invalid is expected to be perverse, and to be humored, as a matter of course."

The Doctor now came more frequently. He proposed to Eric to make a longer visit at Mattenheim, in accordance with Weidmann's invitation, as the contemplation of a life full of a many-sided activity would refresh both teacher and pupil. Eric replied that he did not consider it right to leave, for any length of time, the house that had been entrusted to his care. The Doctor assented, thinking it better that Roland should first become thoroughly familiar with the Rhine-home.

Eric and Roland now often accompanied the Doctor some distance on his rounds, and both acquired together a deeper acquaintance with the life of the Rhineland. The Doctor explained that he had an object in this, holding that it was a very important thing in a man's life to make a point of getting the best wines that could be had, and carrying out his point. Roland could and should do that. It was no less important to procure the good wine of the world, than its beautiful works of art. And if a sense of his dependence upon the Rhineland were instilled into Roland, much that was noble would result, especially if he could be brought into connection with the family of Weidmann.

The Doctor was the best of directories, knowing every house and its inmates very intimately, and speaking of everybody with discriminating justice, showing the dark as well as the bright side with equal impartiality. House after house furnished them with a refreshing sketch of life, and cellar after cellar with a refreshing draught.

"They talk about the deterioration of the race," said the Doctor edifyingly, "and there seems to be a chronic ailment, but it is not dangerous. People use themselves as filters and pour in wine; so it has always been; and so it will be. If the sun shines very hot, they think they are entitled to drink; and if the weather is disagreeable and wet, they must strengthen themselves with a good draught."

They alighted at a house, which had in front a statue of the Holy Mother with a lantern in her hand.

"Up-stairs here," said the Doctor, "pure genuine wine is sold; the man here supplies the church and the church dignitaries with the communion wine, which must be unadulterated. This man's father is a famous embroiderer of church-cloths, and his brother an illustrious painter of saints; and when people can turn their religion to any profit, they it hold it in sacred earnest. The main point is, not to impugn the uprightness of believers, and then they are inclined not to question the uprightness of us unbelievers."

They went on farther to another house, and the Doctor said:--

"Here dwelt a merry rogue, who has actually made the house haunted; he was an old screech-owl, a mason by trade. It's known that he had a little chest made by a carpenter, with a lock by a lock-smith; and this chest he walled into the cellar, which he built alone by himself. It is now believed that there must have been a considerable sum of money concealed therein; and yet he may have been rogue enough to hide there an empty box, in order to play a joke upon those who should come after him. And now the people are undecided whether to pull down the house or not, in order to find the box. It's possible they may find an empty one, and have a demolished house for their pains."

The Doctor gave such a turn to his information about men and things, that Roland could derive advantage from it.

The Doctor greeted in a very friendly way an old man with a crafty countenance, who was sitting in front of his house. The man asked the physician if he would not take another drop of "the black cat," and they went with Eric and Roland into the cellar, where they drank a fiery wine from a cask on which, in fact, a black cat was sitting, though it was an artificial one with shining glass eyes. The old man was excessively merry; and clinking glasses with Roland, he said:--

"Yes, yes, we are all bunglers compared with your father."

Then, with great gusto, he praised the shrewdness and craft of Sonnenkamp, and Eric looked timidly at Roland, who appeared to be but little affected by what was said; when they went away the Doctor said:--

"This is the genuine peasant, for the genuine peasant is really the greatest egotist, thinking only of his own profit, though the whole world beside should fall to pieces. This is the old burgomaster who lent money to people needing it, and when a bad season came, he made an immediate demand for it, with unrelenting harshness, so that their vineyards were sold at public auction; and now he possesses a large landed property, yielding the best wines. Yes; he is a cunning rascal."

This narrative produced a wholly different impression upon Eric from what it did upon Roland, for the latter considered that the rascality was a matter of course. Eric looked askance at the Doctor, for he could not conceive how he could be on such friendly terms with the burgomaster; and when he further asked whether the man was respected, he received an emphatic response in the affirmative, inasmuch as property secured respect in the country.

They also stopped at the gauger's, the good-humored brother of the whole country around, and were led by him through the wine-vaults, and supplied with many a good drop to drink. The gauger always liked to tell stories that were not always fit for a boy to hear, but the Doctor soon led him to a different subject.

The gauger always carried with him some flour bread, which he called his "little sponge." "With straw," he said, "they tie up the wines, and with this little piece of bread, that has been grown from the straw, I fasten in the wine." They had calculated that the gauger had drunk, during his life-time, seventy butts of wine; but he asserted that they had been very tender to him, for he had drunk a great deal more than that.

It was a merry, exhilarating life into which Eric and Roland were inducted, and when they returned to their strict method of study, there was a deep realization of the fact that they were living in the midst of a merry region, where existence can be easily wasted in play.

It was midsummer, and there came cold, windy, disagreeable days, when it seemed that summer had departed, and yet it could not be, it must become hot again. The nightingale was voiceless; it had not ceased to sing all at once, but seemed to utter occasionally single notes from memory, while there were heard more frequently the thin voices of the linnets, or the full, short call of the blackbirds. The summer shoots on the leafy trees showed that the summer had reached its height, and was declining; the forest-trees had attained their season's growth, and the song of birds had ceased, except that the unwearied black-cap still twittered, and the magpies chattered among the branches.

Eric and Roland often, sailed upon the Rhine, and Eric sang; he was rejoiced to hear Roland say:--

"Yes, it is so. A person can sing at all seasons of the year, if he has a mind to."

Eric nodded, feeling that the consciousness of art and of a free humanity had been awakened in Roland; and he now said that they would absent themselves for a few days from the house, and proposed to Roland two plans: either they would go to Herr Weidmann's, of whom there had been so much said, or to the great musical festival that was to take place at the Fortress. Boats ornamented with parti-colored streamers, having singers on board, went up the river and were greeted at all the landings with the firing of cannon. Roland requested to go to the festival, and he wanted to walk a part of the way, desiring to see again, and this time in company with Eric, the road over which he had wandered by night.

They set out in good spirits, and Roland was very talkative, relating to Eric all his adventures. They came to the wood, and Roland gave an account of his falling asleep, and of his wonderful dream. He blushed while telling it, and Eric did not ask what his dream was. Roland went silently into the wood.

"Here it is; here it is!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Here is my porte-monnaie! God be praised and thanked, I have not been robbed. Come, let us go to the village, where the hostler lives whom I suspected, and I will give him all the money."

They proceeded to the village, but the hostler was not there, having been drafted into the military service.

Roland was very sorry at that, and wrote down the man's name in his memorandum-book.

The two went on through the country clothed in the green of summer, and when they reached the railroad, took the cars for the Fortress. All was here decked with flags, and the whole town appeared in holiday attire. Men and women streamed in from all quarters, some on boats and some in the cars, singing in clear tones, and were received with a hearty welcome. Eric was happy to be able to say to his pupil:--

"Remember that this belongs to us. Neither the Greeks nor the Romans had such celebrations, nor any other nation but us Germans."

They spent the night at the Fortress, and the next morning all assembled, the hundreds of male and female singers, and a great crowd of listeners, in the festival hall now properly ornamented, but at other times used as a fruit-market. A gloomy rumor was spread through the assembly; the singers shook their heads, and clapped together their hands, while among the audience there was a commotion and a rustling.

A man of fine voice, an experienced singer, had been suddenly taken ill.

"Look yonder," said Roland; "there sit nuns, and there are pupils, in the school-dress that they wear at Manna's convent. Ah, if Manna should be here too!"

Eric said to Roland:--

"Stay here; I will see if I can be of any assistance. I depend upon your not quitting this seat."

He went up to the singers on the platform, and spoke earnestly to the leader, by whose side he stood. Men came up to them while they were talking together, and went away again. Suddenly all eyes were turned towards Eric, and a whispering and a buzzing went through the assembly. Master Ferdinand, the conductor, tapped with his baton, and his look, which directed and inspired all, was smiling. There was silence, and in a tone that won all hearts he said:--

"Our baritone has unfortunately been taken ill, and this gentleman by my side, who does not wish his name to be mentioned, has kindly offered to undertake the solos for our absent friend. You, as well as we, will be grateful to him, and willingly extend to him the requested indulgence, as he has made no rehearsals with us."

A universal applause was the reply.

The choruses began, and their tones, like the voice of many waters, moved Roland's soul. Now Eric rose. All hearts were beating. But at the first tone he uttered, each one of the singers, and each one of the listeners, looked to his neighbor and nodded. It was a voice, so full, so deep, so penetrating the heart, that all held their breath as they listened. And when he had ended, a storm of applause broke forth which seemed almost to shake the hall.

Eric sat down, and the choruses and then other solo performers sang; again he rose, and yet again, and his voice seemed to grow still more powerful, and to penetrate more deeply into the hearts of all.

But how was it with Roland, one of the thousands who listened, and who were thrilled by the sound of this voice, in the depths of their souls?

The choruses rolled in like billows of the resounding sea, but when Eric sang, it was as if he stood upon the deck of a noble ship, and ruled over all; and this voice was so near to Roland in its friendliness, and yet so nobly exalted! The youth was possessed by that feeling of blissful, dreamy gladness which music awakes in us, transplanting it into the depths of our own life, and causing us to forget our own dreams, and merging our own individual self in the sad and blissful element of being.

Roland wept; Eric's voice seemed to waft him upwards into an invisible world, and then the choruses began again, and he seemed to be transported into a heavenly state of existence.

Roland wanted to tell his neighbor who the man was, for he heard on all sides questions and conjectures; but he said to himself:--

"No one else knows who he is, except me."

His eye now swept again over the collection of girls dressed in blue, and one of them nodded to him. Yes, it is she! it is Manna! He requested those sitting near him to let him pass through them; he wanted to go to his sister and to tell her who it was that had just brought such blessedness into the hearts of all. But he was repelled with vehemence, and his neighbors scolded about the saucy youth, who was so restless and out of humor, and wanted to create a disturbance.

Roland remained quiet, and by that means let slip the suitable opportunity of the intermission, for pressing through the crowd to Manna.

The Oratorio was ended, but the applause of the assembly, did not seem likely to end. There was a universal call for the stranger's name.

"Name! Name!" resounded from a thousand lips, with noisy demonstrations and shouts.

Then Master Ferdinand tapped with his baton again upon his desk, nodding in a friendly manner to Eric, who held back, and all cried:--

"Silence!"

Eric rose, saying in a composed voice,--

"My sincere thanks. That I have been able to take part here, has been to me a divine service, a service to divine art; and because I do not desire by any unfamiliar name to lessen the feeling of devotion awakened within you, and for this reason only, have I been reluctant to give you my name."

"Name! Name!" was again called out by the assembly.

"My name is Doctor Dournay."

"Huzza! Huzza!" burst out the whole assembly, and the orchestra played a threefold flourish, all shouting:--

"Huzza, Doctor Dournay."

Eric was almost crushed, and his shoulders ached with the congratulatory strokes upon them.

He saw himself surrounded by those who were already acquainted with him, and those who desired to make his acquaintance. The assembly dispersed.

Eric looked around for Roland, but he was nowhere to be seen. He walked about the square in front of the music-hall, and then returned to it; here he found everything in confusion, for they were rushing in every direction; setting the tables for the festival-dinner. He waited a long time, for he felt convinced that Roland had got lost in the crowd, and would come back here.

At last Roland came, with glowing cheeks.

"If was she!" he exclaimed. "I went with her and her schoolmates to the boat, and they have now set off.

"O Eric, how splendid it is, how splendid, that you sang, for the first time, to her! And she said you could not be so godless, for you sang so devoutly. She said that I was not to tell you this, but she is a rogue, she meant that I should tell you. O Eric! and the Justice's Lina, and the Architect; too, are among the singers; they are walking arm in arm, and they recognised you, but they did not betray you. O Eric, how you did sing! it seemed to me that you could fly too; I was every moment afraid that you would spread your wings and fly away."

The youth was in a state of feverish excitement.

An usher came to invite Eric and his brother--such he supposed Roland to be--to be present at the dinner and to sit near the director.

Others came who knew him, and strangers who wished to be introduced.

A photographer, who was one of the solo singers, besought Eric to allow him to take his photograph, while he was waiting for dinner, as hundreds and hundreds of the singers wanted to have a picture of him.

Eric declined, with thanks, these manifestations of friendliness, and took, with Roland the first boat to return to the villa.

Roland went into the cabin, and he was soon sound asleep; Eric sat alone upon the deck, and he was troubled with the thought of having been brought so prominently before the public. But he considered, on the other hand, that there are times when our powers do not belong to ourselves alone, and when we cannot ourselves determine what we will do: I did what I was obliged to do, he thought.

When they came to the stopping-place, Roland had to be waked up. He was almost dragged into the row-boat, and he was so confused and bewildered, that he did not seem to know what was going on around him.

After they had disembarked, he said:--

"Eric, your name is now repeated by thousands and thousands of people, and you are now very famous."

Roland, who had never sung before, now sang, the whole way home, a strain of the chorus.

They found at the villa letters from Eric's mother and from Herr Sonnenkamp. His mother wrote, that he must not mind it if he were reproached with having sold so cheaply, and so speedily his ideal views, for people were angry, and were partially right in being so, at his abrupt departure without saying good-bye.

Eric smiled, for he knew right well how they would have their fill of jesting about him around the so-called black table at the Club-house, where, year after year, the shining oil-cloth was spread over the untidy table-cloth. It appeared incomprehensible to him how he could ever have fancied spending there a day of his life, or a bright evening.

Sonnenkamp's letter made a wholly different impression; he authorized, Eric, in case he thought it worth while, to take the journey to Biarritz with Roland.

"My father will like it, too, that you have received so much honor; the nun, indeed, who accompanied Manna, said that he would not take it well, that you had made yourself so notorious."

Eric looked disturbed. The feeling of servitude and dependence came over him. He had pledged his whole personal being to Sonnenkamp's service, and in all his actions he must first ask himself the question, how they may perhaps be taken by his master.

The whole day was now strewed over with ashes, and in place of the lofty feelings that had animated him, he now experienced a degree of depression of spirit.

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XIV. ONE'S FELLOW-MAN

Again the days flowed quietly on in work and recreation. One day Claus came and asked Roland to keep his promise of showing him the whole villa from top to bottom.

"Why do you want to see it?" asked Eric.

"I should like for once to see all the things which rich people have, to know what they do with all their money."

A knavish glance shot from the huntsman's eye, as he spoke. Eric gave the requested permission; he would have preferred to send a servant, but he went himself with the man, of whom he felt a sort of dread, not liking to leave him alone with Roland. He could scarcely give a reason for his uneasiness, except that the manner in which the huntsman dwelt upon the rich and poor might confuse Roland's mind.

They went through all the stories of the house, and Claus, who hardly dared to put his foot down, kept saying,--

"Yes, yes, all this can be had for money! what can't be got for money?"

In the great music-hall, he stood on the platform, and called to Eric and Roland:

"Herr Captain, may I ask a question?"

"If I can answer it, why shouldn't you?"

"Tell me fairly and honestly, what would you do, if you--you are a liberal-minded man and a friend of humanity--what would you do, if you were the owner of this house and so many millions?"

The huntsman's loud voice resounded through, the great hall with a discordant echo, which seemed as if it would never cease.

"What would you do?" he repeated. "Do you know no answer?"

"It is not necessary for me to give you one."

"All right; I knew you couldn't."

He came down from the platform, saying, "I am field-guard, and as I wander about at night, it seems to me as if I were possessed of an evil spirit, which I can't get rid of. I can't help thinking all the time, what would you do if you had many millions? It drives me almost crazy; I can't get away from it, and it appears that you can't answer the question, either."

"What would you do?" asked Eric.

"Have you no idea?"

"If I had much money," answered Claus, laughing maliciously, "first of all I'd cudgel the Landrath to a jelly, even if it cost a thousand gulden; it's worth the money."

"But then?"

"Yes, then--that I don't know."

