VII. NOT EASILY DIGESTED BY ONE OF THE GUESTS…

VII. NOT EASILY DIGESTED BY ONE OF THE GUESTS

If Claus had heard in prison that Sonnenkamp had bought another country-house, he would certainly have exclaimed,--

"Yes, indeed. Of course he'll buy up the whole Rhineland yet." But he learned nothing of it.

The legal inquiry was protracted, and the Judge was sufficiently well disposed to draw up new papers for the interrogation of Eric and Roland at the villa; yet this unpleasant occurrence interrupted the course of instruction more than one could have believed.

Entertainments also were not wanting, for Roland one day announced to Eric:--

"Count Wolfsgarten is to give a grand fête; father and mother are rejoiced; and you and I are also invited."

Sonnenkamp was very well satisfied with Pranken for having brought this about; Eric's coöperation was no longer of any account. It was settled with Pranken, that Clodwig, who was the most influential member of the Committee for conferring nobility, should be gained over to favor the object now exclusively occupying their attention, and induced to take actively the initiative.

Sonnenkamp stood before his armory, and before the large money-safe built into the walls; here were many potent agencies, but they were of no help in this matter, where personal influence alone availed. He was despondent for a short time; then he proudly drew himself up, thinking that he had already succeeded in other undertakings, and here also there would not be wanting to him the requisite means.

He had a severe contest with Frau Ceres on the day they were to go to the fête; she wanted to wear all her jewelry to dinner, and even Fräulein Perini could not divert her from her purpose, by representing how irrefragably settled it was that no diamonds should be worn by daylight. Frau Ceres wept like a little child, and she preferred to remain at home if this pleasure was begrudged her.

Sonnenkamp entreated her to dress plainly, and not annoy the Countess by wearing jewels worth twenty times what she herself possessed; and it was promised her, that at the next fête given at the house, she might appear in full costume.

But Frau Cores persisted in saying that she would not accompany them if she could not wear her jewels.

"Well, then," said Sonnenkamp, "I will send a messenger to Wolfsgarten immediately, to inform them that you will remain at home."

He had a groom sent for at once, and gave him orders to saddle a horse, in order to ride immediately to Wolfsgarten. He went off. Frau Ceres' look followed him with a very angry glance; she was then the miserable child who must remain at home, when all the rest were going to the fête. After a time, she hastened to Sonnenkamp's room, and announced that she would go with them in the way they desired.

Sonnenkamp regretted that he had already sent the messenger off, and now Frau Ceres besought him, with tears, to send a second messenger announcing her coming. Sonnenkamp asserted that this was no longer possible, but finally yielded. He went himself to the stables, and had nothing further to do than to say to the groom,--

"Take off the saddle!" for he had not sent him away, knowing that Frau Ceres would, after a while, beseech him like a child.

They drove to Wolfsgarten. Frau Bella was extremely glad to be able to welcome the Cabinetsräthin; she was very amiable, and looked to-day lovelier than ever. She had a friendly word for everybody, and she was especially gracious to Eric. She thought that, at his last visit, he seemed to be a little out of tune, and she wished now to dissipate any such feeling by exhibiting a decided preference.

Eric received the friendly attention gratefully, but very coldly, as the sharp-eyed woman did not fail to perceive.

Sonnenkamp, who had quick perception, held his breath as a hunter does, when the game comes within range of his shot. Indeed, thought he, they know how to play a good game! The reputation of this house for virtue had hitherto weighed upon him somewhat, but now he moved about with a sort of home feeling.

It was a little court assembled here, and the etiquette, though savoring of rural freedom, was not the less precise. A large number of prominent personages were collected, and the fact was the more striking, because they were brought together from scattered points of country life; it was a group of separate and independent individuals drawn hither from their retirement. The larger portion were officers who had retired on pensions, or been honorably discharged from the service; there were red, yellow, and blue ribbons of different orders modestly tied in the button-holes; the old gentlemen had their hair carefully dressed, and their beards freshly colored; the ladies showed that they had sojourned at Paris some weeks in the year to some purpose.

The conversation was carried on in French, out of regard to a French lady.

A celebrated musician had also been invited, now staying at the country-house of a brother-artist, who had married a former music-pupil, a rich heiress, and had gained a highly respectable standing in the neighborhood.

Except Eric, Herr Sonnenkamp and the musical-artist were the only untitled personages in the company; his genius raised the artist, and his millions the rich man, into the new atmosphere. The Wine-cavalier might already be considered as one of the nobility, for it was known that his whole family were to be ennobled very soon. The newly betrothed couple had also been invited, but on the day of the fête, a letter was received which contained the information, couched in courteous terms of regret, that the bridegroom, having been taken slightly ill, was unable to be present, and the bride had therefore remained at home. No one of the Wine-count's family made his appearance, except the Wine-cavalier, who expressed in renewed terms regret for the indisposition of his future brother-in-law.

A famous portrait-painter was also present, who had been for several weeks at the country-house of the Wine-count in order to paint life-size portraits of the betrothed couple. He was very much the fashion, and was very successful in pearls, lace, and gray satin, and also in faces, except that they all had a strong tinge of blue; but he was very popular with the court, and there could be no question but that he was the only man to paint the distinguished bride.

The Russian Prince was, of course, a star of the first magnitude. Sonnenkamp occupied the place of honor next to Frau Bella, and on the other side sat the Prince. Clodwig had Frau Ceres by his side, and the Major was very naturally seated next, as an efficient ally. Clodwig entertained Frau Ceres in a very friendly way, and she ate freely to-day, out of embarrassment, without Sonnenkamp's intervention.

Sonnenkamp had brought into play his old weapons of gallantry, but he seemed to have no success, for Bella did not half listen to him, giving much of her attention to the conversation of Eric with the Russian.

All at once the conversation between different individuals ceased, as the Prince asked Herr Sonnenkamp,--

"Do they also designate the slaves in America as souls?"

"I do not understand your meaning."

"I mean that in Russia we designate the serfs as souls: a man is said to have so many hundred or thousand souls; and do they call them so in America too?"

"No."

"It is questioned indeed," interposed Clodwig, "whether the niggers really have souls. Humboldt relates that the savages have the notion that apes also can speak, but that they purposely refrain from doing so, because they are afraid that they also shall be compelled to work if it is known that they can speak."

A general laugh proceeded from the company at table, and Clodwig added,--

"If we dig up the smallest vessel belonging to the Greek and Roman age, we discover always some sort of beauty; but, so far as I am acquainted, the niggers have never embodied a single new beautiful form."

"Neither have they," interposed the Prince, "as has been said, ever invented even a mouse-trap!"

"Not even that," replied Clodwig. "The question comes up, whether the negroes can be inheritors of civilization, for they are not inheritors of the beautiful human form as it has been handed down to us from Egypt, Greece, and Rome, and so cannot become cultivators of the plastic arts; and art alone is the ennobler of humanity. They cannot create the beautiful after their likeness; and as it is said, 'God made man after his image,' so man fashions his gods after his own likeness, which the negroes cannot do. Perhaps in the coming time they will create something for themselves, but not for others; and they are therefore not partakers of the inheritance, for they are not included in the great human brotherhood, which is not to be entered by force."

Sonnenkamp looked up; his whole countenance expanded. This is the utterance of a man whose love of humanity is not to be questioned.

"That is a fact!" he interposed. "There is no sentimentalism in America: our plain common-sense views are declared heterodox indeed by pedantic wisdom, and branded as inhumanity, but there is a priesthood of so-called humanity; and it has its inquisition as well as the other priesthood."

Sonnenkamp spoke with a concentrated scorn, with a repelling violence, which clearly showed how unsuitable he considered the topic introduced by the Prince, although he had done it in a most civil manner. Clodwig thought that he ought to come to his assistance, and he began in a low tone but became more animated as he went on.

"Whoever considers historical facts with coolness and impartiality sees that the Idea is continually unfolding, working long in stillness, but without cessation; and this silent working goes on, until some unexpected fact which has nothing in common with the Idea brings it into clear light and perfect development. The Idea only prepares the way by setting the tune; the fact is irrefragable, and performs an actual part."

Bella said something in a low tone to the Prince on her right, but Clodwig was well aware that it was meant for an apology for his somewhat heavy and abstract statement; with a hardly perceptible twinge of his face, and his lips drawn somewhat pointedly together, he resumed:--

"I am of the conviction, that without Sebastopol the emancipation of the peasants would not have been brought about, and in the way it has been; and who knows when and how it could have been accomplished in any other way? Saul goes forth to-day, as of old, to look for an ass, and finds a kingdom,--the kingdom of a regal, all-powerful Idea. The Crimean war was undertaken for the purpose of humiliating Russia, and it brought Russia to the measure of establishing a free peasantry, and renewing herself in her inner life. These are the great facts of history, and they are not our doing."

"That is new to me, surprisingly new," interposed the Prince, while Clodwig continued:--

"The Russian ambassador informed me that during the Crimean war the rumor was spread--no one knew its origin, and yet it was in all mouths--that every one who had fought at Sebastopol, or who had volunteered for the war to deliver the Emperor from the Allies, should have land given him as a free present at its conclusion. This was a fixed notion in all brains, and where did it come from? The idea of the emancipation of the serfs, which had been mooted for a long time in books and journals and among the higher classes of the community, now took deep hold of the imagination, and assumed a definite form in the consciousness of the people, becoming a fact plain as day, that required only the imperial decree to set its seal upon it."

Clodwig stopped, as if wearied, but he summoned up his strength afresh and cried:

"This is the old grand saying: 'the swords shall be turned into ploughshares.'"

The entire company looked at each other with surprise, not understanding why and how Clodwig had fallen into such a strain; Eric alone gazed at Clodwig with a beaming countenance. As a hand was placed upon his shoulder, he looked round, startled. Roland, standing behind him, said,--

"That is exactly what you once said to me."

"Sit down, and be quiet," said Eric. Roland went to his seat, but he waited until he caught Eric's eye, and then drank to him.

Bella looked around, as if wanting help to start some subject more befitting table-talk: she looked at Eric, and nodded to him, as if beseeching him to divert the conversation from these detestable matters.

Just then the servants poured out some Johannisberg in delicate pretty glasses, and Eric said, holding the glass up before him,--

"Herr Count, such wine as this the old nations never drank out of those stone jars which we have dug up from the ground."

Bella nodded to him cheeringly, but as he said nothing further, she asked,--

"Have we any precise information about the ancient method of cultivating the vine?"

"Very little," replied Eric. "The ancients probably had no notion of this bouquet, this spirit of the wine, for they drank it only unfermented."

"I am very far," interposed Sonnenkamp, "from laying any claim to classical lore, but it is very easily seen, that without the cutting of the vines there can be no maturing and full concentration of the sap in the clusters; and without the cask there can be no mellow and perfectly ripe wine."

"Without the cask? Why the cask?" asked the Russian. "Does the wood of the cask serve to clarify the wine?"

"I think not," answered Sonnenkamp, "but the wooden cask allows the air to penetrate, allows the wine to become ripe in the vaults, allows it to work itself pure,--in a word, to come to perfection. In vessels of clay the wine is suffocated, or, at best, experiences no change."

With great address, Bella added,--"That delights me; now I see that a progressive culture contributes to higher enjoyment even of the products of nature."

Sonnenkamp was highly pleased; he was here able to add something interesting, and he appeared in a very favorable light. Then the conversation was carried on between different individuals.

There was general cheerfulness and hilarity, and every painful impression seemed to have passed away: their faces glowed, and their eyes shone brightly, as the company arose from the table.

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VIII. HELP YOURSELF

The gentlemen sat by themselves in the garden, taking coffee after the ladies had withdrawn.

The Prince, who wanted to show manifest friendliness towards Sonnenkamp, spoke of his intention to travel in America, and Clodwig encouraged it, regretting that he had not done so in his youth.

"I think that he who has not been in America does not know what man is when he gives himself the reins: life there awakens entirely new energies in the soul, and in the midst of the struggle for worldly possessions, each one becomes a sort of Robinson Crusoe, who must develop in himself new resources. I should say that America has some points of comparison with Greece: in Greece the body was exhibited naked, and in America the soul. This is by no means the most attractive sight, but a renewal of humanity may yet be the result."

The Musician, who was about to make a professional journey to America, remarked,--

"I don't see how they live in a land whose soil grows no wine, and in whose air sings no lark."

"Allow me one question, Herr Count," Eric now said. "It is striking that they have been able to invent no new names in America, but have taken from the aboriginal inhabitants, and from the immigrants out of the old world, their names for rivers, mountains, towns, and men; and I would here like to ask,--has the new world succeeded in adding a new ethical principle to those already established?"

"Certainly," interposed Sonnenkamp, "the best that there is going."

"The best! What is it?"

"The two significant words,--'Help yourself.'"

Shaking his head, Clodwig said,--

"Strictly speaking, 'Help yourself' is not a human, but an animal principle; for every beast helps himself with all his powers. This maxim was only justifiable as a protest against a polished and hollow conventionalism, or against that utter abandonment of individual effort in demanding every thing from the State. 'Help yourself' is a good motto for an immigrant, but as soon as he becomes a settler, he stands in relations of rights and duties as regards others. In the far west of America, 'Help yourself' does not apply, for there the neighbors help each other a great deal. 'Help yourself' is of avail, at farthest, for individuals by themselves, and not for those assembled in a community: the serfs could not help themselves, and the slaves have not been able to help themselves. The moral law of solidarity is,--'Help thy neighbor, as thy neighbor is to help thee; and when thou helpest thyself, thou helpest also others.'"

Here they came upon the subject so happily turned aside at table, but as no one seemed disposed to resume it, Clodwig continued,--

"It would seem that every people must become adopted as a citizen in the great realm of history, through some idea. I believe that the grand calling of America is, to annihilate slavery from the face of the earth. But as I said before, this is the carrying out of an idea that has been for a long time maturing. I should like to ask if America has any new moral principle?"

"Perhaps the sewing-machine is a now moral principle," said Pranken, in his free, joking manner.

They laughed.

"But there is a moral principle involved in 'Help yourself,'" interposed Eric. "Among us Europeans, a man becomes something through inheritance, or through royal favor, while the American looks for nothing from others, and seeks to become what he can be through his own efforts, and not through any foreign help. And in respect to that belief which regards man as a pack of merchandise, to be forwarded by some agent to its heavenly destination, this maxim, 'Help yourself,' is very significant. Thou, man, art no coffer, well corded with legal prescriptions, and sealed by the spiritual officers of customs as having paid the duty and passed inspection, but thou art a living passenger on this earth, and must look out for thyself. Help yourself! Nobody forwards thee to thy destination; and we Germans have a proverb that comes near it in meaning: 'Each one must carry his own hide to market.'"

"May I ask a question?" said Roland, entering into the conversation.

All were surprised, especially Eric and Sonnenkamp.

"Ask it if you wish," Eric said encouragingly.

"When I heard the Herr Count speaking of the heritage of civilization, I felt as if I must ask: how do we know that we are civilized?"

The youth spoke with timidity, and Eric encouraged him.

"Explain more fully what you mean by that."

"Perhaps the Turks or the Chinese consider us barbarous."

"You would have, then," Eric said, to help him on, "some unmistakable token whereby a people, an age, a religion, a man, can perceive whether they are in the great current of universal, historical civilization?"

"Yes, that is what I mean."

"Well, then, consider wherein does a cultivated man differ from an uncultivated?"

"He differs from him in having good thoughts and clear views."

"Where does he get these?"

"Out of himself."

"And how does he learn to sharpen them, and to round them off?"

"By comparing them."

"With what?"

"With the thoughts of great men."

"And does he perceive truth in agreement with others, or in opposition to them?"

"In agreement with them."

"And where do those live with whom he is in agreement?"

"All around him."

"Have not others lived before him?"

"Certainly."

"And can we compare our thoughts and views with those men who have lived before us, or learn directly from the past?"

"Certainly; that is what writings are for."

"Good! And if now a man, or a people, has a system or a culture which has no connection with the past, with no man and no people who have gone before, what is he?"

"No inheritor."

"I did not expect that answer, but I accept it; good! Then is a people, that invents no culture, in connection with humanity, or in a condition of isolation?"

"Of isolation."

"This is the way it stands, then. We know that we are in the centre, or rather in the advancing front, of a progressive civilization, because we have received an inheritance from the Past, from Persians, Jews, Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans, and we transmit it. The Turks and Chinese, who are not able to do this, stand by themselves and so decline. It is not pride which causes us Germans to consider ourselves in the front rank of civilization, for there is no nation that takes up more fully into itself, and carries on farther, the work of humanity than the German, or, we will say, the Germanic, for your father-land is also included."

"Bravo! bravo!" cried Clodwig, as they all rose. Clodwig went to Sonnenkamp and said,--

"Never was a recommendation better justified than mine of the Captain to you; and you are in the right, Herr Sonnenkamp. I have learned something,--'Help yourself' is a grand new principle: it is not a moral principle, but a preceptive formula. See how our friend teaches your son pre-eminently to help himself: this is the new Socratic method."

Eric and Roland had become now the central objects of the company; and the Prince, coming up to Eric and shaking hands with him, said,--

"You are really a teacher!"

A messenger came from the ladies to say that they would repair to the saloon, and the gentlemen went there in cheerful mood. The jovial Austrian officer, who had elevated to the nobility the daughter of a merchant in the neighboring commercial city, sang some comic songs; Pranken was prevailed upon to exhibit some sleight-of-hand tricks which he had learned from a juggler, and he did it in capital style; and finally, the musician played some tunes upon Clodwig's old violin.

Sonnenkamp embraced the favorable opportunity of speaking to Clodwig, as they were sitting together in a retired nook of the large saloon; he began with speaking of the interest which Roland was so fortunate as to excite in Clodwig, and he very readily acknowledged how great his interest was. Sonnenkamp felt his way along very cautiously, and there was an affecting, paternal tone in the manner in which he said that he had nothing more to desire in life for himself, and that his only wish was to have Roland established securely in an honorable position. Clodwig said he had no doubt that he had gained, and would continue to gain still further, by intercourse with Eric and by his instruction, a knowledge of life, and an introduction into it which would make him strong in himself, and insure at some time admittance into the society of the nobility.

Sonnenkamp fastened upon this expression, "the society of the nobility;" he had not studied in vain the natural history of bribery, and Clodwig must be won over by being made one of the nominating committee, and be bribed by the payment of shares in the new fancy-stock; but Clodwig conducted himself as if he had no idea what Sonnenkamp was aiming at. Sonnenkamp was so confused by this, that instead of requesting directly Clodwig's aid in accomplishing his purpose, he asked his advice; Clodwig discouraged him very decidedly, even saying plainly that it was not expedient to unite one's self with a dying institution, in which one would not feel at home. Sonnenkamp expressed gratefully his sense of obligation. Clodwig seized a favorable opportunity to mingle among the guests, and Sonnenkamp could not again get possession of him.

They drove home in the bright daylight, the host and hostess accompanying them a part of the way. Sonnenkamp let Roland take a seat with his mother and Fräulein Perini, for he did not want to encounter the displeasure of his wife, who had stared frequently at Bella's splendid pearl necklace; he took Eric and the Major with him into the carriage.

"This, then, is German society! In our worthy host there is a good deal of the professor," said Sonnenkamp. No one made any reply.

He then said in English to Eric, that he deserved great praise for his tact, that in the presence of Roland, who was still so young, he put so reserved a face on his friendship for Clodwig and his beautiful wife. And he said, placing his hand on Eric's shoulder,--

"Young man, I could envy you; I know very well that you will deny all, but I congratulate you. The old gentleman is right; 'Help yourself' is no moral principle."

Eric could not positively assert the groundlessness of this insinuation, and he felt himself severely punished, by this inward condemnation, for having been guilty even in the slightest passing thought; and it was consolatory to him to be able to say: I can apply it to myself, I have tested the worth of 'Help yourself.'

