II. DEMONSTRATION OF RESPECT FROM ABOVE…

II. DEMONSTRATION OF RESPECT FROM ABOVE

A flash of lightning in the night-sky makes us fully conscious of the darkness, and our eyes are blinded. So it was after the departure of the Prince and Princess; every one sought to avoid the eye of another, every one went his own way, but no one spoke out his vexation and disappointment more frankly than the valet Joseph, and the steward agreed with him; the latter could not say much, because his mouth was full of the delicacies which had been removed from the table, but he nodded silently, and became very red in the face. Joseph said:--

"Not to leave a single gratuity behind them! What is there left of the whole show? Nothing; and at Court there isn't a table better laid and served, or more handsomely provided. They ought to be ashamed of themselves! Not to leave a single penny for the servants!"

Such was the fact.

No one, except Aunt Claudine, of whom nobody had thought, could find any good reason for satisfaction.

Sonnenkamp pondered and speculated how he could have brought about the change in the Prince's gracious mood. His inmost soul rebelled against being so dependent on the whim or the glance of another--he, the man who had ruled so absolutely over all that came in his way. He tormented himself till his head burned, to think over the whole course of the visit, and at last he thought he had found out the trouble; it was only a hitch at a glove which had shown it, but that was doubtless the sign of annoyance. He had told the Prince how delighted he should be to drink new health from the same spring as his gracious highness, and, when the Prince looked at him inquiringly, he had added that he also was going to Carlsbad, where he should have the happiness of beholding his Prince's face every day. Yes, that was it; the Prince had cast a hasty glance of astonishment upon him, and given his glove a twitch.

Sonnenkamp acknowledged to himself that he had made a decided blunder in not using more reserve; for nothing of the Prince's journey to the Baths was yet officially announced, and his mentioning it had been premature, and showed some private source of information. He was more vexed at the caution and self-restraint that one was compelled to observe, than at his own want of tact. Could not the Prince have taken it pleasantly? Had not a good, and, as he himself thought, a most graceful turn been given to his allusion?

The thoughts of the self-tormentor went further, and new tokens appeared. Had not the Prince said to Aunt Claudine:--

"Everything seems so thoroughly pleasant here; here I find nothing disturbed from its usual course."

The Prince was evidently offended that any secret preparations had been made for his reception; it probably seemed to him that he was surrounded by spies.

And now Sonnenkamp's wrath broke out anew, not against himself, but against the Prince, who ought to remember how long he had lived in a foreign land; and the Professorin ought to have managed matters better, for she had been a lady-in-waiting at Court; and Pranken ought to have managed better, too, for was he not a chamberlain?

Sonnenkamp fumed with rage over the whole business, and now, for the first time, it struck him how strange it was that these people should treat all this humbug of rank so seriously; they knew that it was humbug, but its very existence depended on their vying with each other to keep up the appearance of entertaining religious veneration for the humbug.

For a little while Sonnenkamp thought of giving up the whole scheme. Why should he be ennobled; why should he enter the Court circle, and put himself under a lasting obligation? He was proud of possessing an independent nature, and now was he to allow himself to be put in uniform, and to measure every step, every movement, and every word, according to the court etiquette? He would rather remain as he was, proud of his own position, and show openly the contempt which he felt for the whole body of nobles.

Then he felt with pain that he had already gone too far; a retreat would be a mere disgrace. And how long he had consoled Frau Ceres with this hope, how far he was bound for Pranken's sake, and, more than all, for Roland's! What was to become of the latter, if he was not raised to the nobility? Were Roland and his descendants to be impoverished again? No, rank must be won. On the boldly earned property an entail should be laid, so that generation after generation of his descendants should never be stripped of rank and wealth; the villa and the castle should remain an inalienable possession in the family.

Something of his own past life rose in Sonnenkamp's memory, and he said to himself aloud,--

"You owe it to your child to turn aside from him what has brought you to this pass."

Calm and resolved he went back to the house, and appeared to all highly gratified with the visit. Indeed, when Joseph told him that the Princess' party had not left a single present for the servants, he gave him a handsome sum, saying that it had been entrusted to Pranken; the servants would spread the report far and wide, that the Prince had been at the villa and left large gratuities for them; this would rouse the envy of the neighbors, and the envy would carry the report still farther, and the best of it was that they would all be deceived.

Sonnenkamp whistled softly, a sure sign that he was particularly cheerful and contented. He devoted himself with special attention to the Aunt, praised her modesty and the Prince's insight in knowing how to value her as she deserved. It seemed really to delight him to see people decline praise which really tickled them excessively.

On the next evening but one, when the Aunt and Manna went out upon the flat roof to look at the stars, they found an excellent telescope placed on a movable stand. When they thanked Sonnenkamp for this surprise, he asked in return only one favor, that Fräulein Dournay would accompany the family to Carlsbad; but she declined positively, as the Professorin also did.

Pranken had come back; he thought it absurd to appear offended, and to do this tutor the honor of looking upon him as a rival. He was made happy by the unconstrained and cordial greeting he received from Manna, who treated him with more familiarity than ever before.

"I am glad," he said to her, "that you have something of the sphinx in you, like other women. I was mistaken in you, and am rejoiced that I was mistaken. What is puzzling and constantly offering new problems, keeps life fresh."

Manna did not understand him, but she asked for no explanation; she only told him with regret that the Aunt and the Professorin were not going with them to Carlsbad. Pranken thought this very proper, and Manna looked at him in surprise when he spoke of the pretensions of these Huguenots.

"And Herr Dournay," he added, "will he stay behind also, declining as firmly and decidedly as he did to go to Vichy last year?"

"I don't know," answered Manna. "Papa," she called out to her father, who came up just then, "is Herr Captain Dournay going with us to the Baths?"

"Certainly. He belongs to the family, and understands that he does; he has not objected for a moment."

Pranken was in some embarrassment; he took this compliance quite as a matter of course, and added that perhaps Herr Captain Dournay--emphasizing the title, would find his friend, the negro Adams, the Prince's footman, at Carlsbad, and would be able to perfect the intimacy which he had begun here. Pranken hoped, perhaps, to bring out some cutting remark about Eric, but, to his surprise, neither Sonnenkamp nor Manna answered a word; he was forced to wind up the subject, by saying that these atheists and democrats must of course disorganize all social arrangements, and fraternize with a negro; it was only praiseworthy in Herr Dournay to act consistently with his principles.

Bella and Clodwig only just made a passing call, to say that they were going to Carlsbad and should be very glad to meet their friends there.

Bella was especially animated in her expressions of pleasure at the idea of meeting them constantly for weeks together; she promised herself and her friends great enjoyment, and was enough at her ease to say jokingly to Eric, that if a charity-concert was given, at which she played, he must sing.

Eric assented, without the least embarrassment.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XII. THE PRIDE OF OUR PLANET

The season at Carlsbad was unusually brilliant. Seldom had so many of the nobility and so many adventurers assembled at the Baths. To the second class, but perhaps also to the first, belonged Sonnenkamp, who arrived with a great retinue, wife and daughter, son, tutor, gouvèrnante, and a number of servants, the latter, however, not dressed in livery, but modestly, in plain citizens' clothes.

The Count, as well as Clodwig and Bella, had been at the Baths a week when Sonnenkamp's household arrived. Clodwig took his young friend, with some solemnity, to the spring, and told how he himself had once been brought thereby the philosopher, Schelling, who said to him,--

"Behold! this spring is the pride of our planet."

All conventional distinctions must cease before such a fountain of health as this, Clodwig added, for it says to us,--You must leave your lofty and your lowly dwellings; in my presence, all are alike high-born and low-born. Clodwig had already caught the liberal tone.

On the very day of Sonnenkamp's arrival, a guest was departing whose modesty was equal to the consideration in which he was held; it was Weidmann. Eric met him just as he was drinking his last draught from the spring. The relations between the Sovereign and this President of the representatives, an unyielding opposer of the Court policy, long furnished matter of conversation among the guests; the Sovereign had twice invited him to his table, and addressed him several times when they had met upon the morning walk. Statisticians differed somewhat in regard to the latter point, some maintaining that these morning conversations had taken place twice, others that they had occurred as often as thrice, or even four times.

Again Eric's meeting with Weidmann was short and unsatisfactory, and he disliked to be always reiterating his intention of visiting him.

Clodwig also presented Eric at once to an old friend of his, a well-known banker of liberal education from the great business capital, whom he met every year at some baths, either at Gastein or Ostend, if not here, and with whom, on such occasions, he always spent many hours of the day. The two men were both seventy years old, but the Banker had all the restlessness of youth; he was as eager for knowledge as a German student, and as talkative as a Frenchman in a railway carriage. Clodwig, on the other hand, preserved always a great repose of manner, hardly ever speaking when in motion, but always stopping if he had anything to say, or any reply to make to the remarks of a friend.

The Banker took pains to tell Eric, early in their acquaintance, that he was a Jew.

Owing, doubtless, to the warm commendations that Clodwig had bestowed upon his young friend, the old man took advantage of every opportunity of being in his company, a complaisance which Eric did not reciprocate, he not being accustomed to play the part of listener rather than of speaker, and feeling moreover jealous of the banker, who engrossed so much of Clodwig's time, when he had depended on enjoying the Count's society himself every day during their visit here.

At the breakfast-table, the Prince and Countess Bella were as usual a frequent subject of conversation; they were served up with the favorite dish of delicate pastry. A more interesting topic than even the Countess's toilette were the frequent, almost daily walks, which the Prince took in her company, apparently much to the enjoyment of both parties, as the Prince was often heard laughing at her ready sallies. Clodwig also could congratulate himself on having received many marks of favor.

Bella established a little court of her own. She breakfasted with a company of chosen friends in the open air, where every one could see her, and her table was always adorned with the choicest flowers. It was even said that the bands played a waltz of her composition.

The Wine-Cavalier also spent a few days at the Baths, and the painter Potiphar, as Bella called him, because he had the misfortune to be surnamed Tailor. This was the fourth watering-place that the Cavalier had honored this summer with his studied elegance, his private album, and his neat little anecdotes. His only object in coming to Carlsbad was, as he often repeated, to pay his respects to his highly esteemed neighbors. Bella received him coldly, and Clodwig pleaded business as an excuse for seeing but little of him, so that after playing a few games with a famous chess-player who was among the visitors, he departed.

The painter Potiphar zealously instructed Eric in the private histories of all the men and women who were drinking the waters, and his companion's ignorance and innocence in these interesting matters were a marvel to him.

When Sonnenkamp met Bella and the Prince walking together, as he did every day, Bella nodded graciously, and the Prince also bowed silently, but in spite of the frequency of their meeting never addressed him.

The Cabinetsrath was present as one of the Court, and with him and an experienced officer of police, who always hovered about the sovereign at a distance, Sonnenkamp usually took his morning walk.

Pranken, who had his own independent lodging, but joined himself to the Sonnenkamp party, was soon initiated into the life of the various groups.

A beautiful Wallachian, who always went about dressed in deep mourning, with a black veil upon her head, and spoke to no one, contested with Sonnenkamp the glory of being the most remarkable object of the season. It was said that the handsome stranger had had the misfortune to discover, soon after her marriage, that her husband had another wife.

Manna took no part in the morning gaieties at the spring; after holy mass, she remained in the house, spending a great portion of her time in practising on the harp, for which purpose she had chosen a room out of hearing of the other visitors.

Frau Ceres awakened general excitement, by being taken to the spring every morning in a chair on wheels. In her lap she always held a little dog, and in her hand a fresh rose.

Pranken was assiduous in his attention to her, and Fräulein Perini never failed to walk by her side. At noon, Frau Ceres appeared beautifully dressed among the promenaders.

All the visitors at the spring were astonished at this, and every morning all eyes followed her, in wonder at her allowing herself to be wheeled through the crowd, though she was in perfect health. But the lady was unconscious of the anger she excited, and only rejoiced in what seemed to her the general admiration.

After the first three days, Eric forbade his pupil to go to the spring in the morning, a regulation which Sonnenkamp remonstrated against, feeling a pride in the universal admiration the handsome boy received. But Eric declared that it was impossible to attend to studies after hearing music in the morning, and the two therefore remained by themselves. Whenever they appeared abroad, however, men and women alike agreed that they had never seen a handsomer boy, or a man of more attractive appearance.

Pranken often complained that the extraordinary favor shown him by the Sovereign obliged him often to spend whole days away from his friends.

Sonnenkamp could boast of being received into the most select society, thanks to the influence of Bella. It was no matter to him that the aristocracy said among themselves that a bath-acquaintance did not necessitate any subsequent relation with a man. He hoped, nay, he was almost sure, that during his stay here at Carlsbad, the first step would be taken that should put him on an equality with the best; in the meanwhile he conducted himself in the most free and easy manner, as a peer among peers.

Already his relations to Bella had assumed a character which added a fresh interest to his life here. They had always been secretly attracted together, chiefly by admiration of a certain heroic power which each saw to exist in the other, and which each held to be the one mark of distinction from the masses. This daily intercourse now revealed more distinctly to them what they had only glimpses of during the winter in the capital.

Both agreed perfectly in looking upon all communities, all human society, as nothing but a tacit agreement to tell lies: no one believes his neighbor, no one honors his neighbor; all that is valued is a certain outside show, a humbug, which must be kept up as long as it can; no one, except a few idiots of teachers or idealists, actually believes in the idols of his own constructing.

Sonnenkamp admired Bella extremely, and maintained that she was the only woman of spirit and intellect he had ever met, a declaration which both knew to be true, in spite of their agreeing that all fair words were nothing but lying conventionalities. Bella knew that she had spirit, and acknowledged Sonnenkamp's right to bear witness to it.

He repeatedly gave her to understand that he alone appreciated the greatness, of her nature.

"The man who should have a wife like you," he once said openly to her, "and were himself a man--a dominant nature with a wife like you would establish a new throne in the world. I consider it a privilege to have been allowed to know a nature so born to rule as yours."

He said it half in a tone of gallantry, but she knew he meant it in earnest, and she took it in earnest, being full of contempt for the pettinesses of the world, where half the people found pleasure in intrigue, and the other half in what they call humanity, which is really nothing but sentimentality.

Their mutual salutations, therefore, if they only met and passed, were significant, and implied a secret understanding. Their glance said: We alone are strong, and we are great enough to scorn all trifling.