Eric looked at Roland, who looked back at him with dull, troubled eyes, and compressed lips. The unconsciousness of wealth to which Knopf had alluded seemed destroyed, suddenly and unseasonably uprooted. Roland could never be led back to it, and yet was not mature enough to see his way forward.

Eric said to Roland in English, that, he would clear up the matter for him, but that it was impossible to find an answer fit for an ignorant man.

"Would an ignorant man have asked the question?" answered Roland in the same language.

Eric remained silent, for he could not disturb and spoil the clear preception of his pupil, even to relieve and set him at rest.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the huntsman scornfully, "now I'm rid of it, now, you've got it. Wherever you go or rest you will hear what I've been asking myself in all the passages and all the rounds. Very well! if you ever find the answer, let me have the benefit of it."

He put on his hat and went away. It was impossible to fix Roland's attention upon anything throughout that day; he sat alone in his room; late at night, after Eric had been asleep, he heard him go into the library to get something.

Eric let him take his own course, then going into the library, he saw that it was the Bible which he had taken; he was probably reading the passage concerning the rich young man; the seed, which had until now lain dormant, was beginning to sprout. Eric had pursued his work of quiet preparation until now, when an outside influence had come in, and with rude grasp had awakened what should have slept on. What is all our teaching and preparation for? It is the same in external nature; the buds swell quietly till a wild tempest bursts them suddenly open. Now the wild tempest had swept over Roland, and Eric could not shelter him.

Very early the next morning Roland came to Eric's room, saying,--

"I have a favor to ask."

"Tell me what it is. I will grant it if I can."

"You can. Let us forget all our books to-day, and come with me to the castle."

"Now?"

"Yes; I have a plan. I want to see myself how it is. Let me, just this one day."

"Let you do what?"

"I want to work like the masons' apprentices up there. I don't want to eat and drink anything except what they do, and I want to carry loads up and down like them."

Eric went to the castle with Roland, but on the way, he said,--

"Roland, your purpose is good, and your wish pleases me, but now consider. You are not undertaking the same work as the men yonder, but work much harder, for you are not accustomed to it; this one day would bring ten times as much fatigue to you as to them, for you come to it from different circumstances. What is habit to them is new to you, and doubly difficult; and, moreover, you are not like them, for you have been tenderly and carefully nurtured; your bed is wholly unlike theirs; you have tender hands; it is quite a different sort of strength which you possess. So you would not learn what poor people feel, who have nothing but their native energy to help them support life."

Roland stood still, and there was an echo of what he had read in the night in the question, as he asked with a troubled voice, "What shall I do then, to make my own the life of my fellow-men?"

Eric was struck by his tone, and by the form of his question; he could not tell Roland how happy he felt, but he was sure at this moment that a soul, which bore and cherished such desires within it, could never go far astray, nor lose the sense of the union and mutual dependence of mankind. He restrained himself from expressing his feeling, however, and said,--

"Dear Roland"--he had never before said dear Roland--"the world is a great labor-association; the same task is not laid upon all of us, but it is enjoined on every one to feel himself the brother of his fellow-men, and to know that he is the guardian of himself and of his brothers. What we can do is, to prepare ourselves and hold ourselves ready to stand by our brother's side, and reach out a hand to him as often as the call may come. The work which will one day be yours is different from that of the laborers yonder, who carry stone and mortar; your work is greater, and more productive of happiness. Come, the time has arrived for you to see into many things."

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XV. LIFE, AND THE EXTERNALS OF LIFE

In the Bible it is related, how the boy Isaac went with the Patriarch Abraham up the mountain-side where the sacrifice was to be offered. He walked on, silent and thoughtful, till at last he asked,--

"Where is the offering?"

He did not know that he himself was to be the offering.

So Roland followed Eric, silent and thoughtful; he had offered to sacrifice himself, but the sacrifice was refused. What next?

Above, on a spur of the mountain, overlooking the surrounding country, they sat down; the wild thyme spread its fragrance around them. Eric took the hand of his pupil and began,--

"Well, it must be,--it ought to have come later,--I had hoped that you would not have come to this question for a long time, and then in some other way. Do you know what wealth is?"

"Yes; when a man has more than he needs."

"How does a man get this superfluity?"

"By inheritance and by earning."

"Can a brute animal be rich?"

"I should think not."

"Certainly not; every animal is, and has, only what he has been and has had from his birth. Now, to go farther, are the men of these times better than those of old times?"

"I think so."

"Will men ever be better than now?"

"I hope so."

"And how will they become better?"

"By civilization."

"Is civilization possible, when a man has to work hard from morning till night for the satisfaction of his physical needs?"

"Hardly."

"How then can a man do anything for the improvement of himself or his fellow-men?"

"He needs leisure for this."

"And does not that leisure come only when he has gained through his labor a surplus of wealth?"

"It seems so."

"Remember this, then: wealth is an accumulation of power which is not obtained by one's own labor."

"Stop, wait a minute," said Roland. He thought for a moment and then said,--"I have it, I understand it now; pray go on."

"What, now, should a man do, who comes into possession of so much power that he has not worked for?"

"I do not know."

"Then I will tell you. By means of what a man has beyond the absolute needs of life, he attains those things which beautify and elevate life, art and science. Wealth, alone, makes possible the progress of the human race; that a man can become rich involves his higher destiny; he lives by others, and for others; without accumulated surplus, without capital, there can be no higher knowledge of life, no advancement of it, no science and no art. Wealth is the possibility and the obligation to gain and increase, for one's self and for others, the higher benefits of existence; the rich man is not rich for himself; whatever advantages he possesses in the way of knowledge, of improved machinery, of invention, he has and uses in order to obtain more wealth than his necessities demand; these advantages he possesses only by means of others who have worked before him. In the last analysis, then, the rich man is so through his own means, or for his own advantage; he is only an administrator of the accumulated results of labor, and he must so administer it as to serve the highest good of mankind. Look around! there lie the fields, the vineyards,--whose are they? There stand stones, boundary-stones, placed here and there over the land, as points of legal division between mine and thine; no one can step over the boundary of another, or encroach on another's domain; they are the scattered stones, which, in the eye of the imagination, help to form the great temple of law which protects humanity. Not so evident, but not less firmly fixed, are the boundary-stones throughout life; you may not encroach on what belongs to another, on the results of his labor and of his natural powers. See! there the boatman directs the helm; there the vine-dresser digs the ground that the rain may reach the roots of his vines; the bird flies over the river; men row and dig, animals fly and crawl, only to gain a living. Then comes temptation to man and says,--'Let others work for you; live upon the sweat of their brow; their bones are yours, consider them not; take gold for their labor, gold weeps not, gold hungers not, gold complains not,--it only glitters; when you have it, you can sing, dance, drive over men's heads, be carried on their extended arms; don't hang back! the world is a field of plunder where each one takes what he can seize.' So speaks the tempter, but the spirit of the true life says,--'You are only what you are in yourself; whatever worldly possessions you have are indeed yours, but are not you; to-morrow they may no longer be yours; but to-day they are, and you may multiply them a thousandfold, so that they may be a blessing to you, and yours, and those around you.'

"If you have not genius--that is not to be acquired--then get character and education, which can be acquired, and by means of them gain all which is worth the gaining. Glory and greatness are good, but every one cannot attain them; every one can be contented in himself and helpful to others. Wealth is an instrument useful for many purposes, but only when one knows how to use it. You cannot destroy the evils that are in the world--hunger, sickness, and crime; but you must not fling away the power that lies in your hand; the great duty is yours to beautify and elevate the world. Rejoice in your possessions, for they enable you to create beauty and to give joy. First of all, create in yourself beauty and joy, the power of self-denial, pleasure in accomplishment; and be ready to stand firm in yourself, if outward supports should be taken away. He who places the centre of gravity of his being outside of himself, on something upon which he leans, falls when that support is removed. Be firm in yourself, keep your centre of gravity in yourself, learn to know and to rightly value yourself and the world around you. The present is a time of preparation; you have as yet no duties towards others. Your only duty is to yourself. Bind together the powers within you, and do not dissipate your being; and if you are your own master, you are always rich; but if you have not control of yourself, you are always poor, even were millions in your possession. If you possess yourself, you are lord of your riches."

They were both silent for a long time. It is impossible to say in what direction any given thought may lead, or what previous thoughts are associated in its development.

"I should like to know," began Roland, "how it seemed when America was first discovered."

Eric explained to the boy what a revolution in ideas the great intellectual discoveries of the sixteenth century had made. There stood a man in a little German town, who said, and proved, that the earth on which we live is no fixed point; it turns continually on its axis and in its orbit around the sun. The whole mode of thinking of mankind for centuries was entirely changed. Man lives, then, on this ball that we call earth; he harvests and builds, he travels by land and sea, upon a ball which is constantly turning. When the heart of mankind first learned that, a shudder must have passed through it; the heavens were removed, there was no more sky, the whole old idea of a king of the world, sitting enthroned thereon, was overthrown; what was called the sky, was only the firmly-bound, countless order of constellations, which move in their orbits, attracting and repelling each other.

Then came another man, who said, "There is no man on earth, who, sitting on his throne, holds in himself the eternal spirit which gives him the right to teach and dictate what men shall believe and hope." Dissension appeared in the Church, and tore the civilized world asunder.

"And still another man, with his companions, entered a ship, sailed towards the north and discovered a new world. In the house which we inhabit, an immeasurably large room was suddenly opened, wherein dwelt men who knew nothing of our life, while we, on the other hand, were ignorant of the endless variety of plants and animals, of boundless forests and rushing torrents, that existed there. The discoveries of Copernicus, of Luther, and of Columbus, must have produced a revolution in the minds of men at that period, to which nothing in our age can be compared. If we should be told now that all private property was to be given up, so that no one should longer possess anything for himself alone, the revolution in our minds would not be greater than it was in men's minds at that time."

Roland sat gazing in wonder at the man, who placed him upon such a height that he could see all life and being forming itself anew, and unfolding before his eyes. Eric paused, in order that the vivid impression, which it was evident he had made upon his pupil, should not be disturbed and effaced by further speech. The question arose in his mind, whether he had not given to the boy ideas and suggestions which he was not able to grasp; but he comforted himself with the example of the Church. She gives the young soul what it does not yet desire, what it is not yet able to understand; but she gives it in the hope that it will bear fruit in riper years. May we not--must we not do the same?

The quiet thought of the two, reaching out towards the infinite, was disturbed, by the architect, who came to tell them that a Roman tomb had been discovered, and in it, an urn, a chair, and a skeleton. Eric went with Roland, and this disinterment of a man so long dead gave the boy a shock. What is the world? What is life? A future age finds the skeleton of a man which it passes by with indifference, and only asks,--"Are there, withal, the remains of the industry of former times?"

What is life?

As if waking from sleep, Roland heard Eric express his joy at the discovery, which would give so much pleasure to Count Clodwig. And now all the boy's thoughts were turned into a new channel, and his perplexing doubts forgotten. Eric rejoiced in the versatile mind of youth, which at one moment is entirely absorbed in some overpowering thought, and the next is engrossed by another which entirely displaces the first. This is the blessing and joy of youth. Roland was full of plans for the foundation of a museum, and Eric encouraged him in them, and took pains to show that here was an example of what possessions really mean; these historical treasures did not belong to him who called them his, but to the world, which from them could learn something of former ages; no one could have them for himself alone. This is the true idea of possession, freed from all material weight. Thus ought we to look upon all the possessions of the world.

This incident seemed to lead the boy's mind to composure. But as they were going home, he asked,--"Now tell me, Eric, what would you do if all this wealth were yours? Can you tell, Eric, now?" "Not exactly. I think I should waste much of it in experiments, in trying to alleviate the sufferings of humanity. I have often speculated about it, and the first greeting that came to me was,--'What is a million? What are millions? What do they mean?'" As Eric was silent, Roland asked, "Well, have you found what they mean?" "I have first made this clear to myself. In order to know how great value any sum possesses in itself, I have first asked, 'How much bread could be bought for a million?' And by means of this somewhat childish question, I came, as I believe, upon the right road."

"Which is?"

"I tried to find how many families a million would support. That, I think, is the road, but of course I have not yet reached the end. I repeat, however, that first of all we must make sure that we are strong enough to do the right, at all times, under all circumstances. What time or circumstances may demand of us, no one can determine beforehand."

"Stay by me always, and help me," begged Roland. Eric took the boy's hand and pressed it, and they went on quietly towards the house.

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XVI. A GOOD NEIGHBOR

There is many a chance which seems like a summons. Eric and Roland had spoken of Clodwig on the mountain, and when they reached home, they found a message from him, saying that he and the Countess had returned from the baths, and would visit them to-morrow.

Clodwig was brown from his summer-journey, and Bella looked younger than before, and seemed, as she swept with her long train through the house and park, somewhat like a peacock. As soon as they arrived, Roland gave an account of the curiosities found on the mountain, and his face fairly shone with delight when Clodwig asked him to consider them the starting-point of a museum for himself; for in making a collection of this kind, he would experience a pleasure to which scarcely anything else could be compared. Roland nodded to Eric, and Clodwig told them he had made many valuable acquisitions in his journey, which would soon be sent to him. He had met daily at the Baths a celebrated antiquarian, who had once been a teacher of Eric.

Eric apologized to Clodwig for having slighted his friendly advance, in not visiting him before he set out on his journey, and now another pleasant trait was seen in Clodwig,--that he had not one trace of sensitiveness. Kindness of heart and self-respect combined to cause this trait; he excused every neglect of himself, and, as a man of unquestioned position never thought of injury or slight.

"You are exempt from all apologies with me," he said, taking Eric's hands and holding them as though he were the young man's father. "You have cured me of selfishness. I had not believed that there was so much of it left in me, my dear young friend. Yes, you shall mould your own life, and I will rejoice that I have you for a neighbor. A good neighborhood, with the ancient Romans, was not merely a political arrangement."

They touched glasses and drank to the good neighborhood, and as the old Count drank, his eyes beamed upon Eric.

It was an animated account that Clodwig and his wife alternately, interrupting each other, gave of their having turned aside from their direct course, and spent a night in the University-town for the purpose of visiting Eric's mother and remaining an entire day with her. At last Clodwig left the field to his wife, who told with great feeling and earnestness of the life of the noble lady. She described the piano-forte in its old place, and the beautiful, dignified figure sitting at work before her window filled with flowers. On the wall before her hung the portraits of her dead husband and of her son, and in a frame by itself was a lock of her mother's hair, hanging between the crayon portraits of her parents. Still she was not at all melancholy, but cheerful and interested in every subject, taking part in every discussion.

Then Bella described the lovely valley, and their visit to the renowned mountain-chapel; and Eric could almost hear his mother's voice, and see her gentle face, as she sat by the beautiful lady, listening to Clodwig, and nodding assent and pleasure. It was for Eric an hour of deep and quiet happiness, laden with the memories of his home.

And not less beaming were Roland's eyes, as he asked:--

"And didn't she speak of me?"

"Almost more than of her own son," Bella answered. And then she turned again to Eric, and could not say enough of the impression which had been made upon her by the sight of a woman like his mother, who, living in another world, yet retained such an interest in this; who, having given up so much, yet possessed everything in herself.

Clodwig smiled, for Bella was repeating the very words he had used; but she continued,--"I think I never understood you, Captain, until I had the happiness of meeting your noble mother. We agreed to write to each other, from time to time, although she absolved me on the spot from any feeling of obligation to do so."

More and more happy, and at home, did Eric feel with Clodwig and Bella, and it seemed as though the spirit of his mother was lingering near them with a benediction.

"But we must not forget your aunt!" Clodwig exclaimed, and then went on to say that he had renewed an old acquaintance with her; he remembered well the dazzling beauty of Fräulein Dournay, and what an excitement was produced when she, a citizen's daughter, was presented at court, and invited everywhere. The story went that she and Prince Hermann, who died in his youth, had loved each other with the purest love, and, for his sake, she had refused all offers of marriage; but of this Clodwig did not speak.