Sonnenkamp also had his reflections upon the words, 'Help yourself,' and he was vexed at them. He was now seeking to attain something, and self-help could avail nothing in his efforts, but he must accept the help of others. He wished now to acquire an elevated position, and this is a very different thing from the acquisition of money, land, property, and goods; honor proceeds only from persons united by a social bond, and therefore others must help; and the noblest and most influential one, whose aid was essential, was reserved, and disinclined to render him assistance. It did not seem as if Clodwig could be won over to take his part.

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IX. THE WREATH

Repeated distractions broke in at short intervals on the course of study; but Frau Ceres was made happy by an opportunity to wear all her ornaments, and Fräulein Perini was happy in opening the trunk which arrived from Paris; there could not be more than two such dresses in the world, of which the Empress had one, and Frau Ceres the other.

The old and highly respected family of the Wine-count had until now held back with unmistakable reserve from any intimate acquaintance with the family at Villa Eden, but now, after the dinner-party at Wolfsgarten, Sonnenkamp received an invitation to the wedding festival of their daughter and the son of the Court Marshal.

Eric had great difficulty in restraining his pupil from talking constantly about this great fête, for Roland had heard of the fireworks which were to be sent up from the Rhine and the wooded hills around, and every morning he said, "I do hope the weather will continue pleasant; it will be such a pity if it doesn't." He was often away with Pranken for several hours at a time, and returned very much excited, evidently keeping some secret from Eric, who did not ask any questions.

On the day of the fête, the General with whom the family had become acquainted in the capital arrived.

It was mid-day when they started, in three carriages, for the house of the Wine-count. Frau Ceres occupied one carriage with the General. She seemed to swim in a stream of drapery, so full and spreading were the folds of her dress. In the second and open carriage rode Sonnenkamp with Fräulein Perini and Pranken, in full uniform and wearing two orders. He accompanied them in order to make his appearance as a member of Sonnenkamp's family. Sonnenkamp said nothing, but his face showed how grateful he was to the young man, who had not only brought him the General as a guest, but was taking upon himself his introduction to the assemblage. In the third carriage sat Roland with Eric, who did very wrong, Roland thought, not to wear his uniform also.

A long line of carriages waited before the door of the Wine-count's villa, which stood broad and stately, on the high road, with well-arranged, shady grounds on each side. The General gave Frau Ceres his arm, and they were shown, by servants in rich livery, to the garden, through paths bordered with carefully-tended, fragrant flowers. At the foot of the garden steps the Wine-count met them, and begged the General to resign Frau Ceres to his care. Various groups were walking about the garden, or sitting on the pleasant grass-plots.

The Wine-count's wife, a tall, stout woman, had not heard in vain that she looked like the Empress Maria Theresa. She was dressed to-day quite in her imperial style, and wore a splendid diadem of brilliants.

Sonnenkamp was presented to the bridal pair. The bridegroom looked very weary, but the bride, with her wreath of roses, very animated; much regret was expressed that Manna was not with the family at the fête.

The Court Marshal expressed his pleasure at meeting Herr Sonnenkamp again, and at making the acquaintance of his wife and of his handsome son, of whom he had heard so much. A glow was thrown over the whole evening, when he said rather loudly, with evident intention, that Sonnenkamp had been most honorably mentioned at the Prince's table, on the preceding day. Frau Ceres, still wearing her white cape over her richly ornamented dress, was seated next the Court marshal.

The Wine-chevalier, wearing several orders, was moving about among the company. He was a man of good manners, having been in constant intercourse with all the aristocracy of Europe. In the time of Napoleon, when he was a jovial travelling agent for his father's firm, he had been employed by the wary Metternich on several missions, which he had carried through with much skill. There was scarcely a French General whom he had not known, and he had even conversed twice with Napoleon himself.

The Wine-count had three sons and three daughters; the oldest daughter was already married to an officer of noble family. Of the three sons, one had disappeared in America, after having squandered large sums of money for his father; the second was a member of a theatre orchestra in a capital of middle Germany, and it was said he had written to his father that, for his part, he would not be ennobled. The third and oldest son was the Wine-chevalier, who had striven very eagerly for the honor of nobility, and was very happy in his success.

The Wine-count was most cordial in his manner; there was a remarkable elasticity in the movements of the slender, white-haired old man. He went from guest to guest, with an appropriate friendly word for each, and on all sides received double congratulations, for on this very day the Prince had ennobled him. He expressed his thanks very modestly, for he could assure himself that he might have attained this honor two years before, but at that time there was a certain patriotic vertigo abroad which had seized even a wine-grower. He answered all the congratulations by saying that the Prince's great kindness made him extremely happy.

Sonnenkamp kept smiling to himself, looking forward to the time when he would thus be courted also, and he prepared to receive the homage with modest thankfulness.

Frau Ceres sat in much discomfort next the Court Marshal, who left her to her own thoughts when he found that no conversation could be kept up. At last a pleasure came to her when the Cabinet minister's lady arrived, and expressed great pleasure at meeting her, as the Court Marshal gave his seat to her.

Still greater was Frau Ceres' happiness when Frau Bella also came up; even in this circle, where there were many of her equals, she seemed to take a leading position. She was very gracious to Frau Ceres, and begged her to take her arm to go into the garden-saloon, where the rich outfit of the bride was exhibited; there was a universal expression of admiration, and some glances of envy from those who returned from its examination.

Frau Ceres managed her long train very awkwardly, while Bella held hers up gracefully, and moved as if she were sailing through light clouds.

Sonnenkamp was greeted by the Russian Prince in a most friendly manner, and delighted at his shaking hands with him; but his pleasure was soon strewn with ashes, as the Prince said,--

"I forgot that you were to tell me some particulars of the treatment of the slaves; I'm afraid I shall not find any of them left, when I make up my mind to visit America."

He soon turned away, as the General was introduced to him. Sonnenkamp began to feel somewhat strange and neglected in the circle, but his countenance brightened as he saw Bella and Frau Ceres walking together so confidentially.

"You have hardly spoken to the Countess," he said to Eric.

"Ah, I'm thinking of something quite different," answered Eric. "I should like to hear our new Baron tell his servants: John, Peter, Michael, from this day you must address me as Gracious Herr, or Herr Baron. He must appear ridiculous to himself."

"Perhaps Doctor is a finer title," replied Sonnenkamp sharply; "or is that born with a person?"

Eric's remark irritated him, and he would have been glad to send him out of the company. But he suddenly became more amiable, as Bella approached and said to him,

"Do you know, Herr Sonnenkamp, what we are all really here for, and what this whole fête means? It is a christening feast, and our gracious Prince has played off a good joke. The Wine-dealer has striven for nobility so long, at last offering up his daughter as a sacrificial lamb, that the Prince could not help granting it to him at last. And isn't it good that he has given him the name Herr von Endlich? (At Last.)"

Then in a very amusing way she went on to describe how fine it would be if so old a candidate for baptism suddenly cried, I don't want that name, I want another.

Turning to Eric, she sketched the whole assemblage for him with apt, though somewhat malicious strokes. She ridiculed with most sarcasm a knot of young girls, who evidently could not forget the heavy weight of hair upon their heads, for the hair-dressers from the Baths and the Fortress had been hurrying, since early morning, from house to house, to deck out the girls' heads in proper company style. Bella mimicked the girls as they said to each other, "Please tell me if my chignon is still on."

With much merriment she pointed out a tall, lank Englishman, coming in sight with his stout wife and three slim daughters, who wore long curls and extraordinarily brilliant dresses. He lived in winter at the capital, in the summer at a country-seat, passing the time in angling, while his daughters were constantly drawing. He was considered very rich, and his wealth had a singular source; many years before, a brother of his wife had been sent to Botany Bay, and, being an experienced trader, had there succeeded in establishing a large export business, and laid the foundation of the family wealth.

Bella was full of charming humor, and Eric felt as if he had done her injustice. He had listened to the sharp judgment, the mental dissection, of Bella from the physician, when he ought to have contested it decidedly. He looked at her as if asking pardon for something, and she, well satisfied, showed a fresh cheerfulness, which was not wanting in magic power. She treated Eric with marked attention before the whole company.

Count Clodwig joined the group, and remarked that he was always surprised anew to see how many odd characters settled here on the banks of the Rhine. The Major stood apart and looked at Herr Sonnenkamp, as if he would say: I beg you, don't do this too; stay with us. It would be pleasanter to me than to give her the prettiest bon-bons which I shall carry home, to be able to say to Fräulein Milch, What they say about Herr Sonnenkamp isn't true! For again had Fräulein Milch penetrated the well-guarded mystery.

Eric pitied the Major, who looked unusually dull, and he succeeded in getting at the cause of his low spirits, for the Major said,

"It's just as if a Christian were to turn Turk! Ah, you may laugh, but Fräulein Milch is right. All that beautiful money, which has been earned with so much trouble, is now to be thrown away on the nobles, and we commoners may stand aside, and never have any more notice taken of us."

Eric silently pressed the Major's hand, and the latter asked:--

"But where's Roland?"

Indeed, where was Roland? He had vanished soon after their arrival, and was nowhere to be seen. The evening came on gradually, and wonderfully beautiful music from wind instruments was heard in the thick shrubbery; for a while, the guests in the garden were silent, and then it seemed as if the music made them only the more talkative. Eric looked for Roland, but no one could tell him anything of him.

The music ceased, and darkness gathered. On the balcony of the house appeared a trumpeter, in a costume of the middle ages, and sounded a call; the company repaired to the house, up the steps to the great hall and the adjoining rooms. Here a few seats were placed; in the foreground, two great arm-chairs, dressed with flowers, for the bride and bridegroom; behind them, a line of chairs for the oldest and most distinguished guests.

Frau Ceres was conducted to a seat near Bella; Fräulein Perini had managed very adroitly to get near her and pull gently at her cloak. Frau Ceres understood, and all eyes, which had been resting on the bridal pair, now turned to her. Such ornaments, imitating a wreath of wheat-ears of which each grain was a great diamond, such a dress, sown thick with pearls and diamonds, were never before seen; a long-continued murmur of applause ran through the assembly.

Frau Ceres stood by her chair, as if rooted to the spot, till Bella begged her to sit down; she looked smilingly at the splendid jewels: it was all very well for the American woman to put those on, but she couldn't put on such a neck and arms as her own.

Now it appeared that one of the walls of the room was only a curtain, which was presently drawn up. Vine-dressers were discovered, who sang and spoke praises of the family, and finally presented a myrtle crown.

The curtain fell, amidst the expressions of delight of the whole company, and as they were about to rise, a voice behind the curtain cried:--

"Remain seated!"

The curtain rose again, and, behind a thin gauze, Apollo was seen among shepherds and vine-dressers, and Apollo was Roland; the curtain had to be twice raised again, for all were enraptured with the tableau, and especially with Roland's god-like appearance. Bella nodded exultantly to Eric, who was standing apart; but he felt as if benumbed, as he asked himself what effect all this would have on Roland, and how Roland could have concealed it from him. It was not long before Roland joined the company in his ordinary dress; he was admired and praised on all sides, and nearly taken off his feet.

Frau Ceres was congratulated almost more than Roland, on her happiness in having a son of such divine beauty; repeated regrets were expressed that her daughter was not at the fête. Frau Ceres received all this most amiably, saying constantly: "I thank you most sincerely, you are very kind." Fräulein Perini had taught her her lesson.

New rooms were opened, where tables were spread, and the guests seated themselves.

Roland went to Eric.

"Are you the only one to say nothing to me?" he asked.

Eric was silent.

"Ah," Roland continued, "it has cost me much trouble to conceal anything from you, and still more to be attentive for these last few days, but I wanted to surprise you."

Eric recovered himself, and decided that it would be best not to lay much stress on the matter, so that it might be less likely to have any hurtful effect; he only warned Roland to be careful not to take too much wine. The boy was so full of happiness that he preferred to sit near Eric, to show him that he was moderate, rather than to take a seat which was reserved for him at the table of the bride.

Pranken, who, with the portrait painter's aid, had arranged the tableau, was in a state of singular excitement this evening, for the idea kept ringing in his head that he might have married the Wine-count's beautiful daughter; here was new-varnished nobility, to be sure, but everything was made sure of; here would be now an attractive widow, or, better still, an attractive unhappy wife. He drove the thoughts away, however, saying to himself that he loved Manna.

As a former comrade of the bridegroom, and as friend of the family, Pranken proposed the toast to the bridal pair; he spoke well, and in a humorous tone, as was best, and the company were well pleased.

The discharge of a cannon gave notice that the fireworks were beginning, and the guests betook themselves to the veranda and the garden.

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X. FIREWORKS AND THEN DARKNESS

Bella suddenly stood by Eric's side, without his noticing her approach.

"You are unusually grave to-day," she said in a low voice.

"I am not used to the confusion of such a fête."

"I always feel as if you would have something to say to me," she murmured lower.

Eric was silent, and Bella continued:--

"Does it seem to you as it does to me, when you see your nearest friend in a great assembly, as if you met in a strange land, or as if struggling in a river, in which you are drowning?"

"Ah! Bravo!" many voices cried suddenly. A flight of rockets was sent off, while music was heard, and a trumpet across the river took up the strain, and echoed it. Far away they saw the people from the towns and villages about, standing on the river-banks, their faces lighted by the glare.

"Ah," exclaimed Bella, as all was dark again, "we are all nothing but slaves! If we could live like that, that would be life indeed! to burn like that rocket in the free air, then come, darkness and death; ye are welcome!"

Eric trembled; he did not know how it happened, but he was holding Bella's hand fast in his.

Again bright fires rose from river and hills. It seemed as if all those people who were looking on from the distant shore must have seen Eric's hand in Bella's. Eric drew back with a start. The Prince came up, and Bella immediately took his arm. Eric was left alone, and as he saw Bella walking up and down the road before the house, leaning on the Prince's arm, he tried to recollect whether he had not said to her, I love you. It seemed to him that he had spoken aloud, and yet it could not be. Fire-wheels, the monogram of the bridal-pair, Roman-candles, were exhibited, and at last from a boat on the Rhine rose a great golden wine-flask, which burst in the air, and scattered a shower of sparkling drops of light. Music resounded, and from the shore a shout was heard, as if all the waves had found a voice.

Eric's brain reeled; he knew not where he was, nor who he was. Suddenly he felt an arm laid on his own: it was Clodwig. Eric would have liked to kneel before him, but he felt unworthy to utter a word, and he could only make an inward vow: I will send a bullet through my heart, rather than allow it ever again to thrill with this excitement.

Clodwig spoke of Roland, saying that he could not think it right or wise that he should be thrust into a sphere strange to him. Eric answered at random; Clodwig believed that he must know of the project, while Eric thought he was alluding to the military profession; and he seemed so distracted and inwardly excited, that Clodwig admonished his young friend to exert himself less strenuously, and not to torment himself needlessly.

Eric avoided saying good-night to Bella.

It was late when they drove back, in the same manner as they had come, except that the Cabinetsrath and his wife accompanied them, to spend the night at Villa Eden.

The Minister rode with Sonnenkamp, and the conversation naturally fell on the fête, and on the dissolution of the old and respected firm of wine dealers, since the Wine-count was now about to sell at auction his whole stock. The Minister's lady said that Bella had told her that she intended to write Eric's mother and aunt for a visit; Pranken pretended to know of this plan, but was inwardly very much surprised. Now that they were alone and need not be reserved with each other, the Minister's lady said emphatically, that no one could bring about the conferring of the new dignity on Herr Sonnenkamp more easily and simply than the Professor's widow. It was not exactly decided upon, but it was hinted to Herr Sonnenkamp, that he might establish the first claim of hospitality by inviting the ladies to Villa Eden.

Sonnenkamp smiled to himself, for he had a further plan of making Frau Dournay useful: the General had said several times that she was a trusted friend of his sister, the Superior of the island convent; here were the wires to be pulled.

In the third carriage Eric rode again with Roland; they sat silent for a long time, as the carriage rolled slowly on. At last a voice called out:--

"Good evening, Herr Captain!"

Eric ordered the driver to stop; it was Claus's son, the cooper, who was walking along the wood. He brought Eric a greeting from Master Knopf at Mattenheim, and said that he had been there with a message from his father, asking Knopf to appear before the jury the next day, as a witness in his defence. Roland rubbed his eyes, and looked about him as if he were in a strange world. He asked the cooper to get into the carriage with them. The cooper thanked him, but declined, and went on to say how wonderful it had been, as he came over the hills from Mattenheim, to see, just as he left the woods, the strange fires mounting to heaven from the Rhine far below, and he had stood just where the rocks echoed the cannon. He held out his hand to Eric, but not to Roland.

As the two drove on again, Roland said:

"Then Claus has heard the cannon in his prison, and perhaps he saw the fireworks too. Ah, he has not a single dog to speak to near him. I've often been sorry that he had to wander about so constantly through the fields by day and night, but now he must long for that old weariness. And while he sits there in prison, everything is growing outside, and the thieves of hares and foxes know, that no one knows their burrows so well as he: and I do believe he is innocent. Ah, why must there be poor, unhappy men; why can't the whole world be happy?" For the first time, Eric saw that he must advise Roland not to say anything to his father of these thoughts, about the huntsman, and about the poor and unfortunate.

Eric felt quite satisfied that all the praise Roland had received for his appearance as Apollo had done no harm.

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XI. A REPRESSED HEART

"What are we, when judged by our most secret thoughts?"

So had Eric written in answer to a dainty note which Bella had written to him. She had requested him to send the coat in which she had painted him, as something peculiar in its cut had yet to be introduced, in order to give the finishing touch to the portrait. The way in which she had signed her name startled Eric; there was her name, Bella, but instead of her surname, an interrogation point between two brackets. She had scratched this out, as if thinking better of it, but it was still to be perceived.

She put the coat upon the lay-figure in her studio; it affected her strangely, and she stood there now, with her hand placed upon the shoulder of the figure.

"What are we, judged by our most secret thoughts?" had Eric written, and it seemed now as if the words came from the mouth of the model before her.

Bella shuddered, and was seized with a deadly trembling, for as she stood there with her gaze fastened upon the floor, and her hand laid upon the garment of the man not her husband, it seemed to her as if she should sink to the earth. At this instant, her whole life unfolded itself to her view.

The days of childhood--there was no definite image of these. The teachers praised her quick comprehension; a French bonne was dismissed, and a strict English governess received into the family; Bella learned languages easily, and good manners seemed natural to her. Her smart repartees, when she was very young, were repeated admiringly, and this flattered her vanity, and extinguished all childish ingenuousness.

Ladies and gentlemen visiting the house, or meeting her casually in different places, praised her beauty in her hearing. She was confirmed, but the holy ceremony appeared to her only as the sign of her deliverance from the nursery, when she must lay aside her short dresses and put on long ones; and when going up to the altar, the thought which predominated in her was, Thou art the fairest one. As the bishop had taken tea the evening before with her parents, he was not to her a supernatural being as to the rest, for he had spoken familiarly with her, and she appeared to herself to be, in the church, the central point of all observation.

Her father yielded to her wishes, and Bella, at fourteen years of age, was introduced the next winter into society. She made a brilliant appearance, and was much courted; everybody spoke with admiration of the air of fresh youth that hovered around her. But she early exhibited a sort of coldness, so that she was nicknamed the mer-maiden, and in her eye there was what might be called a cold fire. Even the reigning Prince singled her out. She still kept the engagement-card of her first court-ball as a sacred relic, and with it a withered bouquet.

Now followed an unbroken chain of homage and attention. Bella, with her ready and apt replies, was the life of the circle in which she moved. While yet a child, her beauty had been praised in her own hearing, and now that she was a woman, her remarkable mental powers were extolled, either directly or indirectly, so that she was sure to be informed of it. Her striking remarks and keen criticisms were quoted, and her witticisms passed around. In this way she had acquired the reputation of great knowledge, which, with her spirited piano playing, and above all, her skill in painting, caused her to be regarded as a social wonder, and to be held up as a pattern to many a young girl who came out after her in society.