One beautiful July morning Bella gave a great breakfast, to which the Sonnenkamp family was invited, and Manna came with her mother; there were also present the Cabinetsräthin, the Adjutant-general, besides several others of the highest nobility, both gentlemen and ladies, from different countries.

The rich and tasteful arrangement of the flowers on the breakfast-table excited the admiration of the guests. Bella presented Herr Sonnenkamp as the generous and skilful giver, and, with great tact, called the attention of the guests to the admirable taste in arranging flowers possessed by this famous garden-artist, whom she even proclaimed the true high priest of flowers.

Sonnenkamp was delighted at the impression produced.

Manna timidly remarked that her taste was offended by the profusion of flowers displayed here on all occasions; she thought that massing them together, and tying them into close bunches, destroyed the whole character of the flowers, of roses especially; their tender nature suffered from such treatment.

Eric replied that, without these flowers, life here would lose an important element of brilliancy and cheerfulness; that the purest and best things were not safe from abuse and exaggeration, but that we should not therefore lose sight of the beautiful underlying principle.

Pranken observed the impression which these words made, and gave a more lively turn to the conversation, by saying that he too did not like bouquets; flowers, birds, and women were the ornaments of life, and should be dealt tenderly with and left unconfined.

Jest and merriment now reigned supreme. All were in that happy frame of mind which is induced by the drinking of the waters and the fresh morning air. There was not wanting an object on which to exercise their wit, in the person of a long lieutenant from Schwarzburg-Sondershausen, or Schwarzhausen-Sonderburg, as Bella always called it. The long lieutenant had openly confessed that his object in coming to the Baths was to bless the daughter of some rich commoner with his title. He had made Bella his confidante, and she amused herself now by bringing him into all manner of ridiculous positions.

The tall lieutenant took it all in good part; his standing joke was that he regretted, on his honor, Roland's not being Sonnenkamp's daughter, that he might marry her.

Manna blushed, for this plainly implied that she was considered betrothed to Pranken.

There was a good deal of gossip about some of the guests at the Baths, their loose and frivolous lives, all of which Manna listened to with the rest, secretly thinking all the while: It is well to know all the discord and confusion of the wicked world before leaving it forever.

Eric divined that some such thought was in her mind, and said in a low tone:--

"In the Bible God says that he will spare Sodom, if a few righteous persons are found in it. And so it is now. The sun shines, the birds sing, the flowers bloom, and the world is better than it seems."

"So you are a believer too?" asked Manna softly.

"Yes; but in a different way from yours."

On rising from table, Clodwig, Sonnenkamp, Eric, Roland, and the Banker, started on a long walk in the woods, while Bella kept Manna by her. Pranken also staid behind with the ladies, being excused today from attendance on the Prince.

Bella had succeeded in getting invitations for Sonnenkamp and his family to the next assembly, at which only the first nobility of Europe were to be present, and began to talk over with Manna the dress she should wear on the occasion. Manna had begged to be allowed to stay at home, but this was declared impossible, and she had been obliged to consent to appear.

Meanwhile the men were taking their walk through the woods. Eric had joined Clodwig at once, and made him smile by saying that he had never before participated in the gaieties of a watering-place, and that the life here almost bewildered him. He wondered whether it would be possible to induce men to go, for a few weeks of every year, to some place for the cure of their souls. In this care for the bodily health was exhibited a selfishness which the world usually took pains to conceal. Clodwig had remained standing, while Eric thus spoke.

"You will never feel quite at home in the world," he answered, continuing his walk.

At a turn in the road, Eric fell back and allowed Sonnenkamp to go in front with Clodwig. There was something at once attractive and repulsive to Clodwig in the society of Sonnenkamp. He had never seen such a man before, and was chiefly impressed by the sort of courage he possessed in assuming no foreign disguise.

Sonnenkamp made another attempt to induce the Count to use his influence in procuring him a title, but was treated as he never before had been in his life, by receiving a most crushing answer couched in words of courtesy.

"I am amazed at your courage and forbearance," he said; but the idea conveyed by the words was: I detest your insolence and importunity.

"You are indefatigable, and may stand on an equality with the rulers," were the words, but the meaning was: You are a shameless tyrant.

Sonnenkamp had experienced many strange things in his life, but, never this lashing a man to madness with courteous words. He kept a smiling countenance, however, not daring to show any sense of injury, while Clodwig maintained a calm superiority, tapping occasionally on his golden snuff-box, as if saying to all the tickling spirits within: Have patience; the man is getting a strong dose. Finally he opened the box and offered Sonnenkamp a pinch, which the latter accepted with thanks.

Eric meanwhile was walking with the Banker. There was one point of common interest between them, their admiration of Clodwig. The Banker maintained that scarce any one but a man of rank could be so independent and thoroughly human.

Roland cast a glance at Eric which seemed to say: You see this man says the same thing.

Eric zealously opposed this idea, and the Banker, who assumed a rather patronizing tone in conversing with the young scholar, was easily converted, and broke out into enthusiastic praise of Eric.

A great pleasure was awaiting Eric on his return from his morning walk, in the arrival of his friend and teacher, Professor Einsiedel.

The poor man of science felt himself quite lost and helpless in such a place as Carlsbad, whither he had been ordered by his fellow-professor, the first physician of the University. Eric made the necessary arrangements for his board and lodging, and whatever else he needed, feeling it a privilege to serve him in every way in his power.

While standing with his teacher, Eric perceived Sonnenkamp in the distance talking with Professor Crutius, who had just arrived. Crutius seemed unwilling to accept Sonnenkamp's friendly advances, and yet could find no way of avoiding them. When Sonnenkamp offered his hand at parting, however, he did not take it, but raised his hat instead with a formal salute. Eric was so fortunate as to find a room for his teacher in the same house with his own party.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XIII. A WHIRL OF BODY AND MIND

Beautifully dressed, with flowers in her hair, Manna walked to and fro in the great drawing-room. The sight of her uncovered neck and shoulders in the long mirror seemed to shock her, and she drew more closely about her the encircling cloud of tulle. Roland and Eric entered. Eric stood motionless.

"How late you are!" said Manna.

Eric explained that he had been introducing his teacher to the routine of watering-place life, and expressed the hope that Manna would enjoy the society of the delicate-minded old man.

"Your teacher?" said Manna, and again Eric noticed the tears in her voice. "Introduce me to him to-morrow. But now make haste, or you will be late to the assembly."

"I am not invited," replied Eric.

"No! he is not invited, and so I am not going either," cried Roland.

The father and mother appeared, but their persuasions had no effect upon the boy. He would not even yield to Eric's urgent entreaty, but persisted in remaining behind. After the family had actually driven off to the Hall, Roland appeared to regret not having gone with them, and insisted on Eric's taking him to the gallery, whence they could see the dancing.

Pranken was manager of the assembly, and Manna shared the distinction with him. Her cheeks glowed, and she seemed in great spirits, but to Roland's vexation, she did not once look up to the gallery. Manna, in fact, hardly knew herself. In the midst of the gaiety, she said to Pranken:--

"Did you know that Captain Dournay's teacher had arrived?"

Pranken knit his brows. So she was thinking of him in the midst of this gaiety! He was silent for awhile, not knowing what to reply; at last he said in a light tone:--

"Ah, teacher! Don't you get tired of this whole pack of teachers? Here we have pleasing music, dancing,--come!"

He whirled her swiftly among the circle of dancers, and she felt as if she were no longer upon the ground, but were floating in the air.

"Let us go!" said Roland to Eric in the gallery. They left the hall, and took by moonlight the same beautiful walk through the forest that they had enjoyed in the morning.

"Is there no way in which I may relieve myself of a secret that has been confided to me?" asked Roland. "I should so like to talk it over with you! May I not tell it you?"

"No, you must not under any circumstances break your word. If you did, you would lose all hold upon yourself."

Roland sighed; he sorely wanted to tell Eric that his family was to receive a title.

When they came out upon the clearing, and saw the town and the whole valley lying in the moonlight, and heard a few broken strains of music from the ball-room rising through the night air, Roland returned to the subject:--

"I have an idea that this evening Manna is to be openly acknowledged as Pranken's bride. My mother thinks that that will help forward the accomplishment of the other secret. Can you not guess what it is?"

Eric replied with great self-control, that it was not honorable of Roland to speak of any family matters that had been confided to him.

He spoke with a trembling voice. This thing, which had been so long decided, suddenly came upon him as something new, unheard of, improbable. With rapture and yet with fear, he perceived that he had allowed Manna to become dearer to him than he ought. He buried the point of his cane deep in the ground, and pressed upon it so violently that it broke to pieces in his hand. He told Roland it was time they went home.

The carriage drove up to the door just as they reached the house, and out of it came Sonnenkamp, followed by Frau Ceres and Manna.

"Are you betrothed to Pranken?" asked Roland.

"You silly child!" returned Manna, as she ran quickly up the steps.

Sonnenkamp sent Roland to bed, and asked Eric to go with him into his room.

"Here is a mild brand of cigar," he said, throwing himself back in his arm-chair, "light one. Captain Dournay, I look upon you as one of the family; you are ours, and must ever remain so."

Eric trembled. Had the father's suspicions been roused by Roland's awkward question, and was he about to tell him that he must give up all thought of Manna? Or was he about to offer him his daughter's hand? He had time enough to entertain these opposing thoughts, for Sonnenkamp made a long pause, in the evident expectation of receiving some answer to his friendly address. But as his companion remained silent, he got up, and after taking several turns up and down the room, suddenly stopped before Eric and said:--

"I give you to-day the most indubitable proof that I consider you one of ourselves. Give me your hand."

Eric did so, and shuddered as he touched the iron ring on the man's thumb.

Sonnenkamp continued:--

"I recognize and honor your reserve."

Eric's eyes wandered uneasily. What did all this mean?

After several hasty puffs at his cigar, Sonnenkamp continued:--

"You have never, in any way, alluded to what has been going on among us, though you cannot have failed to be aware of it."

Eric still trembled. Sonnenkamp kept making such unusual pauses.

At last, bringing the words out with an effort, he said:--

"You know that I am about to receive a title?"

"No, I did not know it."

"You did not? Is it possible? Did Roland give you no hint?"

"A hint indeed of some secret, but I strictly forbade him to relate, even by a breath, any confidence that had been reposed in him."

"Good. You're a good teacher. I am grateful to you, sincerely grateful. I will be yet more so. You shall have proof of it. To be open with you, Captain Dournay--you can give me substantial help by furthering this plan of mine."

"I?"

"Yes, you. You are the friend of our noble Count Wolfsgarten. He is already one of our family, but he always declines to discuss this matter, when I, or any of my friends, address him upon the subject. You know me, my dear Captain; you have watched my life, and your eye is keen; I have a right to expect that, with all my faults, of which, unhappily, I have my share, you will judge of me justly and charitably. You are a man who will act as he thinks. You understand me?"

"Not entirely, I confess."

"Plainly, then, in a few days I shall give a rural fête at Heilingthal. I will take the Jew with me, and you can go with your friend Wolfsgarten, and can easily discover what sort of opinion he will give of me, or has already given."

"Would not Herr von Pranken, or the Countess, or the Cabinetsräthin, be better suited for such an office?"

"No; in that case I should not trouble you with it. Count Wolfsgarten has declined expressing any opinion, saying always in his pedantic--I mean in his strictly honorable manner, that a judgment which is to be expressed in confidence, to the Prince should be made known to no one else. In a few days the Prince will depart; he is favorably disposed. You will therefore discover this for me, dear Dournay, will you not? It will be so easy for you!"

"Herr Sonnenkamp," replied Eric, "you had the kindness to say a few moments ago that I did right in forbidding Roland to betray a secret. How shall I----"

"Ah, my dear Dournay," interrupted Sonnenkamp, "we may reasonably allow ourselves many things that we should forbid a young person to do. I respect, I honor your truthfulness. I acknowledge the great sacrifice you would make in rendering me this service fully, thoroughly, but you will make the sacrifice, will you not?"

Eric tried to decline the task. Sonnenkamp threw his head back, and whistled softly to himself, while Eric maintained with great earnestness that he was not good at sounding others' opinions, and that he should consider it a betrayal of friendship to repeat anything which was said to him confidentially. "Besides," he concluded, "I do not think that Count Wolfsgarten would express his opinion any more fully to me."

Sonnenkamp was inwardly angry, but summoned all his powers of self-control to his aid. He praised Eric's conscientiousness; spoke with enthusiasm of his delicate tact, his moral purity, and the loftiness of his ideal; he went so far as to apologize for having fancied, even for a moment, that Eric was more than a friend to Bella; his unhappy experience among men, he said, must serve as his excuse for the injustice; he considered it as the greatest of privileges to have been once allowed the acquaintance of a thoroughly pure and noble man.

Eric had never supposed that this man knew him so well; this Sonnenkamp must have a nobler mind than he had given him credit for, to be able to read so well the noble struggles of others.

The impression he had made was not lost upon Sonnenkamp. He laid his hand on Eric's shoulder, and said with a trembling, almost a tearful voice,--

"My dear young friend! Yes, my friend--I call you so, for you are such--even if I have not myself the right to claim so close an intimacy with you as I should like, consider what a great, what a necessary influence indeed you may exert--not for me; of what consequence am I?--but for our Roland. For our Roland!" he repeated significantly. The mention of Roland's name suddenly roused Eric as from a dream. He answered by asking why Herr Sonnenkamp desired a title for Roland.

"Oh, my friend!" Sonnenkamp continued with increasing affection, "that is the last, the only object of all my efforts in the Old World and in the New. Oh, my friend! Who is able to tell how soon I may die? You will remain the friend, the support of my son. Give me your hand upon it. Promise me you will so continue. I shall die without a fear, knowing he is under your protection. Alas, no one suspects how ill, how shaken I am. I force myself to appear firm and erect, but I am inwardly broken. The labors and struggles of life have sapped my strength. Any moment may end my life, and I would gladly leave my son in an assured position. You, my friend, love our beautiful, glorious Germany; you will be glad to secure to her a strong and faithful son. Should Roland continue as he is, should he preserve his present name, he will always consider himself a citizen of the world across the ocean, not a true son of our noble Germany, where alone a man of mind and of means can find a sphere for his usefulness. Forgive me if I do not express myself as warmly as I feel, and as I ought, to a friend like you. I only ask you to add to your other benefits to Roland that of making him a son of Germany; if not for our sakes, yet for the sake of our dear country."