As they were walking in the garden after dinner, Bella said to Eric:--"You have had a very beautiful, happy youth; but one thing was wanting."

"What is that?"

"A sister."

"I would be glad to think that she had come to me," Eric replied, in a low voice.

Bella looked down, for a minute, and then called Roland to her. They went on to the castle, and Clodwig begged the Architect, for the sake of his young friend, Roland, to be very careful whenever traces of further remains were discovered.

The company sat down on a projection of the castle-wall, where the Major had made a comfortable seat. Clodwig and Roland were together, and Bella and Eric were sitting at a little distance from them. She was inclined to be romantic. She had brought from Paris all the new fashions, but now she said to Eric, How foolishly we burden ourselves with superfluities! Then, without any apparent cause, she remarked, that everybody thought she was fond of display and fashion; but she would like best to live in a little fisherman's hut, on the Rhine, in one quiet room, with a bright fire.

"And who would make this fire?" Eric inquired.

Bella started at this question. "We must not be romantic," said she. Then I there was a long pause.

At last Eric began. "You have learned to know my mother; if you had known my father, you would have found great pleasure in him too."

"I did know him, but I thank you; I understand that you would have me share all that is yours." There was a heartfelt expression in her voice, and her eyes beamed, and she fixed them upon Eric with such a look, that he turned his own away. Biting her lip, she continued: "You have seen,--yes, you have certainly noticed how I look at you. Now I must fulfil one of Clodwig's wishes, because I think that perhaps I may succeed. He wants me to take your likeness, and I will try; but I must have your young friend with you. Roland, come here," she called, as she saw the boy approaching; and then she explained, with blushes overspreading her face, that she had wished to surprise Clodwig with the portrait on his birthday, but that that was impossible now, and she must do it openly.

"Please, Roland, sit down on the Captain's knee. So,--yes, just so,--put your right hand on his shoulder, but farther forward. Yes; now put your head a little more to the left. Pray say something, Captain. You must be telling Roland something."

"I've nothing to say," replied Eric, smiling.

"That will do; I see the motion of your lips; it will be difficult, but I hope to catch it. When will you sit to me?"

Clodwig was delighted, and said he never liked surprises; a well-prepared and long-expected pleasure was much more desirable. He urged Eric and Roland to be his guests at Wolfsgarten, until the family should come back. But Eric declined with equal friendliness and firmness; he did not like to disarrange the daily routine which he had laid out for Roland; and Clodwig approved of his resolution, and promised to come again soon to the villa with Bella, and have the portrait taken there. Bella wished a photograph of Eric and Roland in the positions she had chosen for them, but Clodwig said that a portrait taken with the help of a photograph was always stiff and unnatural; he condemned photographs of human figures, of which they could give only the mere form, and often wholly out of drawing. Roland had a word to say also, in regard to the picture. Why not have Griffin in it? Clodwig agreed, saying the dog would make a very good foreground.

Bella was out of humor. She had enjoyed companionship and gaiety so long, that she was reluctant to go back to her lonely life among the antiquities; perhaps there were further unacknowledged reasons for her regrets. The visit to Eric and Roland was a welcome reprieve to her; but the proud Captain was so reserved, and had always some great principle so ready to apply to even the smallest action, and her husband--his worst weakness was beginning to show itself, the doting fondness of old age--whenever the Captain spoke, Clodwig was wholly absorbed in the young man.

Her features seemed suddenly to become thin and faded, and to lose all roundness. She noticed this, and recovered her self-control. She was especially friendly, and when Eric took leave of her and kissed her hand, he thought he felt a returning pressure on his lips, but perhaps it was a mistake, or arose from some awkwardness on his part. While he was thinking about it, Roland said,--

"I don't know why, but I did not feel comfortable while the Countess was looking at me, did you? and she looked at you so strangely."

"It was the critical look of an artist," answered Eric; but his own words choked him. Who knew whether this reply was the exact truth?

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XVII. TO FORM A MAN

The Major sent no notice of his approaching visit; he came himself, he looked very fresh with his reddish-brown face, and his snow-white, short-cut hair, and he said that as often as he had bathed in the warm spring, he felt as if he could remember the very first bath after he was born. He seemed to himself, every time, literally like a new-born child, with an unseen nurse, who bent smiling over him and dipped him gently in the spring. He smiled at everything, at the trees, the roofs, the houses, and now at the faces of his friends.

He was very glad that Eric had taken the boy out of the ranks and was exercising him alone; it was hard, to be sure; but more progress could be made in one day, than in weeks by the other method.

He begged Eric to excuse himself in a few words to Fräulein Milch for not visiting her when she was so lonely, and he urged Eric to come soon, for the Grand Master was there.

The Major, as has been said, lived in a wing of the country-house, beautifully situated on the mountain-side, of which he had the care. With the greatest solicitude the Major preserved his own independence in life, but he felt a deep obligation toward the Grand Master, whose universal friendliness and agreeable conversation he was never weary of extolling. He always wanted to share with him every pleasure and advantage, and now what had he better than Eric, whom he praised so continually that his stock of eulogistic expressions became completely exhausted, and he found more than usual difficulty in saying what he wished.

On his first leisure evening Eric visited the Major. He easily made peace with the Fräulein; and the Major laughed till he choked and had to be brought to with a slap on the back, because he had made a joke, a most unusual thing with him, about Eric's confinement for six weeks.

Fräulein Milch told of Eric's glory at the singing festival, and the Major said,--

"That's good. At our feasts, singers are very important. But can you sing, 'These holy halls'?"

Eric regretted that the air was too low for his voice.

"Then sing something else; sing for Fräulein Milch."

Eric had difficulty in declining this friendly request, and Fräulein Milch thanked him, and helped him carry out his wish to defer the performance to some appointed evening. The so-called Grand Master was as disagreeable in his behavior, as Fräulein Milch was charming. There was something unpleasantly patronizing in his manner; it seemed as if he were so accustomed to flattery, that only a simple unpretending nature, like the Major's, could be at ease with him. The Major took great pains to bring his true friends together, but he did not succeed. The Grand Master behaved arrogantly towards Eric throughout. He addressed him only as "Young man," and gave him instruction and advice, as if Eric were in his employ. It required all Eric's self-possession, to show the man, good-temperedly, the impropriety of his treatment for the Grand Master was so inconsiderate as to speak, even in Roland's presence, of the want of experience of the "young man," who had, of course, come to him only to listen to his oracular sayings; and his whole manner of speaking had something oracular about it, as he gesticulated with outstretched hands, as if sowing seed. Eric kept his temper enough to treat this insolent creature as a singular, natural phenomenon. He patiently allowed himself to be patronized, and when Eric had gone, the Head Master said to the Major,--"That young man has ideas."

It is true, Eric had not expressed any ideas, but he had listened well, and so was awarded praise for them, which was a great deal from the Grand Master, who considered that nobody but himself had properly any ideas; and the whole world ought to come to him to be taught. When Eric returned to the Major's, he found a messenger, who had come to say that Clodwig, Bella, and Pranken would come there the next day. Roland had gone into the court with Fräulein Milch to admire the young ducks.

The Major now asked on what terms Eric stood with Pranken. Eric could only answer that Pranken had been very friendly, and considerate, in his treatment of him.

The Major, who had risen through every grade of the militia from drummer-boy up, lived in a constant state of resentment against the haughtiness of his noble-born comrades; he admonished Eric, however, to conduct himself gratefully towards Pranken, who was really a very well-mannered fellow, in spite of his noble birth; an obstacle that it was very hard for the Major to get over. He thought that Pranken deserved Eric's gratitude for having introduced him into his present position, and reminded Eric that he had also been the means of his gaining so valuable a friend as Clodwig.

As Eric and Roland were going towards home, Eric said,--

"Now, Roland, we will show that we do not allow ourselves to be disturbed; come what will, we will have our studies uninterrupted; we won't see visitors except in play-hours. You see, Roland, this is one great difficulty in life. From complaisance towards the world, and from an unwillingness to appear disobliging and ungracious to our friends, we often allow our own privacy to be invaded. Against this we must stand firmly: each must just be something for himself, and then come out into the world. He who cannot exist for himself may possess the world, but not himself."

In the consciousness of fulfilling his duty, Eric became again strong and self-contained, and scattered every disturbing influence far away.

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XVIII. UNDER-CURRENTS

The visit took place. Pranken rode behind the carriage in which Clodwig and Bella were seated; on the back seat of the carriage stood a frame-work covered with paper, and a handsome box ornamented with inlaid work, which held the crayons.

Eric and Roland received the guests, and Eric begged them to make themselves at home; he had had everything arranged by the servants; he would himself be at their service in an hour, when lessons were over.

The visitors looked at each other in astonishment.

Pranken looked strangely changed; a deeper seriousness was in his face; now he shrugged his shoulders, and burst into a mocking laugh.

Bella thought Eric's conduct extremely formal and pedantic; Clodwig declared it showed a beautiful trait of character; but Pranken saw only idle display in this assumption of duty; the young man--he said this quite in the tone of the Grand Master--the young man wished to make a great impression with his faithfulness to duty.

Meantime they made themselves comfortable, and it was not to be denied that Eric had shown great thought for the pleasure of his guests, in his floral decorations, and other arrangements.

The hour was soon over, and Eric returned to his guests in that fresh and cheerful mood, which only the conquest over one's self and the consciousness of duty fulfilled can ever give.

He had selected a good room, looking towards the North, and after a lunch the drawing began.

Clodwig remained with his wife; Roland, who was to be drawn later, went with Pranken to the stables. Pranken conducted himself in the house as Sonnenkamp's natural representative, or as a son of the family; he had the horses brought out, he examined the gardenwork, and praised the servants.

"I never saw you looking so serious and anxious," said Clodwig to Eric. And, indeed, Eric's expression was full of uneasiness, for he suspected that Pranken was now talking about him to Roland.

What can all education, all firm guidance effect, when one is not sure for a moment that some foreign influence is not working against it? We must comfort ourselves by thinking that no one man can form another, but the whole world forms each man. Eric, meanwhile, could not but dread what Pranken might be saying to his pupil.

First, Pranken asked whether Roland had read the daily portion in the book that Manna sent him.

Roland said, no, directly, and then came a confused jumble of Benjamin Franklin, of Crassus, of Hiawatha, of the observations of storms by the telegraphist, and of Bancroft's History of the United States.

Pranken nodded; he asked if Roland wrote often to Manna, and Roland said yes.

Pranken now told him that he had trained a snow-white Hungarian horse for Manna, and added:--

"You can tell her so. When you write, or not, as you please."

He knew, of course, that Roland was sure not to forget any information which he was allowed to impart, especially if it was about a snow-white horse with red trappings. Pranken promised that Roland should himself ride the animal some day.

"Has it a name?" asked Roland.

Pranken smiled; he perceived that his communication had interested Roland extremely, and he answered,--

"Yes, its name is Armida."

Just then Roland was called in, as he was needed for the sketch. When the outline was completed, the drawing was laid aside for awhile.

In a half-confidential, half-commanding tone, Pranken asked Eric to go out with him alone, and in a friendly, even unusually friendly manner, he entered into a discourse upon Roland's education. And now, for the first time, Eric heard Pranken speak seriously of his strict religious convictions.

He was amazed. Was this all put on, in order to win more securely the rich heiress educated in the Convent?

But it certainly was not necessary for Pranken, when no one could see and remark upon it, in travelling, and at the Baths, to unite himself so closely with ecclesiastics. Was it not rather probable that a conversion had really taken place in this worldly man, and that upon just such a nature the stability and unchangeableness of the Church would take the surest hold?

"I consider it my duty, and you will give me the credit of considering it a duty," said Pranken suddenly, laying his hand on his heart, "to give you some confidential information."

"If I can do anything, I shall feel myself honored by your confidence; but if I can be of no use, I would rather avoid an unnecessary share in a secret."

Pranken was astonished at this reluctance, and was inclined to be displeased, but he restrained himself, and continued, in a higher tone:--

"You know that Herr Sonnenkamp--"

"Excuse me for interrupting you. Does Herr Sonnenkamp know that you are making this confidential communication to me?"

"Good Heavens!" Pranken broke out,--"but no, I am wrong, I respect this regard to your position."

He was silent for a few minutes; it occurred to him that, instead of what he had meant to say, he might warn Eric not to have too much to do with Bella. But would not this be an insinuation against his sister? He decided to go back to his first plan, and said shortly,--

"I think I may tell you that I am almost a son of this house, Fräulein Sonnenkamp is as good as engaged to me."

"If Fräulein Sonnenkamp is like her brother, I can congratulate you heartily, I thank you for your unexpected, and as yet undeserved, confidence; may I ask why you have honored me with it?"

Pranken became more inwardly enraged, but outwardly still more flattering; he nervously worked his right hand, as if he were using a riding-whip, but he smiled very condescendingly and said,--

"I have not been mistaken in you." After a pause he continued:--"I acknowledge fully your considerateness."

He did not answer directly the question as to the cause of his confidence, and there was hardly time, for Roland now called Eric to the sitting.

"One would think ten years had passed since I left off drawing," said Bella, "you look so much older now."

Eric could not speak out his thoughts. The way in which Pranken had treated him, and the manner in which he had borne himself, disturbed him very much. He was sitting now quite still, but it seemed to him as if he were being rent asunder. He felt that there was something fundamentally false in his relations with Pranken. They were both aware of the contrast and discord which existed between them; they ought either to have been open enemies, or to have passed each other with indifference; and yet some spell seemed to draw them together, and to persuade them into apparent friendliness.

All misery springs from untruthfulness. The world would be quite a different place, and much misery would be saved, could we be true at all times, and not allow ourselves to be led into lasting relations and obligations, while we silence the inward remonstrance by saying,--It will all turn out well; the matter need not be taken so seriously. But in thousands of cases the lie is concealed, veiled, beautified, as in that Bible-story, where the serpent overcomes all opposition, all argument, by the words,--"Only eat, and you will not die, but only become wise."

The great punishment of a relation founded on false grounds is, that it constantly demands from us farther untruthfulness; either openly recognized as such, or concealed by our self-deception, and at last the lie takes on the appearance of virtue, changes all the foundation of our character, silences the protests which our better nature makes, and says, you must not desert your friend; you have been friends so long, you have received so much from him, and have done so much for him; it would break up your whole life; you would take a large portion from it, if you gave him up. No! you must now hold firmly together. And so the lie grows and poisons life. All sorrow and all unhappiness, all misunderstanding and deceit, arise from the fault that man will not be faithful to himself. The devil of lies goes about, seeking whom he may devour.

It is true there is no devil that you can see so as to describe him in the military style, but close by every divine idea which in its ultimate foundation is nothing but Truth, dwells the Lie, and is always capable of assuming the form and language of its neighbor.

All these thoughts were tossing and raging in Eric's soul as he sat for his portrait. Could any one at that moment have painted the picture of his soul, it would, have been an unparalleled distortion.

At last, Bella declared she could not draw him as he then looked, and the sitting was postponed.

They all went to dinner, which passed cheerfully, for the Doctor joined them. In the evening, they went out rowing on the Rhine, and Roland told how beautifully Eric could sing; but Eric could not be persuaded to give them a single song. He was bantered on having displayed his talent at the musical festival, by Pranken especially, who spoke in a friendly tone, but with a most cutting manner.

In the evening, when the fire-flies were darting here and there in the dusky park, Eric walked with Bella, while Clodwig sat in the balconied room, turning over the leaves of an album filled with new photographic views of Rome, and, at many a page, looking far away into the past.

Roland walked with Pranken, and they talked of Manna. Pranken knew well how to suggest what he should write of him. In walking, they passed and repassed Eric and Bella, and Pranken looked surprised at seeing his sister leaning on the young man's arm. Like glancing fire-flies, the brilliant flashes of wit lighted up their conversation, but left longer trains of light behind them. Bella and Eric spoke in a low tone, and often, as the others passed near them, they stopped speaking. Bella talked again about her good husband,--she always called him her "good husband,"--and said how thoughtfully Eric understood him, not only, if she might say so, with his mind, but with his heart.