Before she was sixteen, she had refused many offers of marriage, and she smiled when she heard of the betrothal of one and another, for she could say, You could have married this man, if you had wished to. Her mother would have been glad to have her married young, but her father was not willing that his child should be separated from him so early; he hoped that some prince of the collateral branch would unite himself with her in marriage.

Her seventeenth birthday was ushered in by a morning serenade from the band of the Guards, and congratulations poured in from all sides; but if she could have been seen then, as the tones of the music awakened her from sleep, and a new thought stirred within her, her large eyes would have presented a look different from any ever seen in them before. The thought was, I have no belief in love. All this singing and talking of the power of love is nonsensical romance! Her mother's teaching had contributed not a little to produce this conviction; she had early uprooted the influences of love, perpetually representing to her daughter that the main thing was, to make a brilliant match; and Bella, in fact, had never loved any one, for she insisted upon the submission of him towards whom she felt any preference. From one of her mother's cousins she heard suggestions of an opposite nature; she frequently said, half satirically and half seriously, that the only right love was that directed towards a man of a lower condition. If you should love the artist in whose studio you work, or your teacher of music or of language, that would be genuine love. But it seemed to Bella as if any special attachment to a teacher was like entertaining a love for a livery-servant, or even for a being of a different species, and choosing him for a husband.

On that seventeenth birthday, there was perceptible, for the first time, that cold, glassy, Medusa-look, which regarded men with indifference, as if they were nothing but shadows; but no one remarked it, and it seemed as if on that day something was paralyzed within her which would never again feel the stirrings of life.

Before she was twenty, after the year of mourning for her father had elapsed, with feelings already cold and benumbed, Bella withdrew from society, entering it only occasionally, as if she were performing a burdensome duty. She studied, she painted, she practised music, she occupied herself with artists, scholars, and statesmen; and she wore a constant rigidity of countenance and look, except when she was flinging around her criticisms, which always produced a greater impression from the fact that her deep, masculine voice was in striking contrast with her feminine appearance.

It created considerable excitement, when it was understood that Bella had removed the opposition of her parents to her younger sister's marrying before her. Bella stood before the altar by the side of her sister, and through her sister's bridal veil she saw the dark brown eye of the Adjutant General, who had been recently made a widower, fixed upon herself. She moved her lips slightly, saying to herself with self-rejoicing pride. You will woo me in vain. She took delight in wounding, disturbing, breaking hearts, by turns enticing and then repelling them. She had said to her father, I should be glad to marry, if one can like to do what one cannot bring his mind to do; but to stand up before the altar and say yes, for life and for death!----I was frightened when I heard my sister say that, and I thought that I must cry out, "No! No! No!" And I do not answer for myself, that I should not involuntarily say no.

She proffered herself as companion of an invalid princess, who was ordered to reside for a year at Madeira; on returning, after the death of the princess at the island, Bella smiled when she was told of the Adjutant General's marriage. She could not complain that suitors gradually grew fewer in number, but still she was vexed at it.

She took now a journey with two English ladies to Italy and Greece, with Lootz for her courier. She spent a whole winter at Constantinople, and the malicious tongues at the capital said, that she was after a man of exalted position, and that everything else was a matter of indifference to her; that she would marry a gray-bearded Pacha. On her return Bella generally appeared dressed in satin.

Then came Clodwig's suit; and, to the great surprise of the whole capital, the betrothal and the wedding took place within four weeks of each other. Bella retired with her husband to Wolfsgarten, not essentially changed by marriage, and without gaining that full development of the nature it gives to woman. What was there still to be developed? She was accomplished, and she was specially happy, so far as happiness was possible to her, in perceiving--what she had not looked for, although she hoped to find it--Clodwig's nobility of soul.

For the first time, she felt humble and modest; her life was peaceful and retired, and the days flowed on in uniform round. Clodwig was as attentive, as sympathizing, and as full of devotion as at first; a composure and a steadfastness, such as is assigned only to the gods, was the prevailing characteristic of his spirit. He was personally considerate and tender, to an extreme degree; and he exhibited his vehement nature, which found vent in the strongest expressions, only when dwelling upon matters of universal interest. Bella recognized in this only a justifiable excitement, for Clodwig's active life had been passed in a petty, crippled period, and wasted in the trifling affairs of a lilliputian Principality, while he himself was fitted for grander and more universal affairs.

Clodwig often reproached himself for the firm confidence that he had entertained during his whole life, that the Idea would, of itself, become realized; and he now saw, when it was too late, that one must plunge headlong into the current of cooperating influences. As soon as he went again among men, and especially when he entered the court-circle, he was always gentle and indulgent. He was full of admiration of his wife's talents, and if at any time he moderately criticized and set forth her superficial and external mode of looking at things, she was for an instant inwardly disturbed; but when she looked upon the noble, refined form of the old man, all frowardness vanished. She was happy to see herself, and to make the world see, how she could cherish a great and good man. She knew that she would be watched; and the world should never have occasion to remark invidiously upon her conduct.

All at once there had now entered this peaceful circle a man who disposed of her, her husband, and the whole house, without effort and with irresistible power; and she had been opposed to him at first, had expressed that opposition to Clodwig, and had zealously labored against his becoming established in the neighborhood. But as Clodwig had brought into prominent notice, with an enthusiastic kindness of heart, the sterling traits of this man's character, had even drawn him towards herself against her will, she resigned herself to the pleasure of this enlivening intercourse.

Thus stood Bella before the portrait to which she still delayed to put the finishing touch, inwardly chafing, and thoroughly vexed with herself. She, the mature in experience, to be the subject of such a girlish infatuation! "girlish infatuation," she called it, and yet she could not free herself from it. Was it because her self-love was wounded; was it because, for the first time, she had stretched out her hand and it was not taken?

Her large eyes sparkled, and whoever had beheld her now would have seen the Medusa-look.

She left the studio with all speed, and went to her dressing-room. She stood there before the large mirror, and let down her luxuriant hair, staring into the mirror, while upon her closely pressed lips lay the question. Art thou then so old? She opened her lips, like one ill with fever, like one parched with thirst, panting to drink. Her eyes beamed with a joyous brightness, as she said to herself: Thou art beautiful. Thou art able to judge of thyself as impartially as thou wouldest a stranger. But what means this silly infatuation?

She took the long tresses of her hair in both hands, and held them crossed under her chin; she was terrified as she now perceived, for the first time, how strong a likeness she bore to the bust of Medusa in the guest-chamber above.

"Yes, I will be Medusa! He shall be shattered, turned into stone, annihilated! He shall kneel to me, and then I will trample him under my feet!" She raised her foot, but immediately covered her face with both hands, while tears flowed from her eyes.

"Forgive, forgive my pride, my madness!" was the cry uttered within her. Fierce irritation and passionate emotion, pride and humility, contended together within her breast, and it seemed as if the chill of that morning serenade had been all at once removed, and the heart had unfolded itself, as some long-closed calyx unfolds its petals. A longing sprang up within her--a longing for home, as in some wayward child who has run away from its parents into the woods--a longing for some place of shelter and rest,--a home: where is it? where?

She yearned for a soul to which she could lay open all her own soul.

"Forgive me! forgive!" was echoed and re-echoed within her. At first it was directed to Clodwig, and now to Eric.

"Forgive! forgive my pride! But thou canst not know how proud I have been: and I sacrificed to thee more than a thousand others, more than the whole world, can even conceive and comprehend."

She shuddered at being alone, rang for her dressing-maid, and made an elaborate toilet.

"Tell me how old I am. Do you not know?" she suddenly asked.

The dressing-maid was startled at the question, and not returning an immediate answer, Bella continued:--

"I have never been young."

"O my gracious lady, you are still young, and you never looked better than you do now."

"Do you think so?" said Bella, throwing back her head, for a voice within her said: Why shouldest thou not be also young for once? Thou art! Thou art what thou canst not help being; and let the world be what it must be too.

Leaving the house, she went around the garden, seeming to herself to be a captive. Unconsciously she went into the room on the ground-floor, and as she stood near the unearthed antiquities, a voice within her said:--

"What are all these? What are these vessels? Lava-ashes! all ashes! What is all this antiquarian rummaging? What is the use of this picking up of old buried trash, this perpetual thinking and talking about humanity and progress? all foreign, dead, a conversation over a death-bed; nothing but distraction, forgetfulness; no life, no hope, no future; never towards the day, always towards the night,--the night of the past, and the ideal of humanity. But I am not the past, I am not an ideal of humanity. I am the to-day, I will be the today. Ah me, where am I!" She went into the garden, and watched two butterflies hovering hither and thither in the air, now alighting upon the flowers, now coming together, separating again, and again uniting.

"This is life!" was the cry within her. "This is life! they grub up no ancient relics, they live with no antiquities."

Then came a swallow darting down, seized one of the butterflies, and vanished.

What is thy life to thee now, thou poor butterfly?

Below, over the Rhine, clouds of smoke from the steamboats were floating in the air, and Bella thought:--

"If one could only thus fly away! What do we here? We heat with our blood this dead earth, so that it may have some little life. Our life-breath is nothing but a puff of vapor that mingles with thousands of other vaporous films; this we call life, and it vanishes like the thousands----"

The children of the laborers upon the estate, coming out of school, saluted the gracious lady.

Bella stared at them. What becomes of these children? What is the use of this fatuous renewing of humanity?

As if to conceal herself from herself, she buried her face in a flowering shrub. She left the park; she saw in the court outside the dove cooing about his mate. The beautiful mate was so coy, picked up its food so quietly, hardly paying any attention to the tender gurgling, and then flew away to the house-top, where she trimmed her feathers. The dove flew after his mate, but she shook her head again and took flight.

Then as Bella was gazing with a fixed look, she saw a servant yoking some oxen. He first placed a pad upon the head of the beast, and over that a wooden yoke.

"This is the world! This is the world," said a voice within her. "A pad between yoke and head, a pad of thoughts, of got-up feelings."

The servant was astounded to see the gracious lady staring so fixedly, and now she asked him:--

"Does it not hurt them?" He did not understand what she meant, and she was obliged to repeat the question; he now replied:--

"The ox don't know anything different, he's made for just this. Since the gracious Herr has let the double yoke be taken off, and each ox has now his own yoke to himself, they're harder to manage, but they draw a deal easier than when they were double-yoked."

Bella shivered.

"Double yoke--single yoke," was sounding in her ears, and suddenly it seemed to her as if it were night, and she herself only a ghost wandering around. This house, these gardens, this world, all is but a realm of shadows that vanishes away.

It was terribly sultry, and Bella felt as if she should suffocate. Then a fresh current of air streamed over the height, a thunderstorm unexpectedly came up, and Bella had hardly reached the house before there came thunder, lightning, and a driving rain.

Bella stood at the window and stared out into the distance, and then up at an old ash-tree, whose branches were dashing about in every direction, and whose trunk was bending from the gale. The tree inclined itself towards the house, as if it must there get help. Bella thought to herself,--For years and years this tree has been rooting itself here and thriving, and no tempest can wrench it away and lop off its boughs. Does it know that this storm will pass over, and serve only to give it new strength? I am such a tree also, and I stand firm. Come tempest, come lightning and thunder, come beating rain, neither shall you uproot me, nor lop off my boughs!

"Eric!" she suddenly exclaimed aloud to herself. Clodwig now entered, saying,--

"Dear wife, I have been looking for you."

Bella's soul was deeply moved when she heard him call her "dear wife." Clodwig showed her a letter that he had been writing to the Professor's widow, inviting her, according to Bella's expressed desire, to make a visit of several weeks at Wolfsgarten.

"Don't send the letter," said she abruptly, "let us again be quietly by ourselves; I would rather not be disturbed now by the Dournay family."

Clodwig expressed his opinion that the noble lady, so far from interfering with their quiet, would be an additional element of beautiful companionship, and would be the means of their seeing Eric in a pleasant way.

The storm had ceased, and when Bella opened the window, a refreshing breeze drew in. She held the letter in her hand; it had been tempest, lightning, rain, and thunder that raged to-day in her soul, and now there was refreshing life. She agreed with her husband; she said to herself, that intercourse with the noble woman would restore her to herself; and for a moment the thought occurred to her that she would confess all to the mother, and be governed by her. Then came the thought that this was not necessary; it would be very natural for Eric to come to Wolfsgarten, and her intercourse with him would fall back into the old peaceful channels.

Bella wrote a short postscript to the letter of her husband; and the Doctor also, who came in just as they were closing the letter, added a few words.

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XII. AN OPEN COURT AND AN OPEN INVENTORY

The fireworks were still crackling and snapping in their ears, the dazzling lights still gleaming in their eyes, and the music of the band still sounding in their recollection, when they were obliged to make ready for appearance at court, as witnesses in the affair of the burglary.

Pranken remained with the guests at the Villa, having undertaken to show them the recently purchased country-house.

Sonnenkamp, Roland, and Eric, and also the porter, the coachman, Bertram, the head-gardener, the little "Squirrel," and two gardeners repaired to the county town to attend the trial. They went by the house of the Wine-count, now styled Baron von Endlich, where the remnants of fireworks were still visible, scattered here and there; the house was yet shut up, the family still sleeping their first sleep as members of the nobility.

Eric spoke of the beautiful and genuinely pious conduct of the priest towards the prisoners. He was a living example of the grand doctrine that religion required one to interest himself in the stumbling and the unfortunate, whether they were guilty or innocent. The Doctor, on the other hand, maintained in a very droll fashion that it was an extremely beneficial thing for the Ranger to pass, once in his life, several weeks within walls and under a roof.

There was little else said; they reached the county town in good season.

Sonnenkamp went to the telegraph office, in order to send some messages, one of which was directed to the University-town for the widow of the Professor.

"At that time--does it not seem to you as if it were ten years ago?--at that time it was very different from to-day. Don't you think that there were villains also among the singers, perhaps worse ones than those in prison yonder?"

It pained Eric grievously that Roland must be initiated so early into the bitterness and the dissensions of life. They went together to the court-house.

The president and the judges occupied a raised platform; on the right sat the jury, and on the left, the accused and their counsel; the room was full of spectators, for there was a general curiosity to hear the mysterious Herr Sonnenkamp speak in public, and no one knew what might be picked up in the way of information.

The dwarf, the groom, and the huntsman sat on the criminals' seat. The dwarf took snuff very zealously, the groom looked around imploringly, and Claus held his hands before his eyes.

The dwarf looked as if he had had good keeping, and thriven under it; he gazed around the ball with an almost satisfied bearing, as if he felt flattered that so many people concerned themselves about him. The groom, whose hair had been very nicely dressed, regarded the crowd with a contemptuous glance.

Claus seemed to have pined away considerably, and when the dwarf wanted to whisper something to him, as he sat there at a little distance from his fellow defendants, he turned away displeased. He looked up to the space occupied by the spectators, and saw among them his wife, two of his sons, and his daughter; but the cooper was not present. The children appeared to have grown since he had last seen them, and they were dressed in their Sunday-clothes, in order to witness the disgrace--no, it must simply be the honor of their father.

The huntsman moved restlessly on the seat, and spoke to his wife with his lips, uttering no sound. He meant to tell her to be undisturbed, as in a couple of hours they would go home together.

Sonnenkamp, Eric, and Roland were in the witnesses' seat.

Roland sat between his father and Eric, to whom he clung as if he were afraid. Knopf sat next to Eric, and nodded to Roland.

"Before the law the testimony of all men is equal," said Roland in a low voice to Eric, who knew what was passing in Roland's mind.

His pride was a little touched that the testimony of the porter would be of as much account as that of his father, but he had quickly overcome the feeling.

The indictments were read. It had been found, on further investigation, that one compartment of the closet built into the wall, separate from the great safe, had been opened with a key and then closed again; a considerable sum of money had been taken from it, the greater part of which was found in the groom's possession.

At his own request, Sonnenkamp was summoned first, to identify the stolen property.

Roland straightened himself up, when he heard his father give his testimony in so plain and gentle a manner.

Sonnenkamp expressed regret that people should meet with misfortune, but justice must have its course.

He was dismissed. He had already made his bow, and was about to leave the courtroom, when the counsel of the accused groom asked the President whether he intended to let Herr Sonnenkamp off from testifying as to the amount of gold and valuable papers in the closet; if Herr Sonnenkamp did not know this, he could not tell exactly how much had been stolen from him in the part that had been broken into.

The whole assembly was breathless. Now it would be seen what was the amount of Sonnenkamp's wealth, reputed so immeasurable. A perfect silence prevailed for a time; it was broken by Sonnenkamp's asking whether the court could oblige him to testify on his conscience as to the sum, or whether he could reply, or not, as he saw fit. The President said, that he must express the opinion, that the amount of what was stolen was certainly of great importance in reference to the sentence to be imposed upon the accused.

Again there was a pause. Sonnenkamp unbuttoned his coat, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and taking out a little memorandum-book, he approached the judge's seat, and offered it to him, saying:--

"Here is an exact inventory of the notes payable to bearer, of those payable to my order, and of the sum in specie."

When half way up the steps of the platform where the president and the judges sat, Sonnenkamp stopped, for the defendant's counsel now cried:--

"We have an open court, entirely open, and there is nothing which the Herr President is to know, and we to be ignorant of."

"Well then," said Sonnenkamp, turning round, "it shall be told openly: Twelve millions of paper payable to the bearer, three millions to my order, and only two hundred thousand in gold coin. Is that satisfactory?"

A bravo was uttered by the spectators, and the President was obliged to threaten them with clearing the hall, if it were repeated.

Sonnenkamp descended; he had desired to leave the court-room at once, but now he seemed otherwise determined, for he took a seat again on the witnesses' bench. Roland cast down his eyes, and tremblingly seized hold of Eric's hand, which he held firmly. There was a low talking among the crowd, a movement this way and that, so that the President was obliged to command quiet by violently ringing his bell; and Sonnenkamp left the hall.

The head-gardener gave his testimony, which was scarcely listened to. When Eric was summoned, there was again silent attention.

Eric narrated the whole story, and the huntsman's uniform expressions of bitterness at the difference between the rich and the poor, but protested that he regarded the man as incapable of committing any crime against society.

A strange whispering pervaded the whole assembly when Eric narrated the inquiry of Claus: What would you do, if you were the possessor of millions? The question had now, in a manner, gone forth to the whole world.

Knopf was summoned. He offered first a written testimony of the old Herr Weidmann, with whom the huntsman had lived several years as a servant, who testified to his uprightness, his incapability of any deceit, much less any positive crime. Then Knopf added from his own knowledge, how the huntsman was always racking his brains over many matters which he could not master.

Roland was summoned, and advanced with an erect attitude to the witness-stand; Claus nodded to him.

Roland could not be sworn, as he was a minor; but it made a good impression when he said in an unembarrassed voice, that he considered his word as good as an oath.

He identified the articles that had been stolen from him; he asserted that his father's rooms had been locked, but he should not be willing to swear to that, as he had not been near those rooms for several days before the burglary. And now, without being asked, he expressed his conviction that Claus could have had no participation in the crime.

The huntsman got up at these words, and the forester, who sat behind him, obliged him to sit down again, putting his hand upon his shoulder.

The evidence against Claus seemed to be only as the receiver of stolen goods. The two others could make no defence, and each sought to lay upon the other the guilt of the burglary.

Eric was recalled, in order to testify more in detail concerning the huntsman's request to be shown all over the house, a few days before the robbery. When Eric had sat down, Roland got up and asked:--

"Herr President, may I be permitted to say one word more?"

"Speak," replied the President encouragingly; "say all that you wish to."

Roland stepped forward quickly, with head erect, and said, in a voice that had now a full, manly tone,--

"I here raise my hand in testimony, that my poor brother here is as innocent as he is poor. It is true he has often complained that one man should starve while another gormandizes; but before God and man I declare that he has often said to me: The hand must wither that grasps unjust possessions. Can a man do that, and then go away by night and break into another's house, and rob? I beseech you, I conjure you earnestly, to declare that this man is as innocent as all of you are; as innocent as I am!" He ceased, standing as if he were rooted to the spot, and for a while there was a breathless stillness in the assembly.