Sonnenkamp well knew what a responsive strain he touched in Eric, by those tender words from the anxious heart of a father, and by this broad, reverent outlook, not only beyond his own death, but beyond all thought of self. Eric was touched, and said:

"I would give my life for Roland----"

Sonnenkamp would have embraced him, but Eric begged him to listen further.

"My life I can give up, but not my principles. I am willing to adopt your views of the matter in a moment, if you can convince me I am mistaken. Do you really believe that it would add to Roland's happiness to have a title?"

"It would make his happiness; without that he would have no happiness. I am sure you will not misunderstand me, my very dear, noble friend. I frankly confess to you that I prize money highly; I have worked hard for it, and should like to keep it; I should like to convert my personal property into real estate, at least in a great measure: I want my son freely to enjoy what I have toiled with unremitting industry to obtain. Oh, my friend, you do not know--it is better you should not know what blows my life has borne, because I--but no more of that; it would agitate me too much to-day. I had a tutor--a shrewd man, but unhappily not of such moral purity as yourself--who, I remember, often said to me: He only is free who is not bound to the same level with others, but is entitled to be judged by a loftier standard. A genius, a man like yourself, my dear friend, is by nature so entitled; but all are not geniuses. Genius is unattainable, therefore do men seek a title of nobility that posterity may judge them by that higher standard. I express myself clumsily, do I not?"

"No! the thought is subtilely developed."

"Ah, let us leave all subtleties. But I have after all omitted the chief point; it is well I remember it. It was you who first directed my thoughts and my efforts towards this aim."

"I? How so?"

"Let me remind you. On the first day of your coming among us you told me, and you have often repeated it since, that Roland had no special talent that would lead him to the choice of a profession. The remark offended me at the time, but I see now that it was perfectly true. For the very reason that Roland is not gifted with genius, he must take rank among the nobility, have a title, which of itself gives position and dignity to persons of average capacity, who are not able to carve out their own career. A nobleman is not sensitive; that is his great advantage. A baron or an earl is somebody at the start, and is not obliged to make himself somebody; if, besides that, he has any gifts, they are all clear gain, and the world is grateful for them. We commoners must begin by making ourselves something; we are nothing at the start except sensitive, thin-skinned. Ah, my dear friend, I speak very confusedly."

"By no means."

"I will say but one thing more. Roland will at some time, and it may be soon, enter on the possession of millions; if he is a noble, he will not only stand in the circle of the select, but he will have all the obligations of honor, of benevolence, of usefulness, and will have them in a higher degree, because he will be one newly raised to rank. I open my whole heart to you, my friend--I conceal nothing. Almost the whole inhabited world is known to me, and shall I tell you what I have found in it?"

"I should be glad to know."

"Know, then," here Sonnenkamp laid both hands upon Eric's shoulder, "you are a philosopher, a deep thinker--learn something from me."

"Willingly."

"Let me tell you then, my friend, there are three classes among mankind, each bound so closely together that no member stands alone. A man must belong to one of these in this degenerate world."

He paused awhile, and then, in answer to Eric's questioning glance, continued:--

"Yes, my friend, in this world a man must be either a Jew, a Jesuit, or a noble. You smile? The idea surprises you? Let me explain. If you survey the whole world you will find that each one of these three classes, and only these, forms a firm, lasting, indissoluble union among its members. My son cannot be a Jew, a Jesuit he shall not be, therefore he must be a noble."

Eric was fairly bewildered by Sonnenkamp's arguments. He strove to exercise his own freedom of thought, but he saw how immovably Sonnenkamp's mind was made up, and looking over the past, he perceived how everything had been tending towards this one aim. And after all, might it not be an advantage for Roland to enter the ranks of the nobility? Might not this be the only means of establishing a home for him in Germany?

The interview lasted till far into the night, Sonnenkamp constantly endeavoring to prove the necessity of making Roland a noble, and Eric at last, almost from sheer weariness, promised to use his influence with Clodwig. He got no rest as he lay in bed; he seemed to himself a traitor, but the voice of the tempter said:--

"After all, it is not you who can bring it about, nor he, but the Prince. Whether you lend your aid or not, the thing is sure to be done. Why should you be disobliging and ungrateful?"

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XIV. THE TEACHER'S TEACHER

"Ball"--"American"--"Betrothed"--was heard the next morning at the spring in all the different languages, for, inconsistent as it may seem, winter gayeties are brought into a place frequented only by invalids.

Frau Ceres' carriage did not appear at the spring; she had a tumbler of mineral water brought to her room.

Before the altar in the village church lay Manna, long after the mass was over, studying her own heart. She cried out for help, for support against the world; she remembered the advice of the Priest to make free confession, wherever she might be, to a brother or a father, and she longed to confess here; but she did not, for there was one thing she could not tell. For the first time, she left the church with a burden on her heart.

Eric was fighting his fight with himself out upon the hills. Sonnenkamp had spoken with great openness to him, but one thing he had not said, that Pranken was waiting till Manna was titled before announcing the betrothal. He was angry with himself for having allowed the idea to take possession of him, and perhaps increase, though unconsciously, his repugnance to the commission laid upon him.

The sudden calling of his name terrified him, though it was pronounced by a gentle voice. Looking up he perceived Professor Einsiedel coming towards him: What better man could he have to clear up his doubts and restore his peace of mind? For one moment, he entertained the thought of laying all his questions before the pure and childlike, yet clear and brave spirit, of his old friend; but neither could he confess, neither could he tell all, and so he too shut his secret in his own heart.

The good old man could not understand how he was to live for weeks without work, without books, doing nothing but nurse his body. Such a cure as this, he said with a childlike smile, was only a sickness with the ability to take walks, and it would be nothing worse than sickness if he lay in bed.

But he soon turned the conversation from himself, and asked Eric about his studies, and how he was getting on with his great work upon slavery. Before Eric could answer, the Professor told him that he was continually making notes upon the subject for him, and that one of the most striking things he had met with was the decision with which Luther, from a religious point of view, had expressed himself in favor of holding slaves.

"I do not blame Luther," he continued; "he adopted the views of his day, just as others in other generations have believed in the agency of evil spirits. The language of the great Bossuet shows how much the strongest minds were influenced by the general belief of the time; he said that whoever denied the right of holding slaves sinned against the Holy Ghost. Perhaps a future generation will be as little able to understand our prejudices."

Eric found in this morning walk a satisfaction to which he had been long a stranger. Professor Einsiedel had looked cautiously about him as he walked, as if fearing some one might overhear the great secret he was about to reveal. At last he said:--

"Dear Doctor," he always called Eric Doctor, "I have been thinking a great deal about the task of educating a rich youth. The absolutely right I have not found; that can exist only in the imagination. But so to educate a human being, intellectually and morally, that we can be approximately sure--mark you, I say approximately--that we can be approximately sure, or have reason to believe, that, in any given case he will be guided by pure moral laws, that is all that we can hope to do; and I am very much mistaken, if that is not what you have already succeeded in accomplishing with regard to your pupil. As far as I know the world,--and I was tutor myself once, though only for a short time--as far as I know the world, those of high birth, and no doubt it is the same with those of great wealth, are full of wishes and cravings; and the task is to convert these wishes, these cravings, this expectancy, into active will and effort. Your handsome pupil has excellent, dispositions, in this respect; he understands the seriousness of life."

Never had the forest seemed, to Eric so grand, the sunlight so clear, the air so invigorating, the whole world so transfigured, as when he heard this testimony from his teacher's lips. Silently he, walked by his side, and sat with him in the forest; he would gladly have kissed the good man's delicate hand.

At another time, Professor Einsiedel admonished Eric that he was falling into the very error common among rich men of neglecting his own culture.

"Living with others is good," he said; "but living with one's self is better; and I fear you have not lived as you should with yourself."

He asked Eric plainly how far he had finished his book, and like a school-boy who finds himself detected in laziness and neglect of duty, Eric was obliged to confess that it had altogether dropped out of his mind. The face of the Professor suddenly collapsed, as if it were nothing but wrinkles; after a long silence he said,--

"You are inflicting the greatest injury on yourself and your pupil."

"On myself and my pupil?"

"Yes. You have no intellectual work of your own to counteract the daily distractions of your profession, and, therefore, you do not bring to your teaching the necessary freshness and elasticity. I have been a teacher myself, and always made it a rule to preserve inviolate my own intellectual sanctum, and in that way constantly renewed my strength. It is one of the conditions of a proper education, that the teacher should not be always at the disposal of his pupil. The pupil should understand, that living side by side with him is another human being like himself, who has his own life to nourish, and that no one has a right to command from another the total surrender of himself and all his powers. You must never consider yourself as a finished man; mark, I say finished; you must keep on educating yourself. To be finished is the beginning of death. Look at the leaves upon the trees; as soon as one has reached its perfection, it begins to turn yellow and shrink."

The words made a deep impression upon Eric. What this man here in this silent wood-path was saying aloud, he had often felt, but had never been willing to confess even to himself.

"'Non semper arcum tendit Apollo,' says Virgil," Eric answered, quoting from his teacher's favorite poet.

"Good, good! that agrees with what I say. Apollo, to be sure, is not always bending his bow, but he never lays it aside; it remains his inalienable attribute."

They went on for some time in silence, till presently the Professor began again,--

"You are still young; you must not waste these morning hours of your life. I warn you as your teacher and your father, yes in the very spirit of your father. It is my right and my duty thus to speak, for your father should serve you as a warning."

"My father serve me as a warning?"

"Yes. I need not remind you of the worth and importance of his labors, but your father often lamented that he had allowed an unworthy regard for his standing in society to interfere with his devotion to pure knowledge; he could not resume the steadiness of his former habits of study. More than that, he found himself thinking of persons while he was writing, instead of thinking only of ideas, which is our religion. If we lose that, we are the worst of idolaters; our idol is even less than a picture in a temple; it is the most worthless of all idols, the fickle voice of society."

Eric still remained silent, and the kindly old man began again,--

"Here is another proof of the wonderful connection of events. Our clinical Professor had to overcome a strong repugnance on my part to undertake this cure; neither of us knew that the real object of my being sent here was, perhaps, to be a healing-spring to you."

"Indeed you are," exclaimed Eric, as he grasped his teacher's delicate hand. Only for a little while longer, he said, till Roland had entered upon whatever work should be next appointed him, he wanted to devote himself entirely to his pupil; then he would return to the service of pure knowledges.

The Professor warned him not to wait for that, for he should never lose his hold of the world of ideas.

"Or if you mean to devote yourself to practical life," he added, "I have nothing to say against that; only you must decide on one or the other."

Eric returned to the hotel as one roused from a dream. He saw the danger which threatened him, of seeking to shine in society by a display of the thoughts and the knowledge he had acquired in the studies which he now no longer pursued. The Professor had touched a very different chord in him from what the Doctor had once stirred. He took pleasure in making his old teacher better acquainted with Clodwig, the Banker, Sonnenkamp, and particularly with Roland, whose lessons he now resumed with an energy which filled the boy with amazement.

The Professor took especial pleasure in the society of Roland, who called him, as he had done at their first meeting, "grand-teacher." There was a deference and a ready submission in his manner, which filled Eric with delight, when he saw them together. Many a saying of the noble old man's sank deep into the boy's mind.

"Who would suppose that the long lieutenant and the Professor belonged to the same race of men?" he once said to Eric.

Eric liked to leave his pupil as much as possible alone with the Professor, and was gratified by having the latter say to him after a few days,--

"You have done a good work; the boy has that sensitive pride in him which we are apt to associate with gentle birth. I should have no fear of his falling into low or criminal habits; his noble pride would be repelled by their vulgarity. There is no denying the fact that self-esteem amounting to pride can become, under proper guidance, a sure moral principle."

Bella had begun by trying to make a butt of the Professor, but the old man looked at her with an expression of such childlike compassion, and at the same time of such mild rebuke, that she soon dropped her tone of banter, and overlooked the good Professor altogether.

This unpretending and apparently inexperienced man formed, however, very decided opinions upon all whom he met. Clodwig he perceived to be a good and noble man. His classical education delighted him particularly. "Classical education," he said, "is the stone foundation, which, firmly planted in the ground, is itself invisible, but bears up the whole building."

The Banker was too uneasy and restless to please him, but he gave him credit for possessing a characteristic very common among the Jews, that of gratitude even for intellectual benefits.

Sonnenkamp inspired the Professor with a shrinking awe. He acknowledged that the feeling was unjust, for the man had always showed great friendliness towards him, but still he could not conquer it.

He once confessed to Eric that he was afraid of persons who were so strong; he always felt as if Sonnenkamp would take him up in his arms like a little child and run away with him. He knew he should never understand the man's character perfectly; reading characters was something like deciphering inscriptions on stone; if you cannot make them out at the first glance, you will succeed no better with hard study.

Quite a new influence was exerted, however, as Professor Einsiedel became more intimate with Manna. In Eric's case, he had recognized instantly his having been sent to this place by that invisible power which harmonizes all life, for the purpose of bringing help to his young friend. Such was even more the fact with regard to Manna, though here he was not conscious of it. Manna was needing and seeking help, and attached herself, with the loving watchfulness of a daughter, to this delicate man, who outwardly was so childlike and dependent.

Geology and chemistry have not yet satisfactorily settled the manner in which these medicinal springs work their cures, and we are equally ignorant of the workings of that subtle influence by which one man affects another for good or for evil. Thus mysteriously did Professor Einsiedel influence Manna. When she told him of her desire to enter the convent, he expressed his envy.

"If I were a Catholic," he said, "I would enter a convent too; but it must be a different kind of a convent, one exclusively for men of science, who have no time or faculty for providing for the necessities of life, and yet have works of importance to carry out."

Manna smiled, for she could not help thinking of Claus, who also wanted to enter a convent, so that he might have nothing to do but drink all the time. But she quickly banished all such comparisons; for here was a repose, a devotion to a sacred idea, which might boldly compare itself with the sacredness of the church. She trembled at the thought, but could not drive it from her mind. With some timidity, and yet emboldened by the remembrance of her former undoubting confidence, she ventured to approach the Professor, though only interrogatively, upon the subject of the necessity of religious faith, as the only means of salvation. She was amazed at the sudden excitement that blazed up in the quiet little man.

