XIII. SOUR CREAM SWEETENED…

XIII. SOUR CREAM SWEETENED

The Major had never been in better spirits at the table than to-day. He forgot to beckon to Joseph to fill up a second time his glass with the favorite Burgundy.

Frau Ceres smiled dubiously when the Professorin gave an account of the excellent people she had seen, the refreshing influence of the prospect of river and mountain, and the yet fairer one of such noble, genuine, domestic life. She added that she had but little acquaintance with other lands, but it was certain that no land surpassed Germany in real depth of feeling and generally diffused culture. Cities and villages, that were only empty names to the traveller whizzing by, concealed within them the beautiful and the best adornments of humanity.

"Nowhere, not in any place where church-bells have rung, has a better sermon been preached than that," said the Major to Eric. He then rose. "Now, the Mother--all of you drink with me--now, long life to the Mother; she enjoys life herself, and makes other people see life on its beautiful and fair side, and the Builder of all the worlds will bless her for it. My brothers!--I mean my--my--then, long life to the Professorin."

Never before had the Major made so long a speech at table, and never had he been so joyous as to-day. Soon after dinner he went towards home, repeating over to himself by the way the words of his speech, for he specially prided himself on being able to give it to Fräulein Milch word for word. All the reputation in the world is of no account if she does not praise him, for she has the best insight into everything.

When he reached the house, and Fräulein Milch complained to him that to-day her sweet cream had turned sour, and not a drop was to be got in the whole village, he signified to her by a wave of the hand that she was to keep silence, so that he should not forget his toast. Placing himself directly in front of her, he said:--

"This is the speech I made at dinner." Laadi looked up at her master, when she heard him declaiming with such energy, and when the Major had concluded, she signified by a bark that she comprehended him. The Major did not mean to tell a lie, but the speech was assuredly better, at least it was longer, as he rehearsed it now to Fräulein Milch, than the one he had made. She said, when he got through:--

"I am only glad that there were some good people there to hear you."

Fräulein Milch did not take to Herr and Frau Sonnenkamp; but she especially disliked Fräulein Perini.

"Why haven't you spread our beautiful white table-cloth?" asked the Major, when he surveyed the neat table set in the garden.

"Because the white is too dazzling in the sunlight."

"That's true; it's well. Mustn't I shut Laadi up? she's so demonstrative."

"No; just let the dog be loose."

The Major was quite in despair that he could not do something to show honor to his guests.

After a while he came back in triumph, for he had done something which was a great sacrifice for him; he had begged the Grand-master's cook to give him a pitcher of fresh cream. He scarcely ever borrowed anything, but to-day an exception must be made.

He managed to place the pitcher upon the table unnoticed by Fräulein Milch, and put his hand up to his mouth to keep himself from laughing outright, when he thought of the Fräulein's astonishment at finding sweet cream upon the table.

He did still more. He went into the sitting-room and dragged his great, leather-covered easy-chair into the garden, for the Professorin to sit in; but when Fräulein Milch came out, she surprised him by pointing out that the easy-chair would not bear the bright sunlight out-of-doors. They carried it back together.

"Sha'n't we go to meet them?" said the Major, who had taken out his spy-glass; "just look through,--stop, I'll alter it,--there; I think there's somebody in sight down yonder."

Fräulein Milch begged him to be quiet, and the Major looked now as if he were ready to weep. Laying his hand on Fräulein Milch's shoulder, he said,--

"It's hard--very hard--cruel--bad--very bad--very cruel that I can't say, Here, Frau Dournay, here is my wife."

Fräulein Milch wheeled about swiftly, and there was a freezing coldness in her whole demeanor.

"For Heaven's sake, what's the matter?"

The dog barked as if she would say, "What's all this? What do you look so angry for?"

"I'm quiet now--I'm quiet now! Be easy, Laadi," said the Major soothingly. He was so exhausted, that he was obliged to sit down; he tried to light his long pipe, but it went out.

He stood by the garden-fence, drumming with his fingers upon one of the rails, and lost in so deep a reverie, that the guests stood before him, without his having noticed their approach.

The meeting of the Mother and Fräulein Milch was not so cordial as the Major had hoped it would be. Each seemed to hold back a little, and they evidently gave each other a close inspection. But the Major laughed inwardly when he thought of the sweet cream, which Fräulein Milch poured out just as usual, without noticing it.

He soon tapped with his stump-finger upon his forehead, saying to himself,--

"She's much too smart to make any fuss before strangers. O, she's wise; one can't know how wise she is!"

How he would have liked to say that to the Professorin! But he resolved to speak as little as possible to-day, and leave the field wholly to Fräulein Milch.

Just the right subject of conversation did not seem to come up; but when the Doctor's wife was mentioned, Fräulein Milch expressed her respect for the noble woman, who had just the right sort of aristocracy.

"And what do you mean by the right sort of aristocracy?"

"It seems to me to receive every one's respect and honor."

"Exactly so, and that perhaps is still truer of Frau Dournay," interposed the Major.

It seemed to him that Fräulein Milch sneered a trifle, and it was not pleasant to him.

The Mother asked Fräulein Milch if she were a native of this part of the country.

She answered curtly in the negative.

At last an expedient occurred to the Major. Two strange horses must be left in the stable by themselves; perhaps they will kick a little at first, but they are soon on good terms. He busied himself in giving a long account to Eric and Roland of the vineyard, which would this year yield wine for the first time, virgin wine as it was called; they must go with him to see it.

The ladies were now by themselves. The Mother wanted to say something commendatory of Fräulein Milch, about whom she had heard so many favorable things; but this did not exactly suit her, and by a happy turn she referred to the strangeness of the change in her own life, and how much she needed help.

This was the right key to touch, for Fräulein Milch was in her element whenever she could render any advice and assistance. She took an unexpectedly deep view, saying that a firm position in life could be kept, so long as one's self-respect was preserved. The Mother was surprised at the tact and knowledge of the world she displayed. She expected to see a narrow-minded, frivolous, talkative housewife, and here was evidence of refined thought which could be the result only of deep and mature reflection.

She wanted to say, You are more than your circumstances would indicate; but she refrained, and expressed anew her satisfaction at the beauty of the landscape, which was continually unfolding hidden charms, and at the rich fulness of life, as revealed in human beings, who even in solitude cherished refined thoughts and noble sentiments. Fräulein Milch, who had seated herself with her cup of coffee a little apart from the table, now drew up nearer, and beginning with an allusion to Eric's discreet management, she proceeded to give a clear-sighted characterization of Herr Sonnenkamp and his wife.

She did not mention Fräulein Perini. She only expressed her regret that Herr Sonnenkamp, who was not really hardhearted, should have no systematic beneficence. She drew a picture of the necessitous condition of various people in the neighborhood, for she knew everybody for miles around. The Mother said finally:--

"I thank you; you remind me of a work which I had lost sight of, and which was the very reason of my coming here. If I have the disposal of Herr Sonnenkamp's charities, will you assist me?"

Fräulein Milch promised to do so; but she suggested that it would be very much more expedient for the Professorin to have the cooperation of the daughter of the house; in this way many good results could be secured. The girl, who was serious and earnest, would take again her proper place, and the immeasurable wealth of the father would have a secure and immovable basis if it were intrusted to the care of the daughter of the house.

The Mother's eyes gleamed as she looked, at Fräulein Milch; yonder the Doctor's wife, and here the housekeeper, are appealing to her to bring Manna out of the convent, and initiate her into an active life of common usefulness.

She made, very cautiously, further inquiries of the charitable and sensible housekeeper concerning the people in the neighborhood, but Fräulein Milch evaded them. She affirmed that she did not have the right view of people; she saw them on Sundays and holidays, when they were in a merry mood, singing, and going up and down the mountain with wreaths on their heads; but whoever was not in the very midst of this hilarious movement, whoever observed it from the window, or from behind the garden hedge, could form no suitable estimate of it; generally the whole seems one undistinguishable jumble, just as when one stops his ears and looks at people dancing, but hears nothing of the music.

The Mother led the talk back to Manna, and, forgetting her usual marked reserve, Fräulein Milch declared that Manna must have received some severe shock, as it was not natural for any one to go from the extreme of overbearing pride to the extreme of humility.

"I will relate to you one little incident of Manna, and you will know what she is. A stinging fly, a Rhine-gnat, as it is called, alighted on her hand, and sucked her blood; she quietly let it suck, and then said: 'The ugly fly! I have let it drink my blood without disturbing it, and just for that it has stung me.' Now can't you know what the child is from this little trait, supposing that they have not spoiled her in the convent? I can speak of the child with so much the more freedom, as she has a dislike to me, of which Fräulein Perini was the cause."

Fräulein Milch now launched out into a passionate invective against Pranken.

She acknowledged that her aversion to him arose from his making the Major the target of his wit, more than was attributable to youthful arrogance; he was both witty and supercilious. And it was so much the more remarkable that now he should pretend to be pious, and that too, before he had married Manna; there must be some deep-laid game here, not easily seen through.

Engaged thus in friendly intercourse, the two women got to know each other. Frau Dournay, with her naturally ladylike and easy bearing, imparted a great deal, without seeming to do so; Fräulein Milch, with her acquired culture, which did not sit gracefully upon her, in every communication of deep thought showed plainly the difficult steps by which she had made it her own. When the Professorin spoke with such ease and fluency, Fräulein Milch nodded, saying to herself; "Yes, forsooth! this lady has sat down at the table all spread, and been served by others, with all the means of culture, while I have had to cook my own food and to set my own table."

The Major saw from a distance the two women take each other by the hand, and he spoke to Laadi fondling words that he would like to have spoken to Fräulein Milch.

"You are a pretty creature, smarter than all the world put together--clear as the day--quiet and steady--not you, Laadi,--what are you looking at me so for?"

He returned to the garden, Roland and Eric following immediately.

As the Major was escorting the Professorin a part of the way home, she said:--

"I believe that I am acquainted now not only with the two best, but also the two happiest people in this region."

The Major remained some time standing in the same place, and looking after the departing guests; then turning his eyes upward, he said:--

"Thanks to thee, thou Builder of all the worlds! Thou knowest what I would say, without my speaking,--oh dear!"

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I. ON GOETHE'S BIRTH-DAY

The swiftly-flowing Rhine between its bends seems transformed into a lake, until, curving around the jutting mountain, it continues its course.

This is very much the case with the story we are narrating.

The Mother wanted to go straightforward to the goal she had in view, but many obstacles interposed. First came a very pressing invitation from Clodwig, for the Mother and the whole of Sonnenkamp's family to celebrate Goethe's birth-day at Wolfsgarten.

The invitation was accepted; but Frau Ceres and Fräulein Perini remained at home.

They drove to Wolfsgarten. Eric did not say it in so many words, but his eyes expressed how much he felt protected and supported by the Mother's presence, in entering the house of his friend; she seemed a living testimony that he crossed the threshold with a pure heart and a pure eye. Yet he could not suppress all anxiety in regard to his first meeting with Bella. She came with the Aunt, as far as the wood, to meet them.

Bella embraced the Mother, and again thanked her for having subjected herself to the self-denial of letting Aunt Claudine remain with her. Extending her hand to Eric, she said, with a sort of chilled look:--

"You were his first thought to-day, my young friend."

She said nothing further, and did not mention her husband's name.

Rain began to fall before they reached Wolfsgarten, and it did not cease during the whole day, so that they were confined in doors.

Clodwig was remarkably cheerful and happy, and the day passed off with a joyousness that is possible only to persons in entire leisure, and perhaps only on the banks of the Rhine.

Roland was the happiest of all; he seemed to be the life and connecting link of the company, looking up at every one, as if he would ask:--

"Why are you not as glad as I am?"

He went from the Mother to the Aunt, from her to Bella and to Clodwig, to and fro, as if he must let every one know how pleasant and home-like a circle he had found. He was in such very good spirits, that at last he said:--

"Ah! when sister Manna comes home, she will see at once that uncle, aunt, grandfather and all are here, just as if they had grown upon trees."

The inquiry was made where Pranken was.

They said he had gone to stay with an agriculturist devoted to the church, the convent-farmer, as he was called; for there was nothing, at the present day, to which an ecclesiastical coloring and characteristic was not given. Pranken had the good fortune, by this means, to be near the convent, whose lands were farmed by the agriculturist.

They assembled in the grand saloon, from which three doors opened upon the covered piazza adorned with flowers and hanging-plants, and furnished with comfortable seats.

As they were quietly sitting and chatting together, Clodwig suddenly raised his hand as a signal for them to be silent; they understood his meaning and ceased talking. He had taken out his watch, and now said:--

"This is the very moment Goethe was born. I beg," he added with a kindly glance, "I, beg Bella and Fräulein Dournay----"

The ladies understood what he meant, and seating themselves at the piano, played Beethoven's Overture to Egmont, arranged as a duet.

Clodwig, leaning back in his chair, listened with closed eyes; the Professorin was sitting near him, while Eric, holding Roland by the hand, was upon the piazza.

At the conclusion of the Overture, Clodwig informed them that he had been so fortunate as to know Goethe personally, and related a variety of pleasing anecdotes.

The Mother expressed her regret at never having heard the voice of the exalted genius, nor looked him in the eye, although she was old enough, at the time he died, to know what he was, even if she could not fully comprehend him. She recounted the fact of a man's coming to her father's house, as they were sitting down to dinner, and informing them that news of Goethe's death had just been brought. An elderly lady was so affected by it, that she could not sit down with them to dinner.

In the qualified view he then expressed, she had gained an acquaintance for the first time with her husband's mind; for while he held Goethe in the highest veneration, he had asserted that the Master had made poetic art too effeminate, in placing woman too directly as the central point of living interests, and giving the impression to men, that poesy and an acquaintance with it, were the province of woman, just as so many Free-thinkers, as they were styled, regarded religion as belonging peculiarly to her.

Clodwig opposed this view of Goethe; he dwelt with special emphasis upon the difficulty experienced in our modern life, which does not admit of the worship of genius, as it is termed; for this worship could be possible only where a pure manifestation of God, a theophany, was granted. When limitations were placed to this, worship was no longer possible.

It was scarcely noticed that Bella, Claudine and Herr Sonnenkamp had left the saloon, for Bella had requested Herr Sonnenkamp that he would give her some advice about the new arrangements of her conservatory.

And thus Clodwig and the Mother were now left alone in the saloon, while Eric and Roland were sitting in silence upon the piazza, and listening to Clodwig as he added, that the future would no longer, perhaps, have any formal cultus, when there was the true consecration of the spirit in actual life.

Eric and Roland listened with bated breath, as Clodwig and the Mother acknowledged to each other the influence which the Master had exerted upon the development of their life and the training of their minds. They thoroughly discussed that work too little known, "Goethe's Conversations with Eckermann," which brings us into the living, personal presence of the Master of masters. Clodwig represented that the youth of today no longer had the same veneration for Goethe; and the Professorin informed him that her deceased husband--she quoted him repeatedly--had explained this by saying, that the youth of to-day regarded themselves, first of all, as citizens, and this life as a citizen, this active influence in the State, had not dawned upon Goethe, and it was not his sphere.

They again extolled, as in an alternate chant, the influence of Goethe in enriching and in deepening their life.

Eric and Roland listened in silence; once only, Eric said in a low tone,--

"Note, Roland, this is glory, this is renown, this is the noblest good-fortune, for a man to exert such an influence that his spirit always gives fresh inspiration; that two persons shall sit in after years, and derive mutual edification from recalling what one who is dead and gone has been the means of establishing."

Roland looked into the large, gleaming eyes of Eric, who could have embraced the youth as he said,--

"For once, I am present at your devotions."

Again the two in the saloon spoke, and now Eric heard his name mentioned, as the Mother said,--

"Eric reads Goethe's poems aloud very well."

He got up at once, and was ready to do it.

Bella, Aunt Claudine, and Herr Sonnenkamp were called in, and Eric read aloud, but to-day not so well as usual, for there were many things which might be taken as the embodiment of emotions in his own heart and in that of Bella.

They sat down to dinner in an elevated frame of mind, as after a religious service.

Clodwig could not speak often enough of the good-fortune, which had led the son of one of the guests to become the life-guide of the son of another.

He plunged deeply into the consideration that one Spirit, who presided over all, had prepared and fitted the one to impart the highest he possessed to the other.

He said very naturally, that Manna ought to leave the convent, as no one could aid her to complete her education more worthily than the Mother.

Sonnenkamp and the Mother looked at each other in amazement, for another was expressing their own silent convictions.

Sonnenkamp thanked Clodwig very meekly for the deep interest he felt in his family, and said that a suggestion of Clodwig's had to him the weight of a higher command, and he hoped that the Professorin would receive it as such. She promised to undertake the charge, as her only satisfaction was in being useful.

The rain still continued. Again they assembled in the grand saloon, and now Bella displayed her proficiency in arts that no one knew her to be mistress of. She appeared, having a red velvet curtain draped about her in the Grecian style, and imitated a famous Italian player with wonderful fidelity to the life. She went out, and appeared again as a Parisian grisette; then she afterwards appeared as a Tyrolese singer, every time wholly different, and hardly recognizable.

She excited the most merriment when she imitated in succession three different beggar-women,--a Catholic, a Protestant, and a Jew. She enacted also, with the same applause, a scene in which a Catholic, a Protestant, and a Jewish woman came separately to the dentist, to have an aching tooth extracted. And without degenerating into caricature, she took off her acquaintances, all with such perfect grace and such accuracy of delineation, that words failed to express the admiration.

Clodwig said in a low tone to the Mother: "You may well be proud that she makes this exhibition before you, for she cannot be easily induced to do it in any one's presence whom she does not value highly."

Sonnenkamp added that it was a magnificent but wasteful luxury to possess such talent, and not to exhibit it to the delight of the whole world.

Eric, meanwhile, watched with a mixed feeling these dramatic representations, which he could not help admiring. How rich a nature Bella possessed! And how hard it must be for her to circumscribe her manifold activity within the narrow bounds of a limited sphere of duty! But Bella, to-day, had thrown herself into the various parts with all her energy; she desired to have every feeling and every remembrance effaced from her own and from Eric's soul. Eric had this impression, but he made no remark. Bella spoke to him once only, telling him that the Russian Prince, who was staying with Weidmann, wrote frequently to her, and desired to be remembered to him; and that he also wrote in the warmest terms of esteem concerning Roland's earlier tutor, Master Knopf.

In the emphasis which she placed upon the word tutor, Bella seemed desirous of setting up again between her and Eric the old boundary line that had disappeared.

Towards evening the rain held up, and the sun came out with that inexpressible glory of coloring only to be seen when the mountains glow, and seem transfigured with its misty beams. They immediately set out towards home.

The whole day seemed a perfect series of fantastic forms. Roland was continually giving expression to his astonishment at the versatility of the Countess; but Sonnenkamp offered his hand to the Mother, saying,--

"If agreeable to you, we will to-morrow pay a visit to my daughter."

The Mother nodded assent. Sonnenkamp was highly pleased; he had perfect confidence in the nobleness of her motives, and, for awhile, he himself experienced a like elevation. It is such a fine thing, and people are so happy in taking up with things of that sort, and it always pays well, at any rate, in making one feel comfortably.

But very soon the consciousness of his own triumphant power came uppermost; the world subserves his plans, and it is his chief delight to make people his tools and playthings, and balance himself on their shoulders. And it exactly suited his purpose that Clodwig and the Professorin adopted his own secret plan; they must now feel grateful to him for carrying out their desires, at the very time they were of service to him, and were helping him to bring to a successful issue his main design. He saw in this a confirmation of his claim to be a being of a higher species, one who disposes as he will of others, and at the same time makes them feel under obligation to him.

On the evening of his return, Sonnenkamp ordered the gardener to place the next day Manna's favorite flower, the mignonette, in every part of her room.

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II. AN ISLAND PLOUGHED UP

Humility, respect, and helpful kindness were manifest in Sonnenkamp's whole demeanor, as he extended his hand to the Professorin on her getting out of the carriage; as he conducted her to the steamboat; as he looked out for a seat protected from the draught and giving an uninterrupted prospect; as he supplied all her wants and asked if there was any thing he could do for her.

The Professorin was startled when she perceived that she had forgotten a book which she had laid upon the table, intending to take it with her, but had left it there. She evaded Sonnenkamp's question what was the name of the book, for she could well imagine, that the writings of the man she held in such high veneration would not be agreeable to Sonnenkamp. She said in a joking way that she had lived so long in the society of the learned world, that even making a trip on the Rhine, in a clear, bright sunshine, she thought she must have a book with her. She must give herself up wholly to the scenery and to her own thoughts.