"Have you any thing more to say?" asked the President. Roland seemed now to wake up, and said,--

"No, nothing more. I thank you." He returned to Eric, who grasped his hand; it was cold as ice, and he warmed it in his own. On the other side, Knopf also tried to grasp the hand of his former pupil, but he could not, for he was obliged to take off his spectacles, which had become wet from the great tears rolling from his eyes.

The proceedings were brief. The Headmaster was one of the jury, who now withdrew into their room for consultation. After a short absence they returned, and the head-master, who had been chosen foreman, laying his hand upon his heart, announced the unanimous verdict:--

The dwarf and the groom, guilty; the huntsman, not guilty.

Outside, in front of the court-house, as his wife and children,--the cooper among them now,--crowded round Claus, Roland pressed up to him and seized his hand.

The huntsman turned from them all, saying that he must speak to young Weidmann, who had been one of the jury; the young man came up just then, and Claus cried out to him, with a great flow of words, that he must tell his father that all his troubles were wiped out, since every one had heard what Herr Weidmann thought of him.

Young Weidmann went to Eric and congratulated him on having formed such a pupil; others came also to offer congratulations and shake hands. Eric begged young Weidmann to remember him to his father, and say that he should soon pay the promised visit to Mattenheim.

Knopf stood in the midst of a group of people, begging them not to spoil the boy with their praises; and, in his effort to keep others back, he refrained from going himself to shake hands with Roland.

Sonnenkamp appeared, and all took off their hats to him respectfully. Here was the man possessed of such incredible wealth, and he wore a coat like other people, and had to stand on his own feet. Sonnenkamp seemed a prodigy to them all. How was it possible for a man to possess such wealth? But there were some knowing scoffers who declared that Herr Sonnenkamp had overstated his property, and others, still more knowing, who were willing to swear that he was even richer than he had said, but they were hardly noticed. Sonnenkamp, greeting all around in a most friendly manner, went to Claus to congratulate him, and then called Roland aside. Roland stood before his father for the first since he had learned his great wealth; his eyes fell; looking up to him seemed like looking up to a high mountain, but Sonnenkamp laid his hand kindly on his shoulder, and told him that he might drive home alone with Eric, as he was himself obliged to remain in town to wait for a telegram.

Roland begged Claus and his family most pressingly to ride home with him; the huntsman refused, but Roland urged it so warmly that he at last yielded, and entered the carriage with his wife, leaving the children to walk. Roland took the released prisoner in triumph through the town and villages; the wife was embarrassed at riding in such state, but Claus himself looked round without constraint, only saying several times:--

"All has gone on very well without me, and will do very well, when I am across the ocean."

To Eric he expressed his determination of emigrating to America with his family.

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XIII. THE MAJOR MAKES A CONQUEST

The same sun that shone at Wolfsgarten, where Bella was maintaining a severe internal struggle, and that shone through the lowered green shades in the court-room upon the bench of the accused, glimmered also through the closed Venetian blinds in the quiet sitting-room of the Professor's widow in the University-town. Eric's mother sat by the window filled with flowers, in the piano recess, at her silent work, thinking of her son; it was a subject of constant thought with her, why he had to enter upon a mode of life so out of the ordinary course.

She often looked up sadly to the portrait of her husband, which seemed to say to her: My child, both of us entered upon a path in life out of the ordinary course, thou even more than I: and that is transmitted as an inheritance from generation to generation; we ought to rest content, as thereby we keep a firmer hold upon the spirit of our son, and though he may be thrown down to the ground by fortune, he can never be held there permanently.

So did the mother console herself; and Eric's letters were also a source of consolation. He had made a faithful report to her, then he excused himself for the irregularity and haste of his letters, on the ground that he must forget, for a time, himself and everybody else who belonged to him, as only in this way could he hope to gain possession of another soul. At first he mentioned Clodwig and Bella frequently,--his home feeling with these friends, and the happy realization of a state of tranquillity; then, for a while, there was nothing said of Bella, except sometimes a brief greeting from her at her request. The mother had not noticed this, but aunt Claudine, who seldom said any thing unless her opinion was asked, and then had something to say very much to the purpose, did not hesitate to remark unreservedly, after Clodwig's and Bella's visit, on being asked what impression it had left, that she had noticed a certain restlessness in Bella's look, and she feared from the manner in which she had looked at a likeness of Eric, taken when he was young, that there was here a more than common interest. The mother was forced to assent to this, for she had also noticed how deeply interested Bella had been in making inquiries concerning Eric's youthful years. But she said further to her sister-in-law that Bella was an artist, at least was more than a common dilettante, and had observed with the eye of an artist the picture, that was exceedingly well painted; a considerable sum had already been offered for it in order to be put into an art-collection.

There was stillness in the abode of the two ladies, who lived almost as quietly as the flowers which throve so well under their watchfulness and care. The postman, brought a letter in Clodwig's neat handwriting, in every word of which the man himself could be discerned, so neat and regular were the letters, with no stroke hastily made, and none too elaborately precise; the whole had an appearance of uniformity, and the lines were straight and at an equal distance apart, though the paper was unruled. A feeling of pleasure was awakened by the mere sight of the letter, and the contents were such as to strengthen this quiet satisfaction. He said that the Professor's widow would lay him under an obligation of gratitude by accepting an invitation to make a visit of several weeks. He appealed to the friendly relations with her deceased husband, and the beautiful renewal of them in his intercourse with Eric, who gave to him a youthful friendship such as he had scarcely dreamed of. Lastly, he appealed to their mutual personal acquaintance, and there was a written smile when he added, that, during his whole life, he had never made a demand upon the heart which had not met with a response, and he prayed her now not to shame him in his old age. He closed by saying that he entreated the mother of his friend Eric to permit him to call himself "her friend Clodwig." There was no formal politeness in the letter, and yet it was full of a delicate friendliness.

Bella had hastily scratched underneath, in a coarse hand, a request that the mother and aunt would honor her with a visit; she said that she wrote only a few words, as she felt sure that she should be favored with the intimate intercourse of the respected mother and the amiable aunt. In a postscript she besought them to bring with them Eric's music.

In the letter there was enclosed a second one from the Doctor, who claimed to have been a scholar of the old Professor. He offered good-humoredly his professional services, and there was only one brief sentence in which he suggested that it would be a protection and a safeguard to his young friend Eric, to be again under the eye of his mother.

This awakened in her many thoughts, and she resolved to accept the invitation. Sonnenkamp's telegram was delivered.

Just as she had finished reading this, there was another knock, and the Major entered.

When the mother saw him, at first she was frightened, not recognizing him, as she looked at the red face, the short, white hair, and the decoration on his breast. For a moment it seemed to her that he was some messenger of justice, who had come to execute some commission or other, she knew not what, that endangered Eric's welfare.

The Major did not mend matters at all, when he said,--

"Frau Professorin, I come to execute a warrant of ejection; but I am not indeed to drive you out of Paradise, but to shut you up in the Garden of Eden."

He had been making up this pretty speech during the whole journey, and he had said it over inaudibly to himself certainly a hundred times: and now it came out so clumsily, that the good lady trembled so that she could not rise.

The Major cried:--

"Don't get up; everybody knows that there's no ceremony at all to be made with me. I don't desire to incommode any one; I greatly prefer that people would sit when I enter. Isn't it the same with you? One feels sure in this case that he doesn't make any disturbance."

"Have you come from my son?"

"Yes, from him too. Observe, I'm not one of the best people in the world, neither am I one of the worst; but there's one thing I can say to my credit, that I have never in all my life envied anybody but you, and you I did envy when you said, 'my son;' that I did envy you for. Why can't I say this too? If I only had such a son as you have!"

Now there was tranquillity at last. The Major delivered a letter from Sonnenkamp and the Cabinetsräthin, and desired that the letters should be read immediately, as they would render it unnecessary for him to say anything.

The Professorin read, and the Major watched her countenance while she was reading, with peculiar marks of quiet satisfaction.

The Professorin bade him welcome, and called her sister-in-law, who came in.

The blinds were opened, and the instreaming light shone upon cheerful faces.

"What shall we decide upon doing?" asked Aunt Claudine.

"There is no longer any question of deciding; we accept the hearty invitation."

"Which?"

"Of course Herr Sonnenkamp's."

"That's right," said the Major with a broad smile. "Will you allow me to light a cigar? Did your husband, now gone to his eternal home, smoke too?"

"Yes, indeed."

Aunt Claudine had quickly lighted a match, and held it up to the Major with her delicate fingers.

"That's fair! that's fair!" cried the Major. "You've given me fire, and I promise to go through fire for you."

He was very happy over this turn, and he puffed away yet happier.

There were, of course, a great many things to be got ready, before they could set out. The Major promised that Joseph should come and bring everything away after they had departed; not one thread should be left behind. He then withdrew for a few hours, in order to pay a visit to some brother free-masons.

At midday, the Major was riding with the two ladies in a first-class railroad car towards the Rhine, and he was as proud and as happy as if he had carried off the army-chest of the enemy.

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XIV. POTATOES AND SOMETHING BETTER BESIDES

Claus and his wife were in the same carriage with Eric and Roland. When Claus reached the line where his beat began, he asked them to stop, and got out.

"No, I go in no carriage here," he said. "And look here at my hands; my hands have been hand-cuffed. What now are they to do? Are they to avenge themselves? On whom? And if I should know on whom, what then?"

He took up a clod of earth, raised it up towards heaven, and cried:--

"By thee I swear that I will emigrate. The New World must give me some land of my own; I have long enough looked after the land of other people in the old."

Eric and Roland also got out, and went with the couple into their house. Then a sudden call was heard from the vineyard, and Sevenpiper came from it with the halberd which Claus had always carried as the badge of his office as field-guard. He handed it over to Claus, saying,--

"Take this now again; I have kept it faithfully for you."

He joined the escort of the couple to their home. The dogs barked in the yard, and the birds flitted here and there, and twittered all together, for their master had come back. But the black-bird sang louder than all, caroling, Rejoice in your life; but she stuck fast at the second bar. The field-guard gazed round upon all, as if he had just waked up. At last there was a calm, and the whole family sat round the table, and ate the first new potatoes which a neighbor had boiled for them. Never had Roland eaten any food which had such a relish, and all laughed when he said,--

"Claus, these potatoes originated there where you are going and where I came from; they were born in America, and we have immigrated hither."

They had a pleasant time together, and Roland presented the stolen watch which had been restored to him to Claus, as a lasting token of remembrance. He was not willing to take it, not even when Eric and Sevenpiper joined in the request.

"Just take it, father," finally said the cooper, and Claus yielded.

Sevenpiper led the talk to-day. He made fun of the field-guard for being a great deal too uneasy; and for continually worrying how people got to be so rich, which was wholly needless. A man might, indeed, be empty, but one couldn't eat more than his fill, or do more than quench his thirst; and the rich man couldn't get any more out of sleep than to sleep sound, and sleeping sound didn't depend upon the bed in which one slept, but it was just sleeping sound; and to ride in one's coach was pure nonsense; it was much better to go upon one's own good walking-sticks.

There was also some mention made of the dwarf, and Sevenpiper said,--

"Yes; if any one wants to visit the grave of this mannikin, he will have to carry a ladder along with him."

"What for?" asked Roland.

"Because he will be hanged."

Claus did not like to have them talk of bad people.

Sevenpiper was a good representative of "blessed be nothing." He had sent a child to his house, and just as some bottles of wine arrived which Fräulein Milch had sent, there was heard singing at the entrance of the house. The whole organ was there with all its stops, and soon Eric and Sevenpiper were singing too.

At last Eric insisted that they must be on their way home; and as they were turning from the village path into the road, a carriage drove up, from which signals were made, and the powerful voice of the Major cried:--

"Battalion, halt!"

They halted; in the carriage with the Major were the mother and the aunt.

"This is the only thing which I had yet to wish for," said Roland. "Herr Major, Claus has been released; he is innocent."

The mother embraced her son after she had first embraced Roland. They got out, and Eric walked to the villa arm-in-arm with his mother, who held Roland by the hand on the other side. The Major politely offered his arm to the aunt, but she declined, excusing herself by saying that it was a peculiarity of hers never to take any one's arm.

"That's really the better way; Fräulein Milch thinks so too. You'll get acquainted with her; you'll be good friends with one another, you may rely upon that. She knew every thing--every single thing. It's incomprehensible how she picked it all up. She knew that Count Clodwig had sent you an invitation. But we know a stratagem or two; we've been beforehand with him. 'He whom fortune favors leads home the bride,' as the saying is."

Music was heard in the distance, and the Major informed them that it was a part of the wedding celebration at Herr von Endlich's.

"O mother, if I am ever again desponding and low-spirited, I will call to mind this hour, and be again happy!" The mother could not speak; her heart was too full.

There was a very friendly welcome at the villa. The Cabinetsräthin embraced and kissed the Professorin; Frau Ceres sent an excuse for not appearing. Sonnenkamp came after nightfall.

The moon shone brightly when Eric and Roland escorted the mother and the aunt to the vine-embowered dwelling. And as she stood here upon the balcony, Eric's mother took his hand again, quietly, and said,--

"If thy father could see thee, he would rejoice in thee; thou hast still thy pure and good glance; yes, all is well, thou hast the old pure glance."

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I. THE MOTHER IS HERE

"My mother is here!"

A dewy atmosphere of inexhaustible freshness encompassed Eric; he heard the voice of a child awakening from a dream, and yet it was he himself who had spoken. He closed his eyes, and went back in thought to the days of childhood; all that had since excited and oppressed his spirit was torn into fragments, and had sunk out of sight.

"My mother is here!"

This was now a call of duty. Eric stood by Roland's bedside; it was never necessary for him to speak in order to waken him, for as soon as he looked directly upon him, Roland waked up. Now he opened his eyes, and his first words were:--

"Thy mother is here!"

Eric heard these same words, now spoken by another, which he had heard in his own dreamy reverie, and, placing his hand upon the brow of the youth, he regarded him with a mingled feeling of joy and sorrow. Why has this poor rich boy not the blessedness of a mother's love?

The new day received its consecration, for Eric and Roland began it by going to give a greeting to the mother.

As they were walking along the river, Roland shouted across it:--

"Father Rhine! Eric's mother is here!"

Eric smiled; the youth's face was all a-glow.

They went to the mother as to a temple, and they came away from her as from a temple, for this gentle, peaceful spirit conveyed a benediction in every word, in every movement of the hand, in every glance of the eye; and she it was who appealed to the sanctity of established rule, and the persistent continuance in duty, for she said to them that she should regard it as the most perfect proof of love and loyal attachment, if they would go on with their work to-day just as they did yesterday; in every situation in life, whether in tribulation or in gladness, the appointed duty must be performed.

They were again seated at their work, and they read together, to-day, the return of Ulysses to Ithaca. Eric was somewhat absent, for everything took the hue of the feeling that he was with his mother; he overcame this,--he would be wholly engaged in what was before him, but he caught himself unexpectedly drawn away in this direction as he looked at Roland. "Ah! why can you not have the same feeling? The best refreshment and blessing for a human being is the mother's love. Every other love must be sued for, be obtained by conquest, be earned, be struggled for through obstacles; a mother's love alone one has always unsought and undeserved."

Now Bella came again into his mind. Eric hoped to have annihilated everything in himself that was false to human nature and to purity, and summoning up a greater, strength than ever, a strength obtained by hard wrestling, he devoted himself to the work of instruction, and succeeded in projecting himself and the youth into the life of another, so that they forgot everything immediately around them.

At noon, the realization of the mother's presence came to them as a fresh gift. They were in the garden together; Frau Ceres was not visible, and she begged, through Fräulein Perini, to be excused. Sonnenkamp smiled, for he knew that it had never occurred to Frau Ceres to send an excuse, and that Fräulein Perini had done it of her own accord; and it was well for her to do so, he thought, for the refractory disposition of his wife led her to turn away from the guests intruding upon her privacy and her strong point was in declining; she allowed nothing to approach her. Fräulein Perini manifestly took very great pains to render herself as agreeable as possible to the Professor's widow, and was grateful as a child when she was shown how to execute a new piece of handiwork.

The Cabinetsräthin served as a very excellent means of bringing them together. There was something exceedingly captivating in the way in which she so very modestly placed herself as the inferior of the Professorin, giving to her the position of honor which she might perhaps have attained as a right, but which was now conceded to her by sovereign grace; for the Cabinetsräthin repeatedly said, that the Professorin had been the first lady at the court in her day, and that even now, if the court circle wanted to specify any exalted excellence, they pointed to her. She found herself, at first, put under some degree of constraint by being placed upon such an elevated pinnacle, but she was grateful to the illustrious lady for her evident endeavor to convert her condition of dependence and poverty into one which was regarded with respectful homage.

Fräulein Perini herself was subdued by this character so calmly dignified, this countenance so placid and open, so beaming with youthful brightness, so benignantly radiant that nothing unworthy or impure could approach; and in this countenance the heart manifested itself, always young, full of the inspiration that had been awakened by the ideal life of her husband, and that was now called forth by the presence of her son. She said the simplest things with such charming grace, that they appeared to be of great importance, and with such freshness, that it seemed as if this were the first time they had ever been known.

While they were together at noon, a letter came from Bella. She sent a welcome to the Professor's widow, and appointed the next day for a visit.

Frau Dournay wished to send back an answer by the messenger, but he had been immediately sent off, no one knew why. It was Sonnenkamp who had given the order, and when she despatched her letter through a messenger attached to the house, it strayed first into Sonnenkamp's cabinet, who understood how to open it very dexterously, and who read with great satisfaction the reply which was no less decided than it was delicate in expression. Sonnenkamp smiled as he read where the lady laid stress upon the fact that she was the guest of the family, received as such in the kindest manner, and begged that the promised visit might be made to them, and to herself as their visitor.

Sonnenkamp smiled again and again, for he confidently expected that the Professor's widow would compel the whole neighborhood to accept himself, finally, as a member, in full standing, of their social body.

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II. THE IGNORANT IS READY TO BE TAUGHT

Sonnenkamp went from his cabinet to the room of Frau Ceres; she sent word to him in the ante-chamber by a maid, that she desired to see no one. Paying no attention to the message, he went in and found her lying on the sofa, with the curtains drawn, so that in the large room there was a dusky twilight. Frau Ceres looked at him with her large dark eyes, but spoke not a word, only extending to him her delicate, small hand with long finger-nails. He kissed the hand, and then seated himself by the side of his wife.

There was silence for sometime, and then he began to explain to her that a nearer approach was to be made to the accomplishment of his plan through the guest now in the house, for this lady's hand would open the folding-doors of the apartments of the princely palace.

At the mention of the palace, Frau Ceres raised herself a little; her restless look showed how she was stirred by hope; for, beyond the sea, and in all his devious wanderings, Sonnenkamp had always held before his wife this idea, like some bright fairy-tale, that she would be able to enter into the court-circle, and it seemed to her as if she were to be introduced into some heavenly sphere, where everything was resplendent and glorious, a perpetual round of godlike existence. Such was the idea Frau Ceres had entertained of court-life. She was aware now that this was an exaggerated notion, but, wherever she went, she heard of this good fortune, and saw that every one was striving towards the court-circle, and she was angry with her husband, that his promises made so often and so long ago had never been fulfilled. They came to Europe; they had retired into seclusion, where people said everything was so beautiful, but whence she was continually expecting to be summoned to Court.

Why is there so long delay? Why are people so distant? Even Bella, the only one who exhibited any friendliness, treated her like a parrot, like some strange bird whose bright plumage she was amused with, but with whom she had nothing more to do than from time to time to give it a lump of sugar, and address to it some casual, pretty word. Even the recollection of her having surpassed all others in splendor at the fête of Herr von Endlich was only half satisfactory to Frau Ceres.