"We are no enemies of the church," he said, "for we only make war upon the living. The church has not been able to fashion the world, nor society, nor a single state; all it has succeeded in doing, is to found asylums and hospitals. Not to her is given the direction of life, but to classical education, to continually advancing culture. My child, there is a fellow-professor of mine in the University, who persistently maintains that the Corpus juris has done much more for the civilization of the world, than the fragments which are included under the name of the Old and New Testament. I do not wholly agree with him, for the Bible has touched a different chord in the world. Consider, the world has inherited from classical antiquity two great ideas, those of state and nationality. Men were brought up in these two ideas. Then came religion, and taught universality, the oneness of all mankind, the brotherhood of man, and the unity of humanity. Religion alone could have done it; it would have been impossible for the Roman civilization under the old and new Cæsars. The church has done her work; she has implanted the idea of humanity. Now people assemble again in states, in nationalities, still needing to preserve the idea of brotherhood. But forgive me, I am falling too much into the schoolmaster's tone."

"No, no; pray go on; I understand. Pray go on!"

"Very well, then; what was ever purely ideal is not lost to the world, only it must not require to be forever and ever the one sole expression of truth. Here lies the difference between us unbelievers, as we are called, and believers. Let me illustrate my meaning by facts--or do I weary you?"

"How can you think so poorly of me?"

"Forgive me. The present century is laboring for two great objects, the emancipation of the serfs, and the abolition of slavery. They will be accomplished, but not by the church; no, by the progress of culture. Forgive me, my child, I do not want to confuse you. Never touch upon the subject again, be sure you never do again. I am a patient man, very patient. I want to disturb no one, but I pray you, most earnestly I must pray you, never to touch upon these subjects with me again. As I have said, I am sorry if I have spoken slightingly of anything which is sacred and dear to you; I hope it will so continue to you, although I reject it. But I beg you, earnestly beg you, not to approach this theme again."

As Manna walked by the side of the Professor, she longed for some hand from heaven to snatch her away from him.

What had she fallen upon? What words had she had to hear? and that not from a man of the world, but from one who desired nothing but to end his life in modest quiet.

No hand from heaven was outstretched to snatch her away, and she gradually succeeded in regaining her tranquillity.

It was well she should have heard this from a man she could not despise. This was the last assault of the tempter; she would not yield under it. So she promised herself, and pressed her hand on her heart, as if there was something there of which she would keep fast hold. But the deed was done; she could not recall it. She had lost that for which she had been ready to sacrifice her life, for the church, to which she had been ready to give herself, had done nothing towards destroying this monstrous evil.

She felt inclined henceforth to avoid the Professor; but that would have been unjust. What had he done except honestly to tell her his convictions?

A feeling of attachment led her still to devote much of her time to him, but both avoided any discussion upon matters of religion; only Manna would sometimes look up at him with wondering eyes, when he would quote, from heathen writings, sayings which she had been taught to consider the exclusive property of the church.

A wide horizon opened before her eyes, in which the different religions seemed only so many promontories, and this unassuming, delicately organized man seemed a type of the human individual, who had received into himself and harmonized all contradiction. She saw Eric's reverence for the Professor, his childlike deference, his respectful attention, the submission which he every hour displayed towards him. She watched Eric closely. It surprised her that this man of strongly marked individuality should be capable of such humble veneration for another.

Professor Einsiedel was often accompanied also by a little dried-up old man of most humble exterior, who always withdrew at Manna's approach, as if he felt himself unworthy to intrude upon the society of men.

Professor Einsiedel once told Manna the history of this companion of his. They had been school-fellows together, and this man was early taken from his studies on account of the death of his father, and the necessity of providing for his brothers and sisters. He became book-keeper in a great banking house, by which he earned enough not only to support a widowed sister and her children, but managed, by practising the strictest economy, to lay by a considerable sum.

One night, on returning from the theatre, he found that his nephew had broken open his desk, stolen his whole property, and escaped with it to America. Without telling any one of the robbery--for how could he give up to justice his sister's son?--he began anew to spare and to save, and thus sacrificed his life for that of another.

Professor Einsiedel had no idea what a deep impression this simple history made upon Manna,--this story of silent, unobtrusive self-sacrifice.

One subject upon which Manna and Einsiedel could converse with perfect sympathy was Eric's mother. The Professor took for granted that Manna lived on terms of intimate friendship with the noble lady, and he could not find words strong enough to express his appreciation of her firmness and nobleness of mind. Manna smiled to hear him say that the Professorin had converted him from a very low opinion of the capabilities of her sex, to a conviction that a woman is endowed with all the characteristics of man, only in a more beautiful shape. Manna also had many pleasant things to tell of Eric's mother.

This unassuming little man, who had thus dropped by chance into their circle, had exercised on the minds of all an influence far outweighing that of the excitements and allurements of the life in the great world.

But even in this society, Sonnenkamp thought only of advancing his own plans of self-aggrandizement. In a few days the Prince, Clodwig, and Bella were to take their departure; if he could not win over the Prince, he was resolved to attach all the nobility at least to his interests.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XV. THE MARRIAGE PROCESSION TURNED TO STONE

The day of the fête had arrived. Roland rode on in front with Pranken, Sonnenkamp walked with the Banker, and Eric with Clodwig. The day was clear and sunny, without being too warm. A brilliant company left their carriages upon the hill, and strolled down; the wood-path to the valley below.

Eric tried to lead the conversation to Sonnenkamp's receiving a title of nobility, but Clodwig at once interrupted him, and, with a tone of almost parental authority, warned him against mixing himself up in any way with that matter. For the first time, there was something in Clodwig's look that Eric could not fathom. They went down the path in silence. A struggle was going on in Eric's mind, and in Clodwig also was a conflict of feeling concerning his young friend.

As soon as they reached the valley, Sonnenkamp drew Eric aside, and asked what opinion Clodwig had expressed. Eric replied that he declined speaking at all upon the subject.

"Thank you--thank you very much," ejaculated Sonnenkamp, with no apparent reason.

By the side of the brook in Heilingthal Joseph had already spread the table, and Sonnenkamp had only the addition of a few trifles to suggest. The company assembled was most select, and all expressed surprise and pleasure at the arrangements that had been made. The long lieutenant was particularly eloquent, and called up a singular expression in Sonnenkamp's face by always, although he was no Austrian, addressing him as Herr von Sonnenkamp. A band of music, stationed in the forest, played sweet and lively airs. A great point of interest was the group of rocks above where the company were seated, which, the story ran, had been the living figures of a marriage procession turned into stone by spirits from the lower world.

"What can have been the origin of this tradition?" asked Bella, turning to Eric.

All gave polite attention, as Eric explained that this was one of the many variations of the Tannhauser tradition, and that nations in the dawn of civilization gave themselves up to a belief in the old traditions, which have their root in the ever haunting mystery of the origin of the earth.

Suddenly a forester's horn was heard, and rocks and valley became the theatre of a strange spectacle. A band of gipsy musicians, fantastically dressed, came suddenly to view, playing wild melodies,--one young fellow in particular, with raven hair, leaping and dancing as he played upon his fiddle. Great praises were bestowed upon Sonnenkamp for his ingenuity in always devising some new entertainment, and his protestations that this was a surprise even to himself, were taken by some for truth, and by others as modesty. A rapid glance, exchanged between himself and Lootz, would have proved to any one who had seen it his sincerity in disclaiming all knowledge of the exhibition.

Bella encouraged the gipsies to wilder and wilder music, and, on learning that their camp was pitched in the neighborhood, she went to visit it, accompanied by Roland and some of the ladies. The absence of Professor Einsiedel she greatly lamented; as he had told her that the language of the gipsies bore some connection with the Sanscrit. Eric was much surprised at being able to say a few words to these strange people in their own tongue. Bella asked if there was no one in the company who could draw, and insisted on the long lieutenant beginning a sketch at once of the gipsy camp, the wretched horse eating a wisp of hay, the wagon, and the old women sitting about an open fire. A wild, impudent looking girl, who wore a large crinoline, and smoked a short pipe in a free and easy fashion, soon became her especial favorite. One old hag, pointing her skinny hand at Roland, cried out:--

"He shall be our king."

"Can you not tell fortunes?" asked Bella, extending her hand to the old woman.

"Not yours," said the gipsy. "But I want that one next you to show me her hand." With great reluctance, Manna consented. The old woman gave a wild cry, and exclaimed:--

"You have a lover by your side, but you must go across the water to get him, and water must flow from your handsome black eyes. But then three sons and two daughters shall you have----"

Here Manna tore her hand away; and walked on apart from the rest of the party. Much as she despised this criminal sport, and little as the whole company believed in it, it yet strangely affected her. Could Pranken have been the originator of it? It almost seemed so, and yet he was innocent of the whole thing.

"I should like to pronounce a ban," cried Bella.

"What sort of one?" asked all present.

"That for the next fifty years the gipsies should be under its power; that no poet should dare to sing of them."

Manna went on with the others, but she and all around her seemed as in a dream. In her heart she felt that all this had happened, in order that the thought of it might one day serve to recall the world to her mind, when she had left it forever. It already seemed distant; among the things of the past. She stood in the life about her as not a part of it, and she was not of it, for the one thought was ever present to her of renouncing it altogether. This year in the world was her trial year, and she rejoiced to think that several months of it were already gone.

Bella, who prided herself upon her skill in reading character, often shook her head, and confessed to her brother that she could make nothing out of Manna; in vain she tried to win her confidence; there was something at bottom which she could not fathom. Manna never spoke to Bella of her desire to return to the convent. Bella now put her arm about Manna's waist, and teased her about the three sons and two daughters, but the girl only smiled as if the words had been addressed to some other person.

On the brow of the hill, under the shade of the pine-trees, carpet's had been spread for the ladies, where they rested, while the gentlemen still sat at table, and, at the suggestion of the long lieutenant, who had finished his sketch, passed round the wine.

"Why are you not of the nobility?" asked the long lieutenant of Sonnenkamp.

"Because Herr Sonnenkamp is a citizen," replied Clodwig.

"Citizens can be made nobles when they have millions----"

At an angry sign from Pranken the young man was here brought to a sudden pause. The Cabinetsrath, however, thought it his duty to add, in consideration of Clodwig's being an influential member of the Committee on Orders, whose good opinion was therefore important:--

"Truly, if nobleness of mind, great powers, beneficence, and worth of character raise one to the ranks of nobility, our Herr Sonnenkamp is--will certainly become a nobleman."

The long lieutenant considered himself a great wit, and wits are not easily suppressed, even when they have not been drinking champagne; he therefore exclaimed:--

"Excellent--delicious! Count von Wolfsgarten, you are the wisest of us all; are you also of opinion that a million must have a title? I mean, of course, not the million, but the man who has the million?"

"It is most amiable of you," replied Clodwig, "to exercise in my favor your sovereign right to point out the wisest of us all."

"Thanks," cried the long lieutenant, "that blow told. But I pray you let me have your opinion."

"I think," said a stout retired court-marshal who boasted of having already lost sixteen pounds at the Baths, "I think that our noble host has the right to require that this discussion should not be continued at this time and in this place. Does not your Excellency agree with me?" he added, turning to Clodwig.

Before the Count had time to answer, Sonnenkamp broke in:--

"On the contrary, I should be most happy if my honored guests would so far favor me as to continue the discussion, and allow me to be a listener; I should take it as a proof that they did not regard me as stranger."

Clodwig, who had broken through his usual strict rule of temperance, and allowed himself to be persuaded to drink two glasses of champagne, suddenly assumed a knowing look and said:--

"In that case, Herr Sonnenkamp, let us hear your own opinion upon the subject."

"Yes, yes," cried the long lieutenant; "the man who has earned millions, and has got up such a fairy entertainment as this, must----"

"Pray, let Herr Sonnenkamp speak," interrupted Clodwig.

"My honored guests," began Sonnenkamp, "I have visited every part of the inhabited globe, and have learned that there is and must be everywhere an aristocracy, one class distinguished above the rest."

"It is so among horses and dogs," broke in the long lieutenant. "Countess Dingsda of Russia, has two grayhounds descended from the Empress Katherine---- I mean from the Empress Katherine's dogs."

The Court-marshal who had lost the sixteen pounds of flesh admonished the long lieutenant in a whisper to hold his tongue, for he was exposing himself and putting out the whole company. The long lieutenant, passed his hand over his brow, and softly promised to obey.

"Let us hear you further," urged Clodwig, and Sonnenkamp continued,--

"It is fortunate also for barbarous races, when they possess certain families who present them, in historical continuation, the various decisive points in their career, and when new families become distinguished by courage or wisdom, and form, as it were, a new dynasty."

Clodwig observed that the sweat stood in great drops on Sonnenkamp's forehead, and said, with great friendliness,--

"It might be said that the distinctive prerogative of the nobility was to unite culture and courage; one should never be separated from the other. I hope you will understand me aright when I say that the titles of nobility perpetuate the remembrance of the gifts, the acquisitions of transcendent genius in a former time, and they have now become an inherited right, or rather involve an inherited duty. The nobleman is the free human being, uniting in himself the gifts of nature and fortune, and preserving a certain chain of connection through the ever changing generations of men. Nobility is a kind of public office to which a man is born. The nobleman should act out his own nature, but is bound at the same time by the conditions of history."

"May the wine freeze in my body, if I understand a word of what he is saying," said the long lieutenant to the Court Marshal, who was trying hard to fight off the sleep which, contrary to all the rules of the treatment, was stealing over him. He suddenly woke up and said,--

"Yes, yes; you are perfectly right; but do keep quiet."

"You yourself," said the Marshal, "must reverence an honest pride in the virtues and bravery of our ancestors. The man who walks through a gallery, from whose walls the pictures of a long line of progenitors look down upon and watch his steps, receives a life-long impression; through his whole life he is followed by the watchful eye of his ancestors."

"True, true!" cried many voices.

"And what follows from that?" asked Clodwig. "Let us return to our original question."

"Just what I am doing. Why should not these historical conditions be constantly reversed?"