"You have made a new phrase," said Eric, and Bella repeated her newly-coined expression, with as much pleasure as if she had found a new style of head-dress which suited her face alone.

Eric was pedantic enough to go back to the original subject of discussion, and said warmly, how delightful it was to find Beauty and Peacefulness, not only in one's own ideal, but in real life; to reach out one's hand to them and look into their calm, clear eyes.

"You are a good man, and I believe an honest one," said Bella, and pulling off her glove she lightly tapped with it on Eric's hand.

"It is no merit to be honest," said Eric. "I could almost wish I could be untruthful; no,--not untruthful, but a little more reticent sometimes."

It was charming and edifying, to hear how Bella now extolled the beauty and happiness of a thoroughly honest nature; and she spoke in a tone of deep emotion, as she added, that she might have won early in life a most brilliant lot, if she could have feigned, a very little love. Eric did not know what to answer, and this caused one of those pauses which Pranken, passing with Roland, observed.

Bella went on to say, that it is always a blessing to do anything to help a human being; it falls to the lot of one person, to do this for a fellow-creature in the morning of life--here she bent her head towards Eric--while another does it for one in the decline of life, when the sacrifice, quiet and unrecognized, can only be rewarded by the consciousness of the service rendered.

At a bend of the road, it happened, very naturally, that Eric walked with Roland, and Pranken with his sister. Roland was jealous of Bella, of every person; jealous at every word, at every look, that Eric directed to any one but himself; he wished to have him wholly to himself. And as Roland now exhibited his childish humor, Eric shrunk into himself affrighted; he had not only allowed himself to be diverted from Roland, but perhaps also had been committing a wrong in a different direction. There was yet time for him to retrace his steps. He went to bid Clodwig good-night, and he was almost pleased to find that he had already retired to rest.

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XIX. READ BY ANOTHER'S EYES

On looking at the picture, the next day, Bella was painfully dissatisfied with her work. What she had done with so much care and diligence seemed to her false in drawing and expression. She grew positively angry over it, and would have made a fresh beginning had not Clodwig, by his gentle persuasions and judicious praise of the many excellencies of her picture, succeeded in soothing her. She could not help saying, however, with some bitterness, that it was her fate to have everything she undertook turn out otherwise than she had desired, and upon Clodwig's assuring her that such was the necessary result of every attempt to embody our conceptions, she exclaimed impatiently, "I am not what I am." The real cause of her discontent was hard to determine. It was more than the mere dissatisfaction of the artist and disappointment in her own powers.

The strict discipline which Eric had wished to maintain was now much broken in upon. Bella always carried through whatever plan she had laid out for herself, acting upon her favorite theory that it was well to allow men to think they had some authority, but that must be all.

Roland soon turned the conversation to the subject always uppermost in his mind, the life of Franklin. Bella expressed a wish to learn something about it, and Clodwig, after a little sketch had been given of what bad been already gone over, was quite ready to resume the reading where it had been dropped before. Eric and Roland, who sat upon a raised platform, listened eagerly. The reading gave rise to many an animated discussion, for Bella entered with remarkable ease and readiness into everything that was presented to her. Eric was disturbed by her speedy detection in Franklin of "a certain dry pedantry, a stinginess of nature," which her acute criticisms set forth in strong relief. He could feel the emotion her words caused in Roland, who was sitting on his knee.

In these days, it is impossible for a young man of Roland's antecedents and present position to preserve a perfect ideal. If rightly guided, and established on a solid footing, it might perhaps be useful for him to see his ideal attacked, and even distorted.

With all the eloquence at his command, Eric stated the difficulty that beset the enlightened mind of the present day, in having no authoritative voice in the place of that of the Church, to say at every point of life's journey, "Follow thou me." We moderns must recognize what is pure and lofty in noble natures, though cramped by the many limitations incident to our age and individual constitution.

Bella's pencil worked rapidly while he was speaking, and she often nodded, her head assentingly. When he ended she looked full at him, and said,--

"You are the best teacher I ever met with;" then, with beaming eyes and glowing cheeks, she turned again to her work.

"That depends upon the pupil," answered Eric, politely acknowledging the compliment.

"I want you, now," continued Bella, still blushing deeply, "I want you to lay your hand on Roland's head. Please do; it will give precisely the effect I desire. Please do as I say."

He consented, protesting at the same time that the idea did not please him, for Roland should learn to carry his head free.

Bella shook her head with vexation, and continued her work, no longer, however, on the figure of Eric, but solely on that of Roland.

"Now I have it!" she suddenly exclaimed; "that is it! You resemble Murillo's St. Anthony."

"That is just what I noticed," cried Roland. "Manna scolded me for it at the musical festival."

Clodwig also agreed with his wife.

"It is a favorite picture of mine," he said. "How plainly I can see it now before me! The figure of Anthony on his knees, with a knotted staff beside him; the landscape barely indicated; a tree in the background, and the thicket near by. Angels are playing on the ground and floating in the air; one turns over the leaves of the Saint's book, while another holds up to an angel hovering in the heavens a lily which has grown from the earth; the flower thus forming, as it were, a link between heaven and earth."

Eric was somewhat embarrassed by Roland's relating how he had fallen asleep in the chapel of the convent, and how suddenly the black nun stood beside him, and he saw the picture above him.

A request of Eric's that the reading might stop here, and the reasons on which he based his request, assumed various shapes in the minds of his hearers.

"To-day's experience convinces me," he said, "that we cannot control our thoughts or pursue them to any worthy issue, when obliged to remain in a position foreign to those thoughts, or in one at least that has no connection with them. There is a mysterious sympathy between our thoughts and the position and state of our bodies."

Eric's words worked in four different ways upon the party assembled. In his own case, they served to describe his position as tutor. Roland thought of the masons at work on the castle, and wondered what they must be thinking of while perched in mid air on their scaffoldings, or while hammering the stone. Clodwig, too, must have found the words bear in some way upon his life, for he shook his head and pressed his lips hard together, as he was wont to do when thinking. But upon Bella they produced the most striking impression; she suddenly let fall from one hand her pencils, and from the other the bread which she used for the occasional erasing of a line. Eric instantly restored them to her, and she took them from him with a vacant look and no word of thanks. He had brought before her the picture of her married life. Thus this one key-note had struck four different chords.

For a long time no word was spoken.

The presence of Clodwig and his family at Villa Eden caused great excitement in the neighborhood, and appeared to place the tutor in a very peculiar position, Pranken, however, viewed the matter quite differently, and, as acknowledged son of the house, invited to Villa Eden the Justice, with his wife and daughter, who had just returned from the Baths.

His manner towards Lina was particularly friendly and intimate; he took long walks in the garden with her, and made her tell him about her life in a convent, which she did most amusingly, giving comical descriptions of the sisters, the Superior, and her different companions. Her only object in staying at the convent had been the learning of foreign languages. Lina's perpetually gay spirits began to have a cheering effect upon the melancholy Pranken. Something of the Pranken of old times was roused within him. Why need the present be empty and barren? it said. Bella has her flirtation with the Captain, why should he not have his with Lina? Why not indulge in a little harmless jesting, perhaps even admit the excitement of some feeling? He could control himself at any moment.

The old Pranken, the Pranken of the days before, seized his rescued moustache with both hands and twirled it in the air.

It was a good idea, during this pause in his life, to amuse himself with the Justice's Lina. He could imagine himself transported back to the days before that visit to the convent, and add this to the many other experiences of his past life which Manna would have to forget.

Lina meanwhile received his attentions very unconcernedly, showing equal friendliness of manner towards both him and Eric, whom she always called her brother in music.

There was a constant stream of jesting and laughter in the Villa and park. One day Pranken induced his brother-in-law to go boating with Lina and himself, while Bella remained at home to draw. He wanted to take Roland also, wishing, with a certain recklessness, to leave the other two alone together for once. But Roland would not leave Eric; he even openly avoided Pranken's society.

Lina sang gaily as they sat together in the boat. Her love-songs were given with a sweetness, an abandonment, that Pranken had never heard from her before. Clodwig described her singing to his wife, on his return, as being as simple and beautiful as a field flower.

Bella begged the Justice and his wife to let her take Lina back with her to Wolfsgarten. The Justice's objections were overruled by his wife, and Lina was full of delight at setting off with Bella and Clodwig.

Pranken rode beside the carriage.

The quiet of this loneliness weighed heavily again upon Eric and Roland, after the animated society of the last few days. Eric, beside, was out of tune, weary and dull. He found it a burden to be obliged to devote himself from morning to night to this boy, to have to watch his undisciplined, and often capricious, fluctuations of mind. He longed for the society of Clodwig; still more, though he hardly acknowledged it to himself, for that of Bella. There had been a novelty, an animation, an excitement, an atmosphere of graceful elegance, about the rooms, which were now so desolate. Nevertheless, he resisted for several days Roland's entreaties that they should make the promised visit to Wolfsgarten. The house had been entrusted to his care, and he refused to leave it, until Pranken, at length, offered to take all the responsibility upon himself. There was a sting in his words, as he said to Eric,--

"You were present at the musical festival, and left the house then in charge of only the servants. Besides, as I say, I assume the entire responsibility."

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XX. ENTERING INTO THE LIVES OF OTHERS

Beautiful it is in the valley, on the river's bank, where the waters glide by so swiftly, yet so undisturbed; beautiful to see how they glisten in the daylight, reflecting every passing change in the sky, and bearing to and fro the hurrying boats; and again in the evening, to hear the quiet murmur of the stream, as it lies under the radiance of the moon. But beautiful it is also to look from the mountain-top, over the forests, the terraced vineyards, the villages, the cities, and the far-reaching river.

A fresh impulse and animation were now given to the life at Wolfsgarten. The picture of Eric and Roland was brought to completion, and Eric set in order Clodwig's cabinet, thus introducing his pupil to the curiosities of antiquity. There was singing and laughing, there were walks and rides in the neighboring forests, and many a memorable conversation.

Bella often took the parrot with her when she walked with Eric through the park and the forest. The bird took a great antipathy to Eric, and would scold at him from its place on its mistress's shoulder. Sometimes she let it loose with the injunction, "Be sure and come home at night, Koko;" and Koko would perch upon a tree, and fly this way and that, through the forest, always returning at evening. Her freed slave, Bella called him, at such times.

Now, however, Koko had been absent two days. Clodwig offered every reward to get the bird back again, never remarking how quietly his wife took her favorite's loss.

As a matter of course, Bella walked with Eric while Roland and Lina roamed about together in the forest, Lina delighted at being allowed to revel in a child's freedom. At other times, when Eric and Bella were strolling through park and forest, Roland would sit in the potter's workshop, where the clay from the neighboring hills was moulded. He had the whole process explained to him, and was amazed to see what care and labor a single vessel required. Two boys, of about his own age, trampled the clay with their naked feet in order to render it pliable, after which workmen formed it into tiles and architectural ornaments. At a potter's wheel sat a handsome, powerfully-built youth, turning it with his bare feet; then he lifted the clay with great care into the required shape, formed the rim and the nose, and almost tenderly raised the finished vessel from the wheel, and set it in its place on a shelf with the others. He always took precisely the quantity of clay required for the vessel, and never allowed his heavy hands to make on it an impression which he had not designed.

Roland watched the whole scene thoughtfully. Could these men be helped by money? No; their life might be made richer, but they must still work.

The young man who shaped the vessels was dumb. He would give Roland a friendly glance when he entered, and then quietly keep on with his work. The master praised him very highly to Roland, who, being desirous of doing something for him, presented him with his handsome pocket-knife. It contained many instruments within it, and much delighted the poor mute.

Roland told Eric what he had seen, and what thoughts had come into his mind. He had noticed that the workmen had their food brought them, from a great distance, by old women and little children, and asked whether no better arrangement could be made for them.

Eric looked at the boy with unsympathizing eyes as he spoke. How he would once have rejoiced in this proof of his pupil's interest in the welfare of his fellow-men; but now he seemed wholly absorbed in other matters.

A beautifully engraved card brought to Wolfsgarten a piece of news that proved a fertile subject of conversation,--the betrothal of the Wine-count's daughter with the son of the Court-marshal. It seemed an extraordinary step on the part of the young man, who was suffering with a mortal disease, but still more extraordinary that the lady, a fresh young girl, overflowing with life and health, should have made up her mind to such a union. Lina, who was well versed in the private history of every one in the neighborhood, accounted for it by saying that the Wine-count's daughter had always expressed a great desire to be a widowed baroness. There was a deep undertone of meaning, a something not wholly expressed, in Bella's way of speaking of this connection, particularly when addressing Eric, which seemed to take for granted that he would understand what she half concealed.

The newspaper brought another piece of intelligence, the return of the Prince's brother from America, where he had been a careful observer; and his bringing with him for the Prince a freed slave, in the person of a handsome African.

While they were still discussing the impression which a sight of the American Republic must make on a German prince, Roland came in from the forest, exclaiming,--"I have him! I have him!"

He was holding the parrot by his claws.

"There you are again, my freed slave!" cried Bella, as the bird tore himself from Roland's grasp, and, perching upon his mistress's shoulder, began a violent scolding at Eric.

Clodwig did not allow himself to be easily interrupted in a discussion he had once entered upon, and proceeded to state the results of his observations in the world. Bella took an active part in the conversation. It sometimes seemed to Eric, that there was nothing beyond a certain superficial cleverness in her ready flow of words; but he rejected the criticism as a pedantic one.

His life among books, he said to himself, had rendered him unsusceptible to this easy, graceful, brilliancy, while his profession as teacher led him to be always on the watch for an elaborate network of thoughts and impressions, where there was meant to be nothing but a simple expression of natural feeling. He now gave himself freely up to the pleasure of enjoying the close companionship of so richly endowed a nature. These butterfly movements of the mind he began to look upon as legitimately feminine characteristics, which were not to be roughly criticized. Hitherto he had been familiar, in his mother and aunt, only with that severe and business-like conscientiousness, in all intellectual and moral matters, which borders on the masculine; here was a nature that craved only to sip the foam of life. Why require anything further of it?

When Bella was one day walking with Eric in the park, Roland and Lina meanwhile sitting with Clodwig, she complained of not being able to repress the religious doubts that often beset her, while, at the same time, existence without a belief in a compensating future life was a terrible enigma. Without wishing to weaken this idea, Eric sought to give her the assured peace which can be found in the realms of pure thought. There was a strange contradiction in the hearts of these two, imagining, as they did, that they were speaking of things far above and beyond all life, while in reality they were talking of life itself, and that in a way whose significance they would not willingly have acknowledged to themselves.

Suddenly Bertram came riding towards them, his horse white with foam, and while at a distance cried out,--

"Herr Captain, you must return instantly."

"What has happened?" asked Eric.

Clodwig came up with Roland and Lina, and Pranken also appeared at the windows, all anxious to know what had happened.

"Thieves! robbers!" cried Bertram. "The villa has been broken into, and Herr Sonnenkamp's room entered."

A few moments later, Eric and Pranken were in the wagon driving back to the villa. Pranken's vexation was extreme, for he had taken the whole responsibility upon himself.

For a long time neither of the three spoke, until at last Roland broke the silence, by asking Eric what he thought Franklin would have thought and said of such a robbery.

Pranken replied with some warmth, "I should think a son's first question would be, 'What will my father say to it?'"

Roland and Eric were silent. Again they drove on for a long while without a word being spoken. Eric was tormented by accusing thoughts. He seemed to himself doubly a thief. These men had broken into the rooms of the villa by night; what had he done? He had forgotten the soul entrusted to him, and, worse still, after being received by the kindest friendship, he had, under cover of lofty thoughts and noble sentiments, in word, thought, and look been faithless to the most precious trust in the person of his friend's wife. He pressed his hand to his heart, which beat as if it would burst his bosom. Those men, for having stolen gold, would be overtaken by the justice of the law; but for himself,--what would overtake him? Conscious that Roland's eyes were fixed upon him, he cast his own on the ground in painful confusion.