In the midst of all her apparent listlessness and want of interest in external things, she was continually harping upon one thought, and this thought had been instilled into her by Sonnenkamp; but it had become stronger than he desired, taking exclusive possession of her being.

He understood how to represent in a very plausible way, that the Professorin--to whom the Cabinetsräthin herself looked up, because she had been the favorite and most influential lady of the Court, even the friend and confidante of the Princess-dowager--that this lady would give to the whole family a new splendor, and surely be the means of their attaining the desired end.

Sonnenkamp succeeded in impressing her so deeply with his sagacity, that Frau Ceres at last yielded, saying,--

"You are, in fact, very wise. I will speak to the tutor's mother."

He now proceeded to give some instructions, how she should bear herself towards her, but, like a spoiled child,--even almost like an irrational animal, Frau Ceres shrieked out, clapped her hands, stamped her feet, crying,--

"I won't have any instructions! not a word more! Bring the lady to me!"

Sonnenkamp went to the Widow, deeply moved and troubled; he wanted to give to her some directions in regard to her interview with his wife, but was afraid of every hint, and only said,--

"My dear little wife has been a little spoiled, and is very nervous."

Eric's mother visited Frau Ceres, and found her lying quietly upon the sofa; she had sense enough to know that the less demonstrative one is, the more effect does one produce upon others.

When the visitor on entering made a very graceful courtesy, Frau Ceres suddenly forgot everything, and before a word could be said, she cried,--

"You must teach me that! I would like to courtesy in that way. Is not that the way they do at Court?"

The visitor knew not what to reply. Is this something worse than a nervous person,--is she insane? She retained self-command enough, however, to say:--

"I can very well conceive that our forms must be rather strange to you, in your free Republic; I think that it is better at the first interview to shake hands."

She extended her hand, which Frau Ceres took, and rose as if forgetting herself.

"You are ill, I will not disturb you any longer," said the Professor's widow.

Frau Ceres considered it would be better to pass for a sick person, and said,--

"Ah, yes! I am always ill. But I beseech you, remain."

And when the Mother now addressed her, the sound of her voice, its tones of deep feeling, made such an impression upon her excitable nature, that she closed her eyes, and when she opened them, great tear-drops stood upon her long lashes.

The Mother expressed her regret that she had made her shed tears, but Frau Ceres shook her head violently.

"No, no, I thank you. I have not been able to weep for years--these tears have lain here--here." She struck her bosom with violence. "I thank you."

The Mother wanted now to withdraw, but Frau Ceres rose up quickly, went up to her as she stood there struck with astonishment, and shrinking as if from a crazy person, fell on her knees before her, and kissed her hand, crying,--

"Protect me! Be a mother to me; I have never called any one mother; I have never known a mother."

The Mother raised her up, saying,--

"My child, I can be a mother to you--I can and will. I am happy that such fair tasks are assigned me here, tasks that I can lovingly fulfil. But now be composed."

She led Frau Ceres back to the sofa, carefully helped her to lie down, and covered her with a large shawl; it was an odd complication of soft cushions in which she always lay muffled, as if she were buried.

She held the Mother's hand fast, and sobbed without cessation.

The Mother now extolled their happiness in having each of them such a son, speaking less of Eric than of Roland; and as she went on to relate how in the twilight he had appeared like the transfigured form of her own dead child, Frau Ceres turned towards her and kissed her hand. She proceeded quietly to speak of herself as a person of many peculiarities, which rendered it no easy thing for any one to live with her; she had been in the habit of being too much alone, and she feared that she was not young enough and had not animal spirits sufficient to be the companion of a lady who had every claim to the brilliancy and joy of a stirring life.

Frau Ceres requested her to draw back the curtains a little, and as she saw her more plainly she smiled; but immediately her countenance, with the fine, half-opened mouth, assumed again the listless look which was its habitual expression; she took the fan and fanned herself.

At last she said,--

"Ah yes, to learn! You cannot think how stupid I am, and yet I would so like to be clever, and I would have learned so many things, but he never wanted me to, and has not let me learn anything, and always said: 'You are fairest and dearest to me just as you are.' Yes, it may be to him, but not to myself. If Madame Perini were not so kind, I don't know indeed what I should do. Do you play whist? Do you love nature? I am very simple, am I not?"

Perhaps Frau Ceres expected that the mother would contradict her, but she did not, only saying:--

"If there is anything that I can teach you, I'll do it cheerfully. I have known other ladies like yourself, and I could tell you why you are always ailing."

"Why! Do you know that? you?"

"Yes, but it is not flattering."

"Ah, no matter; tell me."

"My dear child, you are all the time ill, because you are all the time idle. If a person has nothing to do, then his health gives him something to do."

"Oh, you are wise, but I am weak," said Frau Ceres.

And there was in her an utter helplessness and weakness; she looked upon herself, and was looked upon by Sonnenkamp, as a fragile toy; and at the same time she was indolent, and the least effort was a burden to her. She did not know whether to hear or to see required the greater exertion; but she found the latter the greater bore, for while one was reading one must hold the book and hold one's self in a particular position, and therefore she always let Fräulein Perini read aloud to her; this had the advantage that one could go to sleep whenever there was the inclination.

This was the case now.

Whilst the Mother was speaking, Frau Ceres suddenly let go her hand, and it was soon evident that the reclining one had fallen asleep; Frau Dournay sat there in that chamber furnished splendidly and richly as if it were an apartment in some fairy tale. She held her breath, and did not know what course to take. What is the meaning of all this? Here are riddles in plenty. She did not dare to change her position, for she was afraid of waking the sleeper. The latter turned now and said,--

"Ah, go now, go now,--I will come down soon myself." She left the room.

Sonnenkamp was waiting for her outside.

"How did she seem?" he asked anxiously.

"Very gentle and quiet," replied the Mother. "But I have one request. I hope to cure the excitability or lassitude of your wife, but I beg you never to ask me what we have said to each other. If I am to gain her entire confidence, I must be able to say to her in good faith, that what she tells me is told to me alone; and that what she imparts to me will never pass my lips. Are you willing to promise that we ladies shall do as we like together?"

"Yes," answered Sonnenkamp. It seemed hard for him to consent, but he felt that he must.

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III. A NEIGHBOR SECURED

Pranken came the next day, and when he met the widow of the Professor, summoned to his aid his most polished manner; she gave him to understand at once, that she regarded him as a son of the house. She did this with so much delicacy and such a charming tact, that Pranken was extremely delighted.

When she thanked him for having been the means of obtaining such a position for Eric, he declined receiving any thanks for what he had done, as it was only a trifling amount toward the payment of his debt to the late Professor, to whom he owed all the culture he possessed.

He said this with a tone that entirely won the Widow's heart; she could make allowance for the exaggeration of politeness, but she felt there was a basis of sincerity, inasmuch as no one, unless he were utterly abandoned, could have come within the sphere of her husband's voice and eye, without receiving therefrom a good influence for life.

Pranken spoke of his brother-in-law and his sister, and how much Eric was liked and loved at Wolfsgarten; and he conveyed in a happy turn, how much he expected the lady's presence would effect in composing and calming the recently excited and disturbed state of his sister. He hinted at this very guardedly, representing only how difficult a task it is to live with an elderly man, even a very noble one, and how in some unexpected way the apparent harmony might be disturbed.

She understood more than Pranken imagined, and she was very glad to find the young man disposed, in the retirement of country life, to a deeper consideration of the influence of one human being upon another.

Pranken could not refrain from disclosing something of his religious transformation, but he did it as an act of special confidence. There was suddenly presented to him the vision of this lady near Manna, who would lay open to her her whole soul, and would be assured that he acknowledged his inward change to the whole world; and it just occurred to him now, that the Superior had spoken in high praise of this lady in Manna's presence. A smile came upon his lips, for he thought how excellent a use could be made of her in diverting Manna from her childish intention of taking the veil, although it was in every way to be deplored that this lady was not a member of the same church.

He then invited the Professor's widow, by Sonnenkamp's request, to drive with them to the country-house which the Cabinetsräthin--he corrected himself immediately and said the Cabinetsrath--thought of purchasing; she would certainly do her part towards securing such an agreeable neighbor for Herr Sonnenkamp. Her objection, that she was hardly yet settled, was flatteringly set aside.

The carriage drove up.

The Cabinetsräthin and Sonnenkamp entered, and the mother must drive with them to the villa now for sale. They were in extreme good humor on the way, but involuntarily there came over Eric's mother the thought that she was mixed up in some sort of intrigue, and that her simplicity was made use of for some interested purpose. What it was, she was wholly ignorant. She felt serious anxiety, and this positively increased when Sonnenkamp said, as they entered the house, that it belonged to him, and he was glad to be able to pass it over to his noble neighbor.

What does this mean? Has a surprise been prepared for her? Does Sonnenkamp mean to give her the house?

She was soon aware of her mistake, for the Cabinetsräthin immediately proceeded to assign the rooms to herself, her husband, and her children. She had two sons in the army, and one invalid daughter; rooms were also designated for her grandchildren, and when she was looking for a choice spot for herself, Sonnenkamp promised to have the grounds laid out anew. She was amazed to find what capabilities the grounds possessed.

Sonnenkamp was extremely complaisant; it had been, indeed, his desire to reserve the country-seat as the payment for his patent of nobility,--for the sum to be paid by the Cabinetsrath was merely nominal,--but he had been obliged to give way to Pranken's representations that this was utterly impracticable, and that it was much wiser to be on neighborly terms with so influential a man, as thus every thing would come about much more naturally.

The Cabinetsräthin sat with the Professor's widow in the garden, and endeavored to impress upon her that she would surely be glad, through her great influence, to aid the Sonnenkamp family in obtaining the rank which was their due; at first she went no farther, but it was her fixed plan that the widow should apply the main lever, and that neither she nor her husband should take a prominent part. Should the plan miscarry, they would remain concealed, and the learned widow, who was reputed as somewhat erratic, would be the only one committed.

Under high-sounding and lofty expressions of magnanimity and disinterestedness, there was a hidden policy not easily unravelled.

When Pranken was alone with Sonnenkamp and the Cabinetsräthin, Sonnenkamp smiled, as one does who considers it a good joke to allow himself for once to be circumvented. He listened in a very friendly way while Pranken was representing to him that the Cabinetsrath must be put in possession of the house at once, for if it were done later, either shortly before or shortly after the consummation of their wishes, it would give rise to scandalous remarks.

Sonnenkamp smilingly congratulated his young friend on being so well-fitted for a diplomatic career; it was not denied by Pranken that he should adopt that as his employment, rather than the life of a landed proprietor, provided it could be done with the consent of those nearest to him, and of his fatherly friend, as he termed Sonnenkamp.

Pranken knew a very accommodating notary, who came that very evening.

The purchase was concluded, and the Cabinetsrath was the neighbor of Herr Sonnenkamp.

As Sonnenkamp was taking a walk with Pranken in the mild evening, the latter for the first time shrank from his expected father-in-law, when he said,--

"My dear young friend, you must certainly have had something to do with usurers before this. I know these tender-hearted brethren; they hang together like a secret priesthood. But I would say to you, that the most delectable insight into the so-called human soul would be furnished by a history of bribery. I am acquainted with the different nations and races, I have tried it everywhere, and it has hardly ever been unsuccessful."

Pranken looked strangely at the man. He had confidence in him; but that he should speak so freely of the bribery of all nations disturbed him somewhat, and it pained him greatly to think that he himself was to be son of such a man.

Sonnenkamp continued good-humoredly,

"You evidently entertain the old prejudice that bribery is a bad thing, just as a little while ago usury was regarded to be. It's nothing but a matter of business, and it's a stupid thing for the government to require an oath from persons, that their transactions shall not be affected by any receiving of money. As far as I am concerned, it may be, and it usually is, with the judges, only a matter of form; when it comes to that point, a rich man knows how to get off, provided he hasn't foolishly gone too far. It's very curious, that among other nations, among the Romans and the Sclaves, men took the offered money, and, under some form or other, gave an opportunity for competition in bidding; but among the simpering Germanic people, the women are employed in this business. Of course! Among no people in the world are so many cows employed in agriculture as among the Germans, and in this business, too, they harness in the cows. Here the lady must be applied to in extremely gallant style, and I must confess that I would much rather deal with the women, for they keep their word; there's nothing more common than to give a bribe, and to have the bribee fail to keep his promise, unless another is added just as large. My father----"

Pranken started. For the first time in his life, Sonnenkamp spoke of his father, but he went on quietly,--

"My father was a connoisseur in the art of bribery, and in Poland his way was, to give a man a note for a hundred or a thousand dollars, as it might be, but he tore the note in two, kept one part himself and gave the other to the person bribed, surrendering his own half only when he had gained his end. You do not think it is necessary to divide thus with the Cabinetsräthin?"

Pranken felt hurt to hear a lady of the nobility pointed out and arraigned in this style. He gave Sonnenkamp the most conclusive assurances, who said further,--

"All proceeds in a regular order, and what is designated by the old-fashioned word bribery, is a necessary consequence of an advanced civilization. As soon as a people enters into complex relations, bribery is there, must be there, sometimes open, sometimes concealed; and I know this, that nothing has a greater variety of forms than bribery."

As Pranken stood there in fixed amazement, Sonnenkamp, taking his arm, continued,--

"Young friend, it is the same thing whether I buy an agent or a vote for my election as member of Parliament or of Congress, or whether I buy an agent or a vote to make me a noble. In America we are more open about it. Why should not this Cabinetsrath and his spouse make some profit out of their position? Their position is their whole property and capital. I am glad--it's all in order. In Germany you are obliged to cloak matters over respectably. It's all the same. If you take up the diplomatic career, as I hope you will, I shall be able to give you a good many lessons."

Pranken declared himself ready to learn a great deal, but inwardly he had an inexpressible dread of this man, and this dread changed into contempt. He proposed to himself, if he ever married Manna, to keep away from this man as far as possible.

Sonnenkamp was so happy in finding a fresh confirmation of his knowledge of men, that he endeavored to impart it to his own son.

The next morning, as they were leaving the breakfast-table, at which the Cabinetsräthin had been present, he took Roland with him into the park, saying to him,--

"Look, these noble people! All a pure cheat! This Cabinetsrath and his family, they are beggars, and I make them persons of property. Don't let it out, but you ought to know it. They are all a rabble; great and small, high and low, they are all waiting to have an offer for their souls as they call them. Every one in the world is to be had for money."

He took delight in dwelling upon this at length; he had not the remotest conception what a deep commotion and revolution this was exciting in the youth's soul.

Roland sat speechless, and Sonnenkamp turned over in his mind whether he had acted properly, but soon quieted his doubts. Religion, virtue, all is an illusion. Some--this Herr Dournay is one of that number--still believe in their illusions, and impose upon themselves and upon the world. It is better, he quieted himself in conclusion, that Roland should know all to be a mere illusion.

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IV. A DIFFERENT ATMOSPHERE

After the first days, the Mother understood what her son meant when he complained of the difficulty of maintaining a steady and firm hold upon thought, in the midst of the distractions with which he had to contend, like those upon a journey. In such a house as this, with extensive possessions and a great variety of duties, that devotion of the mind, which is so necessary for the thorough acquisition of any branch of knowledge, is continually interfered with, and it is even difficult, in such relations, not to lose one's self. Without laying out any programme, at any rate without any announcement of one, she resolved to regulate her own method of living; only when one possesses himself can he have anything to supply to the calls of others.

Eric and Roland went every day to bid her good-morning, and a consecrated sphere soon encompassed the mother; whoever approached her acquired, in a degree, a nobler bearing, and pitched his conversation to a musical and well-tuned key. She had sterling good sense, without any claim to originality or genius either in her own eyes or those of others; her mind was not intuitional but logical, and what she comprehended and discovered by investigation appeared to her to be necessarily true; she made as little show of knowledge as of dress, for it is a matter of course that one should be neatly dressed.

Chasteness, in the highest and purest signification of the word, was the impression which the Mother made, both in regard to her external appearance and her inner being; she was pure in thought, and pure in feeling; she had been for thirteen years a lady of the court, and knew the world; but she retained something of an ideal atmosphere; she knew vice and believed in virtue; she was quick and cautious, ready to accept the gage of battle and nobly yielding, at the same time.

If she were externally and superficially compared with Bella, the older lady would be at a disadvantage; but on a nearer consideration, she had something satisfying in her presence and conversation, while Bella was only exciting.

Bella not only desired to excite attention to her personal appearance and her sentiments, but she was also fond of proposing subjects for discussion, and propounding the most difficult questions; she was always putting something forth and making a stir. She gave very cursory and off-hand replies to what was said to her, and could set out in good style what she heard, so as to be extremely taking at the first acquaintance, but a longer familiarity with her showed that it was merely fluent talk.

The Professorin, on the other hand, made no demands, was grateful for all that was offered, and was ready to lend it serious thought.

Externally, the ladies could hardly be compared, for the personal appearance of the Professorin was not what would be called distinguished; she was somewhat plump in figure, of a pale blond complexion, and that fresh purity of look which one sees portrayed in the pictures of well-preserved women of Holland. Her strongest characteristic was a uniform reserve; she could listen quietly to every communication, and she could withhold her reply, if she had any opinion to express, until she had patiently heard all that was to be said.

When questions were addressed immediately to her, to which she did not want to give a direct reply, she had the faculty of not seeming to hear them; and if she were pressed to give a decided reply, she answered only just so far as she thought best, never allowing herself to be urged beyond a prescribed limit.

She soon became the centre of the circle. The fundamental trait which characterized all that she said and did was truthfulness; she never spoke for effect, she never smiled when there was nothing to smile at; she gave to every utterance of her own the natural tone, and to every utterance of others the requisite degree of attention. This truthfulness was not compromised in the least by her reserve, for she never violated the truth in the smallest particular, and it is not necessary to speak out everything that one knows and thinks. This is not craftiness; it is rather the simple dictate of prudence, and prudence is a virtue too; it is the same thing as goodness; nature herself is prudent, that is to say, veiled.

She was very happy to indulge and cultivate her fondness for botany by means of Sonnenkamp's splendid collection of plants, and his essentially valuable communications.

The Mother and Aunt lived together in perfect harmony, and yet were very different in character; and as they had very different spheres of knowledge in which they found enlivenment, so also they had different spheres of life. Their amateur-pursuits were the two most beautiful in the whole circle of sciences. The Professorin was a botanist. Aunt Claudine an astronomer, sedulously avoiding, indeed, every appearance of the bluestocking; she passed many silent evenings in the tower making observations of her own, generally through a small telescope, without any one's being aware of the fact.

The Professorin took delight in spending several hours every day in the hot-houses, and among the rare imported plants; and when Sonnenkamp one day showed her his method of training fruit-trees, she did not express admiration and astonishment as other people did, but exhibited a great proficiency in the knowledge of the new French art of gardening, and remarked how peculiar it was that the restless French people, when they withdrew from the whirl of active life, should devote themselves with such tender and persistent care to the cultivation of fruit. Sonnenkamp's countenance gleamed with pleasure, when she maintained that in orcharding, as he practised it, there was the unfolding of a talent for military generalship, inasmuch as he was called upon to decide what part of the fruit should be allowed to mature, and what should be sacrificed and removed in its unripe state in order that the rest might thrive.

Sonnenkamp expressed himself as very much obliged for the compliment, but he smiled inwardly, thinking that he saw through the fine courtly breeding; that this lady, before she came there, had read up in his favorite pursuit, in order to render herself agreeable to him. He received this homage in an apparently natural way, as if he regarded it as sincere; but he determined not to allow himself to be taken in by any such arts.

He meant to offset politeness with politeness; and he hastened to place everything in a friendly way at the disposal of the Mother and Aunt Claudine.