"Quite right; that is the proper way to state the question," replied Clodwig. "Is this an age which can concede any special duties, and with them any special privileges, to the nobility? This is the day of equal rights; there are no more members of a privileged class. There are but two classes of men, men of renown and men without renown. The nobility which claims to rest upon hereditary honor is effete; it is incontestably a dying institution. Of what use are coats of arms? Of none but to be embroidered on fire-screens, sofa cushions, and travelling-bags. The equal, universal duty of bearing arms furnishes the reasonable claim to nobility. Science, art, business, are the factors of our time, which the whole people without distinction is equally bound to take part in. We stand in opposition to history. The nobleman was of importance so long as landed property was the foundation of the nation's power. That time is passed, since those high chimneys have reared themselves into the air; since the power of movable property, ideal possessions--for all state securities are but ideal possessions--has surpassed that of landed estates, those days have been no more. One advantage of this personal property is, that it cannot be clutched by the dead hand; the hand of inheritance is a dead hand. I am not opposed to having the nobleman of the present day give his name to business transactions; there are better things than titles and orders by which not only money, but influence, can be gained. I thank the noble Jacob Grimm for exposing, as he does in his essay on Schiller, the folly of supposing that Goethe and Schiller can be ennobled. The nobility of to-day means nothing but a name, a desolation; we go so far as to bestow it even upon the Jews."

"But you, certainly," interrupted the Banker, "would not deny the equal rights of the different religions, the moment this equality of rights knocks at the emblazoned door of nobility?"

"Equal rights!" exclaimed Clodwig. "Quite right, my friend descended from an ancient race. But is it not an absurd perversion to use equal rights for the abolishment of equal rights? If anybody can become a noble, without the necessity of having been born so, of course the Jews can; but they ought not to desire it, they ought to see the disloyalty of it. So far as I see, the Jews--I am speaking now with no reference to their religion--are a living lesson to us not to judge of men by what they believe, but by their progress in virtue and culture. The Jews are, according to our way of regarding them, a race made up of nobles--for who has a longer and purer pedigree?--or they are a people in a certain degree proud of being descended from slaves. I am indebted to an old rabbi, whom I once met at the Baths, for a noble thought."

"What was it?" asked the Banker.

"He said to me--we were in Ostend at the time, walking on the sea-shore and talking of the negro, discussing his capability for freedom and culture, and this rabbi made a very beautiful remark----"

Clodwig paused for a time as if trying to recall something, then, laying the finger of his left hand upon the bridge of his nose, he said,--

"The rabbi declared that the looking back to a past time of slavery was a great spur to ambition, and that many things which at first sight appear strange in the Jews, may be accounted for by the important fact of their tracing their history back to a period of slavery. They have had implanted in them, by their bondage in Egypt, a pride and a humility, a steady resistance to oppression, a quick perception of injustice and of every injury inflicted on others, and hence a sympathy, which is unparalleled in history."

"Certainly."

"A Jew with a coat of arms," continued Clodwig, "with helmet and shield and all the gewgaws--the very sight of them should be an offence to him, for at the time when men wore helmets and shields, his ancestors, the Jews, were servants of the emperor, and almost outside the protection of the laws. A Jew may become Christian from conviction, because, apart from the dogma, he perceives the advance in civilization and culture which the religion of Jesus has accomplished. Many change their faith from want of deep principle, not having the courage, or not feeling it to be their duty, to inflict upon themselves and on their children a life-long martyrdom. But a Jew with a title is the most ridiculous anachronism that can be imagined. To become a citizen, to enter that class which is ever increasing in numbers and importance, is the right and the duty of a Jew. But shall there be a union of Jewish noble families, who, like others, shall marry only among themselves? The more we think of the matter, the more absurd the contradictions that arise. However, I did not mean to speak of the Jews, and pray the company to pardon me for having thus strayed from our main point."

"Had we not better put an end to the discussion altogether?" suggested Pranken.

"I have done; only one word more. A piece of music always leaves a painful impression if we have not heard the final cadence, and, therefore, let me say, in a few words, that I consider the raising of a citizen to the ranks of the nobility a historical absurdity, to use no harsher term. The man who leaves the ranks of the citizens is a deserter, an apostate, I will not say a traitor and a fool also, for forsaking the conquering banner of the people. I understand the temptation; they want to secure their possessions to their family, to establish the right of entail; the sons want to be knights; but it is a stinted race after all, a mongrel stock, from which no good tree can grow."

Clodwig had several objects in view in speaking thus; he wanted to make a direct appeal to his companions in rank, and he wanted, once for all, to divert from their purpose Sonnenkamp and the Banker, who he knew had also been induced to aspire to a title.

Perceiving a peculiar expression in the countenance of his old friend, he turned to him, and said:--

"I see you have something on your mind you would like to say."

"Nothing of any consequence," replied the Banker, with a shrug of his shoulders, offering his gold snuff-box to Clodwig and Sonnenkamp. "Our host is a perfect example of what is called in America 'a self-made man,' a term of great distinction. There is no term in our language which exactly expresses it. To have inherited nothing, but to have won everything by his own effort, is the greatest pride of an American. 'Self made man' is, so to speak, the motto upon his shield. Their president elect, Abraham Lincoln, is the best example of this class, who, from being a rail-splitter and a boatman, has attained the highest honor. Are you personally acquainted with Lincoln?"

"I have not the honor," replied Sonnenkamp.

Roland here approached the gentlemen, and requested them to join the rest of the company, as the plan was to have the band play, while all walked together to the place where they had left the carriages. All arose from table. The nobles from the various German principalities stared at one another in amazement, and if any magical change could have come over them, would certainly have been turned into stone, as the bridal procession had been. The long lieutenant and the sleepy Court-marshal would have made most grotesque figures. How was it that a nobleman, a Count von Wolfsgarten, could use such language? The man must be drunk!

They joined the ladies. Clodwig and Eric lingered a little behind. Eric had not spoken a word during the discussion, and Clodwig expressed his vexation at having inconsiderately opened his whole mind to persons, who did not want to listen to serious words.

"I am grateful to you for it," replied Eric.

"I will try to think," said Clodwig in conclusion, "that I have been talking only to you."

The two went together into the woods, where the ladies had now risen from their carpeted resting-place, and, seating themselves on the ground, watched the young people dancing on the meadow below.

Sonnenkamp stood leaning against a tall pine-tree, as if turned into stone, and almost wishing that the whole company might be actually petrified like the marriage procession. A butterfly, which flew over Clodwig's head, and fluttered back and forth in the valley before Sonnenkamp's eyes, might have told him what Clodwig was saying to Eric on the hill.

"You asked me this morning my opinion on this matter; I think you know it now. I have declared distinctly, that I shall decidedly oppose all conferring of titles upon new men. I do not mind telling you, however, my young friend, that Herr Sonnenkamp's chances are very good, for my voice is not decisive."

Eric was strangely tempted to go down to where Sonnenkamp was standing and tell him this. He had witnessed the man's disappointment to-day, and would have been glad to encourage him, feeling sympathy for one who desired all things for his son's sake.

He restrained himself, however, being resolved to keep himself aloof from the whole matter. He told Clodwig how Roland had wished, on the evening of the ball, to confide to him the secret of their being about to receive a title, but that it was his intention not to mention the subject to the boy, although his father had opened the way for him to do so. Roland had thus far been keeping the matter quietly in his own mind, and it seemed better now to ignore it altogether, than to have the son conceive any disapprobation of his father's proceedings. Clodwig agreed perfectly with his young friend, and repeatedly expressed his present contentment at Eric's having rejected his proposal to live with him, for there was a wider and richer field of usefulness open to him where he was.

Both were refreshed by their quiet intercourse.

The long lieutenant now broke in upon Sonnenkamp's solitary musings. The butterfly flew up again, and might have told those on the hill what was passing in the valley below.

"Herr von Sonnenkamp," began the long lieutenant, "have the negroes any musical talent?"

"The negroes are very fond of a kind of music of their own, which is nothing but noise," replied Sonnenkamp; "and many wise men consider that conversation which--" he paused for a word, but seemed to find none sharp enough, and at the same time sufficiently polite. At last he said--"which perhaps might pass for such in the little capital."

He joined the gay company, and, while the band played, they all walked to the place where the carriages were waiting.

It so happened, neither knew how, that Manna and Eric walked together through the woods. They went on, side by side, in silence, though each had so much to say to the other.

"I hear," Manna began at last, "that Count Clodwig expressed himself warmly against rank; did he think that distinction of birth was in any way opposed to religion?"

"He said nothing of the kind."

Again they went on in silence.

"I wonder where our friend, Professor Einsiedel, has been to-day," began Manna again; "I am a pupil of his, too, now."

"It is a great privilege," answered Eric, "to know such a liberal, devout mind."

They said no more, but both felt that there was a sort of sympathy established between them by their reverence for the same man. Not only was their faculty of reverence now the same, but there was a common object of their reverence.

"Eric! Manna!" suddenly cried a voice, which was repeated by all the echoes of the forest. They stood startled at hearing their names thus coupled together, and sent back again, and again, by the stone figures of the bridal procession.

Roland came back to find them, and, giving his right hand to Manna and his left to Eric, led them thus to the carriage, in which all took their seats.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XVI. CHANGES WROUGHT IN MANY MINDS

Sonnenkamp felt himself set aside by the Court, or rather completely overlooked; but he could not demean himself by allowing any feeling of wounded pride to appear, therefore he omitted none of the customary salutations of respect, even when the Sovereign looked ungraciously at him. That was the regular court service, to which he was determined to accustom himself.

The day was fixed for the departure of the Prince and his retinue. Sonnenkamp stood among the other distinguished visitors, making the last salutations beside the royal coach, and received his share of the Sovereign's gracious, parting glance. The Cabinetsräthin said to him, as he was about to take his place in the second carriage,--

"Your cause stands well, in spite of the very learned and honorable Court Wolfsgarten."

The departure of the court was, to a large circle of the visitors, like the withdrawal of the bride from the marriage dance; the dancing goes on, there is an exaggerated assumption of gaiety, but the main point of interest is wanting.

Crowds of people came and went; the lively circle, of which Bella formed the centre, lost every day one or another of its members; Sonnenkamp was often obliged, against his will, to grace a departure with his offering of flowers. Bella, and Clodwig too, now prepared to depart. Eric had the satisfaction of seeing that a close attachment had been formed between Clodwig and his friend and teacher, Professor Einsiedel.

The last few days were a pleasant relief to Eric and Roland, after the life of excitement that had gone before. They took even the loss of Clodwig and Bella lightly, for they still had Professor Einsiedel. Sonnenkamp and Frau Ceres, on the contrary, were sorely out of spirits; they felt like persons who have outlived their day.

Sonnenkamp compared himself to a bouquet that has not found a purchaser. What is it at evening? It is put in water through the night; the withered flowers are pulled off the next morning, and it is again exposed for sale. Will the success be any better this time? It must be tried.

The men and women, who, as long as Bella was present had been their constant associates, now saluted them formally, and joined themselves to new comers. They often met Professor Crutius in company with a number of Americans who were at the Baths, and who almost always looked curiously at Sonnenkamp. Crutius himself hardly acknowledged his friendly greetings.

The morning fixed for departure came at last; Sonnenkamp and his retinue set off in three carriages. There were fewer friends to bid them good-bye than they had expected, yet still the carriages were adorned with flowers; there was a wreath upon the roof of Sonnenkamp's coach, and even the spokes of the wheels were twined with garlands; the postilion also wore a wreath. All had the appearance of being done by friends, but was in reality the work of Lootz.

The party breakfasted in the open air, and entered the carriages quietly from the street, without returning to the house.

Professor Einsiedel was among those who came to take leave, and, drawing Manna a little apart, he said to her in a low voice,--

"I told you in my last lecture--I beg your pardon, my dear child; I forgot I was speaking only to you. I have already told you of my desire to enter a convent, but a free convent, now that I have grown weary of life in the world, am solitary, and am inclined to finish in retirement whatever I may still be able to accomplish. But whether you, my dear child, before you have done with life, should withdraw yourself from it, is a question you ought very seriously to consider; there can be no more terrible fate than to feel your soul filled with all manner of unrest when you have taken the vow to consecrate yourself to the noblest thoughts. Consider it seriously, dear child; I speak only from my interest in your welfare, my heartfelt interest," said the little man, in a voice, broken with emotion.

"I know it, and I believe you," answered Manna. The tears stood in her eyes, and two big drops fell upon the flowers she held in her hand.

Roland came up to them and took off his hat to the Professor, who, laying his hand on the boy's head, said,--

"Keep on well, and remember that you too have a friend in me."

Roland was too much moved to speak; he could only kiss the old man's delicate childlike hand. The people at a distance looked on in amazement. The postilion blew his horn till he started the echoes in mountain and valley. With no decisive point gained, they left the place where they had experienced so much that was painful and pleasant.

The carriage rolled on for a long time without a word being spoken; at last Roland said softly to Eric:--

"Now I have a grandfather too."

Eric remained silent. Roland's attention was attracted by the flowers that strewed the road; not only withered flowers, but fresh bunches also that had been thrown after the departing guests, and now lay in the street to be crushed under the carriage wheels. He was reminded of Manna's complaint at the waste of flowers here, and thought how just it was.

Manna sat buried in thought. She had come to the Baths only for the sake of being with her family, yet in no one of the party had such a vital change been effected. But she did not own it yet even to herself. She silently folded her hands and prayed.

They reached the station.

"Hear the whistle of the engine!" said Roland. "I feel that we are already at home, now I hear that whistle, don't you? We seem to have been in a different world where that sound never reaches. I hope we shall find all right at home."

Eric rejoiced in Roland's animation, and told him they must keep up good courage if they did find some things changed. They would not let anything spoil the pleasure of their getting home again.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XVII. THE AFTER-EFFECTS

"You will see the effects by-and-by," the Doctor had said to Sonnenkamp and his wife at their departure. "You will see the effect by-and-by," had been the point of the Cabinetsrath's parting words.

The Sonnenkamps returned to the Rhine, full of fresh expectations.

They arrived at the villa and found everything in excellent condition. The great corridor, connecting the green-houses with the stables, a graceful structure of cast iron which Sonnenkamp had planned before his departure, was completed, and its iron pillars already so hung with climbing plants, that no trace of its being a recent addition appeared. Sonnenkamp expressed the satisfaction he felt.

Every one felt himself animated with fresh cheerfulness. The pleasant home feeling was enhanced by the recent excitements of the journey.

Sonnenkamp asked if many strangers had visited the house and garden during his absence, for he allowed the servants every year the privilege of exhibiting to visitors, while he was at the Baths, the lower story of the villa, the hot-houses, fruit-garden, and stables.