Sonnenkamp seated himself near her, and said in a tone of genuine emotion, that he could not but congratulate his children, nay, almost envy them, that they were to live in the society of a woman of such a youthful spirit.

The more he talked, the tenderer he became, and his eyes glistened as if moistened with tears. He frequently said that he could not speak of his youthful years, which were arid and desolate, with no gentle hand of woman to soothe him with caresses. The strong man was deeply moved, as he spoke of his childhood in words that partly veiled and partly revealed his meaning. At last he came to the main point, composing himself by a violent effort. The Professorin felt that she must first inquire into the reason why Manna had became so alienated from him. Bending down his head, he proceeded to say:--

"They may have told her something that I disdained to contradict. Were you, honored lady, to know what it was, you would without hesitation pronounce it to be a falsehood devised by the most malignant hostility."

The Professorin desired to know what was said, but he replied that if he should repeat it, he should run mad here on board the boat. His features, that had been composed and placid, were suddenly distorted in a fearful manner.

The Professorin now dwelt upon the visit that she was going to make to the Superior, the friend of her youth, and begged Herr Sonnenkamp to avoid all direct endeavor to influence his daughter in favor of herself.

"Children," she said, "must make their own friends, and they cannot receive them ready made from others. One must be careful not to intrude one's self upon them, and to wait quietly and patiently, until they come of their own accord."

Sonnenkamp considered this so judicious, that he promised not to go with her, in the first instance, to the island, but to remain at the inn on this side of the river until the Professorin should send for him.

"You are as good as you are wise," he said praisingly, for he detected as he thought in the lady's unobtrusiveness a politic motive; and he was pleased in the notion of circumventing all cunning with a deeper cunning still.

While Sonnenkamp and the Mother were sailing down the Rhine, a strange circumstance occurred on the convent-island From one end of the year to the other, no horse was to be seen upon the island, except when the ground was ploughed. The pupils in amazement pointed out to each other a plough, which a horse was drawing up and down the extreme point of the island. A noble-looking farmer in a blue blouse, and with a gray hat drawn down over his eyes, was guiding the plough. The children stood at a distance watching the plough, as if it were some novel wonder, and looked at Manna for permission to go nearer in order to observe it. She nodded permission, and they walked along the gravelled walk by the side of the field. Then the ploughman, taking off his hat, made a salutation; Manna remained standing with a fixed look as if she were under a spell. Is that not Herr von Pranken? He continued his ploughing and said nothing. As he turned the plough, to come back, he looked towards her and smiled; it was he.

"He's a splendid-looking ploughman," said one of the girls.

"And he seems so genteel," exclaimed another.

"And he has a seal ring on his finger," cried a third. "Who knows that this is not a knight in disguise!"

Manna called to the children to return with her. She went into her cell, from which the field could be overlooked, but she kept away from the window. She felt flattered that Pranken should subject himself to the most humble condition, in order to be near her, and she felt grateful to him for being so modest and considerate as not to speak to her. She debated with herself whether she should not mention it to the Superior, but she came to the conclusion that she had no right to betray Herr von Pranken's secret; besides, so far from there being any harm in it, it was the noblest tribute of respect.

Going to the window, she saw that he kept steadily at his work, and he had never seemed to her so pure and noble, so lovable as now, engaged in this rustic labor.

On the window-sill was a rose-bush with a late rose in full bloom. Looking up she caught sight of it, and took hold of the stem, thinking she would pluck and throw it to him as a sign of recognition; but just then, a lay-sister came in and informed her that a visitor had come who asked to see Manna. The rose remained on its stem.

Manna turned round and seemed perplexed. Pranken is still there ploughing. Could he be the one who was announced? or has the Countess Bella arrived? With wavering step she descended to the reception-room. The Superior introduced to her a good-looking, portly lady, saying:--

"This is my friend, Professorin Dournay, the mother of your brother's teacher."

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Chapter III

"OUT OF THE WORLD, AND OUT IN THE WORLD."

The first feeling was surprise, the second, quiet confidence, as the eyes of the Professorin and Manna met; each found the other different from the preconceived image.

Manna remembered Eric's tall figure, and his resemblance to the picture of St. Anthony, and before her stood a short, fair, gray-haired woman. Frau Dournay had pictured to herself Roland's handsome sister as like him, and now she saw a slender, delicate creature, who, at first sight, gave no impression of beauty. A mole on her left cheek, and one on the right side of her upper lip, were quite conspicuous; her complexion was rather dark, and her wonderful brown eyes glowed with deep and quiet warmth upon every one who looked into them.

Manna bowed ceremoniously to the Professorin, who rose and held out her hand with maternal kindness, saying that she was very glad to become acquainted with the daughter of her host, while paying a visit to her friend, the Superior; and she added, with special emphasis, that she had been so fortunate as to become quite intimate with Manna's mother.

"Is my mother well?" asked Manna, with a sweet tone of warmth in her low and quiet voice. The Professorin told her of her mother's health, and added that the doctor said he had never known her so constantly cheerful as now.

"Now, I have a request to make," she continued in an animated tone; "since I have had the good fortune to be your parents' guest, I have insisted that the daily course of your brother's studies should not be in the least interfered with, and now let me beg you, my dear young lady, to go on with your usual occupations. I shall have the pleasure of dining with you, and after dinner, I shall be very glad if you will spare me a quarter of an hour."

"If you have any private message for Manna," said the Superior, "I will leave you together."

"I have not any private message."

Manna gave the Professorin her hand, and left the room. She did not know what to make of it all; why had she been summoned when there was so little to be said to her? It offended her a little to be so pushed about by a stranger--for the lady was a stranger. But as she walked through the long passage, she still saw before her the sincere and gentle countenance of the stranger, smiling at her as if saying, You are a strange child!

Manna returned thoughtfully to her cell; she looked out of the window and saw Pranken just entering a boat with his horse, and he was soon on the opposite shore.

"Ah, Herr von Pranken!" cried a loud voice, and the echo repeated the sound.

What voice was that?

Pranken hurried up the bank and vanished behind the willows.

Manna longed for the time when the world would be shut out from her, and no more unrest could come over her, for now she was deeply disturbed. There was Pranken; here, the tutor's mother--what did it all mean? She took her book of devotions, but could not succeed in drawing her thoughts from the subjects which occupied them.

In the mean time, the Professorin was listening to the Superior's account of Manna's strange nature, which seemed really to hold two natures within it, one, humble and submissive, almost without a will of its own; the other, struggling, defiant, and self-willed. She had a true, earnest character, too serious, perhaps, for a girl of seventeen; she was often unable to, hold her feelings under control, but who could always do that at her age? A weight lay on her spirits which was uncontrollable; it plainly had its source in the child's keen sense of the discord between her parents and its influence upon herself. The Superior asked Frau Dournay to tell her more of the characteristic peculiarities of the parents, but she evaded the subject.

The appearance, as well as the bearing, of the two ladies offered a sharp contrast. The Professorin's figure was full, and in her face there was a constant expression of wide-awake animation; her hands were round and plump; the Superior was tall and thin, her expression severe and earnest, as if just a moment before she had given some positive order, or was on the point of giving one; her hands were long and perfectly shaped. Both women had experienced hard trials: the Professorin had won a gentle, smiling content; the Superior, a complete preparation to meet all events with firm and stoical endurance.

The first greeting between these early friends, after nearly thirty years of separation, had been a strange one, the Superior not hearing, or seeming not to hear, that Frau Dournay addressed her just as she had in the old days.

"I did not think I should ever see you again in this world," she had said directly, and when the Professorin tried to recall reminiscences of their youth, she had replied that she knew the past no longer; she had destroyed all its mementoes, and recognized only a future, the sole object that ought to occupy our thoughts.

The Superior noticed that this distant manner of speaking startled her old friend, and she said, with the same composure, that she made no distinction among the relations and acquaintances of her early life; no one was nearer to her or farther from her, and that any one who could not attain this state ought not to devote herself to a spiritual life.

The Professorin felt as if she had been turned off and shown out of the house, but she was calm enough to say:--

"Yes, you always had a strength of mind which used to frighten me, but now I admire it."

The Superior smiled; then, as if angry at having been betrayed into any self-satisfaction by this civil speech, she said,--

"Dear Clara, I beg you not to tempt me into vanity. I stand at my post, and have a strict watch to keep, until the Lord of Hosts shall call me to himself. Formerly, I must confess, I did not realize that you and I lived in different worlds; in mine, it is one's duty not to rely on one's own strength."

With all this self-denial, it seemed to the Professorin that the Superior spoke of the power and the greatness of the sphere in which she moved, with that pride, or at least with that lofty self-confidence, shown by all who belong to a great and powerful community. To the Superior, on the other hand, she seemed like an isolated, detached atom, floating it knew not whither.

They soon found, however, a point on which they could sympathize, in speaking of the difficult task of educating the young.

The Superior was rich in experience, while the Professorin depended almost entirely on the precepts and opinions of her departed husband; and now that she took the attitude of a scholar, and listened gratefully, gentler thoughts rose within the Superior, who had felt that she had been somewhat harsh towards the excellent woman; and in this mood, she imparted some things that she really meant to hold back. She told Frau Dournay that, at first, Manna's position in the convent had been a very hard one, for a strange thing had happened. Her entrance into the convent seemed to bring about a revolution. Two Americans from the best families were then there, and they were not willing to sit at the same table with the Creole, for such Manna seemed; they told their fellow-pupils that, in their native country, such half-bloods always travelled in separate cars on the railroads, and, even in church, had places set apart for them. And as most of the children were from noble German families, they united in a protest against Manna's presence, without her knowing anything of it herself. While she slept, three of the pupils had examined her nails, in the presence of a nun, and as no black spots were found on them, it was proved that both parents were of pure blood. Manna was tolerated, and soon succeeded in winning the blue ribbon by her quick mind and great industry.

The Professorin held back the words which rose to her lips, for she was resolved to keep quiet and arouse no discussion; but her lips trembled as she longed to tell the Superior that it was her duty to have shown the children, by precept and example, that there can be no distinction of blood before God, and that such exclusiveness was impious and barbarous.

Frau Dournay had to exercise still more self-control when the Superior asked her to be kind enough to fold her hands when grace was said at dinner. The color flushed into her face, as she listened, and answered,--

"My husband is gone to his eternal home, and I know that when he stands before the judgment-seat the Holy Spirit will say to him: Thou hast lived according to the purest convictions of thy soul; thou hast honestly examined thyself, and hast attempted and done only what thou couldst do in all sincerity. At our table, we had no formal prayer, but before we sat down to eat and drink, each of us spent a minute in silent self-communion, and in the thought of what it really is to renew our existence from the Fountain of life; and our meal was consecrated by pure and good thoughts."

"Well, well, I did not mean to wound you," said the Superior. "I heard with sympathy that you had lost your husband, for whose sake you sacrificed yourself so nobly and gladly."

"I was happy with my husband," replied the Professorin; "our love grew stronger every day. But love for a lover or a husband is always dwelt on; there is another kind of love, which, though very different, is wonderfully fresh and noble, and I think I know it. Forgive me for saying it, but I mean that it seems as if love only rightly begins when one has a high-minded, excellent son."

"I am glad that you are so happy; but tell me sincerely whether you have not found that of ten married women, nine, at least, are unhappy."

The Professorin was silent, and the Superior continued,--

"Your silence is assent, and now look at the great difference; among a hundred nuns you find scarcely one unhappy one."

Frau Dournay was still silent; she did not wish to debate this assertion: she was a guest, and would not try to convert or correct; but the Superior seemed to try to draw her out as she asked,--

"Do you know a more unhappy position than that of a girl who knows herself, and whom others know, to be the heiress of millions? Is she to believe in the love of frail human creatures? Is she to believe that she is wooed for her own sake? There is nothing for her, but to give herself and her wealth into the hands of the Eternal. This I say to you--I know not what commission you have, and even if you have none, you can report it. We do not try to gain Manna and her future wealth, we insist that she shall go back into the world, and return to us only on her own free decision. There is neither compulsion nor intimidation on our part, but it is our duty to protect those who prefer the imperishable to the perishable, wherever they may be. Now you know all, and we will say no more on the subject."

The Superior left her, and Frau Dournay walked out alone upon the island. It seemed to her that it would be a bold act, one of unjustifiable rashness indeed, to take this child by force, even the force of affection, from this sphere where she lived at peace and wished to end her life. She stood on the shore, and almost without knowing why, allowed herself to be taken across to the main-land, where she was not a little astonished to find Herr Sonnenkamp and Herr von Pranken, taking wine together, under the shady lindens of the inn.

Pranken was dressed so strangely that she thought she was mistaken, and she was about to turn back; but she heard her name called, and approached the two men in the garden.

Sonnenkamp was in high spirits, declaring himself very fortunate to have met his friend Pranken here; he considered it a fine thing that the Baron had changed himself into a husbandman, hinting that he himself had once been something of the kind; then he said,--

"We have no secrets from our friend, will Manna go home with us, Frau Professorin?"

The Professorin replied that not a word had been said on the subject, and that it seemed hardly to be wished; it would be well to let Manna complete her time at the convent, and certainly to refrain from all compulsion.

Pranken agreed very emphatically, but Sonnenkamp was much put out; it seemed to him dreadful that his daughter should be living here in the midst of a crowd of other girls, when a free and happy life was waiting for her.

The noon-day bell rang from the Convent, and Frau Dournay said she must go back. Sonnenkamp accompanied her to the shore, and there said in a low voice:--

"Do not trouble yourself about Pranken. We will leave my daughter free in every respect."

The Professorin returned to the island; the children were already at table when she entered the dining-room; she stood with folded hands behind her chair for a few moments before seating herself. When dinner was over, and thanks had been returned, the Superior said to Manna,--

"Now go with the friend of your family."

Frau Dournay and Manna walked towards the shady grove on the upper end of the island; and Heimchen, who was quite confiding towards the Professorin, went with them; but she was quite willing to sit down with a book, under a tree, and wait till they came back for her.

"But you must not take Manna away with you," cried the child from her low seat; they both started, for the child had given utterance, from an instinctive feeling, to the fear of one and the hope of the other.

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IV. THE IRON MUST ENTER THINE OWN SOUL

For a long time neither uttered a word; at last the Professorin said,--

"You seem to be called to a higher life, from having been obliged in early youth to suffer so hard an experience, and to feel deeply the discord among men."

"I? How?" asked Manna. "What do you know?" She trembled.

"I know," answered the Professorin, "that you have suffered under that cruel burden which weighs upon your great and noble father-land."

"My father-land? I? Speak more plainly."

"It pains me that I tear open a wound which is scarred over, but this scar is a mark of honor for you, and it is not your fault, my child, that you are set in the midst of this life-struggle."

"I?"

"Yes."

"How? Tell me all; what do you know?"

"I mean that it should elevate you to have been obliged to bear humiliation and bitterness in your own person; it gives you a loftier consecration."

"Tell me plainly what you mean."

With an altered tone, like the hiss of a serpent. Manna spoke sharply and angrily; her gentle eyes sparkled restlessly.

"Heaven knows," said the Professorin, "I would not wound you; no, protecting and blessing you, would I lay my hand upon you."

She tried to place her hand on Manna's head, but the girl shrank back and cried:--

"Tell me distinctly, who knows it? What do you know? Pray speak."

"I know nothing, except that you had to suffer severely on your entrance into the convent; that two American girls took you for a half-blood, and would not associate with you."

"Yes, yes, that's it! Now I know why they examined my nails, and Anna Sotway stood by, Oh, it's well! it's well! I thank thee, holy God, that thou hast suffered me to experience this. In myself, in my own person, I was to feel the suffering that a slave feels in being examined! Why did they not open my veins? I thank thee, O God! But why dost thou suffer them to worship thee, and then to scorn thee in thy creatures? Then it was not because I tried to be reverent and obedient, no, but because I was of pure blood, that I was tolerated here! Pah!"

It was a different being who spoke these words, and cried aloud in the wood:--

"Ye trees, why does each of you grow after its kind, and blossom and grow green and flourish, warmed by the same sun, and with the birds singing in your branches? Alas! alas! where am I?"

"In the right path," answered the Professorin. Manna gazed at her as if she were a spirit, and she continued:--

"A pure spirit is speaking again through you, my child; you have spoken truth. When Lessing said, 'I would not have all trees covered with the same bark,' he had no presentiment that his spirit would manifest itself anew here in the cloister, in a child just waking to life. His pure and holy spirit is between us now, my child, and I think Lessing would say: Forgive them; they will learn that God alone is constant, while the races of men are only the ever-varying, ever-returning figures of a dream."

Manna appeared hardly to have heard her, for now she grasped her arm asking:--

"Did you not tell me, that you were specially in the confidence of my mother?"

"Yes."

"And has she told you the secret too?"

"I do not understand you."

"Speak openly with me. I know all."

"Your mother has told me no secret."

Manna seized the cross on her breast convulsively, and gazed silently before her for a long time.

With heart-felt earnestness, the Professorin expressed her deep regret at having moved her so greatly, and her desire not to force herself upon her, but to be her true friend.

Manna made no answer. At last she turned and kissed the lips of her startled companion.

"I kiss the lips which have spoken the dreadful words, and all the rest. Yes, I must experience it, I, myself. I believe that I am now first consecrated as the sacrifice."

The Mother stood helpless before this enigmatical being, and Manna at last promised to be quite calm. She seated herself on a bench which stood under a fir-tree, leaned back against the tree, and gazed up at the sky.

"Why," she said to herself, "does there now come no voice to us from the air? Ah, I would so gladly follow it forth over mountain and valley, to darkness and death."

Manna wept; the Professorin reminded her of her promise to be quite calm, but the girl declared she could not, it grieved her so to be torn from this place, which she must leave, since she could not be true in it. She would be living falsely, because people had not been true to her.

Now, for the first time, the Professorin understood that Manna had known nothing of what had passed, and she shuddered at what she had done. She mourned over having so disturbed Manna's young soul, saying that she could never forgive herself. And now Manna turned, and tried to calm and console her unhappy companion.

"Believe me, pray believe me," she cried, holding up her clasped hands, "only the truth can make us free, and that is the dreadful thing, that the park, and the house, and all the splendor are lies--No, that I did not mean--but one thing I beg, do not repent, when you have left me, that you told me what you did; it does not hurt me, it helps me. Ah, I beg--it helps me. I had to know it, and it is well."

The Professorin composed herself, and as she praised Manna's truthful impulses, the girl shook her head, saying:--

"I will not be praised, I do not deserve it; I do not deserve the whole truth, for I am hiding something myself."

The Professorin felt what a heavy weight she had brought upon the child, and she explained to her how the Superior had cured her troubles, like a physician who does not tell his patient all. Manna gazed wonderingly at her, as she said:--

"I am sorry that I too have not been quite sincere with you."

"You too?"

"Yes, I have not told you that your father came here with me; that he is waiting for my return on the other shore, and hoping that you will go home with us."

Manna rose and sat down again, hastily. "The father hides from his child and sends strangers!" she murmured to herself. "Come with me to the Superior," she suddenly exclaimed.

She seized the Professorin's hand, and drew her towards the convent. Heimchen came towards them, crying:--

"No, Manna, you must not go away and leave me here alone."

"Come with us," answered Manna, taking the child by the hand.

She went to the Superior and asked permission to go with Frau Dournay to her father, who was waiting for her on the main-land.

"Send for him to come here."

"No, I would rather go to him."

Permission was granted. It was difficult for Manna to free herself from Heimchen, who could be pacified only by Manna's solemn promise to return.

Manna sat gazing into the water while they were in the boat. With Frau Dournay, she entered the garden of the inn, where they found Sonnenkamp and Pranken sitting in the shade of the arbor.

"You are going home with us?" cried Sonnenkamp to his daughter.

She received his embrace, but did not return it. Pranken greeted Manna joyfully, and as she extended her hand to him, said smiling:--

"I have hardened my hand, but my heart is still soft, perhaps too soft."

Manna cast down her eyes. There was some merry jesting about the manner in which Pranken had settled himself here in the neighborhood. He described pleasantly how his new life struck him; there was a fresh vigor in his bearing, and a tone of warm feeling in all his words. He saw with satisfaction what impression his deportment made upon Manna, who said, at last, that she believed she might speak openly before this gentleman and lady, who were not really strangers though not members of her own family. She was not yet quite resolved, but she felt a real longing to leave the convent very soon, or still better, not to return to it again, letting her father or the Professorin go over to say good-bye for her.