Towards Frau Ceres the Professorin soon established a definite line of conduct, allowing her to claim but a limited portion of her time; and now Frau Ceres went into other rooms than her own apartments, which she had never done before, and she frequently sent to ask the Mother if she might pay her a visit; the request was sometimes granted and sometimes refused.

Frau Ceres soon felt her mental influence, for she was always interested in some thought or other; she was like a priestess whose vocation it was to cherish perpetually a little flame upon an altar. When Frau Ceres was eager to make this and that inquiry about life at Court, the Professorin was able, in an unlooked-for way, to arouse her to think, and take an interest in general matters.

The Aunt, who was very reserved in her manners, brought a new element of life into the house. The grand-piano in the music-saloon, that had lain so long idle, now sent forth clear and brilliant tones; and Roland, who had wholly neglected musical practice, entered into it with zest, and became the aunt's scholar. The house, formerly called dry by Eric because it was void of music, was now refreshed and steeped in harmony; it was a cheerful time with the new guests. Sonnenkamp's countenance acquired an expression of satisfaction such as it had never worn before, when Frau Ceres, sitting by him in the music-saloon, said--

"I cannot conceive how it used to be before these noble ladies were here."

One day, after Aunt Claudine had played beautifully, and had repeated a piece twice at Eric's request, Frau Ceres said to the Mother:--

"I envy you, that you can so comprehend and enjoy all this."

She evidently plumed herself upon this little formula learned by heart, but the Professorin unintentionally stripped off this pretty adornment by saying:--

"Each one has his own satisfaction, either in nature or in art, if he is only true to himself. It is not necessary to understand and know a thing thoroughly before one can derive pleasure from it. I take delight in these mountains, without knowing how high they are, and what strata they are composed of, and many other things that men of science are acquainted with. So you can take pleasure in music. Endeavor first of all to get the simple truth, and try after nothing farther, and everything else will be yours."

No one imagined, not even Frau Ceres herself, that she went out of the music-saloon to-day a different being; for no one is able to say what word will have a direct influence upon a thirsting, aspiring, and receptive heart and mind. Frau Ceres was not conscious of the real change in herself; without learning, without acquirements, one can enter into the joys of life and of knowledge through one's own natural susceptibilities.

The quiet, healthful life of the house was suddenly broken in upon; a carriage rattled on the gravel of the courtyard; a silken train rustled: Bella and her husband made their appearance.

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V. A DOUBLE GAME

Like a bit of a home in a foreign land comes a meeting with friends among new surroundings, and the visit of Bella and Clodwig was a true pleasure to Frau Dournay; Bella embraced her rather impetuously, while Clodwig took her hand in both of his.

"But where is Eric?" asked Bella very soon, holding the Aunt's hand fast, as if she must cling to something.

With an uneasy glance first at Clodwig, then at Bella, the Mother answered that it was a rule not to allow the study-hours to be interrupted even by so pleasant a family occurrence as their welcome visit; she emphasized the word family, and Sonnenkamp, acknowledging it with a bow, said that an exception might be made to-day, but Clodwig himself begged that this should not be. Bella dropped the Aunt's hand, and stood with downcast eyes, while the Professor's widow watched her closely.

Bella looked fresh and animated; she was in full dress, and wore a large cape of sky-blue silk, under which her bare arm was seen in all its roundness.

They went into the garden, and Sonnenkamp was pleased to hear Frau Dournay explaining his system of horticulture, but he left them in order to announce their visit to his wife, wishing to use every effort to prevent her declaring herself ill.

Bella walked with the Mother, and Clodwig with Aunt Claudine, with whom he was soon in animated conversation. The Aunt, who was an accomplished piano player, was herself something like a piano, upon which children or artists can play, but which, if no one wished to do so, remains quietly in the background.

Bella asked Frau Dournay many questions as to the impression which all the family made upon her, but she received only indirect answers: she talked much herself; her checks glowed, she let her cape fall a little, and her beautiful full shoulders were seen.

"It's a pity that Clodwig didn't know your sister-in-law earlier," she suddenly said.

"He did know her well, and, unfortunately for herself, she was, as you know, a much-admired belle at court; but that was long before your time."

Bella was silent; Frau Dournay threw a quick searching glance at her. What was passing within her? what did this restless fluttering from one subject to another mean?

Eric and Roland came; Bella quickly drew her cape over her shoulders again, and folded her arms tightly under it, hardly giving Eric the tips of her fingers.

Roland was extremely lively, but Eric seemed very serious; whenever he looked at Bella, he turned away his eyes again directly. She congratulated him on his mother's arrival, and said,--

"I think if a stranger met you, even in travelling, he would feel that you are still happy enough to have a mother; and what a mother she is! A man seems to lose a nameless fragrance when his mother is lost to him."

Bella said this with a tone of feeling, and yet her mouth wore a peculiar smile, and her eyes seemed to seek applause for these ideas.

Sonnenkamp joined them, and, stroking his chin with an air of satisfaction, asked the ladies to come to his wife, who felt quite revived by a visit from such guests. He proposed that the gentlemen should drive with him to the castle, to take a view of the progress of the building, and of the place where the Roman antiquities had been found. Bella merrily upbraided Sonnenkamp for robbing her of her pleasant guests, then she went with the ladies to the garden-parlor, while the gentlemen proceeded to the castle. Frau Ceres was soon ready to go with them to the music-room, where the Aunt readily consented to play to them; Bella sat between Frau Dournay and Frau Ceres, while Fräulein Perini stood near the piano.

When the first piece came to an end, Bella asked:--

"Fräulein Dournay, do you ever play accompaniments for your nephew?"

The Aunt answered in the negative. Again the Mother threw a quick look at Bella, who seemed to be thinking constantly of Eric, and not to be able, nor indeed to wish, to conceal it. While Fräulein Dournay was playing again, Bella said to the mother:--

"You must give me something of yourself; let me have your sister-in-law at Wolfsgarten."

"I have no right to dispose of my sister. But, pardon me, a word spoken while she is playing annoys her, though she makes no claim for herself in any other respect."

Bella was silent, and Frau Dournay also; but while listening to a refreshing bit of Mozart's music, their thoughts took very different paths. What Bella's were could hardly be defined; her whole being was thrilling with joy and pain, renunciation and defiance. The Professorin owned that her instinctive perceptions were confirmed, though she felt as if they left a stain upon herself.

When the piece was finished, Bella said:

"Ah, Mozart is a happy being; hard as his life may have been, he was happy always, and he still makes others happy whenever they listen to him; even his sorrow and mourning have a certain harmonious serenity. Did your husband love music too?"

"Oh, yes; he often said that men in modern times express in music that imaginative romance of the human heart which the ancients wove into their myths. Music transports us into a world far removed from all palpable and visible existence, and transports us waking into the land of dreams."

They went out upon the balcony, and played with the parrots; Bella told one of them a marvellous story of a cousin at Wolfsgarten, which lived in a wonderful cage, sometimes flying off into the woods; but it was too gentlemanly to get its own living there, and always came back to its golden cage.

Bella's cheeks burned hotter and hotter; her lips trembled, and all at once it occurred to her that she must settle the matter then. She spoke to Mother and Aunt so earnestly, and yet with such childlike entreaties, that they at last agreed that the Aunt should go to her, within a few days, and remain as her guest.

"You will see," she said, in low but half triumphant tone to the mother, "Fräulein Dournay will be Clodwig's best friend; they are exactly made for each other."

Frau Dournay looked fixedly at her. Has it come to this, that the wife wishes to give a compensation to her husband!

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VI. A TROUBLED BUT HOPEFUL MOTHER

The ladies withdrew to dress for dinner. Frau Dournay had let down her long gray hair, and sat some time speechless in her dressing-room, with her hands folded in her lap. It seemed to her as if her brain had received a heavy blow from what she had become convinced of by unmistakable indications. Her heart contracted, and her tears forced themselves into her eyes, though they would not fall. Was it for this that a child was cherished, guarded, and nurtured by all that was best, that he might end thus? No, not end,--begin an endless entanglement which must lead to utter ruin. Was it for this that a mind was endowed with all the treasures of knowledge, that they might be turned into toys, and masks, and cloaks of baseness?

"O my God, my God!" she moaned, and covered her face with her hands.

Before her mind's eye everything seemed laid waste,--the pure, free, upright, noble nature of Eric, and her own as well. She could feel no more joy in the glance, the words, the learning, of her son; he had used them all for falsehood and treachery.

Now the tears fell from her eyes, as she thought what her husband would have said to this. How often had he lamented that every one said: "The world is bad and totally corrupt; why should I alone separate myself and deny myself its pleasures? And so every one became an upholder of the empire of sin." But how the ruin embraces everything! This noble-hearted Clodwig, with his unexampled friendship--they must meet him, greet him, talk with him, and yet wish him dead. Shame! And he goes on teaching the boy, teaching him to rule himself, and to work with noble aim for others, while he himself--oh horrible! And this passionate woman who could not endure to devote herself to the best of men, what was to become of her? And this Sonnenkamp, and his wife, and Fräulein Perini, and the Priest? "Look," they would all cry, "Look! these are the liberal souls! These are the people who are always talking about humanity, and beneficently work for it; and meanwhile they cherish the lowest passions: they shrink from no treachery, no lies, no hypocrisy!"

Oh, these unhappy wives, these wives who call themselves unhappy! There runs through our time a great lie concerning the unhappy wife. The fact is this: girls want a husband of wealth and standing, and a young and brilliant lover besides. Why will they not marry poor men? Because they can give them no fine establishment. And these men, who offer themselves as lovers,--

"Lovers!" she exclaimed aloud. Frau Dournay sprang quickly up and rang the bell violently, for she heard the carriage drive into the court. She told the servant to ask her son to come to her directly.

Eric came, looking much excited; he gazed in astonishment at his mother, whom he had never seen looking as she did now, with her long hair hanging loose, and her face looking gray like her hair.

"Sit down," she said.

Eric seated himself. His mother pressed her hand to her brow. Could she warn her son plainly? What can a mother, what can parents do, if a child, grown up and free from control, wanders from the right path? And if he has already wandered, can he still be honest? He must lie; it would be double baseness if he did not shield himself with lies,--himself and her!

"My dear son," she began, in a constrained tone, "bear with me if I feel lost in this restless life, which has broken in upon my loneliness and quiet. I wonder at your calm strength--But no, I won't speak of that now. What was I going to say to you? Ah, yes, the Countess Wolfsgarten, the wife of our friend,"--she laid a quiet but marked emphasis on this word, and paused a moment, then continued, "wishes to have Aunt Claudine go and remain with her."

"That is good! that's excellent!"

"Indeed! and why? Do you forget that it will leave me quite alone in a strange house?"

"But you are never alone, dear mother. And Aunt Claudine can find a noble vocation at Wolfsgarten; Countess Bella is full of unrest, in spite of all the beauty which encompasses her life; a strong, true nature like Aunt Claudine's, steadfast, and bringing peace to others, will soften and compose her as nothing else in the world could do. I acknowledge the sacrifice that you must make, but a good work will be accomplished by it."

His mother's eyes grew loss troubled; her face quivered as from an electric shock, as she said smiling:--

"At last we have all found our mission, we are all to be teachers. Let me ask you how Countess Bella, our friend's wife, appears to you."

A two-edged sword went through Eric's heart; he saw how he was bringing a weight upon his mother's spirit. And perhaps Bella had betrayed by some passionate word a feeling which must not exist, and he appeared as a sinner and a traitor! There was a short pause; then his mother asked, with a sudden change of expression,--

"Why do you not answer me?"

"Ah, mother, I am still much more inexperienced than I thought myself; I cannot put absolute trust in my judgment of people. I have no knowledge of human nature, though my father used to say that psychology was my forte. It may be so. I can follow a given trait of character back to its remote causes, and forward to its consequences, but I have no true knowledge of human nature."

The Mother listened quietly, with downcast eyes, to this long preamble, in which Eric was trying to gain mastery of himself, but when he stopped, she said:--

"You can at least say something, even if it is not very clear-sighted."

"Well, then, I think that in this highly-gifted woman a struggle is going on between worldliness and renunciation of the world; between the desire to appear and the longing really to be. It seems to me as if something had been repressed, checked, in the development of her life, and as if she were not yet quite ripe for the beautiful work of making life's evening full and perfect to so noble a man as Clodwig."

"Yes, he is a noble man, and to wrong him would be like the desecration of a temple," said his mother significantly.

The words came out sharply, and she went on: "You have judged rightly, the Prankens are a presumptuous and daring race. It was believed that Bella would marry her music-master, with whom she played a great deal; indeed she played with him in a double sense. But that's not to the purpose. An apparently insignificant event brought about in Bella a derangement--I don't know what to call it--a sort of overturn in her character. In her youth, while she might still be considered young,--she was twenty-two or twenty-three--she had to see her younger sister married before her; she bore it with the greatest composure, but I think that, from that time, a change came over her difficult to be described; she had suddenly grown old, older than she would confess to herself; there was something of the matron about her. This was affected, but a bitter tone was real. Her sister died after a few years, leaving no children. All these circumstances brought out something discordant in Bella; she really hated her sister, and yet behaved as if she were pining for her. She had no mother, or rather, she had one whose highest triumph was to hear people say, 'Your daughter is handsome, but not nearly so handsome as you were when you were a girl.' To be handsome is the chief pride of the Prankens. Bella is unfortunately a development of that unhappy class of society, in which people go to the theatre only to satirize and ridicule the performance, to church only to make a formal reverence to the mercy of God; in which women are held in low esteem unless they are handsome, and know how, as age comes on, to intrigue, and to affect piety. Such a being can say to herself: I have in the course of my life adorned with flowers eight or ten hundred yards of canvas, for perfectly useless sofa-cushions. Is that a life worth living? Now she has no children, no natural fixed duties--"

"And just for these reasons," interrupted Eric, "Aunt Claudine, without knowing it, will have a softening and tranquillizing influence; her calm nature, which never has to renounce, because it never longs for any change, seems just chosen for the work. However highly I value Frau Bella, our friend's wife, for herself, we must think first of all that we are fulfilling a duty to the noble Clodwig; it will establish anew and increase the purity and beauty of his life."

"Well, Aunt Claudine is going to Wolfsgarten; and now leave me, my dear son,--but no, I must tell you something, though it may seem childish. When I saw you running so fast through the garden to-day, I thought of your father's pleasure when he had been on a mountain excursion with you; and once, when you were just eleven, when you had been in Switzerland with him, he said on coming home, that his chief delight had been in seeing you run up and down the mountains without once slipping; and you never did get a fall, though your younger brother was never without some bump or bruise."

It was with a glance of double meaning that she looked at Eric, as she passed her hand over his face.

"But we have talked enough; now go. I must dress for dinner."

She kissed his forehead, and he left her; but outside the door, he stopped and said, with folded hands:--

"I thank you. Eternal Powers, that you have left me my mother: she will save us all."

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VII. STATISTICS OF LOVE

When they assembled again at the villa, the Doctor chanced to be there. Or was it not mere chance? Did he desire to note accurately, once for all, the relation between Eric and Bella?

He saluted the Professorin with great respect; she said she must confess that her husband, who made a point of mentioning frequently his distant friends, had never uttered, to the best of her recollection, the name of Doctor Richard.

"And yet I was a friend of his," cried the Doctor in a loud tone.

After a while, he said in a low voice: "I must be honest with you, and tell you that I was only a little acquainted with your husband; but your father-in-law was my teacher. I introduced myself, however, to your son as the friend of your husband, because this seemed to me the readiest way to be of service to him, exposed as he is here, in the house and in its connections, to a variety of perils."

The Professorin warmly expressed her obligation to him, but her heart contracted again. This man had evidently alluded to Bella.

The Artist who had painted the portrait of the Wine-count's daughter was there; and soon the Priest came too, and regret was expressed that the Major could not be present, having gone to celebrate St. John's day in the neighborhood; he considered everything appertaining to the Masonic order in the nature of a military duty.

The company in general were in a genial mood. The Doctor asked the painter how he got along with his picture of Potiphar's wife.

The Artist invited the company to visit shortly the studio, which Herr von Endlich had fitted up for him for the summer months.

"Strange!" cried the Doctor. "We always speak of Potiphar's wife, and we don't know what her own name was; she takes the name of her husband, and you artists don't refrain from painting nude beauties with more or less fidelity. The chaste Joseph presents always an extremely contemptible figure, and perhaps because the world thinks that the chaste Joseph is always a more or less contemptible figure. Æneas and Dido are just such another constellation, but Æneas is not looked upon in so contemptuous a way as the Egyptian Joseph."

It was painful to hear the Doctor talk in this style.

The Priest said:--

"This narrative in the Old Testament is the correlative to that of the adulteress in the New; and after a thousand years, the harmony is rendered complete. The Old Testament strikes the discordant note; the New Testament brings it to the accordant pitch."

Clodwig was exceedingly delighted with this exposition; there was something of the student-nature in him, and he was always enlivened and made happy by any new view, and any enlargement of his knowledge.

"Herr Priest, and you also, Frau Professorin," cried the Doctor, who was to-day more talkative than ever, "with your great experience of life, you two could render a great service to a friend of mine."

"I?" the priest asked.

"And I?" asked the Professorin.

"Yes, you. Our century has entered upon a wholly new investigation of the laws of the world; and things, circumstances, sentiments, which one would not believe could ever be caught, are now bagged in the statistical net, and must be shown to be conformable to laws. Nothing has been esteemed freer and more incalculable, even incomprehensible, than love and matrimony, and yet there are now exact statistical tables of these; there is an iron law, by which the number of divorces in a year is determined. My friend now goes a step farther, and from facts of his own observation has deduced the conclusion, that marriages in which the man is considerably older than the wife, present a greater average of happy unions than so-called love-matches; now, Herr Priest, and you also, Frau Professorin, think over the list of persons you are acquainted with, and ask yourselves whether you find any confirmation of this law."

The Professorin was silent, but the Priest said that religion alone consecrated marriage; religion alone gave humility, which was the only sure basis of all beautiful intercourse between men themselves, and also between man and God.

The Priest succeeded, continuing the conversation, in diverting it entirely from the subject so flippantly introduced.

Sonnenkamp stated that the Major wished to have a grand masonic celebration in the spacious knight's hall of the castle, when it was completed; he asked in what relation the reigning Prince stood towards Masonry.

Clodwig replied that he himself had formerly belonged to the order, and that the Prince was at present a protector of the brotherhood, without being a member.

The conversation was carried on in groups, and they left the table in a cheerful mood. The Doctor took leave.

It was now settled that the Aunt should go to Wolfsgarten; and, in order to give her time to make preparation for leaving, Clodwig and Bella were to remain over night and take her in the carriage with them on the morrow.

Bella was in very good spirits, and, on Sonnenkamp's offering to present her with a parrot, requested that it might be the wildest one, which she promised to tame.

In the evening Roland urged them to take a sail with him on the Rhine. The Aunt and Bella went together; Fräulein Perini withdrew with Frau Ceres; the Professorin remained with Clodwig, and Sonnenkamp excused himself to forward some unfinished letters.

On the boat there were laughter and merriment, in which Bella joined, dipping her hand into the water and playing with her wedding-ring, which she moved up and down on the finger, repeatedly immersing her hand in the Rhine.

"Do you understand what the Doctor was aiming at?" she asked Eric.

"If I had been willing to understand, I should have been obliged to feel offended," he replied.

"Now we are speaking of the Doctor," resumed Bella, "there is one thing I must tell you that I have forgotten to mention before. The Doctor is doughty, unadulterated virtue; but this rough virtue once wanted to pay court to me, and I showed him how ridiculous he made himself. It may very well be, that the man doesn't speak well of me. You ought to know the reason."

Eric was moved in his inmost soul. What does this mean? May this be a wily move to neutralize the physician's opinion? He could not determine.

After a while, Bella asked,--

"Can you tell me why I am now so often low-spirited?"

"The more highly-endowed natures, Aristotle says, are always melancholy," replied Eric.