The butler replied that there had never been so many visitors as this year, and that he had pointed out to every one the place where the Prince and Princess had sat.

Sonnenkamp ordered the man to bring him the visitor's book, which was kept in the billiard-room, a great hall adjoining the hot-houses. Strict orders were given that only names should be inscribed in the book. In an excited tone he asked, after reading a long list of names:--

"Who wrote that?"

At first no one confessed to any knowledge of the names, but finally the second gardener, the 'squirrel,' said that two gentlemen had come together, one of whom wanted once to be Roland's tutor; and the other was a tall, stately man who spoke Westphalian German. The tall man, with the light curling hair, did not write anything, but the other, whom he addressed as Professor, wrote all these names. The man remembered being struck by it at the time.

Sonnenkamp at once concluded that the man who had written the names could be no other than Professor Crutius. The names were those of the leaders of the slave party in the Southern States. It was out of the question that these men had been there themselves; but what meant this reminder of them?

The matter disturbed Sonnenkamp for a while, but he finally succeeded in dismissing it from his mind.

"Your old enemy," he said almost aloud to himself, "has come back, and that is nothing but your unhappy brooding imagination."

Eric himself had no greater pleasure in embracing his mother again, than Roland and Manna felt.

"You and Aunt Claudine," cried Roland, "are dearer to me than all the trees in the park, the house, and everything else. You too have been staying here faithfully, waiting for us to come home. How good it is to have you here, that we may have some one to receive us when we come back!"

The boy's whole heart swelled with inward happiness.

Manna said nothing, but her look showed how deeply she felt the peaceful influence of the two ladies. She found in this little home some of the rest she had found in the convent, and yet here no outward vows had been taken; these two women were completely free. By little and little, she told the mother about Professor Einsiedel, and rejoiced her by showing her appreciation of the deep consecration of spirit to which this student of science had attained.

Sonnenkamp was more thoughtful than ever. This striving after a title seemed to him a loss of independence, a loss that he was voluntarily incurring. He returned from the Baths with the impression, that he should be always treated by the nobles themselves as a stranger and an interloper, and would always have to be on his guard against misconstruction of his smallest actions. The words of the Banker rang in his ears: Every one should hold fast to the distinction of being a self-made man.

Was it not better that a man should be the source of his own honor, than that he should allow it to be conferred upon him by another?

Here he was brought up before an insurmountable wall. He was vexed at having to worry and brood so over the matter, yet he could not dismiss it from his mind. He had just come to the resolution of begging the Cabinetsrath to give it all up, when he received a letter from him, saying that the matter might be considered as in a fair way of being satisfactorily concluded.

Sonnenkamp looked about him when he had read the words. Now he had it in his grasp, and he would throw it from him. There would be more greatness, more satisfaction, in that than accepting it. But then what would become of Frau Ceres, Manna, and Roland? How could he draw back? For a moment the thought passed through his mind that he would sell all his property here and remove to Switzerland, France, or Italy. But he imagined the longing he would feel to be back here again; he felt that the social position and consideration to which he had grown accustomed here, had become a necessity to him. He walked among the trees which he had planted, which he had trained and cared for, and felt that they had grown to be a part of himself; he looked towards the Rhine, and was conscious of that magic power of attraction which takes possession of every one who has once made his home beside it.

Forward! he cried to himself. The ball has been set rolling and must reach its goal!

He read the letter again, and perceived that the Jewish banker had applied for a title at the same time with himself, but, strange to say, had withdrawn his name. The letter also said that an expression of opinion from Herr Weidmann was expected, and as it was not sure how he would view the case, it would be desirable for Herr Sonnenkamp to cultivate a closer acquaintance with him.

Another point in the letter gave Sonnenkamp cause for wonder; the Cabinetsrath, with many charges of secresy, wrote that the opinion of Count Wolfsgarten had been most plainly spoken, but that a remark of his had decided the case in Herr Sonnenkamp's favor.

Here were too many riddles. Sonnenkamp resolved to do nothing for the present. He had been kept waiting so long that others might as well take their turn at it.

The Doctor came and reviewed the family. He thought that all had been benefited by the Baths, but that Herr Sonnenkamp was still feeling too much the exciting effects of the life there.

The Doctor had felt the pulse of each one, and reviewed them all, but that did not tell him the changes that had taken place in their souls.

Frau Ceres was as tired and bored as ever, and thought it terrible to come back to having nothing to hear of but the beauties of nature.

Manna could hardly believe that she had been through so much noise and excitement.

The most opposite effects, however, had been produced upon Roland and Eric.

Eric had to acknowledge that Professor Einsiedel's warnings had been just. In this life of dissipation, of constant devotion to others, his own self was getting lost. He wished now to hedge in a certain enclosure about himself that he could devote to study, and in which he could build up his own life anew. He set Roland solitary tasks, and in reply to his questions often gave evasive and unsatisfactory answers, telling him that he wanted to leave him to work out as many questions as he could by himself.

Roland for the first time felt deserted by Eric, and at a time, too, when he needed him more than ever. The idle life at the Baths, the excitement, the gaieties, the constant intercourse with men and women who openly expressed their admiration for him, all this left in his heart, as soon as the first feeling of delight in getting home had passed away, a void, a restless craving, which made the quiet of the house, the regular routine of study, an intolerable burden to him. He wanted to be away among people again, among his comrades.

The Cadet told him that he had been made an ensign, and should soon make him a visit, with some of his comrades.

Roland kept impatiently looking out for some diversion, some excitement. A remark of the long lieutenant, that he ought no longer to be under the rule of a tutor, rose to his mind, and made him fret under his want of freedom.

In this frame of mind he sought his father, and asked if the title of nobility had not been received yet. Sonnenkamp comforted him as well as he could from day to day, but, happening to tell him once that Eric knew of what was in anticipation, Roland was filled with anger. Why had Eric never said a word to him about it?

Eric's mother became conscious of the change in Roland long before Eric himself did, but he perceived it at last, and laid aside his own work. But his efforts to regain his old influence over his pupil seemed for a time quite fruitless. An unexpected event was to come to his assistance.

The Major came one day with a request, that Sonnenkamp would allow the Free Masons to have an entertainment in the newly finished armory of the castle, as Herr Weidmann was desirous of having the fête come off there. Sonnenkamp's first impulse was to consent, feeling some surprise at the extraordinary coincidence that should lead Weidmann to enter into communication with him just at this time. Unwilling to appear too eager to oblige, however, he asked why Herr Weidmann had not made the request himself.

This seemed to embarrass the Major somewhat, for he could not explain that the suggestion had originated with himself, and that Weidmann had sharply refused to have any dealings with Sonnenkamp.

Sonnenkamp asked if he might be informed of the names of the persons in the neighborhood who belonged to the body, and found, upon looking over the list the Major handed him, that there were not enough names of consideration among them; even Herr von Endlich having withdrawn his, since his elevation to the ranks of the nobility. Sonnenkamp therefore declined, but requested the Major to bring about, in some way, a nearer acquaintance between himself and Weidmann.

"I know an excellent Way," said the Major. "Herr Weidmann is very desirous of receiving a visit from Roland and Eric. Send them to him."

This, too, Sonnenkamp declined, thinking it not his place to make advances towards a man who kept aloof as Weidmann did. The following day, as he was riding, he almost dropped the bridle from his hand, on meeting a carriage in which sat Weidmann, and, beside him, a man who ought to be on the other side of the ocean.

The man was remarkably tall, and had a strikingly fresh and youthful appearance. As Sonnenkamp rode by, Weidmann bowed. His companion seemed surprised, but raised his hat also, and in so doing showed a head which could not be mistaken. The thick, wavy hair, the high forehead, the kindly expression, in the glance of the blue eyes, were all unmistakable. Sonnenkamp could not help looking back, to make sure that he had not been deceived. The stranger in the wagon also had risen and was looking back, and Sonnenkamp's eye detected something like a nod, such as a man might make who found his suspicions confirmed.

Sonnenkamp reined in his horse, feeling weak and paralyzed, as if he could no longer keep his seat in the saddle. Yes, 'tis he! 'Tis his deadly enemy, his most violent antagonist! How happens he here now? He listened until he no longer heard the rattling of the wheels, and then turned and walked his horse towards home. But shortly after, gathering up the reins, and whipping and spurring his black steed, he rode toward the Major's.

He did not find him at home. Fräulein Milch, whom he always disliked, was there, and told him that the Major was at the castle.

He rode to the castle, and in a very natural way spoke of a visitor at Weidmann's. The Major stated that Weidmann's nephew, Doctor Fritz had been there now for a short time, having come to take away his child, who had been at Mattenheim under Knopf's instruction.

"Was this visitor at the villa while I was away?" asked Sonnenkamp.

"Yes, indeed, he and Professor Crutius. Both of 'em were highly delighted with the beauty of your house, and your skill in gardening. The seeds I bought of the head-gardener are for Dr. Fritz, who'll take them to America. Send Eric and Roland to Mattenheim; 'twill be delightful to both of 'em to know the excellent Doctor Fritz, but you must do it speedily, for I hear he's going away very soon."

Eric and Roland, fortunately, came just at this moment to the castle, and the Major took great satisfaction in spurring them up to make at last the visit to Weidmann. Roland was highly delighted that there was some diversion in prospect, that he was to make a journey and break in upon the humdrum life; and Eric hoped that Roland would receive a new impulse from observing a life of active usefulness.

This time, Sonnenkamp laid his plans more prudently. With Clodwig, Eric had brought nothing to pass, although he had had a direct commission; but now he gave Eric instructions which appeared very natural under the circumstances, but which would enable him to gain a knowledge of everything which it was important for himself to know. Eric was to send a message after several days, and then Sonnenkamp would come for him at Mattenheim. In the mean time he wanted to make a carriage-journey to another part of the country.

In the morning, when Eric and Roland were setting out for Mattenheim, Manna concluded to make her long delayed call upon the Priest. Fräulein Perini had said in direct terms, that the Priest had expressed his surprise at her not having been to see him since her return home. Fräulein Perini wanted Manna to hear from herself, that she had been at the Priest's; but of course, she did not inform her that she had given to the Priest a very circumstantial account of their residence at Carlsbad.

Manna had no sooner entered the Priest's house, than she wanted to turn back again immediately, for she learned from the housekeeper that the Dean from the capital was on a visit to the Priest. But the latter must have heard her when she arrived, for he came out and led her by the hand into the study. He introduced her to the Dean as a postulant.

Manna did not know what he meant; and the Dean, perceiving this, explained to her that he knew of her pure purpose to take the veil.

Manna cast down her eyes timidly and humbly, while she was obliged to listen to her praises from both of the men. She could not help herself, and yet she experienced a deep internal conflict.

The Dean asked if there had been any high dignitary of the Church at the springs, and Manna said that there had not.

When the Priest now asked if she had become acquainted with any men of distinguished attainments. Manna considered it her duty to mention particularly Professor Einsiedel.

"Then you have made the acquaintance of that incarnate, shrivelled up darkness--that miserable mannikin, who is fond of being styled an ancient Greek?"

Both of the men laughed, and Manna was amazed to see how the Professor, so highly venerated by her, was made a complete laughing stock. She did not feel adequate to defend him here, and kept silence. "We will accompany you home," said the Priest at last. "You, my honored fellow laborer, must see for once the beautiful villa."

Escorted by the two ecclesiastics Manna went home, appearing to herself like a captured criminal, and yet the men were very friendly and confiding.

They met Sonnenkamp in the courtyard. He was very complaisant and respectful; and he took especial satisfaction in showing to the highly venerated men the park, the orchard, the hot-houses, and, finally, the villa.

The Dean exhibited a fine appreciation of everything, and when Sonnenkamp dwelt upon the fact, with a certain degree of pride, that every fire-place had its own separate flue, he all at once noticed that the Dean exchanged a passing glance with the Priest, at the same time wearing a satisfied smile.

Ho, ho! thought Sonnenkamp. You think that, do you? These men are taking a view of the villa, in order already to make their dispositions how to turn this house into a convent, when Manna has carried out her plan? Ho, ho! I would rather burn up the house and everything in it!

The two ecclesiastics could not understand why the expression of Sonnenkamp's countenance was so suddenly changed and so exultant; he was delighted to penetrate the deception of other people. He bore the men company as far as the gate, and begged them to visit his modest house very frequently.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

I. A FAIRY STORY AT THE AGRICULTURAL FAIR

Eric and Roland walked inland over the hills, keeping step together.

There is no better time for a pedestrian journey, than some bright day of the early autumn; the cows are pasturing in the meadows, the vegetable products are being harvested in the fields, the foliage assumes variegated colors on the trees, and all day there is a dewy, morning, or rather, evening freshness in the air, for the evening of summer is now coming on. All nature appears sated, and like one who has accomplished his work.

Eric and Roland wandered on, as if they must so wander on forever, with no rest, no goal, always keeping step. And yet they had a goal, Eric especially. Roland had never yet seen a life of active endeavor, and now he was to be made acquainted with one.

Eric related to him, as they were going along, his own life-history, but in a wholly different way from his narration to Clodwig, and afterwards to Sonnenkamp, dwelling principally upon the failure of his military career. This must have its influence upon Roland.

Eric had the feeling that this was the last journey he should make with Roland; and the latter confirmed this feeling when he related that Pranken had already bespoken a uniform for him; late in the autumn he would enter the military school.

Roland also spoke particularly, for the first time, of Knopf, the teacher at Mattenheim. He frankly said that before he entered a different course of life, he should like to become reconciled with him. And Eric now learned how deeply Roland had wounded his former tutor. He and a former valet, who had been the instigator, had cut off the beard on one side of Knopf's face, while he was asleep; he sincerely regretted this now, and wanted to acknowledge it to Herr Knopf.

And so this journey had a variety of ends in view.

They were all the time going farther away from the Rhine, and the country had a poorer look. They now met cows decked with gay ribbons; hogs and sheep, and also choice products of the fields, were carried along, arranged in excellent order.

"What's going on?"

"It's the District Agricultural Fair at Mattenheim."

They reached the village at a short distance from Weidmann's property; it was adorned with flags, and peasants stood in their wagons decorated with garlands, and imitated in sport their different occupations.

Here was one wagon with threshers, another with reapers, and others with weavers, vine-dressers, shinglers, and woodcutters; every sort of heavy work had been turned for once into play. The horses and oxen that were harnessed to the wagons wore garlands and ribbons, and everybody was shouting, rejoicing, and welcoming the fresh arrivals.