Finally he controlled himself, and said in a trembling voice, that he should assume the entire responsibility; he acknowledged Pranken's friendliness, but felt that in such a case as this, no one could interpose between himself and the consequences of neglect of duty. So severely did he reproach himself, that Roland and Pranken looked at him in amazement.

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XXI. LEARN THE EVIL THAT IS IN MAN

Villa Eden had hitherto been surrounded by a mysterious magic. Fear and envy had given rise to the report that there was something wrong about the inmates; about Herr Sonnenkamp, whom everybody saw, and Frau Ceres, whom scarcely anybody saw. The threats of spring-guns and man-traps posted upon the walls imbued the ignorant people in the neighborhood with an almost superstitious fear. It was even said that Herr Sonnenkamp had smeared the trap with a poison for which there was no antidote. The servants of the house affected somewhat the reserve of their superiors; they had little intercourse with others, and were hardly saluted by them. But the mysterious dragon, which, no one knew how or where, kept secret watch over the villa, seemed nothing but a scarecrow after this robbery; the beautiful white house was stripped of its charm; it was as if all the bolts were thrown back. Quickly the report gained ground that the house-servants had committed the robbery.

The people on the roads and in the villages through which the carriage passed looked up and nodded to Eric, Roland, and Pranken, as they drove swiftly by. The few who raised their caps did it hesitatingly, as if they, like the rest, would say, It is all up now with your master; the officers will soon find out what has been going on among you.

The three men found everything in confusion at the villa when they arrived.

The porter at once expressed conviction that the robbery had been committed by persons belonging to the house, because all the doors had been closely fastened, and not a dog had barked; showing that the thieves must have been familiar with the house, and well known to the dogs.

The officers were already on the spot. Sonnenkamp's work-room had been entered, and treasures stolen whose value could not be estimated, among them a dagger with a jewelled handle. The thieves had even tried to force the fire-proof safe, but in vain. Great goblets of gold and silver which stood upon the sideboard in the dressing-room had disappeared, as well as Roland's gold watch, which, when he went to Wolfsgarten, he had left on the table beside his bed. His pillow had also been taken, but was afterwards found on the wall, where it had served to make a smooth and easy passage over the broken glass which had been intended to make the wall insurmountable.

Two footprints were discovered in the park and behind the hot-house. The thieves must have stumbled among the heaps of garden mould, for on one of these was plainly visible the impression of a human body; one of the thieves had evidently fallen there. Here was also found a pair of the dwarfs old boots, which, on being compared with the footprints in the garden, were found exactly to correspond. Thus a clue was gained, though a very uncertain one. The dwarf just then came by, on his way to his accustomed work, and listened in astonishment to an account of what had happened. He was allowed to work on undisturbed.

The officer who had charge of the investigation, and his assistants, the burgomaster of the village, and some of the chief men, were assembled in the balcony-room, examining the various servants. Roland stood apart, his eyes fixed upon the pillow which had been stolen and made use of by the thieves in climbing the wall. He grew very pale, as he stood there listening to the questions that were asked of one man after another, in the hope of extorting something from each.

The dwarf appeared, and said that a pair of boots had been stolen from him.

"Yes," replied the officer at once, "the theft was committed in your boots."

The dwarfs face wore a simple expression, as if he had not understood what was meant.

The officer ordered his instant arrest. He complained piteously that the innocent were always the ones to be suspected, and Roland begged that the poor creature might be allowed to go free.

"I will throttle any one who touches me," cried the dwarf, his excitement seeming to make a different being of him.

At a sign from the officer, two men quietly bound the poor creature's hands behind his back.

Eric led Roland away. Why should he see this night-side of human nature?

Happily the Major appeared at this moment, and Eric delivered Roland to him.

"Here is a lesson for you, young man," said the Major. "Everything can be stolen from you, except your heart, when in the right place, and except what you have in your head; they can never be stolen from you. Mark that."

The officer had the servants brought before him, and questioned them as to the persons who had lately visited the villa. They mentioned the names of many, but the porter said,--

"The Herr Captain took the huntsman by himself over the whole house, and when he left he said to me, 'You guard the rich man's money and treasures, when it would be better to throw the doors wide open, and to scatter it abroad in the world.'"

Eric could not deny that the huntsman had observed everything very closely, and had talked in a confused way about the distinction of rich and poor; yet he thought he could answer for the man's honesty.

The officer made no answer, but despatched two of his men to search the house of Claus.

The huntsman smiled and shrugged his shoulders, when he saw what their intention was. Nothing was found, but in a kennel was chained a dog that barked incessantly.

"Unfasten the dog's chain," said one of the men to Claus, who had followed them through all the rooms and into the court, saying nothing, but keeping his lips moving all the time.

"What for?"

"Because I bid you; if you don't do it at once, I shall shoot the dog through the head."

Upon the dog being set free, the kennel was searched, and in it, under the straw, were found Roland's watch and the jewel-hilted dagger. Claus was immediately bound and put under arrest, in spite of his earnest protestations of innocence. On the way from his house to the villa he kept raising his chains, as if to show them appealingly to the fields, the vineyards, and the heavens.

A list was made out of the stolen articles as far as they could be described, and Roland was summoned to sign his name for the first time to an official document.

"There is no calculating the effect such a thing must produce on the boy," said Eric to the Major, who was standing by.

"It will do him no harm," replied the Major; "his heart is sound, and Fräulein Milch says, 'A young heart and a young stomach are quick digesters.'"

Fräulein Milch was mistaken this time, for at sight of Clans brought in in chains, Roland uttered a cry of distress.

A new scent was presently started. The groom, who had been in Pranken's pay as a spy, and afterwards dismissed by Sonnenkamp, had, within the last few days, been seen and recognized in the neighborhood, though he had taken great pains to disguise himself. Telegrams were immediately despatched in all directions for the arrest of the supposed thief, and also to Sonnenkamp.

The priest came, lamented what had happened, using a noble charity in speaking of the disaster, and begged Eric not to lay it too much to heart, because, devoted as he had been to learning and science, he could naturally have no proper knowledge of the wickedness of his fellow-men, and had naturally allowed himself to be taken unawares by it.

Eric was more humbled in spirit than the priest thought reasonable. He remembered having once said, that the man who consecrates himself to an idea must renounce all else; and now he was humiliated by standing in the presence of one who, in his way, acted up to this sentiment, while he himself had allowed the excitement of mental dissipation to drag him down from his high standard.

The priest repeated, that is all our plans we should take into account the wickedness of mankind; and Eric, who hardly knew what answer to make, assured him that he was well aware of the necessity, having voluntarily passed some time in a House of Correction, for the sake of restoring guilty men to their better selves. Neither Eric nor the priest, who praised him, noticed the effect which this confession produced upon Roland. He was, then, in the hands of a man who had tried to counsel criminals, who had lived in a House of Correction! A fear and repugnance took possession of the boy's soul. Eric's motive was forgotten; Roland seemed to himself humiliated. He sat a long time silently buried in thought, his face covered with his hands.

The priest approached him at last, and admonished him not to let this accident dishearten him, but only let it teach him not to place his trust in the treasures of this world, particularly in his own possessions; neither to have that so-called faith in humanity, which is a deceitful faith, exposed to daily shocks; for there was but one sure and abiding faith, that in God, the supreme being, eternal and unchanging, who never deceives.

Roland remained silent and absorbed for some time after he and Eric were left alone; finally he asked:--

"Does my father know what you once were?"

"Yes."

"Why did you not tell me?"

"Why? I had no reason for concealing it from you, or for telling you."

The boy again covered his face with his hands, and Eric, feeling that the course he was here called upon to defend was one undertaken from the purest motives, while within him he was conscious of a guilt which none but himself could upbraid him with, explained to Roland how he had felt it his duty to devote himself to the most unhappy. He spoke so touchingly that the boy suddenly raised his head, and, holding out his hand to him, exclaimed in a tone of the deepest feeling:--

"Forgive me! Ah, you are better than all."

The words smote Eric to the soul.

The officers of the law had left the villa, and even Pranken had ridden away. Roland went about the house, looking fearfully behind him, as if he had seen a ghost, an evil spirit. The stairs had been trodden by wicked men, the doors had been tried by their instruments; the house and all its treasures had been desecrated; he had lost pleasure not only in the things which had been plundered, but still more in those which could not be taken, which the thieves had been obliged to leave.

He begged Eric not to leave him for a moment, so great was his fear. At night he was unwilling to go to bed; rest seemed impossible to him in a place where the hands of robbers had taken the pillows from his bed. Eric yielded to his entreaties that he would remain by him, and said, after Roland had finally gone to bed,--

"I owe you an answer to your question,--What would Franklin have said to this robbery? I think I know. He would have had no compassion on the thieves; he would have given them up to the full penalty of the law; but at the same time he would have maintained, that the wickedness of individuals should not be allowed to rob us of our faith in humanity; for if thieves could inflict that loss upon us, they would be robbing us of more than hands can touch."

Roland nodded assent. Long after he had fallen asleep, Eric stood by the bedside, thoughtfully watching the boy, who had had to learn this lesson thus early,--Of what use is all this subtle study; of what advantage any conscious training? An invisible, irresistible power, the great current of life's experience, educates a man far more than a single human teacher can do, and in a different way.

Long did Eric stand at the window, gazing out upon the river and the vine-covered hills. We all work according to the strength that is in us; the result of our labors lies not in our hands, but in the control of that invisible, all-embracing power whose origin we know not, and which we can only call God.

Eric was deeply moved. This event could not afflict his young charge so deeply as it did him, for he was conscious of a power mightier than any effort of his own thoughts, drawing him back from the edge of an abyss. He looked into the future, and a fixed resolve was formed within him.

He was summoned away by a messenger from the officer who had conducted the examination, bringing a telegram from Sonnenkamp. It ran thus:--

"Journey to sea-shore given up; coming home; shall find thieves, under whatever title."

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I. THE MASTER AT HOME AGAIN

Herr Sonnenkamp returned to his villa like a ruler to his castle where a mutiny has lately broken out. Every step in his house, every glance at a servant, said, I am here again, and with me authority and order.

Eric did not lay upon Pranken the blame of what had happened, but confessed that he himself had been guilty of neglect of duty. Sonnenkamp seemed to take pleasure in seeing Eric humbled. He was one of those who love to rule others. With enough humanity in him to make him prefer a willing obedience, he yet had no rest, when that proved impossible, till his man was subdued and brought to his feet; then, and not till then, was he willing to raise him up, for not till then was he sure of the mastery. This self-reliant Captain-doctor had assumed a demeanor that was unbecoming in him; now he was humbled, and would have to be grateful for every act of kindness and friendliness done him. Sonnenkamp had no suspicion of the satisfaction Eric took in his humiliation, or of his motives for it; he regarded this humble submission as a triumph of his authority, while to Eric himself it was a confession of weakness in having been tempted by the magic of Bella's charms to forget the strict watchfulness which was his duty.

Sonnenkamp soon perceived that the amount of the robbery was insignificant. He said, with a certain malicious pleasure:--

"The knaves stole my jewelled dagger; it has a poisoned point, which is death to whomsoever it scratches."

Eric had hardly power left to tell that the dagger was already in possession of the officers of justice, so great a horror thrilled him. Why should this man keep a poisoned dagger?

Pranken and the Major soon appeared, and Pranken was honest enough to take the whole responsibility upon himself. He could not refrain from saying, however, that Eric had previously left the villa to go to a musical festival, and had won a surprising reputation there. Sonnenkamp said, with a smile:--

"You kept Roland at home instead of letting him go to the Baths, in order to keep him free from excitement; have you preserved him from it?"

Eric was prevented from answering by the arrival of the priest, to whom Sonnenkamp, who had never made any gift to the church, announced his intention of presenting to it the gold and silver vessels which had been taken from the sideboard. As if involuntarily, he added:--

"I don't want them any more in my house. You, reverend sir, will give them a fresh consecration."

Eric expressed in a whisper to the Major, who stood by him, his pleasure at this arrangement, and his belief that it would exert a salutary influence on Roland, whose peace of mind had been in a great measure destroyed by the robbery. Sonnenkamp heard his words, though spoken in so low a tone, and said:--

"My highly honored Herr Captain, let me tell you honestly that I have nothing to do with sentimentalities, and that I desire Roland should early acquire a knowledge of these so-called well-disposed lower classes, and learn that they are nothing but a mass of conspiracy against the holders of property, awaiting the first favorable opportunity to break out, or rather to break in."

Sonnenkamp was in the highest degree animated and cheerful. His only cause of regret was, that there should have been so much talk made about the affair in the neighborhood, and that so much valuable time had to be lost in the processes of law. Frau Ceres said not a word about the robbery; it almost seemed as if she had not heard of it. She only rejoiced that Roland had grown so much during her absence. She told Eric that she had met at the Baths a most aristocratic and amiable lady, a relation of his mother, who had spoken of her with great enthusiasm.

The very first evening after the return of Sonnenkamp and his family, a carriage drove up in which were Bella and Clodwig. Eric was delighted to greet his friends, but was somewhat shy of Bella.

"We have come to protect you from this savage," she whispered to him behind her fan; "we will show him that you belong to us. And now you will leave everything and come to us, will you not?"

The words thrilled Eric; he could only bow his thanks.

Bella observed her husband's embarrassment as he stood with Sonnenkamp. His fine and sensitive nature could never overcome a feeling of timidity, of terror, whenever he found himself confronted with this herculean shape. Bella helped him out of the difficulty by saying jestingly, "Herr Sonnenkamp, you must have seen many strange things in your life; did you ever happen to fall in with thieves who openly confessed they had stolen, or were proposing to steal?"

Sonnenkamp looked at her in amazement.

"We are such thieves, in broad daylight," she cried, laughing, and turning to her husband she continued:--

"Now do you speak, dear Clodwig."

Clodwig hesitatingly expressed his wish to have Eric live with him. Sonnenkamp's sharp glance fell upon Bella. The forefinger of his left hand was already raised in playful menace against her, and he was on the point of saying, "I understand you," when he checked himself, and, laying his finger on his lips, said:--

"I am glad to see that our Herr Eric"--with a peculiar emphasis on the word "our"--"that our Herr Eric stands so high in your good graces."

Eric was struck by the peculiar stress laid upon the word "our." He seemed to have become a piece of property. Still more surprised was he at Sonnenkamp's offering him his hand the next moment and saying:--

"You remain ours, do you not?"

Eric bowed.

Bella dwelt, with intentional emphasis, upon the particulars of her visit to Eric's mother in the University-town. She evidently desired to let Herr Sonnenkamp know that a man of Eric's rank and position was not to be crushed on account of a trifling act of neglect. Sonnenkamp whistled to himself inaudibly, as if some plan were ripening in him.

Bella contrived again to be alone with Eric, and expressed to him her satisfaction at the success of her little plot. She knew, she said, that Sonnenkamp would not let him go, but she also knew that he would humble him on account of the neglect he had been guilty of, and therefore persuaded Clodwig to drive over at once. Eric was full of gratitude.

"Did you notice," she asked in a low voice, "what a look Herr Sonnenkamp gave me, and how he raised his finger at me? This man imagines that our friendship is something more than friendship; to the impure nothing is pure. I think you will not misunderstand me, if I sometimes intentionally slight you in the presence of this spying knave."

She gave Eric her hand, and held his long and tightly pressed. Neither suspected that from behind a bush two eyes were fixed upon them, and a sharp ear heard their every word. When they had passed on, Sonnenkamp drew a deep breath as a relief from the long constraint he had put upon himself.

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II. AN INALIENABLE POSSESSION

The next morning came the tidings that the groom whom Sonnenkamp had dismissed shortly before his journey, suspecting him of being a spy of Pranken's, had been arrested in the capital in the very act of offering for sale a large silver goblet. Roland brought the news to Eric, and this was only one of the many interruptions liable at any moment to break in upon the hours of study and thought, in consequence of this robbery. Of what use were lessons when the mind was thus excited? What lasting impression could be made? At one time Eric thought of going hunting more frequently with Roland, in order to amuse him and let him gain fresh elasticity and powers of observation by the pursuit of new objects. But he finally decided on the opposite course, that of helping his pupil not by amusement, but by closer application to his studies. Great was his satisfaction, therefore, at having Roland say to him,--

"Let us forget all else and quietly go on with our work."