Bella caught her breath; that was altogether too pedantic an answer to suit her.

They did not succeed in keeping up any continued conversation, but Bella said at one time abruptly to Eric,--

"The visit here of your mother vexes me."

"What! vexes you?"

"Yes, it wounds me that this man with his gold should be able to change the position of people, as he does."

Eric had abundant matter of thought in this casual remark.

"You have the happiness to be greatly beloved," said Bella suddenly. Eric looked up alarmed, glancing towards Roland, and Bella continued aloud,--

"Your mother loves you deeply." After a time, she said in a low tone to herself, but Eric heard it,--

"Me no one loves; I know why,--no, I don't know why."

Eric looked her full in the face, then seized an oar and made the water fly with his rowing.

Meanwhile, the mother and Clodwig sat together, and the former expressed her joy that Eric had been thrown into the society of men of such well-tried experience; in former times, a man could have completed his culture by intercourse with women; but now, that end could be attained only by intercourse with noble men.

They soon passed into those mutual unfoldings of views which are like a perpetual greeting, when two persons have pursued the same spiritual ends apart from each other, in wholly different relations of life, and yet with the same essential tendencies.

The Professorin had known Clodwig's first wife, and recalled her to remembrance in affectionate words. Clodwig looked round to see if Bella was near, for he had never spoken before her of his former wife. It was pure calumny, when it was said that he had promised Bella never to speak of the deceased, for Clodwig was not so weak, nor Bella so hard, as this; it was only out of consideration for her, that he never did it.

In low, half-whispered tones, the conversation flowed on; and finding in each other the same fundamental trait, they agreed that it was happy for human beings here below to pass lightly over what was untoward in their lot, and retain in lively remembrance only what was felicitous.

"Yes," said the Professorin in confirmation, "my husband used often to say, that a Lethe stream flows through the soul buoyant with life, so that the past is forgotten."

It was a season of purest, interchange of thought, and of true spiritual communion, for Clodwig and the mother. They were like two beings in the spirit-world, surveying calmly and clearly what had passed in this state of existence. There was nothing painful in the mutual awakening of their recollections, but rather an internal perception of the inexhaustible fulness of life; on this elevated height the sound of desire and plaint was no longer heard, and the individual life with all its personal relations was dissolved into the one element of universal being.

But now there was a diversion, and Clodwig expressed regret at having lived so much a mere spectator, and that he had without throwing himself into the great current of influence, waited passively in the confident expectation that the idea which was stirring in the world would accomplish, of itself, its own grand fulfilment. He expressed his satisfaction that the young men of to-day were of a different stamp, and that Eric was to him an inspiring representative of youth as thoughtful as it was bold, as moderate as it was active.

Bella entered just as they happened to refer again to the statistics of love. She was pale, but Clodwig did not perceive it; sitting down near them in silence, she requested them to continue their conversation; but neither the Professorin nor Clodwig resumed the interrupted theme.

Clodwig spoke of Aunt Claudine, asked after her favorite pursuits, and was glad to own a fine telescope, which she could use at Wolfsgarten.

After a brief rest, Bella left them and went into the park.

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VIII. A STRUGGLE BETWEEN DUTY AND PASSION

"I must speak with you this evening in the park, under the weeping ash," Eric had said to Bella as they were getting out of the boat.

"This evening?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And in the park, under the weeping ash?"

"Yes."

She had of her own accord placed her arm in his, and they walked together in silence to the villa; then she relinquished his arm, and went straight to Clodwig and the Mother.

She knew not what she desired here, but she was happy, or rather soothed, when she saw them sitting so confidentially together. Yes, she thought, every one who gives an ear to him, and returns a stimulating reply occasionally, is as much to him as I.

She rose and went into the park; she walked about restlessly, knowing that Eric must get released from Roland, in order to keep the appointment with her. But she had no idea how hard it was for him to effect this; not so much because Roland was not obedient, and mindful every hour of the task set him, but because Eric was inwardly disturbed that he was obliged to assign to his pupil as a duty and a theme some noble thought, some lesson, some subject of study, merely to become temporarily freed from his presence. The book he gave him, the place he selected for him to read until his return, appeared to him perverted to a wrong use, dishonored and profaned; yet nothing else could be done. It was a bitter experience, but it was the last time; he would come out from this final interview pure and strong; and have a plain and straight path before him.

He became composed with this thought, and entered the park. He found Bella on the seat upon the height; she had evidently been weeping freely.

Hearing his step, she removed the handkerchief from her eyes. "You have been weeping?"

"Yes, for your mother, for myself, for us all! O, how often have I heard your mother ridiculed, blamed, pitied, and despised, for following the impulse of her heart and the man of her choice. For some time the saying was, To live on love and eight hundred thalers. She is now more highly favored than any of us. With blessed satisfaction she surveys now the past, and looks forward to the future in her son, and what are her deriders? Puppets, dolls,--gossipping, music-making, dancing, chattering, scandal-making dolls! They turn up their noses at the man who has become so rich on the labor of slaves, and our aristocratic fathers sell their children, and the children sell themselves, for a high rank in society, for horses and carriages, for finery and villas. The nobility, the poor nobility, is the inherited curse from ancestral pride, from slavery to the ancestral idea! A peasant woman, who gleans barefooted in the stubble-field, is happier and freer than the lady who is driven through the streets in her carriage, leaning back and cooling herself with her fan."

"I have one request," began Eric in a constrained voice; "will you bestow upon me one hour of your life?"

"One hour?"

"Yes. Will you listen to me?"

"I am attentive." As she gazed at him, her eye-brows seemed to grow larger and larger, the corners of her mouth to be drawn slowly down, and her lips to open as if parched with a feverish heat; nothing was wanting but the wings upon her head, and the snaky heads knotted under her chin, to give the perfect Medusa-look.

Eric was for an instant petrified; then collecting himself, he continued:--

"Two questions now rend my heart; one is, Has the violence of love taken from me life, study, and the power of abstract thought? The other is, Must a child of humanity, because destiny has once decided for him, become a lifelong victim to this determination? And these two questions resolve themselves into one, just as those snaky heads form one knot under the chin of the Medusa."

"Go on!" urged Bella.

"Well, then, there was one hour when I would like to have said to the beautiful wife sitting before me, 'I love thee!' and I would have embraced and kissed her, but then,"--Eric pressed his hand upon his heart, and gnashed his teeth,--"but that hour over, I should have put a bullet through my brain!"

Bella let her eyes fall, and Eric went on: "One hour, and then my peace was gone; I had nothing left. I could not sleep. I could not think. This could not last. I lost myself, and what did I gain? I saw all that this love devastated, and could it be love? No. Could I take it lightly like others, it would be light. But why is this the only thing to be made light of? Why is not the ideal of life also to be made light of, and why is not all feeling only a plausible lie?"

In a hoarse voice he added:--

"But I do not believe that love has the right to lay everything in ruins; but then perhaps it may be said, it is not real love. Pluck up heart, look at the world for yourself, see how pleasantly, respectably, and shrewdly it lies, the women tricked out with artificial beauty, and the men with superficial knowledge. Do you see the abyss on whose brink I stood? And here I said to myself. We are placed in the world in order to live, and knowledge and culture have been given us that we may get from them life and not death. And how could I look a noble man in the face, how could I look up to the sun in heaven, how was I to educate a human being, to stand erect in the world, to abhor crime, to discern the holy; how was I to take the word mother upon my lips, with the consciousness that I was myself the vilest of all, and that there was no moment in which I, and another also, must not tremble, and be filled with cowardly fear and despair."

Eric paused and placed his hand on his forehead; his voice choked, tears stood in his eyes.

"Go on!" cried Bella, "I am listening."

"It is well. This once do I speak thus to you, and only this once. You have courage to hear the truth. Our relation is not love, must not be love; for love cannot thrive on murder, hypocrisy, and treachery. I clasp your hand--no, I clasp it not, for I know I could not let it go, if I did. Here I stand--I speak to you, you listen to me--I speak to you, as if I were miles away, as if I were dead; there must be distance, there must be death, before there is any life."

"What do you mean?" interposed Bella.

She looked at Eric's hand as if he were about to draw a weapon from his bosom.

Breathing deep, he went on: "It must be possible for human beings who have been made conscious of where they are, to find again the right path from which they have wandered. My friend! you are happy if you understand the happiness, and you can and must learn to appreciate it; and I am happy. Howsoever my heart may be shattered, I know I shall come to understand my duty and my happiness. I have been, heretofore, so proud, I thought I had mastered the world and brought it under my feet, and so did you; and that we have met, is to be not for our destruction, but rather for our awakening into a new life.

"I foresee that the days will come when we shall coldly extend to each other our hands, and say, or even not say, though we feel and know it, that there was one pure hour, an hour won by a severe struggle, when we were exalted in our own souls, and because we held each other so highly, we did not debase nor degrade ourselves. This hour is hard, is overwhelming; but what is hard and overwhelming now, will be, in the future, tender and full of restoring strength.

"We would hold each other high, that we may not destroy the laws of righteous living. And here is life's duty. My friend, it was a saying of my father, The man of understanding must be able to obey the command of duty, with the same glow of zeal that others obey the command of passion. So must it be. The stars shine over our heads, I look upon you as upon a star that shines in its purity and in its ordained orbit. Ah! I do not know what I am saying. Enough! Let me now bid you farewell; when we meet again--"

"No, stay here!" Bella cried, grasping his arm, which she let go immediately, as if she had touched a snake.

She withdrew two steps, and threw back her head, saying:--

"I thank you."

Eric wanted to reply, but it was better that he should say nothing; he was about to go away in silence, when Bella cried:--

"One question! Is it true that you saw Manna Sonnenkamp, before you came here?"

"Yes."

"And you love her, and are here on her account?"

"No."

"I believe you, and I thank you."

There seemed to be in this utterance something consolatory to her, that she had not been sacrificed to love for another. She looked wildly around, moved her head right and left, and when she had become calm again, she said:

"You are right. It is well."

She seemed to be looking for something to give to Eric, without being able to find it; and now, as if she were giving utterance to a thought that had long lain upon her mind, and which anxiety for his welfare forced from her, she cried,--

"Be warned! Be on your guard against my brother; he can be terrible."

Eric went away; it was a hard matter to return to Roland, but he must.

He sat still by Roland's side for a short time, with his hands over his eyes; the light pained them, and he did not venture to look at Roland.

Then a servant, came with the message that the Count and the Countess were going to take their departure at once; Eric and Roland could bid them good-bye in the court-yard.

They went down, and heard that, contrary to the original plan, they were to set out immediately, and send the next day a carriage for Aunt Claudine.

Bella extended her gloved right hand to Eric, saying in a low tone:--

"Good-night, Herr Captain."

The carriage drove off.

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IX. THOUGHTS OF THE RELEASED

Bella sat quietly as she rode homewards with her husband. After a long silence. Count Clodwig said,--

"My heart is full of happiness and joy; it is a real blessedness to see a woman who is sixty years old, and who has never had a thought that she needed to repent of."

Bella looked up quickly. "What does this mean? Has he any idea of what has transpired?

"That cannot be; he would not, in that case, have referred to it. But perhaps it is his lofty manner of giving a hint towards a life of purity."

She was fearful of betraying herself if she made no answer, and yet she was at a loss what to say. Making a violent effort of self-restraint, she said at last,--

"This lady is very happy in her poverty; she has a noble, highly-cultivated son."

Clodwig now looked round as if some one had pulled upon him. Could Bella have had any notion that the thought had crossed his mind,--What if this wife--and then Eric be thy son?

He was better off than Bella, for there was no necessity of his making any reply; but he inwardly reproached himself for having had the faintest impression of such a thought.

They drove along in silence; there was oneness of feeling, and yet each had saddening thoughts; for the rest of the way not a word was spoken. It seemed to Bella as if some mighty force must come and bear her away into chaos, into annihilation. The carriage rattled so strangely, the wheels grated, and the maid and the coachman looked to her like goblins, and the flitting shadows of the moon like pictures in a dream, and the carriage with its inmates like a monster; anger, shame, pride, humiliation, were stormily coursing through her heart, that had not yet been calmed.

She was enraged with herself that she, who was mature in worldly experience, had allowed herself to be carried away by such a girlish infatuation, for that was the name she still gave it. And had not her self-love been wounded? Was not this the first time that she had ever stretched out her hand without its being grasped?

It came across her that Eric might have overstated his love to her, in order to lessen the feeling of shame on her part. As she thought it over, it seemed to her that she detected something unnatural in his tone, something forced and constrained.

She thought again of Eric. Where is he now? Is he talking with any one? He certainly suffers deeply; he has saved himself and thee. Her thoughts were like a whirlwind. Now she scornfully exulted. It was only a trifling jest, an experiment, a bold play! She, Bella, the strong, had only tried to bring a young man to his knees before her, and she would have thrust him away with contempt if she had succeeded. She can say this--who can contradict her? Her whole past life was good evidence in her favor, and yet she felt ashamed of this lie.

But what is now to be done? she asked again. She is simply to be quiet; she will meet the man with indifference; her last word to him was to warn him against any attachment to Manna. There was the whole! That was the pivot on which, turned the whole bold game. She promised herself to root out of her soul every passionate feeling, every violent emotion. She was now grateful to the destiny that had aroused within her the strong forces of nature--her virtue had now been tried in the fire.

She took the veil from her face, and looked up at the stars. They should be witnesses that all immoderate, all childish allurements, that were unworthy of her, should be put far away. Now she silently thought of what Eric had said, "For this end are culture and knowledge bestowed upon us, that we should rule over ourselves."

As they were going up the hill on which Wolfsgarten was situated, there came over her a feeling of imprisonment; she thought her hands were tied, and she put them outside of her mantle. Clodwig thought she was seeking his hand; he took hers and held it with a gentle pressure.

They reached Wolfsgarten in silence, and Clodwig said, as they stood in the brightly lighted garden-saloon,--

"We can be silent in each other's company; and this is the fairest comradeship, when each one abides in himself and yet is with another."

Bella nodded, looking at the whole surroundings with a wondering glance. What is all this? To whom does all this belong? What power has brought her here? Where has she been? How would it be now, here alone with her husband, if----

It seemed to her that she must fall on her knees, grasp his hand, and beg for forgiveness.

But it is better, she thought, not for herself--she believed that she was ready to humble herself to the utmost,--but better for him not to know anything of what had transpired. It ought to be concealed from him. She bowed her head, and Clodwig kissed her brow, saying:--

"Your brow is hot."

Each retired to rest.

Bella sent her maid away and undressed without her aid to-night.

After Clodwig and Bella had driven off, the Mother went to the vine-embowered house with Eric. She led him by the hand like a little child; she felt his hand tremble, but she said nothing; when they had reached the steps, she said,--

"Eric, kiss me!"

Eric understood her meaning; she wanted to see if he could kiss her with pure lips. He kissed her. Mother and son uttered no word.

Every pain was removed from Eric's whirling brain. And truth requires it to be said, that the most painful thought was, that a feeling of regret had come over Eric, a short time previously. The tempter suggested that he had been too scrupulous, too conscientious. He had thrust from him a beautiful woman, who was ready to clasp him with loving arms. When he surprised himself in these thoughts, he was profoundly wretched. All pride, all self-congratulation, and all exalted feelings of purity, were extinguished; he was a sinner without the sin. He had believed himself raised upon a lofty eminence; he had even represented his love to Bella in stronger colors than the facts warranted. Now there was a recoil, and the whole power of the rejected and disdained love avenged itself upon his doubly sinful head.

For a long time he wandered about in the quiet night.

The soul has its feverish condition from wounds as well as the body, and equally requires a soothing treatment.

Eric had amputated a part of his soul in order to save the rest, and he suffered from the pain. But as the dew fell upon tree and grass, and upon the face of Eric, so fell a dew upon his spirit.

The self-exaltation of virtue was now taken out of him, washed away by his double repentance, and he was now again a child.

As he looked back to the vine-embowered house, he thought: I will, as a man, preserve within me the child; and still further he thought: Thou hast withdrawn thyself from temptation through the consciousness of duty; be tender towards the rich and great, to whom everything is offered, to whom so much is allowed; the consciousness of duty does not restrain them so absolutely as it does him who is in the world, him who must help and be helped by others, and who has lost everything when he has lost himself.

He returned home late in the evening; and at night he dreamed that he was struggling in the midst of the floods of the Rhine, and he, the strong swimmer, was not able to contend against the waves.

He shrieked, but a steam-tug drowned his cry, and the helmswoman of a boat looked down upon him with contempt--and all at once it was not the helmswoman, but a maiden form with wings and two brightly-gleaming eyes.

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X. THE GUARDIAN AND HELPER

Early in the morning, a carriage from Wolfsgarten came for Aunt Claudine and the parrot.

For the thirty years since her marriage with the Professor, Frau Dournay had not passed a day without her sister-in-law; now, for the first time, she was letting her go from her. It seemed to both of them hardly conceivable that they could live apart from each other, but it had been decided upon, and must be.

Sonnenkamp was most politely attentive; he charged the Aunt to consider his house her home, and not to remain more than a few days as a guest at Wolfsgarten. He gave a basket full of carefully-covered grapes and bananas into the coachman's charge; the parrot's cage was on the seat near Aunt Claudine.

The parrot screamed and scolded as they drove off, and kept it up all the way, not liking, apparently, to leave Villa Sonnenkamp.

Herr Sonnenkamp proposed a drive to the Professorin, to help her forget the parting, but she answered, that not by diversion but by quiet reflection, can we compose and reconcile ourselves to the inevitable. Roland looked at her in surprise; these wore Eric's thoughts, almost his very words.

Several days passed quietly at the villa, which was hardly quitted even for visits to the vine-covered cottage. Bella's visit had brought a disquiet to the house, which still hung over them all, and they realized it afresh as they constantly missed the Aunt; Bella had taken something which seemed an essential part of their life. And besides, the house was again without any sound of music.

Eric and Roland were more industrious than ever, for the Mother had asked if she might not be with them in the study-hours, saying that she had never heard any of Eric's teaching. Eric knew that she wished to help him to keep a strict guard over himself; for though not a word had been said, she felt that something must have passed between him and Bella. And she not only wanted to watch over her son at every hour, but to inspire him by her presence to keep true to his duty to Roland.

So she sat with them from early morning through much of the day, breathing low, and not even allowing herself any needlework; and Eric and Roland felt a peculiar of a calm mind, of deep insight, and wide incitement in the presence of a third person, views. At first Roland often looked up at her, but she always shook her head, to remind him that he must give his whole mind to what he was about, and take no notice of her. Eric was completely free from the first hour, when he had caught himself giving such a turn to the lesson that his mother might learn something new, and had met her gaze, which said,--That's not the thing to be considered. He returned to his simple plan, without regard to his mother's presence. She was pleased with the methodical way in which Eric gave his instruction, and knew how to keep his pupil's attention. She listened with pleasure, one day, when he said that Indolence liked to say:--Nothing depends on me, a single individual; but, a nation and humanity consist of individuals; a scholar learns through single hours and days; a fruit ripens by single sunbeams; everything is individual, but the collected individuals make up the great whole. Eric had prepared himself, and read apposite passages from Cicero, and from Xenophon's Memorabilia. Roland must feel that he had the fellowship of the noblest spirits. But when they were alone, his mother said,--"I think that in illustrating everything and trying to give your pupil knowledge, you weaken and loosen his firm hold on fundamental principles."

Eric felt a shock of disappointment; he had hoped that his mother would express entire pleasure, and she was finding fault instead; but he controlled himself, and she continued, smiling:--

"I cannot help laughing, because my two points of criticism are really one and the same, looked at on two sides. The one view is this, that it seems to me dangerous to give your pupil, as you do, just what he desires: you follow the devious path of a young discursive mind, and just there lies the danger of private instruction. I mean, in this way it pampers the youthful mind by giving it only what it wishes for, not what it ought to have. The discipline of a definite course of study lies in the necessity of taking up and carrying forward what the connected plan requires, and not what may suit the fancy; this fits one for life too, for life does not always bring what we long for, but what we need and must have."