They entered the village.

Flags were streaming from the Rathhaus; they said that Weidmann was there delivering a discourse.

They went in.

In the great hall Weidmann was standing behind a table, and giving to the people a scientific and at the same time a perfectly comprehensible and directly practical essay on the best method of "making flesh;" for such was the term he continually used in speaking of feeding. "Making flesh" was his constantly recurring theme; and he pointed out the different kinds and quantities of food, how roots and oil-cakes must be alternated and supplied so as to give the most nourishment, laying a special emphasis upon the necessity of accurate calculation in order to receive the proper returns.

He had a thermometer in his stable, and the heat there was never allowed to be above 63 1-2° Fahrenheit; he had also a telegraphic clock which communicated from the stable to his study, so that he could know, to a minute, whether the servants foddered the cattle at the proper time.

He represented to the people how much better off they were with a small amount of landed property, for they could have it all under their own eye, while he had to be at the mercy of hired laborers; and one could know very well when Monday came, for on Sunday there was always bad foddering. Each cow has its own name, and a register is kept of the amount of milk from each, and any one that does not come up to the requisite standard to yield a profit is got rid of.

He repeated to his hearers often, how, within the circuit of a few miles, more than a million was thrown away by cutting the grass too late, and not getting it in until it had become dead ripe. And he succeeded in setting all this off in a humorous way.

If he had occasion to show that his method was profitable pecuniarily, he would strike his hand upon his pantaloons' pocket, and say:--

"Then there's something goes in here."

There was much merriment when he illustrated with his hand the remark:--

"Profit--profit is the whole Story. Just look at this! The human hand moves its fingers inward towards us, not outwards to give away."

He was strongly opposed to pasturing in common; and everything went to show that people were foolish and wasteful, since they would not understand how to procure good food for themselves by means of their cattle.

Roland listened with astonishment, wondering at this man's sphere of influence, who showed such zeal in teaching people how to feed themselves well.

Eric also had something to think about; for when Weidmann declared that the particular breed was not of so much account, that the food of animals was a far more vital matter than what blood they were of, Eric cast down his eyes. Perhaps he made a particular application of the remark.

When the address was over, Eric and Roland were warmly welcomed by Herr Weidmann; and on Eric's expressing his satisfaction at the address, Weidmann said:

"I was intended once for a parson, and the son of a parson still sticks to me."

Eric replied, smiling:--

"There are so many who preach about spirit, that it is well for you, for once, to preach about flesh."

Weidmann answered very seriously:--"But I do not at all deny the spirit; it is even incomprehensible to me how people can manage not to believe in a God. I find traces of him everywhere. But we will speak of this by and by. Let us go."

The audience went out into the street, where the procession was now passing along. First came the fire-companies of that and the neighboring villages, fine fresh-looking young fellows in drab linen clothes, with gleaming, yellow helmets on their heads.

"This is a new order of things," Eric said to Weidmann.

Weidmann rejoined, nodding:--"Yes, no age before ours has had the like, and who knows what will come of it!"

Now the wagons came along with their merry occupants, and occasionally the female hemp-dressers would scatter chopped straw upon the gazing crowd. New wine was handed out from the wagon, and a joyous hilarity was everywhere seen. Weidmann again welcomed his guests, saying that he would take them home with him at evening, and that Herr Knopf would be particularly delighted. He introduced them also to his nephew, Dr. Fritz, adding that Herr Knopf held himself back for the dance.

They next proceeded to the fair-grounds, where the prizes were being awarded, and Weidmann took his guests to the exhibition of agricultural implements. He pointed out that there was no perfect shovel and no perfect plough, and commended the plan of distributing the improved implements by lot among the people.

"It is difficult," he declared, "to get the peasant to adopt any new invention; the husbandman cannot be an innovator, he must not be; he is to be the representative of the conservative element, and yet he must keep pace with the progress of the new age. This is difficult, and great patience is needed."

He spoke of a long cherished plan he had entertained of sending out agricultural missionaries, or rather, of making missionaries out of some of the peasants themselves; for the peasantry always had a prejudice against a man who made use of learned words.

Roland went into the exhibition, and round among the multitude, as if he were suddenly transported into a wholly new world. Here was a man, living only a few hours' distance from Villa Eden, who was laboring with such zeal and such devotion, in order to supply good nourishment to his fellow human beings. And what are we trying to do? Something of this was apparent when he said to Eric:--

"Herr Weidmann has a noble calling, even if he does speak a great deal about manure."

Among all those who were shouting and rejoicing, there was not one so happy as Eric was, when he heard his pupil say this. This acknowledgment,--that none of the material substances on which human activity was employed were impure, if one considered the real thought thereby unfolded,--this was a result far beyond his expectation. He congratulated himself on having come here; here must Roland find his true vocation, he must devote himself to agriculture, for in that there is a direct means of benefiting the many.

"You must see my pigs," urged Weidmann, "Yorkshire pigs, six weeks old, splendid creatures! Have you too an antipathy to pigs? I can very easily imagine it. But, my young friend, of the meat that goes for food in our country, seventy per cent. is pork, twenty per cent. beef and veal, and only ten per cent. mutton, lamb, fowl, game, etc., is eaten."

The Yorkshire pigs were, in fact, very pretty-looking animals.

Roland did not go to see them, but remained a long time looking at the so-called Hercules' Clubs, or the Serpent's Gourds, as they are also termed, a huge growth, half as long as a man, and double the thickness of his arm.

The prizes were awarded, the rejoicing of the people became tumultuous, and it was a continual delight to Eric to point out to his pupil, that this was a festival got up by the people themselves, and was established neither by Church nor State. Weidmann, who heard something of this, added smiling:--

"Yes, this is our new self-government in all matters, high and low. We have no overseers, neither consecrated nor unconsecrated."

The sun shone down brightly upon the lively scene of joyous festivity, and Roland, standing upon the now empty platform, said to Eric:--

"If my father were only here! Suppose now that to each one of the multitude here, all of them,--how many do you think there are?"

"At least a thousand."

"A thousand persons," he repeated. "Then, if one should give this very minute a thousand gulden to each one of them?"

"This would be very well for a day, a year, or even several years, but not for life. You have been told that the way to help people is, to put good tools into their hands, and good tools into their souls, so that they may get their own living--that's the thing."

"Yes, yes, it was only a dream," said Roland, and his countenance fell.

Why had Eric not shared with him in the joy of this dream?

It was time for them to go to the dance; they heard the sound of music. They entered the Raven Inn, where a green garland was hanging outside, and inside, peasants and peasant girls were dancing merrily. On a little platform among the musicians there was a man playing the flute, who nodded to them as they came in; it was Knopf. Roland seized Eric's hand, trembling, and pointing to a table covered with a red cloth where several well-dressed people were sitting, he cried:--

"There she is! There she is!"

A child of slender form, and of a blooming, rosy countenance, with long, flowing hair, was standing on the knee of a handsome, powerfully built man, with a massive head, who was addressed as Doctor Fritz.

Knopf gave a signal to the trumpeter near him, and the dance ceased. He came down, and shook Eric and Roland by the hand. Tears stood in his eyes under his huge spectacles, and fell upon the glasses, so that he had to doff his spectacles, and look at the new-comers with blinking eyes.

"You come at a good time, at the best. We are celebrating the District Fair."

"Forgive me," exclaimed Roland.

"I did that a long while ago. Dear--you have grown very tall. Come with me."

He conducted them to the large table, and introduced Eric to Frau Weidmann. And another person, who was sitting behind the table, shook Eric and Roland by the hand; it was the Russian, who was now living with Weidmann as a pupil. Weidmann's two sons, Dr. Fritz, from America, and his child, were also introduced. Roland and the maiden gazed at each other as if they were in a dream.

"Father, this is the Forest-prince whom I saw," said the maiden to the handsome, strongly-built man.

Her voice made Roland look round; so would the lilies of the valley have rung out their soft tones, if their little bells could have emitted any sound.

The adventure in the wood was now gaily narrated, and Knopf was especially delighted.

"Miracles still take place! Miracles still take place!" he kept exclaiming, flourishing at the same time his flute. "But now, children, follow me; do not speak--not a single word. Roland can dance, and you can dance too, Lilian. I beg you would be quiet!" he cried aloud to the assembly. "Our children are going to dance--our children are going to dance by themselves."

He stationed himself again on the platform, and played a waltz on his flute; the children danced, and all eyes were fixed upon them, as if it were a fairy spectacle.

Roland and Lilian had not yet spoken a word, and they had so much to say to each other; but they were dancing together. Who knows how long Knopf would have kept on playing, had not Dr. Fritz called out:--

"That'll do for the present, Herr Candidate!" Knopf flinched; the word candidate, in the midst of this fairy tale, seemed to annoy him, it sounded so horribly prosaic.

Roland and Lilian took their seat with the others at the table. Knopf exhorted Lilian to give her partner something to drink, but Frau Weidmann insisted upon the children's waiting awhile before they drank. They sat quietly, looking at each other without speaking.

Eric begged that his coming should make no interruption in their plans, but Weidmann declared that he wanted to leave, at any rate; he had already been obliged to answer hundreds of questions. Frau Weidmann regretted that the best rooms in the house were already occupied, and that Eric and Roland would have to put up with such poor accommodations.

"Don't be uneasy," interposed Weidmann; "all women, even the best, make apologies for their housekeeping, however good it may be."

The whole company adjourned from the table to the courtyard. Dr. Fritz leading his little daughter by the hand; and now it was learned that he and his child were going to start the next day for America.

Knopf took Roland's arm, and Eric walked between Weidmann and his wife; the Russian had gone out into the fields with a son of Weidmann, while the second accompanied Dr. Fritz. Frau Weidmann could not forbear letting Eric know why her husband was so taciturn; that he devoted himself too much to other people, and then he came home all fagged out. Who knows whether he would not have taken his violin and played for the people, if Eric had not come?

Weidmann declared that he had done this, and was not at all ashamed of it.

Eric replied that it was exceedingly painful to see how often it was that one was almost ashamed of manifesting any good feeling in the world, because so many merely pretended to possess it, and only used it as a means of acquiring popularity.

Weidmann made mention of Eric's office in the House of Correction, adding that the man who played the key-bugle had been a convict formerly, and had conducted himself well for years.

Frau Weidmann, who was of the opinion that talking was too much of an exertion for her husband at present, now resumed the thread of conversation, and asked Eric whether it was a settled matter that Pranken was to marry the rich Sonnenkamp's daughter.

Eric could not keep saying yes, and Frau Weidmann was exceedingly vexed.

"It always puts me out," she said, "when a healthy and wealthy girl of the middle class marries a nobleman; our good, solid, industrial acquisitions are alienated. I do not wish to say that the noble is not our friend; but he does not belong to us, he considers himself something different from us, and the fruit of our toil goes to him. A girl of the middle class, who buys a title by marriage, betrays her ancestors, and betrays us in her posterity."

Frau Weidmann spoke so excitedly and angrily, that her husband tried in vain to pacify her; he took, however, the wrong means, informing her that Herr Sonnenkamp himself wanted to receive a title.

Eric was startled to hear this matter, which had been regarded as a great secret, here spoken of so openly.

Frau Weidmann had a special dislike towards Pranken; she disliked him because he induced so many people to place good breeding, as it was termed, above plain uprightness. You could hear hundreds of persons, women as well as men, speak well of him in spite of his vicious life, because he was so well bred, as they called it.

"Suppose Manna had come here?" thought Eric to himself.

Weidmann turned to Eric with the explanation that his wife was pretty severe against Pranken, as two years ago, about the time that Eric had taken the position at Sonnenkamp's, Pranken had spent a few days at Mattenheim, and in that short time had introduced a disorderly state of things at the farm, which was not without its effects even at the present time.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

II. A PEBBLE ANSWERS FOR A JEWEL

Knopf, meanwhile, talked much with Roland, and congratulated him in having a man like Eric for a teacher. Roland was as inattentive as ever, asking at last only this question,--

"What is the maiden's name?"

"Lilian. And this is the miraculous part of it! You gave her in the wood a Mayflower, and the Mayflower is also called Lily of the Valley."

"What's her father?"

"A famous lawyer, a leading opponent of slavery."

Knopf would rather have given himself a slap on the mouth, than to have uttered what he did. But it couldn't be unsaid. He turned suddenly and looked sharply at Roland, and, to his satisfaction, he became convinced that no effect had been produced upon the youth.

During the whole distance they seemed to be hearing the music of the waltz, and now, as they approached the farm, that ceased, for there struck upon their ears the rushing and roaring of a mill-stream and the clattering of a mill. The stream flowed underneath a large part of the house, and turned the mill constructed there.

"You will not sleep well to-night," said Knopf to Roland.

"Why not?"

"Because you must first get used to the noise of the mill; if one is accustomed to it, he sleeps the more soundly for it. It was so with my little pupil."

Not far from the farm buildings, the different individuals, meeting again, were standing near the palings of an inclosure, where Roland was delighted with the handsome colts that were frisking about within, and which all came up to the fence when they sniffed Herr Weidmann's proximity.

He informed them that this was his "little children's school;" he had established a "coltgarten" for colts, to which all the breeders of horses in the district sent the foals. There was good pasture-land, where they could perform their gymnastic exercises, be well-sheltered and safely cared for. This helped the whole surrounding country in the rearing of horses.

Roland was highly pleased with this information, and Eric took fresh satisfaction in the thought of having brought him here. A man like Weidmann would exert an influence over Roland such as no other person could.

"Have you studied chemistry?" Weidmann asked, turning to Roland.

He said no.

Weidmann looked down, then up, and asked,--

"Have you determined yet what you mean to do?"

For the first time, Roland hesitated to give a direct answer.

Weidmann urged the matter no further. Eric could not conceive what made Roland so timid; but he saw clearly what a great influence this man had acquired over his pupil. Perhaps also what Roland had heard caused him to waver, and he was reluctant to speak, before a man of such active usefulness, of a vocation in which outward show and glory were the ends in view.

But there was another reason. The child with golden hair let go her father's hand, went up to Knopf and whispered to him, that now he must be convinced all was true she had told him; that he had never believed she had met any one in the wood, but now the witness was before his eyes.

Roland whispered to Knopf, that Eric had never been disposed to believe that such a thing had really happened to him.