"May a friend say a word about it?" asked Pranken, as Sonnenkamp loudly expressed his joy.

Manna begged him to speak, and he explained that, as a friend, he would urge Manna to act properly and worthily; whatever might have passed, it was Manna's duty not to break too abruptly the close and holy ties which had united her with the convent, and, above all, with the Superior; hardness and ingratitude towards others left a weight and bitterness in the soul. He must believe, that, as Manna had entered the convent from her own wish and a pure resolve, she would leave it in all kindness and friendly feeling. It seemed to him the right course that Manna should return for a short time, to take leave of her companions and the holy sisterhood quietly and considerately. He repeated, that though he desired nothing more earnestly than to have Manna return to the outer world as soon as possible, and as fully as possible, still he considered it the duty of a friend to save from remorse and inward disquiet one to whom he stood in any near relation. There was more than excellence, there was a real nobility, in Pranken's manner as he said all this, and various were the looks and thoughts of the three who were watching him.

Sonnenkamp was angry, and yet he said to himself: "After all, aristocratic blood knows what's the proper thing."

The Professorin believed that Pranken meant to win Manna anew by these noble sentiments; Manna herself was quite subdued.

"You are right," she exclaimed, as she extended her hand and held Pranken's firmly. "You show me what is right. I thank you, and will follow your advice."

Sonnenkamp was beside himself as he saw his dearest wish again disappointed; but still greater was his astonishment, when the Professorin expressed her acquiescence.

After Manna had begged Pranken to avoid any meeting with her until she returned home, they all walked down to the shore, and the two ladies returned to the island.

Heimchen, who had wept constantly, had already been put to bed, and was still mourning that Manna had gone. Manna went to her and found her crying, and her pillow wet with tears; she dried her eyes and talked to her till she went to sleep; and while pacifying her, and promising all sorts of good things, she became calmer herself.

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V. NIGHT AND MORNING AT THE CONVENT

Until it was quite late, Manna walked up and down the broad pathway on the island, holding the Superior and the Professorin by the hand. It seemed to her, that two loving potencies, each of which had its own valid claim, were contending to get possession of her.

It would be difficult to say how they came upon the topic, but the two ladies were discussing the subject of dogmatic belief. The Professorin maintained that salvability consisted in a willingness to perceive and acknowledge a wrong impulse, an error, or a transgression. The Superior agreed with this, but showed that one was always liable to return to a false view in the highest things, if a fixed and unalterable revealed doctrine, continually published anew through some infallible medium, did not provide a remedy against error; otherwise, one never knew whether he had not fallen into it afresh, and can never be freed from the pain of choosing.

The Superior had always a positive belief to fall back upon, while the Professorin was obliged to find some new basis and reason for every question that came up, which made her appear unsettled and doubtful. And this apparent indecision was increased by the feeling she had of not being justified in contending against a faith so firm and so beneficent in its influence. An unrest, like that of a spy, who, from the highest patriotic motives, inspects an enemy's camp, characterized her whole manner, and she blamed herself for having undertaken the commission. But she was now at the post, and must defend her views. Wishing to find some impregnable position, she represented to Manna that her father wanted to organize a general plan of systematic charity, and that it would be a noble vocation for her to take part in it. The Superior waited for Manna to reply, and she now said:--

"My father's donations do not fall into the right hands; we can do nothing but restore the property to him who alone has the right to determine what use shall be made of it."

There was more in Manna's reply than appeared on the surface.

The Professorin remarked that every poor man was a messenger of mercy, and every one who needed help made a demand for sacrifices; that it was not enough to bestow gifts, but one must personally devote himself to the distressed. The alms was not the important thing, but the pains which one must take on the supplicant's account. How often a man, as he goes along the street in winter, well wrapped up in his furs, bestows an alms upon a poor, freezing beggar! For him to unbutton his coat, and to look for something to give, is of more account than the gift itself, at least to the giver.

Manna answered that women could not do such a work by themselves. The Superior joined in, saying that she had advised decidedly against Manna's taking the veil, for it was to be feared that she had no true vocation for it. Then she added in a sharp tone to the Professorin:--"We are wholly indifferent to the accusation of having tried to get possession of the child's property; we do not despise the wealth, we can do a great deal of good with it; but it is the child's soul that we value, and we do not stop to inquire whether worldlings believe it or not."

The Professorin was glad to find herself at last in the cell where she was to sleep. She had never slept at a convent, and she had again the disagreeable feeling of being a traitress and a spy. She said to herself with a smile:--

"I am rejoiced now that I forgot Parker's book; it would be a fresh treachery to have and to read his words and his thoughts here in this house."

She gave up the purpose of exerting an influence over Manna, for here were prior experiences which were beyond her control, and relations that were involved in obscurity. A deep sorrow preyed upon the child, which could only be revealed at the confessional, and which perhaps there only could find relief.

The Professorin was deeply disturbed, and had troubled dreams. She seemed to be in the midst of Wallenstein's camp, and in fetters as a spy; she was being interrogated by the sergeant of the guard, when, all of a sudden, he was changed into Professor Einsiedel, who said to her:--

"Be not afraid, I have influence on every one here, I will set you at liberty."

Then she was standing in the midst of the court-circle, and all were laughing at the vivandière--years ago when she was a young, frolicsome girl, she had once taken that part--and now, as she met the glance of her son; she felt ashamed of her appearance.

These dreams whirled through her brain in strange confusion. She was rejoiced, on waking, to find that it was all a dream.

The hour for rising at the convent was a very early one, but long before the matin bell of the church rang, the Professorin had dressed, and stood watching from her cell the breaking day. The impressions of her troubled dreams faded like the mists on the river, which were now struggling with the dawning light. She dwelt in imagination upon the hundreds of young souls who now lay asleep, preparing to meet a peaceful future. She thought upon the nuns who had renounced life, to whom the day brought no event of personal interest, nothing but the uniform round of duty.

She shuddered as she thought of venturing to disturb such a life.

There may be many incidental and casual irregularities here, she thought, but a holy will has authority over these spirits; and at this early morning hour, a saying of her husband's recurred to her:--

"You can oppose an established positive religion only by having more religion than is embodied in it. The idea of the pure is persecuted, hunted down, obscured, in the world; and the hand must be sure of its high consecration, which ventures to attack a sanctuary of that idea."

The morning sun had become lord over the mist, shining brightly over river and mountains. The convent bell rang, and the great house was all astir.

The Professorin went down, and knelt behind a pillar; the sisters and the children assembled together.

She remained until the morning service had ended, and then going into the dining-hall, she begged Manna and the Superior to permit her to take leave. They accompanied her to the shore.

The Professorin exhorted Manna to stay at the convent, and devote herself to reflection and pure thought. She spoke with such earnestness that the Superior, taking her by the hand, uttered in a low tone what was evidently a prayer.

The Professorin perceived that her old friend was praying in her behalf. And why should there not be just as good grounds for this form, as for an inward thought and wish for another, on whom one would invoke every blessing, unexpressed in words? With a light heart, she was set over to the main-land.

Sonnenkamp was surprised that she did not have Manna with her; but she said, in explanation, that she would not interfere any farther in this matter. She went back with Sonnenkamp to the villa. On board the boat, she sketched out in full the plan of an organized system of charity, which must be so arranged that Manna could go from one sanctuary into another.

Sonnenkamp listened in silence, but in no pleasant humor. The whole world seemed to have entered into a conspiracy against him, to make of him a sanctified hypocrite.

Yesterday, Pranken had made the same demand upon him, and he had said in reply, that it was a contemptible thing for the very nobility to be desirous of playing the hypocrite; but Pranken had insisted principally upon the religious obligation.

Sonnenkamp had shrugged his shoulders, for the man kept his mask on even when he was alone with him. He only consented after Pranken had added, that, by this means, the Court would not only be justified in conferring the title of nobility, but would feel bound to do it. Here now was Frau Dournay making a similar demand; and this was so far good, that her intentions were most likely honest.

The journey home was not very animated, for they were returning from a bootless errand. Sonnenkamp was disturbed because he was called upon to do this and that, and no object had yet been accomplished.

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VI. THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT IN EDEN

A strange spirit, meanwhile, made its appearance at Villa Eden. It was kept in concealment, and yet had nothing spectral; it was bright and luminous, and yet produced a great hurly-burly.

The morning after the departure of Eric's mother, Roland had gone to the vine-covered cottage, to get a book out of the library for Eric. With the simple desire of seeing how it looked now the Mother was away, he had entered the open door of her room. An open book was lying upon the table, and on the fly-leaf there was written in English: To my friend Dournay--Theodore Parker.

Roland was startled. This is the man, then, whom the Mother had spoken of as a saint a few days ago, and whom he was to get acquainted with by and by. He took the book and secreted it.

At noon, he asked permission to go and see Claus, and it was given. Eric remained at home, for he wanted to finish a letter to Professor Einsiedel that he had begun some time ago. But Roland did not go to see Claus; he sat down under the lofty willows by the river-bank, steadily reading, with occasional glances at the stream.

What does this mean? Here is a champion, an inspired one, a God-revering champion, fighting for civilization and against slavery. He read of a man, whose name was John Brown, who was hanged on the gallows at Harper's Ferry for his attempts to abolish slavery. He read and learned how Parker had prophesied a mighty struggle; and these words fell into the youth's soul like a spark of fire: "All the great charters of humanity are written in blood."

He read on and on, until he could see no longer for the darkness. And now it occurred to him that he had meant to call upon Claus, and he hurried towards the village.

Eric met him as he was going, and was very angry at being deceived.

"Where have you been?" asked Eric.

"With this man;" handing Eric the book.

Roland had eaten forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge, and Eric was surprised to see how deep an impression had been made upon the youth. A new and difficult task was before him, to keep the youth from saying anything in his father's presence.

"Who is Brown?" inquired Roland. "Can you tell me about him?" Eric told him. He narrated the martyr's history, and dwelt with emphasis on the fact, that even in our day life is offered as a sacrifice, and that a pure self-surrender raises to the sublime even the man wearing a captain's gay uniform of the present day. He wanted to show, incidentally, that the costume of every age and every condition in life could be the symbolic expression of the highest greatness; but Roland did not go along with him, and he had the apparently difficult task of justifying, or, at least, of explaining the position of Sonnenkamp, who had incontrovertibly taken the opposite side.

"Yes, yes," exclaimed Roland; "now I remember you said, when we were with the Russian at Wolfsgarten, 'You could not imagine that a white boy and a negro boy could be comrades.' Are you, too, a friend of slavery?"

Eric tried to explain his meaning; and, while striving to reconcile the difference, he was pleased to notice how open the youth's soul was to every impression, and how tenaciously it clung to things spoken of only in a cursory and incidental way.

Eric sat with Roland until it was very late; he was obliged to satisfy his ingenuous mind, and this was almost the hardest task that had ever been laid upon him. The youth was to be made to perceive that there was another way of considering the question, one that regarded slavery as justifiable and a righteous necessity; he was never to let his father know that he considered him in the wrong, and that he had happened to become acquainted, through the Professorin, with a spirit that ought not to have been conjured up in this house. Eric called to mind his mother, who had admonished him, with reason, that he was to adopt that course of instruction for Roland which was necessary, and not that which the youth himself preferred. Circumstances now rendered it necessary to follow only that track which the youth had entered upon for himself. It was a matter of rejoicing that he had of himself struck out the path; it was just what all education proposed: and now was he to turn aside from this track, and to shatter in pieces the abiding fundamental principle. Thou shalt, and thou shalt not?

"It seems to me like a dream," Roland went on to say; "a great negro once held me in his arms; I remember distinctly all about him; I remember his woolly hair, and how I pulled him by it; his face was smooth, without any beard at all."

"The negroes have no growth of beard," added Eric, and the youth continued, dreamily:--

"I have been carried by negroes--by negroes."

He continued to repeat the word in a lower and lower tone, and then became silent. Suddenly he passed his hand over his brow, and asked,--

"Are the people who are slaves fond of their children? Do you know any song they sing?"

Eric had very little to say in reply. Roland wanted to know how all the ancient nations regarded slavery. Eric could give him only a superficial statement; he proceeded to open his letter to Professor Einsiedel, and requested that he would tell him what books treated upon the subject of slavery among the Jews, Greeks, Romans, and especially the ancient Germans.

When Roland was at last ready to go to bed, he produced Thomas à Kempis, and placed it beside Theodore Parker.

"I would like to imagine," he said, "how they would regard one another, if they stood side by side. I fancy Thomas à Kempis to be an extremely devout, refined monk; and when I imagine Theodore Parker, I think of him as a grandson or great grandson of Benjamin Franklin."

Eric was more and more amazed, for he saw how deeply Roland had thought about them both.

Thomas à Kempis makes men recluses, leads them continually into themselves, and then above the human world; Parker also leads men into themselves, but afterwards out of themselves and into the world around them.

When Roland and Eric went, the next day, to post the letter to Professor Einsiedel, they saw the boat coming up the river, on which were the Mother and Sonnenkamp. They made a signal, and repaired to the landing. Roland was astonished that Manna had not come with them, for his father had promised to bring her. Sonnenkamp went on in advance with Eric, and asked after the household. He seemed in a very bad humor.

Roland detained the Mother, and when the others were out of hearing, he asked her:--

"Did Manna tell you too that she was an Iphigenia?"

"No. What did she mean by that?"

"I don't know."

The Mother pressed her lips together; she had some idea of what she meant; she understood her lamentation, and her thankfulness to God, for having called her to endure the extreme of woe. She inquired about the connection in which the expression had been used, but Roland interrupted her by telling her that he had read the book which she had forgotten.

The Mother was startled, but felt more at ease when Roland related to her that Eric had set him right in the matter, and that he himself would be sure to keep the secret.

Nevertheless, she was deeply troubled, on reaching the villa, at having brought hither a spirit which could not dwell under the roof. The freedom of her soul was taken away, for that which she had kept in concealment had now begun to exert an influence openly. It was no longer subject to her control, and it might suddenly appear in a frightful and perplexing form.

Frau Ceres was sick again. Fräulein Perini could not be spared a moment, and sent her thanks for the kindly greeting of the Professorin and Sonnenkamp.

Like a child who is always bright and cheerful, always living in the present moment, disturbed by no confusion, and no subtleties of thought,--so appeared the Major, and every one took delight in his steadfast and natural equability. He thought it was well that Manna had not returned now; when the castle was completed, it would be just the nicest thing: out of the convent into the castle. He should be glad when they were all together again; he couldn't stand this everlasting starting off and bursting away from each other like a bomb-shell; there wasn't a better and finer place than right here in the country, and they couldn't get anywhere more than sky, and water, and mountains, and trees.

The Major cheered up the company, who were sitting at the tea-table in a strangely absent mood. The Professorin afterwards accompanied him home. She sat talking with Fräulein Milch until it was quite late, and appointed her as first assistant in the charitable organization. She seemed exactly fitted for it, as she knew everybody and everybody's circumstances. She desired that, for the first thing, a dozen sewing machines should be distributed in the surrounding villages; she would herself teach the women and girls how to use them.

The Major and Fräulein Milch accompanied the Mother back to the villa by starlight. She was refreshed and strengthened. Her soul was peaceful, and a saying of Goethe's seemed to be sounding within her:--"Thou canst not perceive what thou art by reflection, but only by seeking to perform thy duty."

She had a work before her that would uplift her and the whole neighborhood.

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VII. A NEW DOOR IN THE WALL

The Professor's widow accompanied the Doctor for several days in his professional rounds. She obtained in this way, by direct observation, an insight into the country life.

She laid before Sonnenkamp a plan matured by herself and Fräulein Milch, which he very readily assented to, especially that part relating to the furnishing of sewing machines. Besides being an American "institution," this would create a good deal of talk. He made a trip to the capital himself, and bought the machines.

He took great pleasure in hearing the widow speak of the satisfaction she derived from having the ability to do so much good, formerly through the Princess, and now through Herr Sonnenkamp.

"How does it happen," he inquired of her, "that the poor, or the comparatively poor, are united together so much more closely than the rich?"

"I have never reflected upon the matter," she replied with an embarrassed smile, "but if I should now express an opinion upon it, I should say, that the rich man clings to his property, and is obliged to think of himself; he can't do otherwise. He is not permitted to survey the lot of others; his soul, his eye, if I may use the expression, does not have, the beseeching glance of him who sits forlorn by the wayside. But the poor man is hoping, waiting; he has nothing but a bundle in his hands, or probably nothing but his empty hands; he is independent of others, and dependent on them too."

Sonnenkamp was very eloquent in praise of this considerate, indulgent view, as he termed it; and the Professorin was delighted with the polite manner and the delicacy of this man, apparently so bad and selfish.

"Perhaps," she continued, blushing deeply, "perhaps we might take an illustration from the animal world."

"In what way?"

She was silent, and only replied after Sonnenkamp had repeated the question:--

"I will give you my thought, crude as it is. I was thinking of the beasts of prey who live singly; and wolves only herd together when there is some common booty to be got, the rest of the time, each living by himself. The herbivorous animals, on the contrary, live together in herds, and afford a common protection."

She interrupted herself smiling, and then continued:--

"My wisdom is of yesterday, and it is not worth very much. The field-guard, Claus, told me that, in autumn, the birds which feed upon grain assemble in flocks, but those which live upon insects do not."

Sonnenkamp was very amiable. The Professorin added in continuation:--

"But yet the granivorous birds are no more virtuous than the insectivorous; each kind lives in accordance with its own law."

Sonnenkamp became more and more charmed with the Professorin; she spread his table with viands which could not be imported from abroad, and which the garden did not supply.

The journals, day after day, now published Herr Sonnenkamp's praiseworthy endeavors to ameliorate the condition of the people. The Cabinetsräthin came, and congratulated him upon the excellent result, adding that, according to a report from her husband, this noble deed of Herr Sonnenkamp had been noticed in the highest quarter.

Sonnenkamp was now exceedingly zealous. He was anxious that there should be no intermission in the public notices, and that something should be said about him every day. Pranken, however, who had returned from his farming escapade, showed that it would be better to hold up a little, and then to come down upon the public with a fresh sensation. He had evidently heard of the good impression which the Professorin had made at the convent, and of the earnest exhortation to Manna; and when Sonnenkamp unfolded to him his plan of having the Professorin reside there permanently, he immediately assented to it.

A path was laid out from the villa to the vine-covered house, through the beautiful meadows and along the river-bank. Sonnenkamp invited the Professorin, on a certain day, to accompany him into the garden, and all the family must go with them.

A new gateway had been made in the wall which surrounded the park. Sonnenkamp said that the Professorin should be the first one to pass through it. He gave her the key, and she opened the gate. She went through it and along the pathway, followed by the whole family, and Pranken among them.

They proceeded to the vine-covered cottage, and the Professorin was amazed to find here all her household furniture, and the library of her husband arranged in good order.

Aunt Claudine was here too; for Sonnenkamp had contrived that she should be released from Clodwig.

Sonnenkamp introduced, with a sort of pride, his valet Joseph, who had made all these arrangements, as a native son of the university.

The Professorin expressed her thanks to Joseph, and shook hands with him.

Pretty soon the Major came; and when the Professorin inquired after Fräulein Milch, he stammeringly made an apology in her behalf. It was plainly wrong in his view, that Fräulein Milch should so persistently refuse to go into society.

The Professorin had not recovered from her amazement and satisfaction when Clodwig and Bella arrived. Provision had been made for a cheerful repast in the garden, and Roland gave expression to the general feeling, when he said:--

"Now I have a grandmother and an aunt, safe in their nest."

In the evening, Eric received a large package of books and a letter from Professor Einsiedel, and also a large sheet of memoranda. He commended Eric's intention of writing a treatise upon the idea and nature of slavery, as it would prove a very fertile theme.

Eric put away the books, for he regarded it as a fortunate thing that Roland's thoughts were occupied neither upon slavery nor free labor, nor any kindred topic, but with something entirely different.

The son of the Cabinetsräthin, the cadet, was now at the newly acquired country-seat, on furlough, and he exhorted Roland to be diligent, so as to be able before long to enter the military school.

Roland was now wholly bent upon entering the highest class, at the earliest possible moment. He spoke of it daily to his father and Pranken. The father one day took him aside and said:--

"My child, it is well, and I am glad that you are so diligent in getting fitted, but you will not enter--take notice, I show my respect for you by this communication; I look upon you as a grown-up and mature man."

He stopped, and Roland asked,--

"When is it that I am to enter?"

"Come nearer, and I will whisper it to you; you are to enter when you are a noble."