"And what is your second point?" asked Eric, as his mother paused.

"My second point is only a repetition of the first. I remember your father's saying once, that the first and only true support, or rather the very foundation of education, must be:--'Thou shalt, and thou shalt not; straight forward without comment, without explanation, without illustration.' Now ask yourself whether you are not weakening his character. When our Roland is brought into a conflict, I don't know whether knowledge will help him, rather than the ancient command: 'Thou shalt and thou shalt not.' I only say this to you that you may think it over; others may praise you, I must warn you. I can say, though, that you have attained one important point; the boy has a holy reverence for the spirit of the Past."

Eric grasped his mother's hand, and walked on sometime in silence. Then he explained to her how he wished to give Roland not only knowledge, but a firm foundation of self-reliance, on which his life might rest.

"My son," replied his mother, "you have set yourself a difficult task; you want to accomplish a three-fold work at once; that is not possible. Listen to me patiently. You want to complete and perfect a neglected education; you want to lead to higher aims, gaining at the same time a moral foothold and moral elevation, without using the means handed down to you; and, finally, you want to train a youth, who knows his own wealth, to be a useful, unselfish, even self-sacrificing man. Now why do you laugh, pray? I will stop, though I might add, that you want to make a boy without a family affectionate, and a boy without a country patriotic. Now tell me why you laugh."

"Forgive me, mother; there's reason in your being called Professorin; you have discoursed like a Professor from his desk. But let me tell you that the two-fold or the five-fold task is only a simple one in the end. I confess I have often said to myself that I might make it easier, but then I would ask myself whether this was not an attempt to excuse my own desire of comfort. I must make the experiment of placing a youth upon the platform of acting freely from----"

"Reason?" responded the mother. "Reason may give composure, but not happiness nor blessedness; reason may not be the nourishment which suits the young spirit. Remember, my son, that meat is good food, but we do not feed a new-born child on meat instead of milk. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Yes; you mean that religion is the mother's milk of the spirit."

"Exactly," said the Mother, in triumph. "Your father always said that no man had ever produced any great work, or accomplished any great deed, who did not believe in God; God is the highest object of imaginative thought. So long as philosophy cannot show a moral law which can be written, concisely and with perfect clearness, upon two tables of stone, education must make its progress through religion."

"Mother," answered Eric, "we believe in God more truly than those who would confine him within the limits of a book, of a church, or of a special form of worship."

"Ah," said his mother, "let us drop the subject. Do you see that butterfly, flitting in great circles against the window pane? The butterfly takes the glass, from its transparency, to be the open air, and thinks that he can pass through it, but dashes his head at last against the glass wall that seemed to be nothing but air. But enough, I am not strong enough for you. If your father still lived, he could help you as no one else can."

The conversation, now turning on the father's death, wandered away from the previous subject.

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XI. AN EXTRAORDINARY SCHOOL-COMMITTEE

Frau Ceres was jealous because the Professorin devoted less time to her, and surprised them by suddenly expressing the desire to be present at the lessons, saying that she had more need of instruction than the rest. And Sonnenkamp also betook himself to Roland's room. He could never be idle, and so, when he did not smoke, he had the habit of whittling all sorts of figures out of a small piece of wood; and he was especially fond of cutting into grotesque shapes fragments of grape-vine roots. This was the only way he could sit and listen.

Eric saw that his instruction was interfered with by this heterogeneous assemblage. The Mother understood his disquiet, without a word being said, and staid away from the lessons. Frau Ceres and Herr Sonnenkamp soon did the same.

While Eric was enabled to banish, by a strict fulfilment of his duties, every trace of the disturbing element introduced by Bella, the Mother was full of restlessness. She had attained what had been the object of her strongest wishes, access to a large garden of plants and unlimited sway therein, and yet she was not quite content.

One morning, as she was walking early in the park with her son, she said:--

"I have discovered something new in myself: I have no talent for being a guest."

Eric interposed no questions, for he knew that she would reach the goal, even if she took a roundabout way. The Mother continued:--

"I have the feeling that I must bring something to pass; I cannot be forever a passive recipient; and here is the special danger of riches. The rich look upon themselves as guests in this world; they themselves have nothing to do, and others must do everything for them. I tell thee; my dear son, that I cannot stand it, I must do something. You men, you can work, create, influence, and renew your life by what you do, while we women can only recreate and restore our life by loving."

Eric suggested that she accomplished her part by simply being, but the Mother very energetically responded:--

"I am always vexed with Schiller for this: he should not have said, it isn't like him to write, 'Ordinary natures pay with what they do; noble ones with what they are.' That sounds like a carte blanche for all do-nothings, with or without coronets upon their seals."

Eric held up to her the satisfaction arising from her influence upon Frau Ceres; but the Mother shook her head without any remark.

She had placed great hopes in that, but such an enigmatical and incomprehensible person was presented to her view, that she seemed to herself wholly useless. She would not acknowledge to her son that the house had something oppressive to her; that the family had all its glory and pride in external possessions, so that everything here appeared external, directed by alien hands, and altogether destitute of any strength developed from within.

Fräulein Perini spoke always of Frau Ceres as "the dear sufferer." From what was Frau Ceres suffering?

The Professorin had once lightly touched upon the thought how greatly Frau Ceres must miss her daughter; when, with eyes sparkling like those of a snake as it suddenly darts up its head, she sent Fräulein Perini, who was at hand, into the garden; she then said to the Professorin, looking timidly round:--

"He is not to blame; I, only I. I wished to punish him when I said that to my child; but I did not mean she should go away."

The Professorin begged that she would confide the whole to her, but Frau Ceres laughed like a person wholly beside herself.

"No, no, I shall not say it again, and certainly not to you."

The distress which the Professorin had experienced at the first interview with Frau Ceres was felt anew. She believed now that she knew the suffering of the dark-eyed woman, who, sometimes listless, and sometimes restless as a lizard, was troubled by a thought which she could not reveal, and could not wholly keep back.

Like a child to whom a story is told, she was urged by Frau Ceres to tell her over and over again about the court fêtes, which alone seemed to awaken any interest. Frau Ceres was delighted to hear the same things repeated.

But the mother took care to show that a princess has a special employment for every hour, and that a regular performance of duty was of great importance. She spoke earnestly, and came back often to the consideration, that a woman like Frau Ceres, born in a Republic, could have not the remotest conception of all this, and that it was like being suddenly removed into another century.

"I understand everything that you and your son say," Frau Ceres stated, "but what other people say, except the Major, I hear it indeed, but I don't know where I am. Just think, I was afraid of you at first."

"Of me? No one was ever afraid of me before."

"I will tell you about it some other time. Ah, I am sick, I am always sick."

The Mother did not succeed in arousing Frau Ceres out of her life of mere alternate sleeping and waking.

Sonnenkamp met the Mother with demonstrations of deepest respect, and seemed to practise upon her his airs and attitudes of genteel behavior. He delicately hinted that he had faithfully kept the agreement, and had never asked her what his wife said and desired; and now he would only beg to be permitted to make one inquiry, whether Frau Ceres had never spoken of Manna.

"Certainly, but very briefly."

"And may I not be allowed to know what this brief communication was?"

"I don't know myself; it is still a riddle. But, I beseech you, do not lead me to disloyalty and breach of trust."

"Breach of trust." cried Sonnenkamp with trembling lips.

"Ah, it was not the right word. Your wife has confided nothing to me, but I believe,--I pray you not to mistake me,--I suspect, she is secretly afraid of Fräulein Perini, or is vexed or angry with her. As I said before, I am very far from meaning to blame Fräulein Perini, and I almost repent of having said as much as I have."

"You can be at rest on that point. My wife would like to send Fräulein Perini out of the house ten times every day, and ten times every day to call her back again. There is no person, not even yourself, who is more needful to her and more useful than Fräulein Perini." The Professorin longed to be out of the house, and she could find no adequate reason for the deep hold which the desire had taken upon her. She had no desire to be made the depositary of secrets, nor to solve riddles, and yet she was incessantly occupied with the thought of the daughter of the house. A child, a grownup girl, whom such a family abandoned, perhaps this maiden was a charge for her; but how it was to be, she could not perceive, and yet the thought would not leave her.

She wanted to question the Major, Clodwig, and Bella; and she would even have liked to have recourse to Pranken, but Pranken had not been visible for several weeks. She got Joseph to show her Manna's room one day; and while there, it seemed to her as if the dear child were calling her, and as if it were her duty to lend her a helping hand.

She wrote a letter to the Superior, informing her that she would pay her a visit at the first opportunity.

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XII. FRAU PETRA

When Sonnenkamp was alone in the garden, in the hot-houses, in the work-room, or his seed-room, he wore perpetually a complacent, triumphant smile, often congratulating himself upon his success in making persons and circumstances play into his hands, ruling, bending, and directing them, just as he did the fruit in the garden.

The refractoriness and the indolence of Frau Ceres were very serviceable, at first, in lending to the whole establishment an air of respectability. It gave the appearance of self-containedness, as if there was no need of other people; as if there was everything in their own circle, and what should be superadded to this would be received graciously, but was not an absolute necessity. But this appearance of seclusion soon became a sort of mysterious riddle, and excited curiosity and scandal.

Sonnenkamp had foreseen this, but had not anticipated that this state of feeling would last so long. The shyness and reserve of the dwellers in the vicinity in forming any intimate relations with him, and their failure to visit him on familiar terms, gradually disturbed him. This distance must not be allowed to have too much weight, it had better not be noticed; and complaisance must be shown towards these who hold themselves thus distantly, and it must not be seen that their bearing is remarked at all.

The relation to Otto von Pranken had begun with the stable, but proceeding farther, by the connection of the families promised now a firm basis in the future. Until now, Sonnenkamp's house, park, and garden, considered as a whole, seemed like some isolated, alien, and extraneous plant within a flower-pot. Through Eric and his family the roots had begun to spread, and the plant to grow independently in the open ground.

The intimate relation with Clodwig and Bella, which Pranken had not been able to bring about, had been effected through Eric; and now the Professor's widow was to carry that still farther, by giving and receiving visits which would naturally unite the families.

Sonnenkamp very cautiously expressed to the Mother his regret, that his wife did not incline to keep up a neighborly acquaintance with the respectable families around. The Mother had a desire to get a look into the life of this part of the country, and to express thanks to those who had manifested so much friendliness towards her son. She wanted first to visit the house of the Doctor. Sonnenkamp suggested that she should then call upon the Justice's family. He placed his whole house at her disposal if she wished to make invitations.

One beautiful Sunday in the latter part of summer was fixed upon for visiting the neighborhood.

Frau Ceres had promised to go with them, but when the morning came for them to start, she declared that it was impossible. The Professorin now observed, for the first time, a spice of artfulness in her; she had consented, evidently, to avoid being urged; and now she planted herself upon her own will, without making any plea of ill health.

Fräulein Perini remained at home with her.

They drove first to Herr von Endlich's, although they might have known that the family were absent; they wanted only to leave their cards.

From Herr von Endlich's Sonnenkamp returned to the villa, and left Roland, Eric, and the Mother, to proceed to the town. He called out to them at parting, that they must take care not to drink all the wine that should be offered them.

And when the Mother was now driving with Eric and Roland, the thought occurred to her that she was not making these visits on her own account; but she was just as happy in making them as the representative of her friendly host.

Roland wished them to stop as they were going along, for they met Claus, the field-guard. Roland introduced him to Eric's mother; she extended her hand, and said she would soon give him a call.

Claus, looking very much gratified, and pointing to Roland, replied:--

"Yes, yes, if I had to turn out a grandmother for him, it would be nobody else but you."

They laughed, and drove on. When they reached the town, the bells of the newly-erected Protestant church were just ringing. It stood upon a hill, from which there was a wide view of the country around.

The Mother stopped, and went with Eric and Roland into the church.

Roland had never been in a Protestant church while service was going on. The Mother requested him not to go in now, when she heard him say this, but to proceed directly with Eric to the town; he was bent, however, upon remaining with her.

They entered the simple, plain building just as the congregation was finishing the hymn. The Mother was pained to hear a discourse on eternal punishment, delivered in a high-pitched voice, and regretted in her own mind that she had yielded to Roland.

After they had taken a survey of the cheering landscape on coming out, the Mother took Roland's hand, saying:--

"When you are prepared for it, I shall make you acquainted with one of your countrymen, from whom you can get higher views."

"Is it Benjamin Franklin? I know him."

"No; the man I speak of is a preacher who died only a few years ago; a man of the deepest religious nature. I am glad to have known him personally; he has been a guest at our house, and I have taken him by the hand. He and your father, Eric, became intimate friends at once."

"Do you mean Theodore Parker?" inquired Eric.

"I mean him, and I feel elevated to have had such a man live with us."

"Why have you never spoken of this man?" said Roland, turning to Eric.

"Because I did not wish to interfere with the faith in which you were brought up."

Eric said this without meaning to reprove his mother, and yet she was alarmed when she heard his reply; she repeated, that Roland would learn about the man after his judgment had become more mature.

The mischief, however, had been done, of pointing out to the youth something which was now withheld from him; and as he had never been accustomed to being denied, anything, he would now, as usual, be eager after what was forbidden, and if it was not given him, he would take secret measures to get it himself.

Eric and Roland received the salutation of many coming out of church. Eric introduced his mother to the School-director, the Forester, his wife and sister-in-law, who all accompanied the friends into the town. The walk along the public highway was pleasant; there is nothing, on the whole, like this pleasant mood with which a large number of persons of various condition and character return from church.

"Wasn't the Doctor's wife at church?" asked the Mother.

They told her that she never went on Sunday morning, but staid at home to comfort the country people who came early on Sunday; she often gave them simple household remedies, and arranged the order in which they should be admitted to the Doctor on his return.

Eric now heard, for the first time, that they called the Doctor's wife Frau Petra. She had something of St. Peter's office, the keeping of the door into the heavenly kingdom of healing.

They entered the Doctor's house. The cleanliness of the entry floor and steps was notable as usual, and on the walls good pictures were hanging, no one of which seemed to owe its position to chance. Green climbing-plants were standing upon pier-tables, and sending out their tendrils in all directions. In the sitting-room the work-table was placed under the window, before which was a street-mirror; and on the table itself stood a camelia in full bloom. They heard the Doctor's wife saying in the next room,--

"Yes, good Nanny, you are talking the whole time about religion and conformity to the will of God, and now you are clear down in the depths of despair, and out of patience, and unwilling to take kindly advice. My husband can give medicine, but you must give yourself love and patience. And you, Anna, you give your child too much to eat and then you have to keep coming for help. One can't get understanding at the apothecary's. And you, Peter, you go home and apply a bandage wet with warm vinegar."

Nothing further was heard. Apparently the servant had come in and announced the arrival of the visitors.

The door opened, and the Doctor's wife entered. She gave a hearty greeting to the Mother, and ordered the servant to bring a bottle of wine and three glasses. In spite of the Mother's refusal, the gentlemen must drink.

When the Professorin lauded the beneficent influence of the Doctor's wife, the latter at once accepted the praise saying,--

"One can learn something in more than forty years' experience, such as I have had. At first I shuddered, but I was always angry with myself for it; now I have learned from my husband what stands me in the best stead."

"What is that?"

"Rude bluntness, the only effectual thing. Each one is thinking about himself, but why talk about myself?"

She expressed her satisfaction at becoming acquainted with the Mother. The two ladies smiled when Roland said:--

"We went to the church, and from there we came to you, and we think we are much better off here."

The wine came, and Eric and Roland drank the health of the Doctor's substitute. Then they went to the study of the Physician, and Eric explained the anatomical charts to Roland.

The Mother urged the Doctor's wife, with whom she was visiting, to return her visit soon, and expressed the hope of great good to result to Frau Ceres from her resolute nature.

"I should be afraid of being too blunt," answered the Doctor's wife, whose nature was in reality exceedingly gentle and considerate.

"I trust you will pardon my boldness; is it true that Manna is to be taken from the convent, and have her education completed by you?"

The Mother was amazed. What was to her only a vague thought, was the gossip of the neighborhood. She could not imagine what had given rise to it, and the Doctor's wife could not tell where she had heard it.

When the Mother now made particular inquiries about Manna, the Doctor's wife said that Roland was the only one of Sonnenkamp's family whom she knew. She knew nothing at all about Manna; but Lina, the Justice's daughter, had been her friend, and from her something definite might be learned.

The Physician joined them, but did not stay long. He waited only to get, as soon as he could, the report from his wife.

The Mother took leave, and Frau Petra did not urge her to remain, saying that she had still to speak with several of the patients before they went.

In lively spirits they left the house.

They had to wait longer at the Justice's, for wife and daughter must first make their toilet. When they finally appeared, they had many apologies to make for the disorderly appearance of the room, and for their own hurried toilet; yet dress and room were as neat and pretty as one could wish.

The messenger was sent after the Justice, who was taking his Sunday's glass; and when at last the Professorin had taken a seat in the corner of the sofa, where one could hardly find room among the embroidered cushions, a pleasant conversation ensued. The Justice's wife had adroitly made mention of her father, whom the Mother knew, and they gradually established an agreeable intercourse, after the first awkward preliminaries were all over. The Professorin knew how to draw Lina out, and was greatly pleased with her bright description of the convent-life. Lina was encouraged by this, so that she became more and more animated and communicative, to her mother's great astonishment.

The Justice made his appearance. He had evidently swallowed down his glass hastily, for nothing ought to be left unfinished. He shook the hand of the Professorin longer and harder than was at all necessary, and assured her humorously--humor seemed very odd on the little man's grave face--of his magisterial protection. He then gave an account to Eric and Roland of the Pole's having broken out of the House of Correction, and of their having put up an advertisement for his apprehension, but they would be glad never to see him again.

The Justice's wife and Lina put on their hats, and went with their guests by a circuitous path along the Rhine to the house of the School-director, not without some consciousness, perhaps, of the good appearance they were making. Eric walked with the Justice's wife, the Justice joined Roland, and Lina went with the Professorin.

Lina began of her own accord to talk of Manna, of her present melancholy, and of her former liveliness; she had cherished the most enthusiastic love towards her father, so that it seemed as if she could not leave him for a single day; and Lina begged the Mother to use her influence to have Manna return once more.

The Mother carefully refrained from making any inquiries, but it struck her strangely that from these visits, made only out of politeness, a new duty seemed to be unfolding before her.

If she had been able to imagine that she was only used by Sonnenkamp to play into his own hands, she would have been still more astonished at the various phases which one simple occurrence may assume.

They did not find the family of the School-director or of the Forester at home; as they were returning in the carriage and driving by the Doctor's house, his wife was standing in the doorway; she called to them to stop.

She came out to them, and said that she had forgotten to remind the Mother to call upon the Major and Fräulein Milch to-day; the Major was very good-natured, but he was very sensitive in regard to the respect shown him, and he never forgave any one for neglecting to pay the proper attention to Fräulein Milch. Fräulein Milch was a very excellent, respectable person, if they could overlook one thing.

They returned to the villa in good spirits.

The first person they met in the courtyard was the Major. He looked somewhat out of humor, but his countenance lighted up when the Professorin said that she had intended to call upon him and Fräulein Milch to-day, and to get a cup of coffee, as she unfortunately could not fall into the ways of this part of the country, and drink wine every day.

The Major nodded; but he soon went off to send a child of the porter's to Fräulein Milch with the welcome message.

The Mother was very animated, and Eric expressed his joy that his mother experienced something of that exhilaration produced by a sight of the life of the people and the life of nature along the Rhine.

When Roland came to dinner, he said in a low tone to the Professorin:--

"I have looked into the Conversations-Lexicon, and to-day is Theodore Parker's birthday; to-day is the twenty-fourth of August."

The Mother whispered that it would be well for him to speak of it to no one but her.

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