The boy's love of study had received an impulse which made every interruption distasteful to him, and led him to look for his best pleasures in his books.

Roland soon became conscious of a fresh energy in Eric, without being able to conjecture its cause; it was the exaltation that follows a danger escaped, escaped by one's own effort. Whenever Eric thought of the days at Wolfsgarten, and his trifling with those feelings which should be the finest of the human heart, he seemed to himself a thief. He had recklessly staked the entire capital which he had so laboriously won; he had allowed himself, under a pretended interchange of noble thoughts, to toy with Bella: to flirt, as he called it in plain language, with Clodwig's wife. To his mind, he had violated a sanctuary; how small, how infinitely small in comparison, seemed the offence of these poor people! He felt deeply humbled in his own eyes. How gladly would he have made a pilgrimage with Roland to some temple where he could purify himself, and where Roland could gain new strength! Whither should he turn?

It is easier for one wearied in the exciting race of life, and burdened in conscience, to enter into the invisible temple built with hands than into the visible temple of science; yet Eric succeeded in doing this. What he would with difficulty have accomplished for himself, perhaps would have failed to accomplish, he did from duty to another. He lost himself in the love of knowledge, and everything became clearer and more intelligible. As an experienced swimmer delights in the onward rush of the waves, dives below the surface to rise again to the light, and with vigorous arms divides the waters; so Eric plunged into science, and felt his heart swell with joy when the mighty waves roared towards him. Gone were all petty fears and anxieties, all self-contest.

In Roland, too, deep currents were stirred. He often went about as in a dream. The ground beneath him, which he now knew to be in constant motion, swam before his eyes: the heavens were no longer there; the old world was dissolved and a new one revealed; while mingling with all this new life within him was the thought that all private property would be abolished, and poverty and riches divided equally among men. Eric observed this excitement in the mind of his pupil. Roland said to him one day timidly,--

"Tell me, Eric, if there will ever come to be no more private property in the world, and consequently no more thieves."

Eric was startled to see how this strange idea had taken hold of the boy. He explained that he had only brought that up as an illustration; the thing itself was an impossibility; he had only meant to show what a radical change might be worked in the minds and lives of men.

Fresh evidences of this unaccountable tendency of the boy's thoughts were constantly appearing. One day he asked Eric to go with him to the huntsman's, to see how his wife and children were faring. He said he had met the man's son, a cooper in the service of the Wine-count, a little while ago, and had offered to shake hands with him, telling him the son was not to blame for what the father had done, even if he had done anything wrong, which he certainly had not; but that the cooper had stared at him, and instead of taking his offered hand, had drawn his hammer from his leather apron, swung it back and forth for a while, and finally walked off.

When Eric and Roland approached the huntsman's house, the birds in the cages were singing, busiest among them the blackbird, with his incessant chirp of thanksgiving, and the dogs were bounding merrily. The wife looked ill and slatternly, and was full of complaints. She told how she had wanted to let all the birds out after her husband was taken to prison, but her son, the cooper, insisted on everything being left as it was till his father came back, which was sure to be very soon; Sevenpiper had in the mean while undertaken to do part of her husband's work, and the cooper attended to the night duties, though he had to work so hard through the day. Everything should be done properly, that the place might be kept open for her husband.

Eric offered her a sum of money, which she refused, saying that her son, the cooper, had forbidden her to accept anything from Sonnenkamp's family.

"If this man is innocent, as I believe he is," said Roland, when they were in the villa again, "what can make up to him for all the anxiety and distress he has had to suffer?"

Eric had no satisfactory answer to give; he could only say that this was another proof of the fact that the best things in life could not be supplied by money.

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III. THE NEW ALLIES, AND A SUMMER FETE

Hardly two weeks had gone by before the lessons were interrupted again. Frau Ceres, who was generally very quiet and took no interest in anything, often referred to a promise she had made to take Roland to see the Cabinetsräthin, (wife of the cabinet-minister), whose acquaintance she had formed at the Baths.

A grand excursion to the capital was decided upon, which Eric alone was not invited to join. The party set out in two carriages. Frau Ceres, Fräulein Perini, and Roland in one, and Sonnenkamp and Pranken in the other.

Pranken began at once to express his satisfaction at the friendly interest Sonnenkamp had shown in the Church; he had on his side already put things in such a train that they could count upon the co-operation of the higher clergy, who were very influential at Court, in carrying out their plan. He felt some compunctions at profiting by his frequent and intimate intercourse with the Prince-cardinal, as a piece of diplomacy; but he was vain enough to wish to pass off upon the world in general and Sonnenkamp in particular, as a stroke of worldly wisdom, the inward illumination which he secretly gloried in. He rejoiced at the relation thus easily established with the Cabinetsräthin, upon whom outside pressure could be brought to bear in a way hardly possible with her husband.

As they drove by a handsome villa, whose shutters were all barred, Pranken suggested that Herr Sonnenkamp should buy it in order to sell it again at a low price to the Cabinetsräthin, who, as he knew, had long cherished a strong desire for such a residence. Sonnenkamp consented, on the condition that it would accomplish his object. It would be one of the levers, Pranken assured him, though not the only one.

Although the two were alone together, neither of them, singularly enough, mentioned their plan by name, till Sonnenkamp said that the Cabinetsräthin had told him a title of nobility was to be conferred on the wine-merchant, and that he wished he might get one first; for he thought he had a better right to the distinction, though he was not going to marry his daughter to a dying man, but rather to the freshest and liveliest of noblemen.

Pranken smiled his thanks, but replied that this priority of the Wine-count,--it could hardly be called precedence--was rather advantageous than otherwise, as it made the conferring of titles appear not so much a matter of private negotiation.

"Your difficulties are greater than those of the Wine-count," he added: "for the Prince-cardinal stayed in his house on his last circuit, so that the Wine-count has on his side the church party, which is as discreet as it is powerful, while you, I would say we, have no party. So much the better; the victory will be all our own."

They reached the capital.

The Cabinetsräthin was delighted, and expressed to Pranken, whom she constantly treated as the head, in fact the president of the party, her great pleasure that a watering-place acquaintance should have ripened into a new friendship.

Pranken insinuatingly remarked that they might become neighbors too.

The country-house was glowingly described, and the fact cautiously yet emphatically stated, that Sonnenkamp had already bought the place for the sake of inducing some noble friends to settle there by letting them have it at a moderate sum.

The lady was delighted; she knew the house very well, it having once belonged to friends of hers whom she had been in the habit of visiting there. She quite envied the people who should live in such a home and have such noble neighbors. She had told her husband, she said, that it was a disgrace to the State that such a man as Herr Sonnenkamp should have no title.

Having thus prepared the way, Pranken disclosed his plan to the Cabinetsräthin, who assured him it could not but be a most desirable thing for society, to have a man of Herr Sonnenkamp's importance admitted to a higher rank. Sonnenkamp assumed an air of great shyness and modesty. A maiden receiving her first offer, which she was quite prepared for, could not have looked more bashfully on the ground; he actually blushed.

They drew their chairs nearer together, as if now for the first time a right friendly and confidential intercourse was established among them. The lady begged that nothing might be said to her husband upon the matter at present; she would manage that part herself; but it would be a good plan to set some other influence at work; if Count Wolfsgarten, for instance, would start the subject at court, it would be easy to play into his hands.

Pranken laid great stress upon the cordial friendship that existed between Clodwig and Sonnenkamp, but urged that a matter of this kind needed to be handled with the greatest delicacy, such as only a lady of the Cabinetsräthin's acknowledged tact was capable of.

Sonnenkamp declared that he did not ask for a title; it must be offered him; his friends must see to that. He rejoiced in the delicacy with which the Cabinetsräthin handled the matter, and he handled it in like manner; his whole demeanor said, This is something quite out of the common course.

He moved his hand quietly, as if he were stroking the back of a very soft cat.

"Are there vineyards attached to this country-house?" suddenly asked the lady.

"To the best of my knowledge," answered Pranken, "there are three acres most favorably situated."

He winked at Sonnenkamp, as much as to say that these must of course be purchased also.

Sonnenkamp at once lost his character of modesty and bashfulness; here was a question of money; here he was master. He wanted to tell the lady that he could not deal in any other than a business-like manner; when he had fairly got his patent of nobility she should take possession of the country-house and vineyards besides; but he was afraid to say it before Pranken, and besides it seemed hardly necessary to come out with it just yet. When it came to the point, he would be man enough not to allow himself to be cheated. There was a triumphant smile upon his face.

The Cabinetsrath entered, saluted Sonnenkamp with formal politeness, and expressed his thanks for the courtesies shown his wife at Vichy.

The party went into the hall, where were Roland and the son of the house, a cadet. Roland's beauty immediately attracted all eyes, and made him the centre of the group. The Cabinetsrath congratulated him on having for a tutor such a finished scholar as Eric, although he was somewhat eccentric in his theories, and as Roland answered some question that were addressed to him by saying he should like to be an officer, advised him to enter the school of cadets as soon as possible.

Pranken said in an aside to the Cabinetsräthin that he entirely approved of Herr Sonnenkamp's plan not to let Roland enter the school till he had received a title, thus sparing him many embarrassments; for if the boy were suddenly admitted to the nobility while in the school, there would be no end to the jokes he would have to endure from his companions.

The Cabinetsrath spoke of the rebuilding of the ruins, of Sonnenkamp's well-known skill in horticulture, and of the complimentary manner in which he had often heard them spoken of in the highest circles.

Sonnenkamp craved permission to send some of his products occasionally to the royal table, especially his beautiful bananas, which were now particularly fine. Pranken thought Herr Sonnenkamp's success in grape culture the most remarkable, for he managed to have fresh grapes upon his table every month in the year.

The Cabinetsrath replied that this courtesy would no doubt be very acceptable, but he had no authority to speak in the matter. The Marshal, who was a cousin of Herr von Pranken, would unquestionably accept the offer.

Pranken at once took Herr Sonnenkamp to see the Marshal, while Roland rode out with the cadet. Frau Ceres remained with the Cabinetsräthin, and apparently caused that lady great surprise by urging her to accept the coral necklace which she wore upon her neck, and which her friend had so much admired.

The lady was obliged to accept it, but begged Frau Ceres to consider it as a token of the intimacy of their private friendship, and not to mention the gift to any one else. She repeatedly declared that she used her interest for her friends without the least motive of selfishness. She laid great stress upon this point, being convinced that Frau Ceres was a party in the plan for gaining her by presents.

Frau Ceres looked at her in amazement, and thought herself again horribly stupid; the woman was speaking of things of which she knew nothing.

The party had not proposed to spend the night in the capital, but on the minister's wife proposing an excursion to some pleasure-grounds, Pranken insisted on their remaining till the next day. It would be a great advantage to have the two open carriages, with Frau Ceres and the Cabinetsräthin in one, and Sonnenkamp, Pranken, and the Cabinetsrath in the other, drive through the streets of the capital to these pleasure-grounds, where the best and most select society would be assembled. The best society should see that Sonnenkamp was already admitted to close intimacy with Count Pranken and the Cabinetsrath.

On the way the Cabinetsräthin was seized with an idea as amiable as it was wise. Both these merits delighted her, and not less her own good-nature. She should win an ally and help a poor woman. With great condescension and pity, she spoke of Eric's mother, who had with a foolish enthusiasm sacrificed her position to a so-called ideal love. Here the Cabinetsräthin looked towards Pranken, between whom and herself so close a league was already established that she did nothing without his approval. A scarcely perceptible nod from him showing her that she might continue, she appealed to Herr Sonnenkamp to do something for Eric's mother; if possible, even to receive her into his house. Aunt Claudine also was spoken of in terms of the highest praise.

The Cabinetsräthin imagined that her relations with the Sonnenkamp household would be much more easily maintained, if the Professor's widow and the aunt formed a part of it; then her intercourse would be in a manner with them, and not with this man. In fact it would be her duty to see as much as possible of these noble women, in order to soften their position of dependence; and that advantage, with many others, would be easily secured when she had established herself in that country-house, which of course had several acres of vineyard attached to it.

Thus there was a mingling of motives, with a good and animating result.

Sonnenkamp smiled blandly, but all the while was saying to himself,--These nobles hold together more closely than a band of thieves; in fact they are thieves, for all this impoverished nobility wants to bolster itself up by me.

He acceded politely to the lady's proposition, with the inward reservation, You have not that estate yet, and the Professor's widow may sit for a while longer at her sewing-machine.

They drove by the country-seat of the Prince, who had lately returned from America. Here everything was in perfect order, and a table, with servants in attendance, was spread in a long, narrow pavilion erected in a grove by the roadside. The sound of military music came from a public garden, and the trees were hung with bright-colored lamps. The officers of the Guard were holding a summer-fête here. Bands of music followed each other in quick succession, one beginning to play the moment the other ceased. The officers were already seated at a table spread under a great tent in the middle of the public garden; while at smaller tables near by sat the dignitaries of the capital, with their wives and daughters, in gay summer dresses.

The two carriages drawn by Sonnenkamp's noble horses' attracted great attention. Pranken quickly gave the necessary directions, and established his party at one of the best tables, towards which many eye-glasses were instantly directed. Pranken, after speaking with his comrades and shaking hands with one and another, soon returned to Sonnenkamp and his party.

The Cabinetsräthin leaned in the most friendly way on Sonnenkamp's arm; Pranken escorted Frau Ceres; Roland and the cadet shot arrows at a target, Roland always hitting the bull's eye.

Sonnenkamp was introduced to the General, and received from him a promise soon to visit Villa Eden. Pranken was glad to be able to show a new recruit in the person of Roland.

As evening came on, the bright-colored lamps were lighted. Suddenly there was a firing of cannon, a beating of drums, and a shouting of huzzas, in honor of the arrival of the Prince from his estate to grace the banquet of the officers. Both bands struck up, "Hail to the Chief," and all was rejoicing. Happiest of the whole company, perhaps, was Sonnenkamp, who had been presented to the Prince and received a few commonplace words from him. Though the words were nothing, the world had seen the Prince speak with him and give him a friendly greeting.

They drove back to the capital in a high state of delight. The colored lamps kept shining and the music sounding.

The next morning it was announced in the papers:--

"Yesterday evening the cuirassiers of the guard celebrated their annual festival on Rudolph's Hill. His Highness, Prince Leonhard, graced the entertainment with his presence. Among the guests was Herr Sonnenkamp, of Villa Eden, with his highly-respected family."

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IV. THE PLACE IS TAKEN

While the Sonnenkamp family was at the capital, Eric rode to Wolfsgarten. He had fought down every traitorous, unholy thought within him, or rather had prevented such from rising, and thought only of the obligation that rested on him to show his appreciation of the noble friendship which Bella had certainly manifested towards him, by speaking to her of the excellence and truly admirable elevation of her husband's character. That was his sole purpose, and with a clear and happy spirit he rode on his way.

He found Clodwig alone, Bella having driven out to make a visit. Clodwig was glad to have Eric for once all to himself; in former visits he had too often had to amuse himself with the boy, while Eric walked with Bella. Clodwig told of the son of a friend of his, the Russian Ambassador at Naples, who had come to pursue under his guidance the study of husbandry in Germany. The fact of the abolition of serfdom by the Emperor of Russia was producing a great moral and economic effect. The landowners would have to increase their own resources, as well as those of the soil; from mere landowners they must become husbandmen. The young Prince, like most other princes, had been a little wild in Paris, but there were the germs of good in him, and a power of will which encouraged the most favorable hopes. A sort of sacred zeal for self-sacrifice and devotion to the lower classes was not uncommon among the Russians, and often took such strong possession of the gay and dissipated as to recall the conversion of those saints we are told of, who, from the wildest debauchees, have suddenly been made conscious of their moral responsibilities.