"I a noble? and you too?"

"Yes, all of us; and for your sake I must become ennobled, as you will see by and by. Do you feel glad at being made a noble?"

"Do you know, father, when I first began to respect nobility?"

Sonnenkamp looked at him inquiringly, and Roland continued:--

"At the railroad station, where I saw a crazy, drunken man. Everybody showed respect for him, because he was a nobleman, a baron. It is a great thing to be a nobleman."

Roland now gave an account of the meeting on the morning after his flight, and Sonnenkamp was surprised at the astonishing effect produced upon him, and at the lasting impression everything made. He now said:--

"Give me your hand, as a pledge that you will say nothing about this to your master, Eric, until I shall tell him myself. On the word of an officer."

After some delay and deliberation, Roland gave his hand.

His father now proceeded to explain to him how disagreeable it would be to enter the military school under a citizen's name, and while there to be ennobled.

Roland inquired why he was not to say anything about it to Eric.

His father refused to tell him why, demanding unconditional obedience.

And so Roland had now a two-fold secret to keep, one from his father, and the other from Eric. The youth's soul was distressed, and it found an odd expression in the question he once put to Eric:--

"Do the negroes in their native land have nobles too?"

"There are no nobles in their own right," replied Eric; "individual men belong to the nobility only when, and only so long, as others regard them as such."

Eric had thought that Roland's zeal for the military school had excluded all his former notions and speculations; but he now saw that they were still active, and had become connected with odd associations, which he could not explain to himself satisfactorily. But he took heed to make no further inquiry.

During his furlough, the son of the Cabinetsräthin was very constant in attendance upon the lessons given to Roland, and Sonnenkamp, having her sanction, proposed that the young cadet should leave the school for a time, and be instructed in company with Roland.

Roland was highly pleased with this plan, but Eric objected; and when Sonnenkamp stated to him that he had formerly desired that Roland should have a comrade who should receive instruction with him, Eric found great difficulty in explaining to him that it was now inexpedient; that the course of instruction he had undertaken with Roland was adapted exclusively to him, and that now any comradeship, and any reference to another's condition and progress, would be only a disturbing element.

Eric, by this means, alienated not only Herr Sonnenkamp and the Cabinetsräthin, but also for a time his pupil himself, who was out of humor and refractory, after the cadet had returned to the capital.

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VIII. STEEL-TRAPS IN THE POETS' GARDEN

Sonnenkamp prided himself in growing the best wines; but the traditional account of the joyous celebration of the harvest-home is a mere fable. In the morning the mists were hanging far and wide over the valleys, and in the early evening they shut out the whole landscape. The leaves had fallen from the trees, and the hoar frost glistened on the bare twigs, when at last the grapes were gathered and pressed.

The Major would not allow it to be thought of for a moment, that they should omit firing their salute; he took extreme satisfaction in his two comrades, Eric and Roland, who fired at his word of command, so that the three reports sounded as one. But this was the whole celebration of the merry harvest-home.

Fires had been already made at the villa, and Sonnenkamp's pride in each stove having its own chimney was shown to be well founded. But it was a truly festive occasion when the Professorin had a fire kindled for the first time in her sitting-room. She had invited Eric and Roland to be present, and Fräulein Milch happened to be there. And as they sat together before the open fire-place, in serene and homelike content, it would be hard to say precisely what it was that made them so cheery and peaceful.

The Mother exhorted Eric to resume his habit of reading aloud, in the cosy winter evenings, some great poems, and he promised to do so. He felt that he must make some extra effort to dispel the coldness produced by his refusal to receive as a pupil the son of the Cabinetsräthin.

Sonnenkamp, who had an extensive hunting-park, sent out cards inviting some persons of the best society to a hunting-party. Invitations also came from the neighbors, and Eric was able to be present with Roland at a great hunting-party as often as once a week.

Roland was proud of his father's skill in the chase; he was regarded by all as the leader, and the whole company listened with pleasure to his accounts of grand hunts in America. He had even made a short excursion to Algiers, and there shot a lion, whose skin was now under his writing-table; it was meant for a sleigh-robe, but here in the country, a merry sleigh-ride was a rare thing.

The supper after the chase, in a large apartment fitted up for the purpose, was always of the merriest sort. The Major was here in his element, and officiated as lord of the castle; he spoke of the evenings which Eric enlivened at Villa Eden by reading the ancient and modern dramas; he never knew before that there were so many fine things in the world, and that one individual man could make everything so plain merely by his voice.

Eric had read aloud almost without exception one evening every week. The impression made upon the hearers was various. The Major always sat with his hands devoutly folded; Frau Ceres reclined in her easy-chair, occasionally opening her eyes, to show that she was not asleep; Fräulein Perini was employed with some hand-work, which she prosecuted steadily, exhibiting no emotion; the Mother and the Aunt sat there quietly; Sonnenkamp had a standing request that they would excuse his rudeness. Turning to Roland, he said good-humoredly,--

"Don't get this bad habit--don't get in the way of having a stick in your hand to whittle."

And so he sat and whittled away, occasionally looking up with a fixed stare, holding the knife in his right hand and the piece of wood in his left; then he would resume his whittling.

Roland always seated himself opposite the reader, so that Eric must look him in the face. Often, until it was very late, Roland would talk with Eric about the wonderful things he had been listening to.

Eric had been reading Macbeth, and he was glad to hear Roland say,--

"This Lady Macbeth could easily be transformed into a witch, like one of those who came in at the beginning."

Another time, when Eric had been reading Hamlet, he was not a little surprised at hearing Roland say to him in the evening, before going to bed,--

"Strange! Hamlet, in that soliloquy, speaks of no one returning from the other world, when, only a short time before, the spirit of his father had appeared, and he appears again afterwards."

One evening, after Eric had read Goethe's Iphigenia, Roland said,--

"I can't make out at all why Manna said once that she was Iphigenia. If she were Iphigenia, I should be Orestes. I, Orestes? I? Why was it? Do you understand Manna's meaning?"

Eric said no.

One evening when the Physician and the Priest were present, Sonnenkamp requested Eric to read aloud Shakespeare's Othello. Eric looked at Roland. Will not Roland be stirred up to fresh questioning concerning the negroes? He had no reason he could assign for declining, and he could contrive no excuse for sending Roland away.

Eric commenced reading. The fulness and flexibility of his voice gave the requisite expression to each character, and he preserved the proper distinction between reading and theatrical presentation. He brought out no strong colors; it was an artistic embodiment that allowed the outlines of form to appear, but gave no coloring; it was not an imitation of life, but a simple outline drawing of the general features, softened but sufficiently defined.

The Doctor nodded to the Mother, as much as to say that Eric's interpretation was very pleasant.

For the first time, Frau Ceres listened with eager attention, without leaning back once during the whole evening; she continued bent forward, and her countenance wore an unusual expression.

Eric read on continuously, and when he was giving the close of Othello's sorrowful confession of guilt, in a voice struggling with tears, like one resisting the inclination to weep, great tears ran down over the pale face of Frau Ceres.

The piece was ended.

Frau Ceres rose quickly, and requested the Mother to accompany her to her chamber.

Fräulein Perini and the rest of the ladies went away at the same time. The men were standing up, and only Roland remained sitting, as if spell-bound to the chair.

Glancing towards the Doctor, the Major said,--

"Isn't this a really wonderful man?"

The Doctor nodded.

The Priest had his hands folded together; Sonnenkamp surveyed his whittlings, placing them in a little pile together, just as if they had been gold-shavings, and even bending down to pick up some that had fallen upon the floor. Now he straightened himself up and asked Eric,--

"What do you think of Desdemona's guilt?"

"Guilt and innocence," replied Eric, "are not positive natural conceptions; they are the result of the social and moral laws of humanity. Nature deals only with the free play of forces, and Shakespeare's plays exhibit to us only this free play of natural impulses in men and women."

"That's true," interrupted the priest. "In this work there's nothing said about religion, for religion would necessarily soften, ameliorate, and rule over the savage natures, conducting themselves just like natural forces, or rather would bring them into subjection to the higher revealed laws."

"Fine, very fine," said Sonnenkamp, who was quite pale; "but permit me to ask the Captain to give me an answer to my question."

"I can answer your first question," Eric rejoined, "only in the words of our greatest writer on æsthetics: The poet would characterize a lion, and, in order to do it, he must represent him as tearing in pieces a lamb. The guilt of the lamb does not come into question at all. The lion must act in accordance with his nature. But I think that the deep tragedy of this drama lies hidden."

"And what do you think it is?"

"This maiden, Desdemona, without mother, brother, or sister, grown up from childhood among men, might love a hero, whose lyric, childlike nature, craving love and clinging fast to her, would make him crouch like a tamed lion at her feet. This submissive strength, renouncing no element of its wild energy, but, as it were, purified and exalted, opens the well-spring of that love which covers everything else with oblivion, overcomes the difference of race, and washes clean out the black color of the skin.

"When Othello kissed her for the first time, she closed her eyes, and he kissed her on the eyes; and her eyes are closed not for one instant merely, but for a long period. But an unparallelled horror, a wild insanity, would be the result of this shutting of the eyes when Desdemona should hold in her arms a child, who should appear, in its whole exterior, strange, abhorrent to her, like some creature that did not belong to the human race. Out from her heart, crushed and trampled under foot, there must have come a shriek of agony. A child upon her breast, a creature so unlike herself! That look, which Hegel describes as the highest of all that the eye can express, the first look of the mother upon the child, that first mother's look must have killed Desdemona, or made her raving mad."

Sonnenkamp, who had all the time been rapidly shifting the whittlings about with his fingers, now threw them all upon the floor in a heap, and went up to Eric, holding both hands stretched out at length. His huge frame trembled with emotion, as he cried out:--

"You are a free man, a freethinker; you are not to be humbugged. You are the first one that ever gave me a reasonable explanation of this antipathy. Yes, it's so. The instinct of the poet is wonderfully prophetic. 'Against all rules of nature!' This is the expression of Desdemona's father, and this is the whole solution of the problem. On this expression the whole turns, and every part is in harmony with it. The result must be, as it is, a product of nature. It's against nature!"

The men who were present had never before heard Sonnenkamp speak in this way, and Roland, who had been staring fixedly before him, looked up as if he must convince himself that it was really his father who was speaking. In an exultant tone, for he observed the effect produced upon them all, he continued:--

"Marriage--marriage! The Romans understood what was meant by that. Where marriage is in violation of nature's laws, there can be no talk of rights of humanity, equality of rights. Apes, with all their boasted reason, nothing but apes, are these silly preachers of humanity, who build up their theories and universal crotchets, without looking at the facts, and know really nothing of these brutes endowed with speech, who are not human beings, but everlastingly apish and malicious! Ho, ho! thou noble friend of humanity!" he exclaimed, striding up and down the room, "Marry thy daughter to a nigger, do that! do that! Be in terror, every moment, that he will tear her limb from joint. Hug a black grandchild! do that, noble friend of humanity! then come to me and harangue about the equality of the black and the white race!"

Sonnenkamp had clenched his fists, as if he were clutching an antagonist by the throat; his eyes flashed, his lips opened, and his jaws snapped together like a tiger leaping upon his prey. He now suddenly placed his hand upon his breast, as if making a powerful effort to hold himself in control.

"You, Herr Captain, and the poet, have taken me somewhat by surprise," he said, with a constrained smile; and then he again repeated that Eric had gone to the root of the matter. That a white girl could not become the wife of a nigger was no prejudice, but a law of nature.

"I thank you," he said in conclusion, turning once more towards Eric; "you have given me a great deal to think about."

The men looked at each other in astonishment, and the Doctor added, in a timid way very foreign from his usual manner, that he must give his assent to this on physiological grounds, for it was a well-known fact that mixed races, in the third generation, became sterile. A separation of the races, however, does not exclude human rights, any more than it excluded human duties; and religion laid them upon all alike.

While saying this he turned towards the Priest, who felt himself called upon to state that the negroes were susceptible of religious conviction, and capable of receiving religious instruction, and that this secured to them the full rights of men.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Sonnenkamp. "Is that the fact? Why then did not the Church ordain the removal of slavery?"

"Because the Church," replied the Priest quietly, "has nothing to do with ordaining anything of the kind. The Church directs itself to the human soul, and prepares it for the heavenly kingdom. In what social condition the body of man, the outside covering of this soul, may be, we have nothing to do with ordaining or determining. Neither slavery nor freedom is a hindrance to the divine life. Our Lord and Master called the souls of the Jews to enter into the kingdom of heaven whilst they were Roman citizens, and under subjection. He called all nations through his apostles, and did not stop to ask about their political condition and constitution. Our kingdom is the kingdom of souls, which are one and the same, whether they live in a republic or under a tyranny, whether their bodies are white or black. We are glad to have the body free, but it is not our work to make it so."

"Theodore Parker takes a different view," Roland suddenly exclaimed.

As if a bullet bad whistled close to his ears, Sonnenkamp cried,--

"What? Where did you find out about that man? Who told you about him? How's this?"

Roland trembled all over, for his father seized him by his shoulders and shook him.

"Father!" he cried out in a manly voice, "I have a free soul too! I am your son, but my soul is free!"

All were amazed. Nothing more would be said about his voice changing.

Sonnenkamp let go his hold, his breast heaving up and down as he panted violently for breath. Suddenly he exclaimed,--

"I am very glad, my son; that's noble, that's grand. You are real young America It's right! fine! splendid!"

They were struck with fresh amazement. This sudden change of mood in Sonnenkamp took all present by surprise. But he went on in a mild tone,--

"I am glad that you were not to be frightened. You have good pluck--it's all right. Now tell me where you found out about Parker?"

Roland gave a true account of matters, except that he said nothing about Parker's name having been mentioned by the Professorin when they were making their calls in the town.

"Why didn't you speak of it to me?" asked his father.

"I can keep a secret," replied Roland. "You've tested me yourself on that score."

"That's true, my son; you have justified my confidence."

"We ought to have gone home a long time ago," said the Major, and this was the signal for the company to break up.

The Major had never felt his heart beat so violently, never when stationed on some exposed outpost, never even in battle, as during the reading; and yet it beat worse, after the conversation had taken so threatening a turn.

He kept shaking his big head, and stretching out with his hands in the air deprecatingly and beseechingly, as if he would say,--

"For heaven's sake, drop this talk! It's not good, 'twill only do harm!"

Then he took another look at Sonnenkamp, shrugging up his shoulders. "What does the man mean," he thought, "by talking to us in this style! We wouldn't put a hair in his path; what's the use of stirring us up in this matter! Oh, Fräulein Milch had the right of it, when she urged him to stay at home to-day.

"How comfortable it would be to be sitting in the arm-chair, in which Laadi is now lying! And one might have been asleep two hours ago, and now it will be midnight before one gets home! And there's Fräulein Milch sitting up, and sitting up, till he comes in. It was like being saved, when he took out his watch, and could say how late it was."

The Professorin came back at this moment, and told Roland that his mother wished to see him. Roland went to her.

Eric accompanied his mother and the rest, as they set out for home through the snowy night.

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IX. THE BIRD OF NIGHT IS SHOT

Eric walked in silence with the ladies. The Mother spoke first, saying,--

"I am glad that here, again, I have words of your father's to support me. Nothing is more weakening and more to be avoided than repentance," he often said; "the acknowledgment that we have made a mistake must come, quick and sharp, but then we must reconcile ourselves to circumstances. I have deeply repented no matter how much good I may do, that I have bound myself to this family so firmly that any drawing back or loosening of the ties is extremely difficult. But now that it is done, we must endeavor to make everything turn out for the best."

The Aunt, who spoke but little, added how painful it was that people over whose lives hung some dark crime were banished, as it were, from the kingdom of the spirit; and must meet everywhere with terrible reminders.

They went on again for a while in silence. High above, from the mountain crest, they heard the screech-owl, the harbinger of extreme cold, uttering his dreadful cry; which rose and died away with a mingled tone of lamentation and of triumph. The party stood still.

"Ah," said Eric, "what trouble Herr Sonnenkamp has taken to destroy all the owls in the neighborhood; but he cannot do it."

They walked on once more without speaking. Everything seems a sign and a portent to an excited mood. Hardly breathing the words aloud, the mother said that Frau Ceres' emotion was incomprehensible. She had thrown herself on her neck, sobbing and weeping.

"I do not know how to explain it," she continued; "there is some deep mystery here, and it troubles me."

Eric told them of what had passed among the men, and how Roland, to his alarm, had spoken of Parker. It was plain that Sonnenkamp wished to erect into a moral system the existing relations of slavery.

"Nothing more natural," answered the Mother. "Whoever stands in such relations all his life long, must make something for himself which he calls moral principle. I cannot help thinking of your father again; he has shown me a thousand times how people cannot bear to confess to themselves that their life and actions are bad; they feel obliged to prop them up with good principles. Yet, as I said, we must be quiet, we have one good young spirit to be led to noble ends; that is our part. Whence it sprang, or through what past life it may have come to us, is not for us to determine. The past is our fate, the present, our duty. There's another saying of your father's; and now good-night."

With a more composed mind, Eric returned to the villa. The owl had flown from the mountain, and was now perched on the top of a tree in the park, boldly sending forth its cry into the air. Eric heard it, and Sonnenkamp heard it in the ante-room of his wife's chamber. There must he, the father and husband, wait till his son came out, admittance having been refused him while his wife spoke to Roland. At last the boy came out, and his father asked him what his mother had said: he had never done so before, but now he felt obliged to do it.

Roland answered that she had really said almost nothing; she had only kissed him, and cried, and then asked him to hold her hand till she went to sleep, and now she was sleeping quietly.

"Give me Parker's book," said Sonnenkamp.

"I haven't got it now; the Professorin took it away from me, and blamed me very much for having read it secretly, and before I was old enough."

"Give my regards to Herr Eric; you have a better teacher than I thought," said the father.

Roland went to Eric's room, but he had not yet returned.

The owl's cry was heard again from the tree-top in the park. Roland put out the light, opened the window, took his rifle from the wall, fired, and the owl fell from the tree. Roland ran down stairs, met Eric, and told him that he had hit the bird; he then hurried into the park and brought the creature in.

The whole house was in alarm. Frau Ceres was awakened, and her first cry was:

"Has he killed himself?"

Sonnenkamp and Roland had to go to her room again, to show that they were alive. Roland took the dead owl with him, but his mother would not look at it, and only complained of having been deprived of her sleep.

The father and the son withdrew, and Sonnenkamp praised Roland for having brought down the bird so promptly and boldly.

Eric went back to his mother, who must also have been awakened by the shot, and he found her still awake; she too had feared that it had been some suicidal shot.

The whole house was in a commotion, and it was some time before it could be restored to quiet.

In his pride at having shot the owl, Roland forgot everything else, and went contentedly to bed and to sleep.

But above in the castle, and below in Sonnenkamp's work-room, lights burned late. Eric sat gazing at the flame, and strange forms moved confusedly through his mind. There was Shakespeare's play, there were all the people who had listened to it; but more than all he tried to enter into Roland's mind; and it seemed a fortunate thing to him, that the boy's love of sport had driven away all wondering speculation from his mind. Action, action alone makes free. Where is it, the great all-liberating power? It does not show itself. Independent of our will, and of reflection, there is a great power in the Past and in the view of God working in it, which alone can bring forth the deed. The deed is not ours, but to be armed and ready is in our power.

At last Eric found rest.

Sonnenkamp paced up and down his great room like a prisoner. The lion's skin with the stuffed head lay upon the floor, and the eyes stared at him, till he covered the head with a part of the skin. He asked himself again and again what he ought to do. This Herr Eric was teaching his son to oppose him, and the Mother, who was always regaling them with sayings of her husband, preserved in spirit, forever calling up, as Pranken says, her husband's wandering ghost, the departed Professor Hamlet--no, she was a noble woman.

But why had he taken upon his shoulders this beggarly family, so puffed up with their own ideas? He could not shake them off, without attracting attention. No, he would make use of them, and then throw them away.

At last, a happy resolution quieted him. We must have new surroundings, new diversions; and then, straight to the goal! The day after to-morrow will be New Year's day. On New Year's day we will go to the capital. With this thought Sonnenkamp also found rest at last.

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X. PLAYING COURT

The first thing in the morning, Roland wanted to carry the owl, which lay frozen outside his window, to Claus, who knew how to stuff birds.

All the events of the past day seemed to have vanished from his mind, leaving no trace, in the joy he felt in his splendid shot.

"Stop!" cried Roland suddenly, as he was stretching out the owl's wings, "stop; I've just thought of what a man said to me in my dreams; he looked like Benjamin Franklin, but he was thinner. I dreamed that I was going to battle; the music was making a great noise, discordant, and broken by shouts, and every now and then the man said: 'A good name--a good name'--and then there suddenly appeared thousands of black heads, nothing but black heads, a perfect sea of them; and they all gnashed their teeth, and I woke up in dreadful agony."

Eric could not answer, and Roland went on:--

"To-day is the last day of the year; we ought to enter upon a wholly new world tomorrow; I don't know why, but I long to have it so."

Eric laid his hand on the boy's brow, which was feverishly hot.

Roland was summoned to his mother, who wanted him; Eric watched him thoughtfully as he went; he felt also that a new page was to be turned, without knowing what it was to be. He looked towards the door, for he expected that Sonnenkamp would send for him. The man had shown on the previous day such new and strange moods that an explanation was necessary. What would it be? This could not be guessed. As if in a vision, Eric saw Sonnenkamp in his own room, in a state of the greatest excitement, sometimes bursting out violently, then calming himself again. He heard the steps of two people approach his room. Roland entered, holding his father's hand.

"Mother is asleep again," he said, "but there is some news. Eric, we are going to the capital together, to stay all winter."

"Yes, I have decided upon it," said Sonnenkamp, in confirmation, after saying good-morning to Eric, "and I hope that your mother will go with us."

With calm deliberation, he went on to say that gay society would be good for all of them, after the loneliness of their retired life in the country; and, with a watchful look at Eric, he added:--

"We shall meet your friend Clodwig, and his charming wife, at the capital."

Eric looked at him calmly, and said that he should feel it to be his duty to meet all of Herr Sonnenkamp's social acquaintances.

"I have thought much about last evening," began Sonnenkamp, seating himself near Eric. "You are a learned and also a bold man."

His manner was extremely polite, almost affectionate, for he was inwardly happy when he could play the hypocrite; whenever he could make fools of all around him, he felt an elevating and sustaining satisfaction. He was in such good humor that he said to Eric:--

"I hope to convert you; to make you see that the best way of living in the world is to hold yourself a stranger in it, and not to bother yourself about the immediate regulation of the affairs of state."

"In some respects," answered Eric, "Aristotle agreed with you; he lived generally in Athens, having a sort of certificate of residence without being a regular citizen, and without being responsible either actively or passively in the choice of rulers; for only in this way, as an alien, could he live wholly in his ideas."

"I like that. One is constantly hearing something new and sensible of the old philosophers. Then Aristotle was free also to go wherever he pleased? That's good!"

Sonnenkamp looked amused. These learned gentlemen are very convenient; they know how to find great historical reasons for what we do selfishly or thoughtlessly. He smiled in a friendly way, and his smile did not disappear, though Eric explained that what befitted a philosopher like Aristotle very well would not do for everybody; for if every one were like him, the world could not last; who would undertake municipal and state affairs?

Sonnenkamp still smiled. This German pedagogue is a funny fellow, he thought to himself; the very hour before starting on a journey, he is ready for a learned discussion. Looking extremely well pleased, he said to Eric:--

"I am very much obliged to you; one always learns something of you; you are always up to the mark."

Every word was meant to give a stab, but Eric took it quite seriously, and was grateful for the gratitude of Sonnenkamp, who was inwardly excessively diverted by this man, so childishly unsuspicious with all his learning.

He desired Eric and Roland to make the necessary preparations for the journey, and then left the room, a servant having come to say that his gracious lady was ready to see his master.

He entered Frau Ceres' room. She looked at him languidly as he said he was glad she was better, and that she would be able to undertake the journey to the capital on the following day. In glowing colors he represented the pleasant life in the city, upon which they had a sure hold through the family of the Cabinetsräthin, Count Wolfsgarten and his wife, and also through Herr von Endlich's family.

He added in a very confident tone: "Be strong and charming, lovely Frau Ceres; you will return to these rooms a Baroness."

Frau Ceres sat up, and only mourned that the dresses ordered in Paris had not yet arrived. Sonnenkamp promised to telegraph directly, and promised also that the Professorin should go with them, so that the entrance into society could be made under her auspices.

"You may kiss me," said Frau Ceres.

Sonnenkamp did so, and she said,--

"I think that we shall all be very happy. Ah, if I could only tell you my dream, but you never like to hear about dreams, and it is better that I should not tell it. But there was a bird with great wings, enormously large, and I was sitting on the bird, and was carried through the air; and I was ashamed because I was not dressed, and all the people below were looking up at me, and hooting, and shouting, and laughing, and then the bird turned its head round, and it was the Professorin, and she said: You are so splendidly dressed! and then I had all my ornaments on, and my lace-trimmed satin dress--but I know you don't want to hear my dream."

Sonnenkamp left the room in good spirits. The day was bright, a keen, cold, sparkling winter-day, when the whole landscape, every rock, every tree, stood sharply out against the blue sky; the ice had closed over the Rhine, and a strange quiet, like a repressed breathing, lay over the whole scene.

Sonnenkamp was glad that the bright daylight had driven away all the spectres of the night, and brought fresh life. He immediately gave orders in the stable, that two pairs of horses and a second carriage should be sent to the capital. An hour afterwards, as he was walking with Eric and Roland to the vine-clad cottage, they saw the horses, covered with warm blankets, on the highroad, already on their way to the capital. Roland begged that his pony might be sent also, and permission was given; then he asked which dogs he might take, and when told that only one must go he could not decide which it should be.

The Professorin's large sitting-room looked like a yearly fair; on tables and chairs lay great packages of knit and woven woollen garments for men and women. Fräulein Milch was reading from a large sheet of paper the names of various needy people, and a list of the articles intended for them, while the Mother and the Aunt compared the bundles with the list.

When this was done, Fräulein Milch called in Claus, with his wife and daughter, and the Seven-piper with his whole family. They were directed to deliver the bundles to the people to whom they were addressed, and were very ready to undertake the work.

"It's very well that you don't give any money," said Claus; "but there's something wanting."

"What is it?"

The entrance of Sonnenkamp and Roland prevented his replying.

Sonnenkamp expressed much pleasure with the discreet manner in which his money had been used, and spoke a few friendly words to Fräulein Milch, whom he had not seen since the morning when Roland was missing.

He asked for the Major, and learned with regret that he had not been well during the night, and had not slept till nearly morning, so that he was probably still asleep; he had, happily, a constitution which always recovered its tone by sleep.

The Professorin asked to be excused, as she wished to send off the things before she attended to her early visitors; she now asked Claus what he meant by saying that an important thing was wanting.

"Yes," said the huntsman, "Herr Sonnenkamp is just the man for it."

"For what?"

"I mean that it is all well and good to wrap people up and protect them from the cold; but hilarity and joy are still lacking, and I think something ought to be done about warming up inside, and it wouldn't go amiss to send every one of them a bottle of wine. Every year the people see the vineyards before their eyes, and work in them, and most of them don't ever drink, so much as a single drop of the wine."

"Good!" said Sonnenkamp. "Go to the butler, and tell him to put with every bundle a good bottle of last year's wine."

Sonnenkamp was in a most lavish mood, for he put, besides, in each bundle a gold-piece; but he almost spoiled the whole by saying to Claus,--

"You see how much confidence I have in you. I have no doubt that you will deliver it all faithfully."

All the huntsman's jolly good humor seemed damped, but he restrained his anger, and only pressed his lips tightly together.

Roland helped carry the bundles to a cart which was waiting before the house, Sonnenkamp wanted to prevent him, but the Mother made him a sign to let him do it. With the last package, Fräulein Milch disappeared.

In the emptied room Sonnenkamp told the Professorin of his plan of removing to the capital, and begged her to accompany the family.

Gratefully, but most positively, the Professorin declined; and Sonnenkamp had some trouble in hiding his vexation, when he found that no persuasions could change her decision. He took leave politely, but out of humor, and Roland promised to leave Griffin with her as a guard.

The Professorin felt that the boy wanted to be doing something for her while he was away, and to sacrifice for her something which he cared for.

"Life will go well with you." she said, as she pressed his hand.

Roland felt a thrill through his whole being; he had received one of the holiest of blessings, though it was given in such simple words.

The Professorin had promised to come that evening to the villa, where they were all to watch out the old year.

When she came, she found great black chests in the hall; in Frau Ceres' parlor all the chairs were covered with clothes, and Frau Ceres was as happy as a child, directing everything with an activity never seen in her before. At last they all repaired to the dining-room and sat down to tea.

All felt that a great break had come in their life; while the conversation went on easily and continually no one noticed the time, and all believed that it would be very hard work to keep awake till midnight. The Professorin felt the strain, the haunting ghost, if one may so call it, of the impending separation; they were, in fact, no longer here, no longer together. She said more of this than she really meant to, and told them of her entrance into the great world.

Frau Ceres was very attentive, and kept begging her to go on. Suddenly she rose and asked her husband to leave the room with her. Sonnenkamp soon reappeared, and begged the Professorin to do his dear little wife a favor. She declared herself quite ready; and it seemed she was to play the Princess, Eric the Court-Marshal, Sonnenkamp the Prince, and Aunt Claudine the Mistress of Ceremonies. The Aunt resisted the arrangement, and blushed deeply; but the Professorin persuaded her, and managed to make her take the rôle of the Princess.

After a little waiting, the folding-doors were opened. Eric stood at the door with a wand, and led Frau Ceres, who glittered and beamed in diamonds and pearls, to the throne of the Aunt.

The Aunt condescendingly dropped very slightly the fan which she held, and Frau Ceres made a truly courtly reverence.

"Come nearer," said the Aunt. "It is very good in you to take up your abode in our country."

"It was my husband's wish," answered Frau Ceres.

"Your honored husband is very benevolent."

"I thank you," replied Frau Ceres.

"If I were in your place," exclaimed Sonnenkamp, "I would say, Your Highness, it is our duty, and we are highly rewarded for it by its meeting your gracious notice."

"Please write that out for me, I will learn it," said Frau Ceres, turning to her husband. She seemed to have grown younger, and her cheeks glowed.

The Professorin was extremely animated, and after saying: "I am your Mistress of Ceremonies," she led Frau Ceres to a seat.

"No, not so,--you must look after your train a little, and spread it out handsomely. So,--that's light, and then open your fan, you have the right to open it now, but not before. It is best to have it hung to your wrist by a small cord; it falls so easily."

The jesting went on merrily; when twelve o'clock struck, Roland cried:--

"Father, now your health is being drunk by hundreds of people."

Sonnenkamp kissed his son, Frau Ceres kissed the Professorin, then bent her head and waited calmly for a kiss on her brow from her husband. Outside, the bells rang, and guns were fired.

"Welcome to the New Year! to fresh life!" cried Eric, as his pupil gratefully kissed the hand which grasped his own.

In the neighborhood of the villa, there was much noise of guns and shouting; and Sonnenkamp was quite indignant that the good German police should allow such doings; it was nothing but rude vulgarity.

Eric said, on the other hand:--

"We can find in this inharmonious noise, if we consider it psychologically, an expression of joy. Without knowing it himself, the insignificant man who fires off a pistol, takes pleasure in the sense of surprise that he can produce an effect so far off, and that so many people must notice what he does. So this custom, barbarous in itself, is to be explained; it gives force to the human voice, you see, to the vociferous shouting."

Sonnenkamp smiled, and Eric was glad that he had brought, not his pupil alone, but the father also, to a gentler view of humanity.

But Sonnenkamp thought: This walking university, these ready catechetical answers on every subject, begin to grow a little tedious; it is well that we are going into a wider circle.

Then he smiled, and bade Eric and Roland a cheerful good-night.

Warmly wrapped in furs and attended by two servants, the Professorin and the Aunt returned to their own house; and soon all was still, and every one dreaming of the New Year.

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XI. THE ICE BREAKS UP

In the morning, when Eric and Roland were saying good-by at the green cottage, a message came from Fräulein Milch to offer herself and the Major that day, as visitors to the Professorin.

The Professorin praised to aunt Claudine the tact of the housekeeper, who evidently felt that they would be lonely on that day.

It was snowing steadily, and from her closed window the Mother made a sign of farewell to her son and to Roland, who drove by in the first carriage, and afterwards to Herr Sonnenkamp and Fräulein Perini, who bowed from their carriage: Frau Ceres lay in the corner, closely wrapped up, and did not move.

The Major and Fräulein Milch soon arrived. The Major kept himself under strict military discipline, and allowed no slight indisposition to change his stiff bearing; he was rather hoarse, and could say even less than usual, but he offered the congratulations of the New Year to the ladies with as much cordiality as formality.

"This year," he said, "will complete the fifty years that we have lived together."

He pointed to Fräulein Milch, and his hand said, Not a better creature walks the earth. But his looks said still more, which was not so easily understood.

They had a very cheerful dinner, and Fräulein Milch told them how many pleasant things she had already heard about the valuable presents, in the various houses.

The Major forced himself to master his indisposition, to be fit company for the three ladies; he praised the Professorin for knowing how to make such excellent soup, though she was such a learned lady.

"Yes, yes," he laughed, "I've really had to force Herr Sonnenkamp to have soup at his table. You see, if I had to go a day without soup, I should feel as if I were wearing my boots without stockings; the lower story of the stomach is cold."

They laughed at this comparison, and the Major thus encouraged, continued:--

"Yes, Frau Professorin, you know everything; can you tell me how it is that though this day is just like yesterday, we feel that there's something peculiar about it because it's New Year's Day? I feel as if I'd put on clean clothes for the whole year."

Again there was a general laugh, and the Major chuckled, well pleased; he had done his part, now he could leave the others to themselves.

After dinner, the Professorin insisted that the Major must take his nap; she had had the library warmed on purpose, and the Major was not a little proud that he was to sleep in the arm-chair there.

"Ah," he said, "I can sleep as well as the best Professor; but so many books, so many books! it's frightful to think that a man can read them all! I don't understand how it's possible."

The Major slept the sleep of the righteous; but he would have had no rest if he could have guessed what was passing between the ladies.

Fräulein Milch sat at the window by the Professorin, who listened in astonishment as the simple housekeeper said how strange it was that Eric should have consented to read the harrowing drama of Othello; the Major had been driven almost crazy by it, and, besides, there were so many points in it which could not be touched upon in the family.

"Do you know the play?" asked Frau Dournay.

"Indeed I do," replied Fräulein Milch, her whole face flushing to her very cap-border. Then, to the Professorin's surprise, she went on to remark upon the poet's wonderful stroke of art in placing the young married pair on the island of Cyprus, where strong wine is produced and drunk, not always in moderation; for in that solitude, and under that hot sun, wild, burning passions were fostered, too. The greater the happiness of a fondly loving pair on such an island, the more miserable would they be if any discord rose between them.

The Professorin listened as if a new person were speaking, whom she had never known before; but she said nothing of her thoughts, only asking:--

"Do you think then that the play was unsuitable to have been read there because Herr Sonnenkamp has been a slave-holder?"

"I would rather not say more about it," said Fräulein Milch evasively. "I do not like to talk about the man; it rejoices me,--no, that isn't the right word,--it makes me easier that he scarcely notices me, and seems to think me too insignificant to be looked at. I am not angry with him for it, but rather grateful, because it is not necessary for me to look at him; and friendliness towards him would be hypocrisy."

"But you must not turn me off in that way. Can't you tell me why you thought it unsuitable for being read?"

"I cannot."

Aunt Claudine, thinking she saw that Fräulein Milch had something to tell which was not for her to hear, quietly left the room.

"Now we are quite alone," said the Professorin, "you can tell me every thing. Shall I assure you that I can keep a secret?"

"Oh, I am only sorry that I have gone so far," stammered Fräulein Milch, drawing her cap-strings through her fingers. "It is the first time for fifty years that I have paid a visit, or eaten at a stranger's table; I ought not to have done it; I have not yet gained self-control enough."

Her face quivered, and her brown eyes glowed.

"I thought that you looked on me as a friend," said the Professorin, holding out her hand.

"Yes, so I do," cried Fräulein Milch, seizing the hand with both her own, and pressing it with fervor. "You cannot tell how I thank God for having granted me this before my death; since I devoted myself to him, I have renounced all the world; you are the first--oh, I think you must know all, you need be told nothing."

"I do not know all. What do you know of Herr Sonnenkamp?"

Fräulein Milch hung her head sadly, then put both hands before her face, crying,--

"Why must I tell you?" Then she rose, put her mouth to the Professorin's ear, and whispered something. Frau Dournay threw her head back, and grasped the sewing-machine, which stood before her, with both hands. Not a word was spoken. Outside, all was still, except for the cawing of a flock of crows which were hovering over the Rhine.

"I do not think you would tell me such a thing on a mere rumor," said the Professorin at last. "Go on, and tell me plainly how you learned it."

Fräulein Milch looked round timidly, and answered:--

"I have it from the most trustworthy of men, whose nephew has sent a child here to be educated; he knows the name which Herr Sonnenkamp formerly bore, and all about his past life. But, dear, noble lady, why should not a man be able to take up a different life, a new existence, whatever he may have done?"

"Of that another time," interrupted Frau Dournay; "tell me the name of the man who has told you this."

"So be it then. It was Herr Weidmann."

The Professorin covered her face with her hands. "What are you saying of Herr Weidmann?" asked the Major, entering suddenly. "I can tell you, Frau Professorin, that any one who doesn't know that man, doesn't know one of the best and truest men in the world. He's one of God's masterpieces, and God himself must have satisfaction in him; every day, when He looks down from heaven, he must say: The world isn't yet so bad, for down yonder I have my Weidmann; he is a man--a genuine man. Everything is included in that, there's nothing more to be said."

Both women felt a sense of relief in the entrance of the Major, who now prepared to go home with Fräulein Milch. After they had gone a few steps, the Professorin called Fräulein Milch back, and asked in a whisper,--

"Does the Major know, too?"

"Oh no, he could not bear it. Forgive me for having laid such a burden on you. Believe me that it is not made lighter to me, but heavier."

The guests departed; and soon after, the postman brought a letter from the University-town. Professor Einsiedel, who for twenty years had brought his New Year's greeting to Frau Dournay, did not choose to fail in it to-day; they were cordial and significant words which he wrote, but they seemed to come from a different world. Twice she read the postscript, for there was a greeting for Eric, with the message, that the Professor would soon send him a book on slavery which was announced as just published; and he added the exhortation that Eric should finish his work within the new year.

The Professorin looked thoughtfully at the words. What did it mean? Eric had never spoken to her of any such work. She passed her hand through the air before her brow, as if she would drive away every strange thought. A recollection rose within her. This very morning she had been expressing her sorrow to Aunt Claudine that she could no longer dispense any charity of her own, though it was the duty of every one to give from his own store. What she did seemed nothing; only the gifts seemed of importance. Almost involuntarily, she opened the box in which lay the money that Sonnenkamp had intrusted to her. How could she say in future to those who received it: You must not thank me, but Herr Sonnenkamp.

She collected herself, and went to the library, where she stood gazing out of the window. It seemed as if something were actually gnawing at her heart. In spite of inward reluctance, she had allowed herself to be brought into these relations, and her power of clear and intelligent perception seemed clouded.

Down the river there was a heavy roar, with a sharp cracking sound, as if a new world were opening; the ice had broken up. Great blocks were floating down the stream. They were hurled, against each other, turned over, crushed into fragments, brought together again, and floated on. Every block, large and small, was crowned with a wreath of snow, formed by the icy splinters that were ground to powder and thrown on top by the breaking up; the fragments floated down the river so swiftly that one realized, for the first time, how rapid and strong the current always is.

The sun set in a glowing sky across the Rhine; half aloud, the Professorin said to herself:--

"This first day of the year, which is now declining, has brought me a terrible experience; it must be borne, and turned to some good end."

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I. ARRIVAL AT THE VICTORIA

A line of carriages was standing in front of the Hotel Victoria in the capital; multitudes of sparrows were fluttering about them while the drivers stood together in groups, or walked to and fro, bandying jests with one another, and beating their arms across their chest to keep off the cold. The sparrows quarreled together, and after picking up all the crumbs they could find, took their flight. The drivers had exhausted their jokes and lapsed into silence. What more could be said and done on a winter's afternoon in the snowy, deserted streets of the capital? Everything is as still as the blessed prince whose stone image stands on the great column, with a cap of snow on his head and snow epaulettes on his shoulders. The parade is over, the officials are sitting in their offices, and the shutters of the Casino are closed for the better enjoyment of the cards by lamp-light. There is a change of guards at Prince Leonhard's palace, over the way; the soldiers wear large cloaks, and carry pistols. The man released from duty whispers something, which seems to be of no great moment to the one who succeeds him. An official messenger carrying a bundle of papers comes along, meets a court-lackey wrapped in a long coat that almost touches the ground; exchanges a pinch of snuff with him, and passes on. Such is the life of a small capital on a winter's afternoon.