"But be on your guard," he said, as if instructing Eric. "No aristocracy in the world is so eager for knowledge as that of Russia; but unhappily their zeal and aspirations run themselves out in a year or two, and they easily fall back into lazy indifference. They have a great talent for imitation, but how persevering it will be, or whether they can produce anything new, remains to be proved. Perhaps this freeing of the serfs is a great moral turning-point."

Eric thought it a glorious proof of the free spirit of the age, that this enfranchisement was the work not of the clergy, whose office it might seem peculiarly to be, but of pure and simple humanity, having no ecclesiastical stamp.

"That idea had not occurred to me," answered Clodwig, expressing his gratitude in word and tone.

The two men were still engaged in far-reaching discussions concerning the power of the spirit, and Clodwig was just expressing his pain at the power which brute force exercises over the spirit, so much greater than man is willing to acknowledge to himself, when Bella entered. Her face glowed as she greeted Eric; and her companion, an elegant but rather blasé-looking young man, gave him a gracious salutation. He was glad, he said, that Eric spoke French so fluently, for his own German was very clumsy; and he added that Eric's French descent was apparent in his accent, which was such as only a French tongue was capable of.

After separating for a short time, the party reassembled for a second breakfast in the room opening on the garden.

Clodwig must have strongly impressed upon the Russian the advantages he would derive from intercourse with Eric, for the young man addressed him at once by saying, "I should be very glad if you would let me learn something from you."

He said it so confidingly, and with so much of a child's submission, that Eric gave him his hand, saying,--

"I am sure I shall be able to learn something from you too."

"Except whist, which every one says I play exceedingly well, I am afraid there is nothing to be learned from me," laughed the Russian.

Then, as a man who at once looks to the producers for a knowledge of the products of a country, he said,--

"I hear that philosophy has gone out of fashion in Germany; can you tell me any reason for the fact?"

Clodwig nodded; the topic was well chosen, and the question modestly put.

Eric suggested as his opinion, without having any definite information to give on the subject, that perhaps philosophy was regarded less as a separate science, and had become the groundwork of all the sciences.

"Are you of opinion," asked the Prince, "that the categorical imperative of Kant, and the French Revolution, have tended to the same results?"

Bella laid back her head, and looked up into the blue sky. The men were entering upon themes which, in deference to her, ought to be postponed to another time, but she would be patient and listen.

Eric explained that the principle of Kant, "So act that you can wish the rule of your actions to be the rule of all human actions," established the same ideal as the French Revolution, with its equality before the law; there are to be no more privileged classes.

"But does not this equality destroy all greatness, all genius?" asked the Russian.

Bella thought this a good opportunity for breaking her silence, and quickly choosing her side, she added:--.

"I would go further, and ask if richly endowed natures do not make new laws in the intellectual and political world, as well as the æsthetic."

Clodwig smiled to hear his wife thus trotting out her hobby-horse, but Eric answered, smilingly,--"That is the miserable mistake for which Jesuitism in the Church, and frivolity in the world, are equally answerable. Peculiar natures have been granted by the world, and have come to claim for themselves, certain exceptional privileges and immunities, which, if generally allowed, would be subversive of human society. What are called superior natures have greater responsibilities than others, but no exceptional rights. Before God and the moral sense of humanity, we are all equal, as Christianity exhaustively expresses in the words, 'we are all children of God.' Children are equal before their father. But the Church grants indulgences; the State, rights of primogeniture; sophistry, moral exemptions. No single man of iron will come to establish the new kingdom of equality; the kingdom is at hand; its road is the iron rail, its horse is the steam."

"You speak well; it is a great pleasure to me to have made your acquaintance," said the Prince to Eric. "I pray you to come often to see me; or will you let me come to you?"

Eric, who, in his excitement, had said more than he intended, expressed his thanks, saying at the same time that he must consecrate his time and strength to his pupil. He was angry with himself at thus speaking out his whole heart on every occasion, instead of adopting the light conversational tone of society. He thought he knew what the young noble meant by his compliment. A beautiful way of speaking, indeed! A new dish, a new sauce, new music, charming capriccios! None but a fool would expose the treasures of his heart to them.

Eric was struck with the expression of Bella's face; it was set and hard. What have I done, she thought, that he should read me such a lesson about no one claiming exemption from the rule of morality? She was thoroughly angry, and with difficulty forced a smile to her face. She soon controlled herself, however, and managed to make the two young men enter upon a little passage of arms before her.

The Prince had the advantage of Eric in a knowledge of current events, and in practical experience of the world. Eric readily granted the victory to be on his opponent's side in many instances.

As they were walking in the garden, the Prince leaning familiarly on Eric's arm, he asked if Eric was acquainted with Herr Weidmann, to whom Clodwig intended to send him.

Eric replied that he had only seen him once or twice, but that he was universally esteemed.

"If you should happen to have any friend like yourself," said the Prince, pressing Eric's arm as he spoke, "if you should know any one whom you could recommend to be my guide and instructor, I could make provision for him for life, or--excuse the question--would you yourself perhaps--?"

Eric declined the honor, but promised to bear the subject of an instructor in mind.

Bella joined them, and Eric walked by the side of the other two, his mind agitated by a variety of emotions. He had pondered so carefully on the best way of drawing himself and Bella back from that dangerous boundary line of friendship, and here his pains had been thrown away, for another already occupied his place. His vanity was secretly wounded that this man of the world, with his prettily-dressed nothings, should at once have become a greater favorite than he with his tiresome solidities and all his historical luggage. At heart he was indignant at Bella's familiarity with the Russian, and a strange confusion of feeling arose within him. Should he be glad to think this woman nothing but a coquette, trifling now with one man and now with another? or did, Bella thus act only to make less marked her intimacy with himself, which she desired not to display before others?

His mind was harassed by opposite emotions; one moment he was glad of the lesson he had received, for now he could go back to his work with an unburdened mind; the next he was again angry with himself for his ignorance of the ways of polite society.

The Doctor's arrival changed as usual the current of the conversation. One sharp glance embraced Bella, Eric, and the Russian, and seemed to reveal to him their respective positions. Bella and the Doctor always had a little private warfare going on between them.

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V. A HARSH JUDGMENT

The Doctor desired Eric to tie his horse to the back of the carriage, and drive with him part way to the villa.

When the two were seated together, the Doctor began, after first puffing out a long breath:--

"A beautiful woman is Countess Bella, and a clever. She loves her parrot, which, apparently, is allowed to fly at liberty in the forest, but must return obediently to his mistress's shoulder."

"Permit me one observation," interrupted Eric. "I have noticed that here in the country, and wherever the society is limited, the conversation is apt to turn upon a third person, and generally--not in your case, perhaps, but in the case of most persons whom I have heard talk--in a not very charitable way. Do you not consider this a proof of narrowness, or whatever else of that nature you may choose to call it?"

The Doctor perceived that Eric was disinclined to pursue this subject, but he nevertheless replied:--

"The human race affords the most abundant material for conversation, and of that race the most inexhaustible matter is furnished by the variety woman. I am not meaning now to speak of Bella, but of myself. I have discovered in this woman an entirely new variety."

"With your permission, honored Herr Doctor, the Countess seems to be in perfect health."

"Did you never know Frau Bella before?"

"But slightly," said Eric reluctantly.

"I, however, knew her well. She made a marriage of convenience, as many others have done, and I think none the worse of her for it. My opinion on such matters differs from that of most men. The Countess is modest as far as her talents are concerned, but is proud of her morality. I happen to know that she told the Count before the betrothal, that she was too insignificant for him, was, in fact, not worthy of him. In regard to intellect, her modesty was sincere, though somewhat exaggeratedly expressed. She has talent, but no soul; she is all seasoning, no solid food. But morally this confession was perfectly true; morality with her is only propriety."

"I must beg you--" interposed Eric.

"And I must beg you," broke in the Doctor, "to let me finish my sentence. Her morality I mean is that of the world, which considers only the outward marriage essential, and knows no relation of marriage save a relation of the outward tie. To Count Clodwig, purity and beauty are a law; every sin against them offends his nature; he could not be guilty of the smallest violation of them, even if no mortal eye should detect it."

In the pause which ensued, Eric's heart beat hard. Was the man describing Clodwig's purity, in order to show him how base would be the slightest approach to injuring or betraying such a friend?

The Doctor continued:--

"A man can receive no higher honor than that of being Clodwig's friend. I do not love the aristocracy; nay, I may even say I hate them; but in this Count Clodwig there is a nobleness which perhaps can only come to perfection through the fostering care of generations, and cannot be fully developed among us commoners, where everything is a fresh conquest smelling of the new varnish, which is always likely to crack away. There is a steady, even temperature about Clodwig, never amounting to a hot blaze, but always a beneficent warmth. You see I have learned from you to make illustrations," he said playfully, then continued, more seriously:--

"His one passion is for rest, which makes it the more remarkable that he should have sacrificed so much of it for your sake. I do not agree with the wicked world in pronouncing Countess Bella to be a very dragon of virtue. On the contrary, she must have every week, or every month at farthest, some fair name to destroy, or, better, some guilty person to use her cat's claws upon; like a well-trained hound, she likes best to attack a poor hare in the eyes; then she is satisfied, perfectly polite and obliging, harming nobody, for she is not really cruel and pitiless. She speaks very kindly of any one so long as he is unfortunate; when people are humbled she readily pardons them; as soon as a man is sick she is most kindly disposed towards him, but as long as he keeps well he need expect nothing but severity from her. She has beautiful and abundant hair, but that does not please her so much as the being able to tell of this woman or that, how many pounds of false hair she wears. If she can say that any woman is scrofulous, she is quite happy; for she would have only the Prankens perfectly sound. Once let her make an assertion, and she never retreats from it; better that her husband, Pranken, the whole world, should be illogical, than that she should be mistaken. Bella von Wolfsgarten never allows herself to be mistaken. She has never worn an unbecoming dress, has never said a word which might not be engraved upon stone. That she calls character; that she calls strength,--never to confess to a mistake. Let the logic of the whole world go to the devil first! She can make the eggs dance nicely in conversation. Did you ever receive one of her dainty little notes? She can dance even upon paper with the most supple grace."

Eric passed his hand across his brow; he no longer knew where he was. The Doctor threw away a half-smoked cigar, and continued:--

"The wicked world hopes, and, alas! its hopes cannot be fulfilled without stabbing our noble Clodwig to the heart,--it hopes that this dragon of virtue will one day find its unsaintly George. But that would have to be a man whose ambition is, as we say, to be successful with the women; not one to whom the words love, magnanimity, aspiration, are realities, and who could not use them as a cloak for other ends."

Eric knew not what to answer. He clenched his fist to keep himself still, for he felt himself trembling.

The Doctor pulled a string which brought the drag against the wheel; the wagon went creaking and scraping down the hill; they looked over the precipice, at the bottom of which a little brook was babbling over rocks. Such an abyss had opened before Eric. When they were driving again comfortably through the valley, the Doctor resumed:--

"When I say the wicked world, I am not using merely a figure of speech. I must explain to you what this new variety is that I have discovered in Frau Bella. It is this. There have been, and there exist still, many women who are, or who imagine themselves to be, no matter which, very unhappy, or consider themselves very unfortunate because they have such inferior husbands,--men who love horses, dogs, and such like, while they themselves are lofty, unappreciated, ethereal souls. This new variety, however, which Frau Bella represents, is different. She is unhappy because of the greatness of her husband. Had she one of those well-trained puppets which are in the world for the purpose of wearing a court-dress, she might be unhappy, but loftily so; she could look upon herself as a fair flower-crowned victim, suffer with patience, bewail her fate, be on a pinnacle in fact, a being ever debarred from the noblest emotions of the heart. But by the side of the husband she has, she grows constantly more odious, more insignificant. He humiliates her by casting her into the shade; nay, more: by condemning her immature ideas only by a raising of his eyebrows. In fact,--she does not, I think, acknowledge it to herself,--she hates her husband for making solemn earnest of her light trifling with intellectual and moral things; he compels her to acknowledge mistakes and follies, and severely enough is he punished for doing so. I understand now the fable of the Harpies. The modern harpies besmear every noble thought till it becomes unpalatable and nauseous; and thus must Clodwig wrestle and fight for the common daily bread of the spirit. With all this, she is not without nobleness; she likes to help the sick, only is somewhat despotic in recommending her remedies. But do you know what the most dangerous thing about Frau Bella is?"

"Indeed I do not; I cannot imagine what climax you have yet to reach."

"A very simple one. We hear the devil talked about in the churches, but in these days he appears as a very complaisant, very noble and self-sacrificing demon, who comes to us and says,--Here, you are the friend of this woman; avail yourself of her esteem for you, her confidence in you, to put her in the right frame of mind; you must teach her to appreciate her husband, to honor him as he desires to be honored. This sophistical demon seems to be very subtle, but is really the clumsiest of all; for never did one human being learn to value another, least of all, a wife her husband, through a third person's influence. There is a final impulse of life, and a final impulse of love, which must come from the person himself; and where that does not exist, the tongues of angels would be employed in vain. Have you seen the head of Medusa? The ancients esteemed the victory over Medusa to be the greatest achievement of Theseus; she is poisonous beauty. In ancient times she hardened men to stone, in modern, she softens them into effeminacy. I have a special hatred against this Frau Bella; do you know why? Because she makes a hypocrite of me every time I go to Wolfsgarten. I have no business to be so polite as I am to her; and the fact that I am so, out of regard to Clodwig, is no excuse. No one has such a bad effect upon me as this Frau Bella; she makes a hypocrite of me, and she kindles in me such a passion for destruction as I had not thought myself capable of. She is a quack doctress. If I prescribe a medicine, she always knows beforehand what I am going to prescribe. Medicinally I have pretty much broken down her pretensions, but intellectually she has more than ever. She has family medicines and figures of speech at her tongue's end, as if she had been a deep student, whereas the root of her whole nature is want of reverence, an impertinent meddling with every subject; for everything is a vain show to her mind; she has no respect even for herself, knowing that she is herself nothing but a vain show. One deep-rooted trait in her is ingratitude. Come what may to her, she will still be ungrateful. If you want to see the exact opposite to Bella, look at the Major, who is grateful for everything, even for the very air he breathes. That old child of a Major is seventy years old, and has not yet lost faith in human goodness. If the devil incarnate were to appear, he would find something good in him; but this Bella is without principle. A man may be evil-minded, and yet have strength and active powers left for the world's service; but an evil-minded woman is wholly evil and only evil. Do you know who would be a fit mate for Frau Bella?"

"I know nothing about it," cried Eric in despair; he felt as if he must jump out of the wagon.

"The only man who would do for her, the only man capable of subduing and governing this whole menagerie which bears the name of Bella, is Herr Sonnenkamp; in fact, there is a secret sympathy between them."

Eric was glad he could laugh; but the Doctor continued:--

"I am a heretic, my young friend; I believe that woman is an inferior variety in the human race. A man can never be so bad as a woman, can never be so hypocritical. For the latter quality, to be sure, women are not responsible, having been taught from childhood that the world cares only for appearances. But the main defect is, that they have no broad humanity; they, do not go down to the first principles from which all things start; they regard everything as being sewed and colored, in the same way that their hats and mantillas are by the mantuamakers. On the other hand, they stand under the curse of the beasts: they cannot heartily rejoice with another; slander is a peculiar symptom of blood-thirstiness. Throughout all nature, the female is the crudest."

Eric sat still and heard all this talked at him. When they arrived at the place where the Doctor was to get out, the good man puffed out another long breath, and said, his face glowing with his earnestness,--

"Now I, feel better. I have been choking with this for a long while. Thank you for having listened so patiently. Young friend," he continued, laying his hand kindly on Eric's shoulder, "I am angry with the poets, who, from fear of giving offence to women, have dressed up this clever show-woman. If I have said too much of Frau Bella, as is possible, I yet pray you to keep in mind the truths I have told of her, which I have not exaggerated, and which I am ready any moment to maintain."