But now wide awake! there is something going on. A great stir began among the coachmen, and up came the courier Lootz, with a wagon load of trunks.

Now there was abundant material for conversation. It was fine to have this "Gold-nugget, the King of California," come to the capital.

"Run up to your father, the bell-ringer, and tell him to set all his bells going," cried one.

"Give me a drink that I may shout a good huzza," said another. "Now begins a merry winter for us. Gold-nugget will scatter more money than three princes, and seventeen counts, with seven barons into the bargain."

"Let me tell you something," chimed in a third. "Let's send a deputation to him when he arrives; he will do it, he is just the fellow for it. I've a plan."

"Out with your plan."

The man thus addressed,--a little humpback, with intelligent, cunning eyes,--kept his comrades in suspense for a while, and then said,--

"We will petition Herr Sonnenkamp to give every coachman a daily pint of wine. He will do it, you see if he doesn't. If I had seventy millions, I would do it too."

A broad-shouldered, somewhat disreputable-looking coachman said,--

"I have been a hotel-keeper myself; I know what that means. The landlord of the Victoria has got a winter guest who will keep the house warm, and the wheels well greased."

Within the hotel, meanwhile, were none but smiling faces. Even the handsome landlady was handsomer than ever to-day, as she took a final survey of the sumptuous suite of rooms on the first floor, and found that all was in order, only a covering here and there still remaining to be spread. The feet of the butlers, waiters, and maids, as they hurried to and fro, made no sound on the thick, soft carpets. The gorgeous silk furniture glistened and gleamed, as if grateful at being freed from its mourning wrappers, and allowed to show itself to the light.

Lootz was full of business; he seemed bent upon trying every kind of sitting-place; now one chair and now another, here a sofa and there a lounge, he ordered to be differently arranged. Even the beds he appeared disposed to test, but contented himself with pressing the springs up and down a little. One blue silk boudoir, that opened on a charming balcony, he re-arranged entirely with great skill and excellent taste.

All was at last ready.

When evening came on, the whole long suite of rooms was illuminated; all the burners in the chandeliers, on the tables, and on the mantles being lighted. The entrance hall was decked with flowers. Now they might come.

The head-butler, with a cigar in his mouth, stepped into the streets and surveyed the row of windows with great satisfaction; but with still greater, did he look across the streets at the residence of the Crown-prince, where all was dark and deserted; how jealous they will be there!

A carriage drove up full of the servants of the establishment, men and women, then another, in which were Eric and Roland, and finally appeared a coach drawn by four horses. Bertram drew up at the door, and out stepped Herr Sonnenkamp followed by Fräulein Perini, and lastly by Frau Ceres, enveloped in the costliest furs.

The coachmen before the house forgot their agreement, and raised no cheers for Sonnenkamp. Amidst utter silence he and his family entered the vestibule, where the bearded porter in a laced coat and broad-brimmed hat presented his, silver-headed cane. He stood motionless as a statue; only his eyes sparkled. His face assumed a satisfied expression as they ascended the warmed, lighted, and flower-hung stair-case. Frau Ceres was not in good humor, having slept almost the whole way; she sat down before the open grate, and consented after a while to have her furs taken off.

Sonnenkamp inspected all the rooms, saying, when he came to those intended for Roland and Eric,--

"All the comforts of this world have their price; those who have nothing must turn coachmen, and freeze down there, waiting for a passenger."

He returned to, his wife's boudoir, where Frau Ceres was still sitting motionless on a luxurious seat before the fire.

"What shall we do to-day?" she asked languidly.

"There is still time to go to the theatre."

"Dress myself over again? I won't."

Here, happily, the Cabinetsräthin was announced.

She was greeted with words of welcome, and very welcome she was. She apologized for not having been on the spot to receive her dear friends and neighbors upon their arrival, as she had intended, but a visit from Countess Graben had detained her. They thanked her, and were enchanted at her obliging politeness.

Eric and Roland were summoned to receive the Cadet, who had come also.

"Where is your mother?" inquired the Cabinetsräthin. "She is coming presently, I hope?"

Eric did not answer, and Sonnenkamp quietly interposed, saying that the Frau Professorin was unwilling to give up her country-life.

"That will cause general regret," returned the Cabinetsräthin, smiling as if she were saying something very amusing. "All the beau-monde are depending upon having this amiable, witty, universally esteemed lady another season among them."

"She must come," said Frau Ceres.

Sonnenkamp was sorely vexed. Did the whole glory of his house depend upon the esteem in which this woman was held?

His displeasure was increased by the lady's adding in a confidential tone,--

"The accomplishment of our beautiful and noble plan will be much hindered and delayed by the absence of the Frau Professorin, née von Burgholz," as she always took pains to add. Herr Sonnenkamp would hardly be able to draw the best society to his house, she thought, without the lady's presence, adding, with what she meant for an expression of great modesty, that she should spare no exertions on her own part, but that she could not accomplish nearly as much as the Frau Professorin née von Burgholz.

The numerous lights in the great drawing-room appeared to Sonnenkamp's eyes to burn less brightly; he had sufficient self-control, however, not to betray the extent of his vexation.

The Cadet proposed that Roland should take part in a quadrille, which was to be performed on horseback by the first nobles of the court, towards the end of the month; in the royal riding-ring he could find a place as squire among the other citizen cadets, and engage in some of the evolutions.

Roland was delighted at the idea, but Herr Sonnenkamp cut the matter short by saying,--

"No! you will take no part."

He did not give any reason; there was no need to say that he did not choose to have his son make his first appearance among the common people admitted on sufferance.

The Cabinetsräthin had plenty of court news to tell, such as who had already given entertainments, and whose balls were still to come off, besides many a piquant bit of gossip, only half told on account of the presence of the children. The betrothal of the eldest son of Herr von Endlich, whose superb house was so famous, was soon to be celebrated, though there was reason to fear that tidings of death would soon be received from Madeira, whither the young pair had gone who were married in the summer.

The Cadet invited Roland to go with him to the theatre that evening, to see a grand ballet.

Eric looked in embarrassment at Sonnenkamp, who however said,--

"Certainly; go, Roland."

For the first time Eric saw his pupil led away from him, and taken to a place of entertainment, among a class of people, whither he could not accompany him. His heart trembled.

Roland had asked that Eric might go too, but the Cadet explained that there were no more places to be had; it was with great difficulty that he had been able to secure one for his friend. So Roland departed, saying to Eric as he went,--

"I shall come back to you as soon as it is over."

Eric became more tranquil. He could not prevent Roland's falling into company, and receiving impressions, which threatened the subversion of all his noble tendencies. He could only trust that his will and his conscience might be strong enough to withstand the danger.

Half with pride and half with regret, the Cabinetsräthin told of her son's precocity and cunning in the pursuit of adventures, and lamented almost in the same breath that Manna should be passing this brilliant season in the solitude of the convent; it would have been so pleasant for her, together with Frau Ceres, to introduce such a lovely girl into society.

Sonnenkamp replied that next winter would be time enough for that.

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II. THE FIRST NIGHT IN THE CAPITAL

Eric soon withdrew; he went to his chamber, but found no rest. Here he was, in the city where he had been born and brought up, living in a strange hotel, and in the service of a stranger. He quickly fought down these reflections and the weakness they engendered, and wrote a letter to his mother announcing their arrival, and begging her to let no persuasions induce her to come to the capital. He took the letter to the post himself, and spent some time in wandering through the quiet, deserted streets of the little capital. He knew every house in them. Here and there lived some companion of his youth, some family friends; what relations he should hold to them now he could not tell.

He passed the great building where the antique relics were kept, and for a moment allowed himself to fancy what his position would have been, if he had received the post of director here.

He walked restlessly to and fro, and finally entered a beer-house, took his place in a corner, and listened to the talk of the men, who, with long pipes in their mouths, were laughing at each other's poor jokes, and discussing matters of all kinds.

His attention was roused by the mention of Sonnenkamp's name; a stout, red-faced man was saying,--

"I must begin now to take my very best meat to the Victoria, for Herr Sonnenkamp knows what is good."

A printer whom Eric recognized said, "Our editor, Professor Crutius, declares that he knows Herr Sonnenkamp, but he isn't willing to tell us anything about him."

Eric's interest was still further excited. The men went on to tell of the immense sum daily paid to the landlord of the Victoria, then of Sonnenkamp's reported purchase of the Rabenecke palace, and of his admission to the ranks of the nobility as being a thing as good as settled. Here some remarks were made, in too low a tone for Eric to catch, which raised a general laugh.

"I call you to witness," said a stout man whom Eric recognized as a flour-dealer and baker, "that I say now this Herr Sonnenkamp is sent on a secret mission. The young nobles in the South want an emperor, and this Herr Sonnenkamp's designs to aim higher, perhaps, than any of us imagine."

"Then you can go with him and be court-baker," said one, whose rejoinder was received with a burst of laughter.

"What's that to us?" said another; "the man brings plenty of money into the country. If a hundred of them came, I don't care what they are after, as long as they bring us their money."

The speaker was a short, round-bodied little man with a great meerschaum pipe. He emptied his covered glass as he spoke, and called out to the bar-maid,--

"Bring me a fresh one; I have deserved it, for I am the cleverest of the lot."

Eric slipped out of the room, glad not to have been recognized.

At the door he received a friendly greeting from a young man whom he had no recollection of having seen before, but who recognized him as one of the singers at the musical festival. He was a teacher in the scientific school in the capital, and announced to Eric that he had been proposed to the school-teachers' union as an honorary member.

Eric thanked him and passed on; meeting in the street a great stream of people and carriages coming from the theatre; he hurried to the hotel, that Roland might find him there on his return, and happily arrived before his pupil. He waited in his room, but no Roland came; he went to the drawing-room, but he was not there; on the contrary, he was himself asked if Roland had not yet returned.

The Cabinetsräthin observed, with a smile, that they need feel no uneasiness, for Roland was with Cuno, and of course enjoying himself. She expressed her regrets that she too must now take leave of the company, and, drawing Sonnenkamp into the embrasure of a window, presented him with an Almanach de Gotha for the new year, a book which, as she gracefully remarked, should henceforth never appear without the name of Sonnenkamp being in it; and she bound herself from this day forth to pay him taxes in the shape of this canonical book, to be delivered to him yearly as long as she lived.

Sonnenkamp was duly grateful, and escorted the lady to her carriage.

On returning to the drawing-room, he said to Eric:--

"I had supposed you would have made Roland more worthy of confidence; in spite of his promise, he has not come home."

Eric was tempted to answer that it was the father, not he, who on this very first evening, when the boy was hardly out of the carriage, had given him permission to go his own way. He restrained himself, however; any discussion would be useless.

"I cannot go to bed till he comes," complained Frau Ceres.

"Have you any idea where we can look for him?" asked Sonnenkamp of Eric.

"It is not necessary, for here he is," returned Eric.

Roland entered.

His mother began to complain and his father to scold, because he had not kept his word.

"I deserve neither complaints nor reproaches," said Roland. "I had great difficulty in getting away from the company at the door of the restaurant whither I accompanied them, but would not go in."

All was made smooth again, and they went to bed.

"Why do you not ask me how I enjoyed the theatre?" asked Roland when he had entered his room.

"I preferred waiting for you to tell me."

"It was very fine; there were beautiful girls, and Cuno knew them all by name, and had some story to tell of every one; stupid stories they mostly were. For hours we had nothing but leaping and bending this way and that, without a word being spoken. Suddenly, I began to wonder what Benjamin Franklin would say if he could see it, and that spoiled all my pleasure. Cuno called me a snob, and I let it pass quietly, but he added something else which came near causing a duel."

"May I know what it was he added?"

"No; it was about you, but--of course you would not care for it. You are not anxious that every one should understand you, and whatever the world may say----"

"Say no more, dear Roland, I beg; I don't care to know what people say about me; it only burdens the mind without helping us to be better. But you have borne yourself well, and may sleep with an easy conscience. This has been your first experience under fire, and will not be your last. Only keep true to yourself and to me. Good-night."

Eric lay down with happy thoughts, and with happy thoughts Roland fell asleep.

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III. THE GREAT WORLD IN THE LITTLE CAPITAL

While Sonnenkamp, the next morning, was looking through the court calendar and making a list of the visits that were first to be paid, Eric, also, was arranging his programme. He determined to free his mind from every personal disquietude, as the only means of being able to devote himself to the new difficulties of his task.

In a large close carriage, made half of glass, with two servants in fur coats sitting on the box, and the footman behind, Sonnenkamp and Frau Ceres drove about the city. The question whether Roland's cards should be left too had been carefully considered, and it was finally decided in the affirmative.

Eric used the day's leave of absence he had obtained in visiting some of his old comrades, and spending some time with them at the military club. He was more cordially greeted than he expected, and the men he met were better and sounder than he remembered them. Of course the talk was of the newly-established gaming-table, of horses and ballet-dancers, but there was a prevailing seriousness among many of his comrades. The great excitements of the day, which were affecting all minds, were not without their results even in this military club. One young man, who sat in the window with Eric, went so far as to envy him for having struck out for himself an independent career.

Eric's mind grew quite light and tranquil after visiting a few more of his friends, and he returned to find the Sonnenkamp family in good humor also.

On this first day, the Cabinetsrath, with his wife and two daughters, was invited to dinner. The dresses had come from Paris, and were already the town-talk of the little capital, the custom-house officials having told their wives, and they their relations, that dresses had been received from Paris finer than any in the wardrobe of the Queen herself. They were duly admired by the ladies, and everything was in the best possible train. Sonnenkamp had his party at whist in the fashionable club-house, to which the Cabinetsrath introduced him; and as they rose from table, Bella and her husband were announced as the first visitors.

Bella's gait, manner, and dress always suggested not only invisible servants in livery to appear, but a carriage and horses besides; she always looked as if she had just left her carriage, or was about to enter it; it was so in the drawing-room, and so in the street. She was extremely animated, and only to Eric regretted that his mother still continued in the country. She told Sonnenkamp that Otto would arrive in a few days, with the Russian prince, for the two men were to take part in a French comedy that was to be performed at court, in which she also was to play. She made Sonnenkamp give her a considerable sum of money for the purchase of articles to be sold for the benefit of the poor, at a fair held at the beginning of the next month, by the first ladies of the capital. Sonnenkamp promised further to place at her disposal some beautiful plants from his greenhouses.

Clodwig was tired, and stipulated beforehand that little should be expected from him in the way of society. The representatives were assembled in both houses. Prince Leonhard, the brother of the reigning Sovereign, a man who had seen the world for himself, and had even travelled in America, had been chosen President of the Chamber of Lords, Clodwig being Vice-President, but having to perform most of the duties of actual President.

While they were still together, they had the pleasure of receiving an invitation from Herr von Endlich to a great ball. Bella could not help repeating what was said by the scandal-mongers, that Herr von Endlich gave his great entertainment thus early, lest the daily expected news of his son-in-law's death should prevent his giving it altogether. This was just the height of the season; they had come to town quite early enough. It was said that the Court would be present at Herr von Endlich's ball; at least the brother of the reigning Prince might confidently be expected, for he maintained relations with society quite independent of the palace. Bella was also called upon to admire the Parisian toilettes in the adjoining room, and advised Frau Ceres to reserve the handsomest for the entertainment Herr Sonnenkamp himself would give.

The evening at Herr von Endlich's was very successful. The nobility, notwithstanding the wound inflicted upon their pride by the Sovereign's inconsiderate raising of the rich wine-merchant to their ranks, were largely represented. It was a singular step for him to have taken, very unlike the almost priestly solemnity with which he usually regarded all affairs of court etiquette. He perceived his mistake, and liked to be made to forget it. A sure way of winning his favor was to show cordiality to Herr von Endlich. So it happened that the company assembled at the house of this newly made noble, was the most brilliant of the season.

Herr von Endlich was shrewd enough to invite some distinguished members of the House of Deputies, and even two of the extreme opposition, not, however, without first having made sure that the Court would take no offence at such a step. The Court itself was not present, except in the person of Prince Leonhard. He had made no secret of his disapproval of this conferring of new titles, but as a subject of his brother, he appeared at the ball, and conversed freely with the members of the opposition, especially with Herr Weidmann, the President of the House of Deputies.

Although the Prince represented his brother, and always spoke of him with great deference, he was not averse to hearing such remarks as, "Ah, if you were the ruler, there would be a different order of things; then we should have a model country." In court circles a secret compassion was felt for Prince Leonhard, because custom made it desirable, in fact even necessary, for him to affect liberal views, to popularize himself, as the aristocracy called it. He encouraged arts and sciences, and even political movements; the journal which was understood to be secretly supported by him slightly favored the opposition.

Prince Leonhard made the circuit of the rooms arm in arm with Clodwig, which was no slight mark of distinction. The Count must have mentioned Eric to the Prince, for he called him from his place behind the first row of those who were waiting to be saluted, and said aloud:--

"I am glad to see you again, my dear Dournay; you have become a great scholar, I hear. Well, well, you always had considerable talent that way; you showed it even as a boy. How is your honored mother?"

Eric expressed his thanks, with a tone of happy relief that the first meeting with Prince Leonhard had passed off so pleasantly. No trifling compliment was paid him by the Prince, who added:--

"I should be glad if you would bring Herr Sonnenkamp to me; where is he?"

Sonnenkamp, unhappily, was not to be found. By the time he was summoned from the smoking-room it was too late; the Prince was already opening the ball with Bella.

Herr von Endlich was beaming with happiness, but Sonnenkamp's face wore a singular expression when he learned that the Prince had desired Captain Dournay to present him. A still more striking contrast existed between the dispositions of the two men. The Wine-count possessed a confident, self-satisfied manner, with sufficient tact, however, to prevent him from giving offence. His every word and motion plainly implied his superior knowledge on all points. He could enter into conversation with men of the most dissimilar pursuits, and make a good appearance in the eyes of all. The fact of his being financier, political economist, agriculturist, merchant and ship-owner, and thoroughly acquainted with everything connected with those pursuits, he allowed to be taken for granted; but besides these, he was able to converse with equal intelligence upon the exact sciences and all the statesmen of Europe. He was a careful observer, and knew how to turn his observation to good account.

Sonnenkamp, who was often one in a group of persons to whom Herr von Endlich would be talking, was made to feel, perhaps for the first time in his life, quite like a school-boy, in fact, extremely insignificant. He was standing with some others listening to Herr von Endlich's account of the casting of steel, when the Prince approached, and observing that the conversation ceased abruptly upon his arrival, said:--

"Pray, let me not interrupt you," and listened with apparent gratification while Herr von Endlich explained the whole process, as if he had spent his whole life as a worker in a machine shop.

Upon Sonnenkamp being presented, the Prince inquired if he had practised grape culture in America.

Sonnenkamp replied in the negative.

With a sudden change of subject, the Prince then asked again whether he knew Theodore Parker, whose preaching he had heard with pleasure.

Here again Sonnenkamp was unfortunately obliged to say no, feeling himself wretchedly poor and ignorant.

The Prince perceived the stranger's embarrassment, and desiring to introduce a subject on which he could not fail to be at home, asked whether he believed in the possibility of a peaceable settlement of the slavery question.

The bystanders listened with interest, while Sonnenkamp proceeded to state that the horrors generally associated with the idea of slavery had no actual existence, and that the abolitionists might be very well intentioned, but certainly they did not set to work in the right way.

"You must tell me more about this matter of slavery sometime; you must come to see me."

"Your Highness has but to command," replied Sonnenkamp, most happy that the conversation should end here.

Eric stood through the greater part of the evening near Weidmann, but desirous as he was of giving his undivided attention to the excellent man, he found it impossible to keep his eyes from wandering towards Bella. Bella was in the highest spirits. There was something Juno-like about her appearance. There was a dignified ease and a magnificent fulness of outline, with a look of pride and self-possession; she had a significant word for some, and a lighter for others; age she cheered, youth she made more gay, and all with an inimitable grace and nobleness of manner.

A constrained expression sometimes hovered about her lips, but as she passed from one to another she had a cheerful smile for all, and there was a magic charm in her friendliness. Even in her outward appearance she remained a mystery, for no one could tell the exact color of her eyes, though all were fascinated by their glance.

You might hate Bella, but you could not forget her.

Such must have been Dr. Richard's experience. The Doctor had been unjust to her, Eric thought, for Bella's leading principle was ambition, and ambition directed to great ends would appear like greatness. The feeling that he also had done her injustice, made his manner towards her more friendly and respectful. Bella seemed to divine what was passing in him, and nodded to him from time to time graciously and significantly.

Eric's manner set her mind completely at rest; for in fact she had sometimes secretly thought: What if this tutor should boast--pah! no one would believe him. Besides, he is by nature too noble to boast.

And what had happened between them, after all?

She had already found a subject of pride in her first contrition; having begun by persuading herself that the whole thing had been a passing exuberance of spirits, a tempting pastime, nothing but sport, in fact.

And who could contradict her?

She appeared to herself in the light of a heroine who had gloriously overcome temptation.

Her rehabilitation was so complete as to become the main fact in the case; indeed, the whole thing seemed to her like a romance she had read in some book; it had certainly made a great impression upon her, it had ended differently from what she had expected; but now it was finished, done with, laid aside, returned to the desk of the library. Yes, Bella could laugh at the idea of her still being so impressionable; she was almost proud of being still so naïve in her feelings, still capable of being carried away. Now it was all over, and she was ready for something else.

She exchanged a few words with Eric and Weidmann, rejoicing that the two had found one another, and hoping that Eric would often come to see Clodwig and herself, that so they might enjoy some more intellectual talk together, and be brought to a knowledge of their true selves in the midst of this whirl of society. She also asked Eric to take her some day into the Cabinet of Antiques, and give her some instruction about them. With a tone of sisterly advice she reminded him that etiquette required the making of certain visits on his part, in order not to be left out of society.

She was rejoiced to hear that he had already done part of his duty in this respect; and in reply to his remark that he had even inquired for the Sovereign's negro, but found he was spending the winter in Naples with the invalid princess of the royal family, she asked:--

"Ah? Herr Sonnenkamp sent you then to the nigger on some special commission?"

Eric replied that he did not understand the question, upon which Bella hastily changed the subject, saying that it was only an idle jest; and soon afterwards she was laughing and talking with Sonnenkamp, and calling his attention to a man in the company, the brother of Herr von Endlich, who kept the most fashionable tailor's shop in the capital.

Herr von Endlich could not help inviting his brother, who was a person of consideration in the city; and it was thought an excellent joke, that the man who sold the clothes yesterday could see now how well they fitted his customers.

Sonnenkamp congratulated himself that he would at least have no such intolerable family connections to dread when he should enter the ranks of the nobility.

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IV. THE BLUE RIBBON

Every evening was spent now at the theatre, or at some great entertainment. The morning did not begin till noon. In accordance with Bella's advice, Eric had made the requisite visits, and was generally included in the invitations.

He beheld this society life with fresh eyes, like one coming from another world. What lay behind these smiling, gaily-dressed exteriors, and the friendly greetings they exchanged with one another? He shuddered as he looked at the white-cravatted crowd. In the smoking-room each man vied with another in telling lewd tales, and then returned to the married ladies and young girls in the dancing-hall, and put on his most courtly manners.

Eric for the most part kept modestly in the background, but Bella was exceedingly friendly and confiding in her manner towards him. She floated gaily down the stream of intoxicating pleasures, pleased to be one of the first, if not the supreme.

The Russian prince also was very gracious to Eric, and talked to him a great deal of Knopf and of a wonderful American child at Mattenheim.

Pranken saluted him in silence, hardly ever exchanging a word with him.

By the first dignitaries of the State and the Court, Eric was kindly received, and heard from various quarters of the praise bestowed upon him by the Countess von Wolfsgarten and her husband.

Eric's acquaintance with Weidmann had reached that point where both regretted that they could see so little of each other, and yet with the best intentions could come no nearer together. Only once did they succeed in getting a deeper insight into one another, and here too, strangely enough, it was when the conversation was personal. They were speaking of Clodwig, for whom both expressed equal respect, but Weidmann could not help saying:--

"I admire this power, but I could never exercise it. Our friend has the faculty of entering heartily into the sphere in which he lives; I mean by that, he can put on and off his moods of mind as he does his dress-coat. His own tastes lead him to live among entirely different interests, interests directly antagonistic to all this whirl and confusion; but the moment he enters this sphere no trace of any antagonism appears in him; he seems perfectly in harmony with the life about him."

Eric took his meaning, and said he could now understood a reproach that he had been tormenting himself with. Weidmann's eye rested thoughtfully upon him as he spoke.

"People say, at one time, that we should try to sift every experience, should take fire at this thing or that; and again, they require us to pass over things indifferently, and let them go without a protest. I cannot do that, and therefore am not suited for society."

Weidmann appeared to take a different view of the matter that disturbed Eric, for he replied that he ought to be perfectly satisfied with having succeeded in fostering noble thoughts in a boy of Roland's character and position.

Often, whole evenings passed without Eric's seeing Roland, so constantly was he surrounded by the young dancers of both sexes, who praised and petted him like some favorite plaything. Every night he came home with his breast covered with favors in the German, and the day found him weary and absent. Eric noticed that perfumed notes were sometimes handed him by the porter. Any regular course of study was out of the question. Roland went about through the day, humming the music of the night before, which was still running through his head. He preserved with great secrecy in his writing-desk the cards engraved with the order of the dances, and many other souvenirs besides; and his face began to wear an expression of reserve.

Pranken was delighted to see his family, as he called the Sonnenkamps, thus admitted into society. It was now arranged that Roland should take part with the others in the French comedy. The young Countess Ottersweier, who was to take the part of a page at the court of Louis Fourteenth, was ill with the measles, and her part was assigned to Roland. A beautiful dress was ordered for him, and all his thoughts were now turned to the play and the rehearsals that were to precede it.

When the first dress-rehearsal took place, and Roland showed himself to his parents in his becoming costume of close-fitting white silk tights, they were full of admiration; his mother in especial could not restrain her expressions of rapture. Roland glanced at Eric, who for some time had been looking gloomily on the ground. He wanted to ask him why he was so pedantic, for that was what his fellow-actors called him; but he checked himself, and only said:--

"I promise you I will learn again, by and by, all the lessons you give me, only let us be merry now."

Eric smiled; he felt that his pupil was having destroyed in him what could never be repaired; but what could he do? The question indeed passed through his mind whether he should not leave, now that all he had so carefully planted and nurtured was taken and trampled under foot; and only the thought that nothing would then stand between Roland and destruction kept him at his difficult post. Still he considered it his duty to communicate his anxiety to Sonnenkamp, who comforted him by saying that American youths were ripe in years, and masters of their own lives, when Germans would be still sitting on a bench at school, and grieving under a master's criticism.

"I fear," said Eric, "that Roland is losing the best possession that man can win."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He should learn above all things to find his best pleasures in himself."

"So you would like to make a scholar of him, a man who can boil his own coffee?"

"You understand me very well, and I understand your joke. You know that what I mean to say is this, that the man who can find no pleasure within himself will find none in the world. On that point we in a manner agree with the church people, only we understand it somewhat differently. Whoever will be happy must enter into the kingdom of heaven that is open in every human soul; who does not that, is always dependent on voluntary or purchased service and respect."

Sonnenkamp listened to Eric's quiet enthusiasm with a nod of assent. He agreed with his ideas, but thought them strangely mixed with an ecclesiastical asceticism which he merely interpreted into the language of the world.

While Roland was at the rehearsals of the French play, Eric would often spend his time at the teachers' club, and was pained to find here also an aristocracy. The teachers of the higher schools were separated from those of the primary. Eric was received by many as an old acquaintance, and found himself followed by the fame he had won at the musical festival, for the teachers are the chief supporters of vocal music. They had a private singing club here, and Eric sang with his comrades more beautifully than ever.

He often stole away from this noisy company and joined the meetings of the humbler school-teachers, where he seemed to be transplanted to another planet.

Here sat the serious, earnest men, most of them worn with work, discussing questions pertaining to their calling, as how best to influence and guide a child's soul; and out in the world, a soul trained to the best of human ability was squandering the teacher's whole long and painful work in a single evening.

If we knew what was to be the result of our labors, we could not live; the best part of our own ideality is our ignorance of the future, and our belief in a full completion of our plans.

Eric could not resist telling Herr Sonnenkamp of his evenings in the school-masters' club, and Sonnenkamp was much interested in his account. He thought it very fine to have other men cultivate the ideal.

"They are happier than we," he said, as he drank his heavy Burgundy.

On the evening preceding the performance of the French play, Roland, at his father's bidding, invited all his fellow-actors to a party at the hotel. The gentlemen came, but none of the ladies except Bella. She took Sonnenkamp aside, and told him confidentially that he would never succeed in drawing ladies to his parties, till he had in his house the Frau Professorin née von Burgholz. She only half acknowledged to herself that she should feel a little ashamed to meet, on her return to the country, a person with whom she had so often discussed the emptiness and worthlessness of the amusements of society, and was therefore anxious to have all brought into the vortex, that none need have to fear the reproachful glances of another; but besides this, it was perfectly true that Sonnenkamp without the von Burgholz would never accomplish what with her aid would be an easy matter.

Bella was malicious enough to tell Sonnenkamp that the Cabinetsräthin fleeced him, while in society she disowned him, and described their connection as one purely of necessity and neighborhood.

Sonnenkamp was doubly incensed, but had to look unconcerned.

The play came off. Roland's beauty and ready grace were the theme of general admiration. Even Bella, whose versatility was admirably displayed by the numerous changes of costume and character that her part had demanded, was quite thrown into the shade by the enthusiasm he excited.

The Queen summoned Roland to her side and conversed for some time with him; both were observed to smile as they talked together. The King came himself to Sonnenkamp and his wife, and congratulated them upon their brilliant son, at the same time asking when he was to enter the school of cadets.

"When a name shall have been graciously bestowed upon him," replied Sonnenkamp calmly.

The King frowned, bowed, and passed on.

Sonnenkamp drew a long breath. He had evidently made a mistake to introduce the matter at such a time and in such a way; but it could not be helped now, and forward was the word. He cast angry glances around, as if he would like to have doubled the whole glittering assembly up in his fists, and kneaded it into what shape he pleased.

His temper was not improved by Pranken coming up, and asking what he could have said to the King that had so ruffled him. Sonnenkamp did not consider it necessary to acknowledge his mistake.

Eric looked with melancholy upon the scene around him; near the pillar against which he was leaning, a beautiful palm languidly drooped its fan-shaped leaves. It perishes in the sultry air under this bright flood of gas-light, he thought, as he gazed at the plant; if it be restored to a favorable atmosphere, it still pines and perhaps perishes utterly. Will it be so with Roland too? How expect him to strive after the ideal, after a higher activity, when all this splendor and homage have been offered him?

Eric found himself, he could hardly tell why, imagining Professor Einsiedel here; and the thought called a smile to his face, for just such a Professor Einsiedel was he. What then are we who live only in the region of thought? Spectators; nothing but spectators, while there is the world with its driving and snatching after enjoyment, every one plundering and appropriating whatever he can seize. Why will you stand aside? Why not hurry and scuffle with the rest? His breath came quick and short, his cheeks glowed. He was in this mood, when Roland came to him and said:--

"If you are not satisfied with me, I care nothing for the rest."

Eric gave him his hand, and Roland continued:--

"The Queen wants me to be photographed in this dress, and so do all the ladies. The other actors will do the same. Is it not fine?"

"Certainly, it will be a pleasant memento for you by and by."

"Ah, by and by! by and by! it is pleasant now, I don't want to know anything of by and by. Oh, if we only did not have to sleep, and undress, and to-morrow be different again! If we could only live on like this for a hundred years without stopping!"

Eric perceived how completely Roland's head was turned by all the adulation he had received; it was no time now to try to turn the current.

But he himself was put in a state of unwonted excitement before the evening was over.

He had noticed Bella talking very earnestly with the Minister of War, formerly colonel of his regiment, who presently approached him, and, after saluting, and talking of indifferent matters, finally asked if he would not like a professorship in the school of cadets when his pupil entered.

Eric expressed his cordial thanks for the great kindness, but could give no decided answer. He was startled at the next question, whether he had made any definite plan for himself, after the completion of the young American's education; he had made none. Still more was he startled, when his questioner further asked if he should not then return to his literary and scientific pursuits, as he had heard the highest hopes expressed of him by those who had known him in the university.

Eric was perplexed; all such pursuits he had sacrificed. What was to become of him? To make matters worse, he had drawn his mother also into these relations.

After the Minister had gone, he caught Bella's fiery glance fixed upon him, and he seized the first opportunity that offered, to thank her for having so kindly recommended him to the Minister of War.

"All jealousy--all jealousy; I want to get you out of the house before that fascinating Manna returns." Bella was in great good humor.

The next day, while Roland was with his companions at the photographer's, decorated with a new blue ribbon which he had secretly fastened on his dress, and while servants were distributing cards of invitation to the great Sonnenkamp ball, Sonnenkamp himself, accompanied only by Lootz, drove to Villa Eden.

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V. A STRONG HAND IS POWERLESS

The Frau Professorin was sitting at the window of the warm and comfortable sitting-room. Carpets and cushions within, and moss without, shut out every draught. The sewing-machine at which she sat moved so easily, that scarce a sound was heard from it. From the river came the noise of the grating and crashing of the great masses of ice, as they struck against one another, changed their shapes, and floated on again.

She often looked out across the river and into the country, and saw the smoke rising from the houses in the different hamlets; she was familiar with the life there now.

Accompanied sometimes by Fräulein Milch, sometimes by the huntsman, but generally by Sevenpiper, whose cheerfulness she took great delight in, she had made her way everywhere, ordering and helping with word and deed. There was a constant passing of visitors back and forth, some coming with thanks, and some with new petitions. She thought herself highly favored in being allowed an activity so abundant, and so immediately fruitful in results.

But the Frau Professorin was not without higher pursuits, for she read over again her husband's favorite books, and studied his comments written on almost every page, drawing thence a strength which enabled her to live in silent communion with the departed. Her husband's words she generally read aloud; it did her good to move her lips, and hear a voice speaking his opinions. Often also she had to read aloud, in order to drive away the thoughts which crowded upon her at all times, thoughts about Sonnenkamp, his life and character, and what he had been in the past, but especially about Manna, and the feelings that were working in her. She thought she understood now the meaning of Manna's words to Roland when she was leaving her parents' home: "I too am an Iphigenia." She repeated to herself, as she sat at work, the song of the Fates, in Goethe's drama, and her heart was burdened by this mystery of the children's having to suffer for the sins of the parents.

In the midst of these sonorous and powerful lines, she heard the sound of wheels stopping before the house. Perhaps it was the Doctor coming to sit an hour with her, as he often did; she knew he liked to have her stay quietly in her place. But it was another step that approached, another knock at the door, and Herr Sonnenkamp entered.

"Are you quite alone?"

"Quite alone."

The Frau Professorin was greatly embarrassed; this was the first time she had seen Sonnenkamp since hearing that about him which she could never tell him; it required all her self-control to enable her to offer him her hand. He drew off his fur glove and grasped her hand in his. For the first time she felt the steel ring on his thumb like a cold snake. With terror she saw her hand in his. This hand of Sonnenkamp's, so thick and hard, with the fingers bent back and the flesh growing over the nails, was the hand of the Pharisee in Titian's picture of the tribute money. So between the thumb and forefinger does the Pharisee hold the piece of money, and there is an evil, violent, and hypocritical look, if we may so express ourselves, about the hand. She remembered standing one day, during her wedding journey, in the picture gallery at Dresden, when her husband covered for a moment the face of Christ and that of the Pharisee, and drew her attention to the wonderful drawing of the two hands, which in themselves revealed the opposite characters of the men. With the speed of lightning did those thoughts and images pass through the lady's mind.

Sonnenkamp observed this emotion, so unlike her usual calm self-possession, but naturally attributing it to surprise, said with ready tact:--

"I have often noticed that intellectual persons who live much in themselves, and especially noble women of superior cultivation, are not fond of surprises; I must therefore beg your forgiveness for this one."

The Frau Professorin looked at him in amazement. How was it possible that a man, whose life in the past had been what this man's had, could understand such subtle emotions and express them so delicately? She confessed that he had rightly interpreted her emotion, and asked whether his visit was to herself, or one of inspection to his establishment. The question was an awkward one, she knew, but she could think of no other at the moment.

"My visit concerns no one but yourself," said Sonnenkamp; "and I almost regret my purpose of disturbing this beautiful repose. I come from a life of such confusion as makes it hard to believe that repose like yours can exist upon the same planet. We live in a perpetual whirl; the only comfort is that we have still the power of sleeping."

"I am familiar with this excitement of carnival time," said the lady smiling. "How we long for quiet, and yet are ever pursued by the music and laughter of the evening before."

Sonnenkamp now openly declared the object of his visit; and with great humility begged the Frau Professorin to confer upon his house the grace and dignity which she only could give it.

The lady regretted she must decline; she was no longer fitted for gaiety.

"I should not have thought your views of life would be gloomy, but rather free and cheerful."

"I believe they are. I do not consider our life as a dismal charitable institution, from which all cheerfulness is banished. It is right that youth should dance, and not think of the people who are shivering with the cold, and of the grief and misery everywhere, at the very moment they are moving so gaily. I love cheerfulness; we have no strength without it."

"Give us your help then; all the more will we devote ourselves afterward to our poor brothers and sisters of the great human family."

The Professorin had to struggle against a feeling of indignation, that would rise within her, at the idea of the man trifling thus with words like these. She looked at his hands as if there was blood upon them, and these blood-stained hands were offering her festive wine.

She could say no more, she only shook her head, repeating,--

"I cannot; believe me, I cannot."

"Then," began Sonnenkamp, "I shall proceed at once to tell you the secret of my life."

The Professorin had to put both hands on her table to steady herself. What was the man going to say! She silently inclined her head, and Sonnenkamp told how it was his unwavering desire, and a matter of necessity for his wife, Roland and Manna, that he should be raised to the ranks of the nobility.

The Professorin shuddered. What? Did this man dare to propose such a thing? The von Burgholz spirit was roused within her. How could a man with such a past as his have such presumption?

Sonnenkamp watched her eagerly. Something was going on in the mind of this woman which he could not fathom. She kept silence, making no response to the confidence he had honored her with.

"Why do you not answer?" he asked at last.

The lady controlled herself and said, as she inclined her head somewhat backwards:

"Shall you not find it hard to bear another name?"

Sonnenkamp looked keenly at her.

"I found it hard as a wife," she continued, "to bear another name."

"Excuse me, my dear lady," replied Sonnenkamp courteously; "you had to take a citizen's name; it is much easier to assume a noble one."

He exhorted her, urged his request upon her more earnestly, enforcing it by the warmly expressed wish of the countess Bella.

The Professorin insisted that no one, even though admitted to the closest friendship, could decide upon the life she should lead; she was resolved never to return to society.

Sonnenkamp was driven to extremity. He believed that the Professorin's only objection was to appearing as a dependant, and that she would no longer refuse, if a free and independent position were assured her. In a manner, therefore, at once unassuming and emphatic, he told her that he should here, and now, put into her hands a sum of money sufficient to maintain her in an establishment of her own for the rest of her life. He put his hand in his breast-pocket as he spoke, and drew out his pocketbook.

"No, sir, I beg of you," answered the Professorin, coloring deeply and fixing her eyes upon his fingers,--just so did the Pharisee hold the piece of money. "It's not that, I assure you. I am ashamed of no position, since I have the true honor within myself; neither do I fear, as you possibly imagine, being too deeply moved by contact with any of the relations of society. I have voluntarily resigned all connection with it. I have made no outward vow, but I beg you to respect my decision as the vow of a nun, as you would if it were the decision of your daughter. I regret that I must beg you to urge me no further, as no inducements could have any influence upon me."

It was hard for Sonnenkamp to control his anger, and restore the pocket-book to its place.

He rose and went to the window.

For some time he gazed fixedly out, then turning round with a smile, he said,--

"There in the river are floating the blocks of ice; a soft breath bursts the icy covering; why might not also, my honored friend--you will allow me so to call you--every one has in his life a something--I know not how to call it, an action, a purpose--you understand what I mean--that ought not to fetter all our future."

"Allow me to say," returned the Professorin, "that in my case this would be a breach of faith. I have nothing left in the world but fidelity to myself."

"You fill me with admiration," said Sonnenkamp, hoping to gain his point by expressions of admiring respect.