Eric took his horse by the bridle, but did not mount; he travelled on, lost in thought. That he should have heard such things against Bella, and should have so poorly defended her, pained him. With a look almost of devotion he gazed upward to the cloudless heaven above him; he would keep himself free from the guilt of palliating his own faults. His heart turned to Roland, and something within him said, I hope from this time to be worthy to educate a human being; for never again shall any criminal trifling with thoughts and feelings have place in me. I was vain; I was pleased at appearing brilliant, at being praised by a handsome woman, at feeling the light touch of her warm glove upon my hand. No such man should dare to say, I will in all purity educate a human being. I hope now I am a man who can.

With a feeling of inward happiness he pursued his way and reached the villa.

A telegram was awaiting him, saying that the family would spend the night in the capital.

Eric was alone.

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VI. A RECEIPT FOR THE FIRST INSTALMENT OF SALARY

Frau Ceres expressed herself in the morning strongly disinclined to return to the villa. The fête on Rudolph's hill still floated before her fancy, and she wanted to have another just like it to-day. She urged the Cabinetsräthin at least to go back with her to the villa and make her a visit. The invitation was declined, but a visit promised at an early date.

Frau Ceres was so much out of spirits, that to cheer her up Sonnenkamp made Pranken sit in the carriage with her, while he drove with Roland. When he was alone with his son, he questioned him on all kinds of subjects; he even went so far as to ask him how often Eric visited the Countess Bella, and whether they often took walks alone together.

Roland was perplexed.

On the road they overtook the saddle-horses, which had been sent homewards in advance of the party. The horses were wholly enveloped in coverings, so that only their eyes and feet were visible. Sonnenkamp ordered a halt to be made; the creatures' great eyes were fixed with a singular expression on their master from under their close coverings. He severely reprimanded one of the grooms, whom he had seen at a distance sitting on one of the horses instead of walking by the animal's side. The next act of disobedience should lose the man his place. As they drove on, Roland made the remark that these horses were better clothed than many men.

Sonnenkamp threw a sidelong glance of surprise at his son, but made no answer.

All at once Roland beckoned to the driver to stop. He had noticed by the road-side the teamster, employed in carting the stone bottles to the mineral-spring, whom he had walked with on that eventful night. Alighting, Roland held out his hand to the man and requested him to tell the hostler, when he met him, that he was innocent; whereupon he resumed his seat in the carriage, the teamster all the while staring after him, while his father desired him to tell him more about the strange rencontre.

Roland related all he knew, not omitting the legend of the laughing sprite; but the story about this sprite seemed to have no effect upon Sonnenkamp's risibles; and when Roland remarked, that he liked to familiarize himself with the life of poor people battling with abject misery, Sonnenkamp whistled the inaudible tune to himself. At the same time, the more Roland talked, the more surprised did his father appear at the mental activity of the lad; and the conversation in the old castle, after Claus had questioned him, was brought back to his mind with strange associations and connections.

Sonnenkamp was inwardly debating what to do. To dismiss Eric on the spot would not answer, on Roland's account; such peremptory dismissal might only make him cling all the more obstinately to his erroneous views and tendencies. Besides, it would be ill-advised to bring about a rupture with Eric, on account of the Cabinetsräthin, especially since she had expressed herself strongly on the point of procuring the assistance of Eric's mother; above all else, however, Clodwig had to be considered, for the connection with Clodwig was not Pranken's, but Eric's work, and Clodwig was the most powerful ally in the execution of the plan.

Sonnenkamp was actuated by a twofold jealousy: the clergy had taken one child from him; this time, a man of the world was on the point of taking away the other. He did not disapprove in direct terms of Eric's ideas, he merely cautioned his son as to there being no need of such utter submission to a paid person, adding that he saw no necessity of his fretting too much about his studies, which might do well enough for people who had to fight their way in life, but certainly not for a young man who required just about knowledge enough to be able to express an opinion of his own. He admonished his son not to allow his life to be disturbed by fantasies; and found it an easy task once more to make the glitter of a soldier's life in the capital appear very attractive to him.

Soon after the first salutations were exchanged, Sonnenkamp enquired of Eric where he had been the day before; putting this question very much like a master, whose servant's time is by right his own, and who is therefore justified in demanding a proper account thereof.

Eric told him of his visit to Wolfsgarten, dwelling more particularly on a description of the Russian prince.

Sonnenkamp smiled; he was pleased to see, that this proud virtue knew so well how to hide his deviations from the straight path.

Roland was evidently inclined to break through the strict discipline which Eric had introduced, and which he himself had re-established; whenever he stayed through a lesson he looked sullen, the instigations of his father beginning to show their effect. A glance at Eric frequently would show the latter, that Roland almost looked upon him as his jailor. Hitherto Roland had only seen things with Eric's eyes, and regarded whatever happened to him as if he were expected to accept it for Eric's sake, all this was now at an end. In the dim distance still resounded, the notes of martial music and the laughter of military officers conversing gaily.

Eric could not but notice this change in his pupil; it made him feel sad. He could devote all his energy to Roland. Roland received it much against his will; and since he no longer hesitated to manifest his displeasure, his ill-humor of old returned and revived. Again and again the hardship of a tutor's profession presented itself to Eric's mind. He lived the past over again. In his garrison, when off duty, he had lived quietly by himself; at the parental home he was allowed to indulge in his own fancies, his mother having been habituated by his father to the belief that she ought to wait quietly to be spoken to, inasmuch as learned men ought not to be disturbed in their reflections; and Eric had been treated in the same way: he was never disturbed, and was left entirely to his own thoughts. Now, however, at table, or while out driving, he had to answer the numerous queries of both pupil and father, who were fond of asking questions, and having intricate ones solved for them. For a long, long time, he had been accustomed to an independent life, devoted to his own mental improvement; now, however, it seemed to him as if, together with his state of servitude, he were losing himself, as if he were but the shadow of his former past, and nothing new nor fresh was stirring in him, while all his former thoughts and feelings appeared to require a forcible awakening. Eric mourned over his mental decline. Formerly he had hardly dared to confess to himself, that he had derived new animation and pleasure from being near Bella--and that was to cease henceforth. What then remained for him?

He stood aghast at perceiving, that the whole sanctity of his inner self had been staked on another being, and a new revelation came to him, which made Sonnenkamp's dissatisfaction, as well as that of his pupil, appear as a just penalty. He redoubled his zeal, but in vain.

An event, seemingly trifling, and of a surprising nature, brought the disturbing elements to a crisis. Sonnenkamp paid Eric the first instalment of his salary in Roland's presence, looking all the while triumphantly at his son. Eric trembled, but quickly recovered his self-control. He took the gold and advanced a step or two towards the window at which Roland was standing. Sonnenkamp supposed, for a moment, that he was going to throw the gold out of the window, but Eric said, in a tone of forced composure:--

"Roland, take my pay and carry the money to my room. There you may wait for me."

Roland took the gold, looking confusedly at his father and Eric.

"Do me the favor of carrying that gold to my room," repeated Eric. "And now go." Roland went. He carried the money as if it were a heavy burden, and repaired to Eric's room, where he deposited it on the table. He then turned to go, when the thought suddenly occurred to him, that he ought also to watch it; he was on the point of locking the room, when he remembered, that Eric had ordered him to wait for his coming. He stood there, while everything seemed to be whirling around. What had happened?

Suddenly Pranken came in to bid him good-bye. He congratulated Roland upon his speedy deliverance from Eric. Then only did he realize what had happened, and what was to follow. Pranken referred slightingly to Eric, as to a man to whom he might make certain concessions from sheer pity. Merrily he bade Roland farewell. After he had gone. Roland felt that he could no longer have any love for Pranken, and realized a sense of loss; he quietly remained standing at the table, looking down upon the money before him. In a childlike way he began to count the sum Eric had received. For what length of time had he received it? He could not make it out, and turned angrily aside to look out of the window. Behind him on the table lay the money; he felt as if somebody near him were whispering all the time: Forget me not!

Meanwhile Eric was still in the room with Sonnenkamp, who, with an air of great astonishment, said,--

"You are wantonly destroying all attachment between us."

Eric replied, that he might perhaps have chosen a more appropriate time, and that nothing but the manner in which he had been paid had compelled him to act as he had done.

"Have I hurt your feelings?"

"I am not very sensitive. I appreciate money as far as it deserves to appreciated and am always pleased at receiving my honest wages. I am inclined to think that I love your son more than--no matter! there is no standard to measure love by,--it can only be measured by itself."

"I am obliged to you."

"I beg your pardon, sir; allow me to finish my sentence. Just because I love your son, I prefer to have the blame fall upon me rather than upon his father."

"Upon me?"

"Yes, sir. I might have paid you back for the way in which you paid me off in my pupil's presence; I might have told you that free labor--I abstain from using the word love, and simply confine myself to refer to such work as one man will do freely for another--can never be paid. I suppressed my feelings, because I wished that your son should love and respect you more than he does other people, than even myself."

Sonnenkamp clenched his fists. He stared at Eric for awhile, but soon looked down; he had to exert great self-control in order not to betray that he trembled.

At last he said,--

"I don't know what you mean by some expressions you have used, and I don't want to know. But I am the man to put a bullet through the forehead of him who attempts----"

"I very readily comprehend your excitement," said Eric, quietly straightening himself up and looking Sonnenkamp coolly in the face.

"Who are you? Who am I?" asked Sonnenkamp, while his features were strangely distorted.

"I am your son's tutor, and I know the accountableness of my position; I am in your service; this is your house, you can turn me out of it at once."

"I will not do that--not that! Have I said that I would? I must only explain myself to you, and you must explain yourself to me. Have you not said to Roland that the time will come, or has already come, when there would no longer be any private property?"

Eric assured him that he had not the remotest purpose of doing anything of the kind; he was sorry that he made use of the illustration, and regretted Roland's misconception.

"Let us sit down," said Sonnenkamp, his knees trembling. "Let us talk calmly, like reasonable men, like friends, if I may be allowed to say so."

He whistled to himself, and then said, in a wholly different tone,--

"I must tell you, that irrespective of this mistake, your whole tone of thought seems to me dangerous to my son. You seem to me, in fact, a philanthropist, and I honor that; you are one of those persons who would like to thank every common laborer in the road for his toil, and pay him also as much as possible. You see I believe your philanthropy is genuine, and not taken up merely for the sake of popularity. But this philanthropy--I speak without any disguise--is not the thing for my son. My son will have, at some time, a princely income; and if a rich man must go through life in this way, always looking around to see where there is poverty, where there is not adequate compensation, he would be condemned to greater wretchedness than the beggar in the ditch. The worst thing that could be done to my son would be to make him sentimental, or even pitiful and compassionate. I am not one of those men, and I would not have my son to be one, who are eternally longing after the ineffable, and, as I believe, unattainable; I want for myself and for my son a practical enjoyment of existence. Believe me, a contraband-trade will be driven in feelings, if one persuades himself that men in lower conditions have the same susceptibilities that we have."

"I thank you," replied Eric, "for this straightforward plainness of speech, and I am glad that you have given me the opportunity to tell you that I have endeavored to make Roland good-hearted, but not weak-hearted. He is to comprehend the goodly advantages of his life, so that he may receive and make his own the noblest and the highest; he is to be a noble administrator of the grand power that is to be put into his hands."

Eric unfolded this more in detail, and Sonnenkamp, extending his hand to him, said,--

"You are--you are--a noble man, you have also to be my educator. Forget what has happened. I trust you now, unconditionally. I confide in you, that you will not alienate from me the heart of my child, that you will not make him a soft-hearted helper of everybody, and everything."

Sonnenkamp jerked these words out forcibly, for he inwardly chafed, that this man, whom he wanted to humble, had humbled him, so that he was compelled to stand before him like a beggar, entreating a stranger not to alienate from him the heart of his child.

"Why,"--he at last began again, "I pray you, I only ask for information, for I am convinced that you have good grounds for every such step,"--a spiteful glance, notwithstanding all his guarded discretion, gleamed forth at this question--"I only ask for information, why you have restrained Roland from making a free use of his purse, as, since my return, I have been informed is the case."

"I cannot give definite reasons for all my doings, but I have a valid one for this. Roland lavishes and squanders money, and he does it ignorantly and wantonly, while I consider the control of money a part of self-control."

And now Eric informed Sonnenkamp what an impression the robbery had made upon Roland. Exultantly Sonnenkamp cried out:--

"I am rejoiced that he has found out so early how completely one is surrounded in the world by knaves; he will be cautious whenever he comes to manage his own affairs. Yes, Herr Philosopher, write down in your books: The one trait in which man surpasses the brutes is, that man is the only animal who can dissemble and can lie. And the sooner and the more perfectly my son can know that fact, so much the better am I pleased. I should be very glad if Roland had been through the second grade of schools."

"The second grade?"

"Yes; the first is, to bestow benefits upon people, and then to get an insight into their rascality; the second is, to play games of chance, believing that one can make any gain thereby. Debts of beneficence and debts of the gaming-table are not very willingly paid."

There was a certain fatherly tone in Sonnenkamp's voice, as he praised Eric's transcendental benevolent intents, at the same time warning him of the baseness of the whole brood of human creatures. His fundamental maxim was, that man is a wolf to his fellow-man.

When Eric came to Roland, the latter stretched out both his hands to him.

"I thank you," cried the boy, "for treating me as my father treated you; yes, I will have nothing more to do with money. I beseech you, forgive my father for paying you like a servant."

Eric had great difficulty in making an explanation to the boy, so as not to disturb and bewilder his natural feelings and perceptions. The son must preserve love and respect for his father.

"Put away the gold," Roland entreated. Eric immediately put it away out of sight, for he saw how it annoyed the youth.

"Give me something," he then besought,

"I have nothing to give," answered Eric. "But you will know henceforth, that one human being can give something to another which is of more value than all the gold in the world; we will both hold fast the proverb: A friend who can desert you was never your friend."

Roland kissed the hand which had received the gold. Eric was opposed to all sentimentality, but here he had witnessed the opening of a flower, and had inhaled its earliest fragrance, and this flower was a youth's heart.

"We will go and see the Major," said Roland at last; it was evident that he wanted to be with some person who had nothing to do with all this perplexity, and simply lived his own quiet life.

They went to the Major's, but did not find him in. They walked for a long time together, until after dark, without speaking a word.

Sonnenkamp also walked about the park in the silent night, inwardly chafing at the thought that there was always something to conceal, for a single expression of Eric's that day had awakened a powerful struggle within him. That expression was, free labor. And then he began to wonder how it had happened that he had allowed himself to do anything to wound Eric, while it was still his intention to send for his mother. It produced a thrill of satisfaction in him, when he thought how infinitely charitable people would consider that. If he himself could only have believed that it was true charity! But he knew what his own object really was. No matter! If the world believes in the noble and kindly, that is enough. She who is rouged, knows that she has not red cheeks, but she takes pleasure in the thought that the world believes she has, and she is gay and girlish.

Sonnenkamp had desired that Pranken should purchase the neighboring villa which they wished to sell to the Cabinetsräthin. Pranken had declined to do it in a friendly manner, and for good reasons, that it would seem a natural measure for Sonnenkamp to take, in order to secure a good neighbor. Sonnenkamp did not know whether to hope or fear that Pranken had already taken measures beforehand, and thereby made a profit for himself. Was he to be over-reached? But it would be fine if his son-in-law had such a prudent eye to his own advantage.

Sonnenkamp did not concern himself much the next few days with house or garden, with Roland or Eric; he visited the country-house, offered to purchase the vineyards appertaining to it, and became completely convinced that Pranken had taken no steps in the matter. He was well satisfied to acknowledge to himself that he had not been thoroughly acquainted with the nature of the nobility; Pranken was a man who would have nothing to do with any clandestine methods of gaining a pecuniary profit.

The Wine-count was his principal competitor for the country-house offered for sale; it was said he wanted to purchase it for his son-in-law, the son of the Marshal of the Prince's household. Sonnenkamp closed the bargain immediately.

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