He was obliged to assume a gracious and smiling exterior while inwardly chafing, for the Professorin was immovable. There was an imploring manner about him; as if he would say: I know no way of help but through you; yet he found himself unable to put it into words.

The Professorin felt that she must do something kind to the poor rich man, must give him something to restore his cheerfulness and courage, and with hearty sincerity she said,--

"Let me express to you the thanks of the hundreds whom you have fed and comforted. You have made me very happy by employing me as the medium of your benefactions, and I desire that you should feel yourself the source of happiness to others."

With great animation she described the excellent order into which the neighborhood had been brought, and how her help had not waited for sickness, either physical or moral, but had helped forward those who were sound. She told so many beautiful and touching incidents, that Sonnenkamp could only stammer out as he gazed at her:

"It is all well--very well--I thank you."

He once more gave her his hand and left the room. At the front door he encountered Fräulein Milch, but hurried by almost without looking at her.

Fräulein Milch found the Professorin washing her hands with all her might, as if she feared she should never wash them clean from the man's touch.

"Did he tell you he was to be raised to the ranks of the nobility?" asked the Fräulein.

The Professorin looked at her in amazement. How came this simple housekeeper in her seclusion to know everything?

The butcher from the capital, Fräulein Milch said, who had been buying a pair of fat oxen from her neighbor, had spread the report.

Secrets creep out through strange channels.

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VI. GOLD GIVES FAME

A stranger is inspecting the house, the garden, the park, the hot-houses, the stables. Who owns them all? An American, about whose past life there is a mystery.

Sonnenkamp returned to his old home-life as in a dream; he looked back upon a time long past; it was no longer himself, but a stranger who was examining the place; he who had built, and planted it all was dead. Sonnenkamp smote his forehead with his hand, to banish the spell which was overmastering him. What power was weaving it over him, and depriving him of his own personality? Nothing but this woman's poor pride in her own virtue.

"I still am, I still will, and all of them shall serve me," he said aloud to himself.

He examined the trees in the garden; a pure tender covering of hoar frost upon the branches kept them motionless, and threw over all around an aspect of such stillness, yet so shining and glorified, that the spectator involuntary held his breath. Here and there trees and shrubs had been cut down by his direction, as was necessary in order that the artistic effects that were aimed at in the laying out of the park should be preserved; and Sonnenkamp never allowed the growth of the trees to exceed the conception he had in his mind when planning his grounds.

Two fine Newfoundland dogs, which had always been his close companions, he ordered to be let loose, and smiled as the creatures leaped upon him full of delight at greeting their master. There was something that could give him a joyous greeting and be glad in his presence; dogs after all were the best creatures in the world. He made the entire circuit of the place with the dogs, and when he reached the fruit orchard looked about him with a pleased smile; the carefully trained branches, with their mantle of snowy rime, were like the most delicate works of art. He only wished that he could transplant them just as they were into the capital, and set them up before the astonished eyes of his guests.

His guests! Would they really come? Would not this entertainment so pompously announced end in humiliation? The branches of fruit-trees can be trained and beat at will; why are men so obstinate? Suddenly his face broke into a smile. He had heard a great deal said of a famous singer who was enchanting all Paris; she must come, cost what it would, and she must pledge herself to give no public concert, but to sing only in his drawing-room, and perhaps at court. He would offer the contemptible beau-monde of the capital what no one else could.

He had the dogs shut up again, and heard them whining and barking. That was all right; the only kind of creatures to have were those that could be sent for when you wanted them, and shut up when you were tired of them.

Sonnenkamp had the horses harnessed at once and drove to the telegraph station, whence he sent a message to his agent in Paris, stating exactly his plan, and ordering the answer to be returned to him at the Capital. Animated with fresh courage, full of contempt for the whole world and of pride in his own fertile invention, he drove back to the hotel. That same evening he received the intelligence that the singer would come. Pranken was with him when the message was received.

Sonnenkamp was anxious to have the world at once informed of this extraordinary entertainment which he was able to offer them; it should be announced in the court journal. But Pranken was opposed to any such public announcement, and advised that one and another of the guests should be confidentially informed of the pleasure in store for them; and then every one would be flattered by the confidence, and would duly spread the news abroad. Pranken himself undertook to communicate the extraordinary intelligence to some of his favorite companions at the military club.

The singer came, and exercised a greater force of attraction than the Frau Professorin could have done.

Bella appeared early on the evening of the ball, and congratulated Sonnenkamp on his great success; and in fact nothing was wanting to the brilliancy of the entertainment. The popular Prince appeared with his wife, and the rooms were filled with the cream of the society of the capital; the American Consul-general, with his wife and two daughters, was present also; everywhere were heard expressions of admiration of the host, and thanks for his generosity. Frau Ceres alone was somewhat out of temper at having her own splendor eclipsed by the wonderful talent of the singer, who drew the whole company about her. The Prince talked with her a full half hour, while with Frau Ceres he spoke but a few minutes.

Sonnenkamp moved among his guests with a feeling of triumph in his heart. Outwardly he affected great modesty, but inwardly he despised them all, saying to himself,--

A handful of gold can work wonders; honor, distinction in society, everything, can be had for gold.

Two topics engrossed the conversation of the capital the next day: Herr Sonnenkamp's ball, the like of which the city had never seen, and the death of the young husband of Fräulein von Endlich, news of which had been received the evening before, but had been kept back in order not to deprive the family and numerous connections of the Court Marshal from enjoying Sonnenkamp's ball.

The next evening, the paper edited by Professor Crutius contained a witty article upon the two events, sarcastically blending the news of the death with the Sonnenkamp ball. The splendor of the occasion was thus partially dimmed, and Sonnenkamp discussed with Pranken the possibility of gaining over this poor devil of an editor also with a handful of gold.

Pranken opposed the plan, on the ground that no communication of any kind should be held with these communists, as he called all those who were not in sympathy with the government; and this man, who scorned no means that could further the plan of being admitted to the nobility, was amazed that Sonnenkamp should not be ashamed of employing bribery here.

Sonnenkamp appeared convinced, but appealed to Eric, who before had been the medium of conveying relief to the man, and desired him to put himself again in communication with him, and let him know that Sonnenkamp was ready to assist him if he were in need.

Eric emphatically excused himself.

The singer was not summoned to Court, it being contrary to etiquette that she should sing there after appearing in the house of a private citizen. She left the capital, and Sonnenkamp, ball, and music were soon forgotten.

Sonnenkamp was even obliged to submit to the humiliation of not being invited himself to Court. He was openly given to understand that the Sovereign had been much displeased with his having, at the French play, so awkwardly introduced a matter which needed to be handled with the greatest delicacy. Pranken told him this in a tone of malicious pleasure mixed with regret; Sonnenkamp should always keep in mind that he was to be indebted to him for his patent of nobility.

The evening of the court ball, which was the one subject of conversation throughout the capital, and which was attended by two noble families from the Hotel Victoria who had come from the country for the purpose, was a most trying time to Sonnenkamp; yet he had to hide his rage and exert himself to comfort Frau Ceres, who kept insisting on leaving the capital at once, since this was the one thing she had been aiming at, and now it was all over.

Even the Cabinetsräthin absented herself this evening, being obliged, to her great regret, as she said, to appear at Court. Thus the family sat by themselves; and this evening, for the first time, Eric managed to acquire again a firmer hold upon Roland's mind, for Roland, too, was full of indignation. He listened in silence, but with dilating eye, as Eric described the emptiness of all worldly honors if we have not a consciousness of self-respect within us; for they make us dependent upon others, and such dependence was the most abject slavery.

At the word slavery, Roland rose and asked Eric if he had forgotten his promise of telling him how different nations dealt with slavery. Eric was amazed that the subject should have dwelt in the boy's mind through all the excitement he had undergone, and promised to give him the history of the whole matter, as far as he was able, when they should return to Villa Eden.

Sonnenkamp had great difficulty in concealing his sense of injury, yet he must not give additional weight to the slight that had been put upon him by allowing his feelings to appear. The family of the Cabinetsräthin he took especial pains to load with friendly attentions. They must be made to keep to their bargain; they had had their pay, and were not to be allowed to cheat him. He made the young cadet a spy upon his son, giving him money for taking Roland to the gaming-table, tempting him to high play, and then making an exact report of his behavior. He was not a little surprised at the cadet's reporting that Roland utterly refused to play, because he had promised Eric never to gamble, even for an apparently trifling stake.

Sonnenkamp would have liked to thank Eric for this great influence over his son, but judged it best to feign ignorance of the whole matter. He begged Bella, when she came for Eric to fulfil his promise and take her to the cabinet of antique casts, not to disturb his wife's present tranquillity by referring to the court-ball.

Eric took Roland with them to the museum, and though Bella said nothing, she understood his motive for doing so. On their way thither they met the Russian prince, and Bella ordered the carriage to stop and invited him to accompany them, thinking that thus the party could divide into two groups, the Russian walking sometimes with Roland, and she with Eric; but she could not manage it so; Eric did not once let go of Roland's hand.

They stood long before the group of Niobe and her children, Bella jokingly protesting that the teacher, who seeks to protect the boy from the arrow of the god, was of the Russian type. Eric might explain as often as he would that the head was a modern addition and represented a Scythian, that the teacher was a slave who attended the boy to school or wherever he went, as one of our lackeys might, she still insisted that he was a Russian. As Eric called attention to the fact, that the maiden in the centre of the group clings to her mother Niobe and hides her face in terror, while the boy by the side of his attendant voluntarily turns toward the danger, and with outstretched hand strives to avert it, Roland gazed fixedly upon him, and turned almost as white as the plaster itself; his eye sparkled, and the soft dark hair just beginning to show on lip and chin seemed to tremble. On the way home he drew close to Eric, and trembling as if with cold said:--

"Do you remember when that letter with the great seal came to your parent's house?"

"Certainly--certainly."

"Then you should have been director, and is it not strange, here stand these figures day and night, summer and winter, waiting for us, and keeping still, and looking on while we are dancing and dying."

"What are you talking of?" asked Eric, alarmed by Roland's strange tone and manner.

"Oh, nothing--nothing. I don't know myself what I am saying. I seem to be only hearing the words, and yet am really saying them. I don't know what is the matter with me."

Eric hurried the feverish boy home.

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VII. THE SCHOOLMASTER AND NIOBE'S SON

Every day, whenever Frau Ceres saw Roland, she would say:--

"Why, Roland, how pale you look! Does he not look very pale?" Here she invariably appealed to Eric, and upon his answering in the negative seemed reassured.

But one day when the Mother exclaimed in terror:--

"Why, Roland, you do look so pale!" Eric could not deny it.

"I don't know what is the matter with me," he complained as Eric took him to his chamber.

"Everything seems to be turning round me," he said as he looked about the room.

"What does it mean? Oh! Oh!"

He sank down on a chair and burst into a sudden fit of weeping.

Eric stood amazed.

The boy seemed to lose consciousness, and, with his eyes wide open, stared at Eric as if he did not see him.

"Roland, what is the matter?" asked Eric.

Roland did not answer; his head was like ice.

Eric gave a pull at the bell, and then bent over the boy again.

Sonnenkamp entered, to know why they did not come to dinner. Eric pointed to Roland.

The father threw himself upon the lifeless form, and a piercing cry was wrung from his breast.

Joseph was sent in haste for a physician, and by the use of strong salts Roland was restored to consciousness. His father and Eric undressed him and put him to bed, the poor boy moaning all the while, and his teeth chattering with the chill that followed the first attack of fever.

Sonnenkamp looked in terror at the anxiety depicted on the physician's face when he saw his patient.

"It is a very violent attack; I don't know what the result may be. Has he often such?" asked the doctor.

"Never before! never before!" cried Sonnenkamp.

After the application of various restoratives Roland was able again to speak, and his first words were:--

"I thank you, Eric."

The doctor left, after giving strict orders that the patient should be kept quiet, so that if possible he might sleep. After an hour of anxiety, during which Eric and Sonnenkamp scarcely ventured to speak to one another, he returned; and having examined Roland again, he pronounced that the nervous system had been overstrained, and that he was threatened with nervous fever.

"Misfortunes never come singly," said Sonnenkamp. They were the only words he spoke that night, during the whole of which he watched in the adjoining room, occasionally stealing on tip-toe to the sick boy's bed to listen to his breathing.

When Frau Ceres sent to know why they did not return to the drawing-room, they sent an evasive answer and begged her to go to bed. Having understood, however, that Roland was slightly unwell, she came softly to his bedside during the night, and seeing him quietly sleeping returned to her own room.

"Misfortunes never come singly," Sonnenkamp repeated when the next morning at dawn the physician pronounced the fever to have declared itself. He ordered the most careful nursing, and wanted to send for a sister of charity, but Eric said that his mother would be the best nurse Roland could have.

"Do you think she will come?"

"Certainly."

A telegram was at once despatched to the green house, and in an hour the answer came that mother and aunt were on their way.

The news of the beautiful boy's severe illness spread rapidly through the city. Servants in all manner of liveries, and even the first ladies and gentlemen, came to inquire after him.

The noisy music of the noon parade startled Roland as it passed the house, and he screamed:--

"The savages are coming! the savages are coming! the red skins, the savages are coming! Hiawatha! Laughing-water!--The money belongs to the boy; he didn't steal it.--Hats off before the baron, do you hear? fly!--The blacks!--Ah! Franklin!"

Eric offered to request the Commandant for an order to have the band pass through another street, or at least stop playing when passing the hotel.

A sudden thaw having carried away the snow, it was found necessary to spread straw before the whole front of the Hotel Victoria, to deaden the sound of the wheels.

Eric's mother received a most cordial greeting from Sonnenkamp, and did her best to soothe Frau Ceres, who complained that it was horrible to have Roland ill, and that she had to suffer for it, as she was ill herself. At the Mother's suggestion, which Sonnenkamp at once adopted, being only too happy to have anything to do, any new means to try, Dr. Richard, who was familiar with Roland's constitution, was also telegraphed for. He arrived at a late hour of the night, and approved of all that had been done for Roland. He laid his chief injunctions upon Eric and his mother, impressing on them the necessity of guarding themselves as much as possible from the nervous excitement attendant on a life in a sickroom, of taking plenty of rest and amusement, going out often and refreshing their minds with new images. He would not leave them till both had given a promise to this effect.

After a consultation with the attending physician he prepared to depart, but when shaking hands at parting stopped to say:--

"I must warn you against the Countess von Wolfsgarten."

Eric was startled.

"She has remedies for every possible disease; and you must politely but resolutely decline whatever she, in her dictatorial way, may press upon you."

"He is not going to die, is he?" asked Sonnenkamp of the physician, as he stood upon the steps.

The physician replied, that in extreme cases the powers of nature were all we could rely upon.

Sonnenkamp fairly shook with rage, rage against the whole world. With all his wealth he could do nothing, command nothing; but must fall back upon the powers of nature, in which Roland had no advantage over the son of a beggar!

Frau Ceres lay upon the sofa in the balcony room among the flowers and birds, staring vacantly at them, scarcely speaking, and eating and drinking almost nothing. She did not venture to go to Roland's bed, but required to be informed every hour how he was.

The entire want of union among the members of the household became now apparent. Each one lived for himself, and thought every one else was there only for the purpose of adding to his or her comfort.

At noon a great event occurred, nothing less than the reigning Princess sending her own court physician. Sonnenkamp was full of gratitude for this distinction, which unhappily he had to receive under such melancholy circumstances.

Day and night, Eric, his mother, and aunt sat, now by turns, and now together, by the sick boy's bed. He knew no one, but lay the greater part of the time in a half sleep; sometimes, however, in an access of fever, he would start up with a glowing face and cry:--

"Papa is dancing upon the black people's heads! Give me back my blue ribbon! Ah, ah!" Then as if in an ecstacy he would exclaim, "Ah! that is the German forest! quiet, Devil! There, take the may-flowers--blue ribbon--the boy has stolen the ring--the laughing sprite--respect to the young baron--back, Griffin!"

The touch of Eric's hand upon his forehead always soothed him. Once when his father was present, Roland sang a negro song, but so unintelligibly that they could hardly make out the words. Suddenly, however, he cried out:--

"Away with those great books! take away the great books! they are written with blood!"

Sonnenkamp inquired if Roland had ever sung the song when he was well; and if Eric knew from whom he had learned it. Eric had never heard it. Sonnenkamp's manner towards Eric and his mother was full of humble respect. He gratefully confessed that this illness, which threatened his very existence, had yet given him that which otherwise he might never have obtained. He had never believed in human goodness and unselfish devotion; but he saw them now displayed before him in unceasing activity. He would gladly kneel before the Mother and worship her, he added with an expression that came from his heart, for she had refused to come for pleasure, but was ready at once when called to night-watching and the exercise of sorely tried patience; he should never, never forget it.

The Mother felt that there was another patient here needing her care, besides the fevered boy who lay there with closed eyes. Her intercourse with Sonnenkamp became more intimate; he complained to her of his never-resting grief, and again and again would come the thought: What I desire, I desire only for this son. If he die, I shall kill myself. I am worse than killed now, and no one must know it. Here is a being who has no past, must have no past; and now his future is to be taken from him!

"Am I to have no son because I was no son?" he cried once, but quickly controlling himself he added: "Do not heed me, dear lady; I am speaking myself like a man in fever."

The Mother begged him to compose himself, for she was sure that by the mysterious laws of sympathy, any excitement in those about him would react upon the patient.

In the stillness of the night the Mother sat by the boy's sick-bed, listening to the chimes that rang out the hours from the church tower; and these bells, heard in the night by the sick-bed of the poor rich boy, brought up her own life before her.

Eric often reproached himself for his too great indulgence, in having allowed Roland to be drawn into that whirl of excitement which was now perhaps killing him; and he remembered that day in the cold gallery before the Niobe, when the fever first showed itself. He was another whom the Mother had to soothe. She alone preserved a firm balance, and offered a support on which all others could lean. She handed Eric the letter she had received from Professor Einsiedel on New Year's day, and asked about the scientific work which she had not before heard of. Eric explained how it had all come about. His mother perceived that he had yet learned nothing of Sonnenkamp's past life, and took care to tell him nothing, thinking he ought not to have the additional burden of such knowledge at this time of anxiety for the sick boy, and of increased difficulties in the way of his training.

In obedience to Dr. Richard's strict directions, the Mother often went out to visit her old friends, among them the wife of the Minister of War, and was greatly comforted at learning that Eric could have a professorship in the school of cadets, when Roland entered the academy. She always returned home greatly cheered from these visits.

Eric, too, made calls, spending many hours with Clodwig. Bella he seldom saw, and then but for a short time; she evidently avoided now any interview with him alone.

Pranken took great offence at Eric's mother having been sent for without his advice; these Dournays seemed to him to be weaving a net about the Sonnenkamp family. He came sometimes to inquire for Roland, but spent most of his time at Herr von Endlich's, in the society of the young widow lately returned from Madeira.

Much as Eric had desired to become better acquainted with Weidmann, the whirl of society had hitherto prevented, and now that the Parliament was no longer in session, Weidmann had left the capital without any closer relation having been formed between them.

Weeks passed away in trembling suspense. The sick boy's wandering fancies took a wholly new direction. He imagined himself with Manna, and was constantly talking to her, caressing her, jesting with her, and teasing her about the picture of Saint Anthony. Manna had not been told of her brother's illness; it seemed useless to burden her with anxiety, when she could do nothing to help.

Sonnenkamp continued to be greatly vexed that there was nothing to be done but to wait for the forces of nature. He sent considerable sums of money to the poor of the capital and to all the charitable institutions; he reminded Eric of what he had told him of the teachers' union, and handed him a handsome sum for the furthering of the objects of the association.

One day he asked the Professorin if it were not possible that prayer might help the sick. She replied that she knew no positive answer to such a question, that Sonnenkamp must compose himself, and be glad if he could cherish such a beautiful faith. He looked sadly at her.

Roland talked so constantly with his sister, that Sonnenkamp asked the physician if Manna had not better be sent for, and was delighted at receiving an affirmative answer.

It was a comfort to him in the midst of his duties, to think that now he could force his child from the convent, and never let her leave him more. His heart rejoiced in the prospect of being able to have both his children with him, when Roland was well again. He walked up and down the room, rapidly opening and shutting his hands, as if he were leading his children by his side.

The careful Lootz was despatched to the convent with an urgent letter enclosing the doctor's directions, to which he would gladly have added a few words of the Professorin; but she was resolved to interfere in no possible way of Manna's plan of life, even in a case of extreme necessity, and refused to write.

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