Knopf, who saw himself placed in the midst of wonder-land, moved his hand repeatedly over his breast, while his eyes gleamed behind his spectacles. Yes, in the very midst of chemistry, scientific feeding, locomotive whistles, and dividend calculations--in the midst of all this there was still romance left in the world. True, this happens only to children born on Sunday, and Lilian was a Sunday-child.

He only wished that he could do something towards deepening and making lasting this gleaming romance of their wonderful meeting.

But that's just it! One can't do anything in this sphere of the romantic, it always comes of its own accord, unexpected and surprising; it won't be regulated and reasonably built up. All one can do is, to keep still and hold his breath, and make no sound; otherwise the charm is broken. He had to do something to further it, and he did the very best thing; he went off and left the children by themselves.

They looked at each other, but neither spoke. A handsome red heifer, with a bell on her neck and a garland over her horns, was led into the farm-yard. The maiden went up to her, and stroking her, said,--

"Ah, good evening, Brindy! Do you feel proud because you've taken the prize? Shall you tell your neighbors of it? Will you enjoy yourself now at home, or don't you know anything about your honors?"

The heifer was led to the barn, and the child, turning to Roland, cried,--

"Wouldn't you like to know whether the heifer has any notion of what has happened to her?"

As Roland was still silent, the child continued, very seriously,--

"Don't you want to be a husbandman, and have my uncle teach you? Then you can have my room. It's beautiful there!"

The maiden found words sooner than Roland, who still did not open his lips.

She continued,--

"Why haven't you been to see us before?"

"I did not know where you lived, nor who you were."

"Ah! That was why!"

And now they talked of their first meeting, how Lilian was carried away by her uncle, and how Roland wandered on to find Eric. Then it was spring, and now it is autumn.

"Just think! In your lilies there were some pretty little flies, which went along with us in the carriage, and didn't stir."

"Have you kept the flowers?"

"No. I don't like withered flowers, Give me something--give me something, that doesn't wither."

"I have nothing," replied Roland. "But I will send you my photograph, taken as a page--no. That's not fit for you. Oh, if I only had my rings now! I should like to give a ring, but Herr Eric has taken them all off my fingers."

"I don't want any ring. Well, give me that--give me the pebble that's now under your foot."

Roland stooped down, and giving her the pebble, begged she would also give him one.

She did so, saying,--

"Yes, this is dearer to me. I'd rather have that than anything else. Now I shall take a part of Germany with me over the ocean. Oh, Herr Knopf is right; it is all one whether you have a pebble or a diamond, if you only hold it dear; and it's very stupid for people to wear pearls and think that it's something very fine, because they must be got away down deep in the sea. Herr Knopf is right; it doesn't make a thing beautiful or good to cost a great deal."

Roland was silent; his heart beat fast.

"You are the Roland then, of whom the good Herr Knopf is always talking? You can't think how much he loves you."

"Probably he loves you as much?"

"Yes, he loves me too, and he has promised to come to America to see us."

"I am from America, too."

"Ah, yes! Welcome, my dear countryman; come with me into the garden, and help me get a nosegay to take away with me to-morrow."

"But where are you going to-morrow?"

"Very early we start for home."

The children were confronted, as it were, by a riddle. These children of the New World met each other to welcome the arrival in the Old World, and now to bid each other farewell.

"We see one another only to say a welcome and a good-bye," said Roland.

"Come into the garden with me," replied Lilian.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

III. AN HOUR IN PARADISE

The children walked about the garden and gathered flowers, and they seemed to be in fairy land. They went first into the vegetable garden, where dwarf pear-trees were set out at regular intervals, and Lilian, thinking that she must explain everything to the visitor, in a matronly manner, said:--

"Yes, yes, there's no rose-bush, no little tree, which my aunt has not budded, and she hates all vermin. Now just think what aunt reckons as vermin! But you musn't laugh at her for it."

"What? Tell me."

"She considers the birds vermin, too. Oh, you laugh exactly like my brother Hermann. Laugh once more! Yes, he laughs exactly so. But my brother has been in business for three years. Come, we'll look for some flowers now."

They went into the flower garden and gathered many different kinds of flowers, but Lilian threw a large bunch of them into the brook, and pleased herself with thinking how the flowers would float down to the Rhine, and from the Rhine to the sea, and who knows but they would go straight to New York, even before she got there herself!

"I shall come to America, too, to see you," Roland all at once exclaimed.

"Give me your hand that you will."

For the first time, the children took each other by the hand.

A shot was heard behind them. Roland trembled.

"Just be quiet. Are you really frightened?" Lilian said, soothingly. "It's aunt; she's only frightening away the sparrows; she fires every time she comes into the orchard. A pistol is always lying upon the table yonder."

Roland now saw Frau Weidmann putting the discharged pistol down on the table.

"We'll be perfectly quiet, so that she won't hear us," he said to Lilian.

They sat down on the margin of the brook, and Lilian whispered:--

"The mignonettes I'll keep, they smell so sweet, even after they're wilted."

"Yes," Roland rejoined, "give me a mignonette too, and as often as we smell them, we will think of each other. The field-guard Claus, told me once--he's a real bee-father--that the mignonette yields the most honey."

Of all his knowledge, nothing else now occurred to him.

"You are very clever!" exclaimed the child. "Now tell me, do you think, too, that the bees smell the flowers as we do, and that the flowers put on such pretty colors so that the bees and the insects may come to them and be friendly with them? Just think! Herr Knopf says so. Oh, what a tiny little nose a bee must have! And I've often seen that the humble-bee isn't very smart; it flies up to a flower twice, three times, and it might know that there was no honey there. The humble-bee's stupid, but the honey-bees, they are the prettiest creatures in the world. Don't you love them more than anything else?"

"No, I love horses and hounds more."

"And only think," Lilian went on, "that the bees never hurt me nor uncle, but aunt has to take care. Have you ever caught a swarm?"

"No."

"If you're ever a great, rich gentleman, you must get some bees too. But the bees do well only in a family where there's peace; Herr Knopf told me so. And when we start to-morrow, my father's going to take a bee-hive with him. Ah, if we can only take it safe to the New World; 'twould be frightful if all the good bees had to die on the way. But 'twill be very nice when they wake up in America, and fly away, and see wholly different trees there."

"Is it really true that you're going away to-morrow?"

"Yes, my father has said so, and when he's said it, there's nothing can hinder; you may be just as sure of it as that the sun will rise. My father, uncle, and Herr Knopf have talked about you a great deal."

"About me?"

"Yes, they've wondered ever so much what you're going to do. Are you really worth so many hundred millions?"

"Yes, Lilian, all the money in the whole world is mine."

"Ah, what do you say! you must think I'm a goose; I'm not so simple as all that. But what do you mean to be?"

"A soldier."

"Oh, that's nice; then you'll come over to us, and help kill all the people dead who keep slaves. My father and uncle say 'twill be done soon. Ah, if 'twere only now as 'twas in the old times, then we'd go away together into the great forest, far off into the world, and then we'd come to a castle where there were only wee-bit, tiny dwarfs, and there'd be one hermit, a good man with a snow-white beard, whom all the animals in the wood loved--and Herr Knopf might be just such a hermit--yes he's to be our hermit, and he'll be named Emil Martin. Come, we'll call him after this brother Martin."

Thus the children amused each other, and Roland again asked,--

"Why must you go away so soon as to-morrow?"

"And why must you stay here any longer?" answered Lilian.

"I must stay with my parents."

"And I with mine. Ah, you've a beard already," cried the child, pulling suddenly the down on his lip.

"That hurts; you've pulled out a couple of hairs, and I'm proud of them."

"You're proud of them then?" And she tenderly stroked his face, pronouncing at the same time a so-called healing-spell, which she had learned of Knopf for the healing of a wound.

"Have you the dog still?" asked Lilian.

"Yes, he must have gone with Eric. Where is he, I wonder?"

He whistled, and Griffin came up. Lilian caressed the dog, and kissed him, and said all kinds of loving words to him.

"I'll give the dog to you," said Roland.

"See," cried the child, "he's looking at you; he knows he's to be handed over to another master, just as a slave is. But, Roland, I can't take the dog with me. I mustn't say anything to father about it. Only think how much trouble we should have before we reached New York; you'd better keep him."

Roland had been lost in thought; now he asked abruptly,--

"Have you ever seen any slaves?"

"No, when they come to us they aren't slaves any longer. But I've seen many who've been slaves--one is a friend of father's, and father goes through the streets with him, arm in arm."

"Come here, Griffin," she said breaking off, "here's something for you."

She gave the dog a piece of sweet biscuit she had in her pocket, which he ate, licking his lips as he stood calmly gazing at the distant landscape.

For some time the children were silent, and then Lilian again asked,---

"Well, what are you going to do with the ever so many millions, when you're a man?"

"What makes you ask me that?"

"Oh, uncle and Herr Knopf have often talked about what you were going to do with them--and do you know what they said?"

"No. What would you do, if you had so much money?"

"I? I'd buy ever so many pretty clothes, real gold and silver clothes, and then--well then--then I'd build a splendid church, and everybody would have to be beautifully dressed, and when they came home, they'd have nice things to eat. And you'll do all this, won't you? or you'll tell me what you mean to do."

"I don't know."

"But you are to be something great. Ah, to be rich, pooh! Uncle says that's nothing."

"Have you ever seen a million?" asked the child again. "I'd like to see a million for once. The whole room, clear up to the top, would be full of rolls of gold--no, I shouldn't like that. Tell me now, have you a little sister?"

"No, she's a year older than I."

"And is she beautiful too?"

Lilian did not wait for the answer; she beckoned to Roland to keep quiet, for just then a lady-bug ran over her hand. She placed the little creature on its back, saying,--

"Look, now it's kicking, it can't help itself--there, now, its little wings are under its back, and with them it has got up again, all by itself. Hi! it's off. 'Twill have a long story to tell when it gets home. Ah, it will say. There was a great animal that had five legs on its hand--my fingers must appear to it like legs, and when it eats supper to-night it eats with----"

"Tell me, aren't you hungry too? I'm hungry."

"What are you doing there?" suddenly called out a woman's loud voice. "Come into the house."

Lilian's aunt had made her appearance behind the children, and they had to go with her to the house.

Lilian saw Roland's frightened expression, and with the idea that he must certainly be thinking of the wicked woman in the story, who eats the children up in the wood, she said in a low tone,--

"Aunt won't do us any harm; instead, we'll get something very nice to-night, great pancakes and leeks. Don't you see a leek in her hand, which she has just cut? That's for the pancakes."

Roland and Lilian accompanied Frau Weidmann into the house.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

IV. VOCATION AND FATHER-LAND

While the children had been dreaming and chattering together in the garden, the men had gone into the house. They stepped into the large wainscoted entrance-hall, where a great many withered wreaths were suspended. Weidmann pointed out to Eric that forty-two of these belonged to him, for that was the number of harvests he had worked in here.

The single wreath hanging by itself was the fiftieth one of his father-in-law, which had been placed upon his grave. Weidmann nodded as Eric said:--

"This is a decoration which cannot be purchased, which one can acquire only for himself."

Eric was glad to point this out to Roland.

They entered the sitting-room on the ground-floor. It was spacious and comfortable, with pleasant seats in the window-recesses, and chairs and tables scattered about here and there.

"We live on the ground-floor in the summer," said Weidmann to Eric; "every thing can be overlooked here better: After the leaves have fallen, we remove to the upper story for the winter."

The great sitting-room opened into another apartment, where the heavy damask curtain had just been drawn back. The Banker, whom Eric had become acquainted with at Carlsbad, came out of it, holding in his hand a bundle of papers, and gave him a friendly greeting, expressing his pleasure in meeting again here the man who was as intimate a friend of Clodwig's as he was himself.

A new subject was at once introduced. The Banker said that he had looked over the papers thoroughly; the public domain did not seem to be valued at too high a figure, and Weidmann must understand how it was purposed to divide it; but he believed that it would be hardly possible to extend to this new undertaking the plan of insurance which Weidmann had adopted for his laborers; that it was very questionable whether the income, for years, would be such that the life-insurance premium could be saved.

Eric learned that Weidmann paid the life-insurance premium of all his employees after they had been with him four years.

Weidmann gave a statement, in general outline, of the manner in which the so-called social question struck him as being the same as among the ancient Romans; the point of consideration was to make free and independent cultivators of their own lands. And he laid particular stress upon the remark that this social question, however, was not to be solved as if it were merely a problem in arithmetic; that there must be a moral and social enthusiasm, and he must confess, although many would shrug their shoulders at it, that he himself was of opinion that the humane principle of Freemasonry, which had too much lost its real meaning, was to look for, and to find here, a new inspiration and application.

It was soon evident that the Banker was a brother of the order.

Eric's heart swelled as he felt obliged to say to himself, while his thoughts were carried away to the grand movements of the world:--

"Everywhere, in our day, there is an active endeavor, a care for the neighbor, for those in adverse circumstances. This is our religion, which has no temples and no established days of festive celebration, but which, everywhere and at all times, struggles for the good."

He entirely forgot where he came from, and why he came, and lived wholly in the present.

Weidmann postponed, however, the subject to another time, and asked what Roland was going to do. But before Eric could reply, a man came in with Dr. Fritz, to whom Eric gave a cordial reception. It was Weidmann's son-in-law, an infantry officer of high rank. The two men requested that the conversation might not be interrupted, and Weidmann repeated his question about Roland.

Eric informed them that his pupil wanted to become a soldier; he expressed his own opposition to the plan, and his desire that Roland would devote himself to science or agriculture.

Weidmann answered, smiling, that Eric was a little too hard on this mode of life, from having been a soldier; that he himself was convinced it was of essential advantage to a man to have had a soldier's training. A man became ready, resolute and self-reliant, and at the same time he was one member of a large body. Nowhere can one be taught punctuality better, or learn better what it is to command, and what to obey, than in the military service. Roland must be made to realize, however, that this soldierly life was only transitional with him, nothing that was to occupy and fill out his whole existence.

"Then he will be no true soldier," interposed Weidmann's son-in-law. "Whoever undertakes anything which he does not consider as an active employment, requiring the full energies of his life, and whoever is continually looking to some future vocation, does not plant himself firmly in the present."

"Here you agree with my old teacher, Professor Einsiedel," Eric went on. "He used to say that the worst ruler is the provisional one. It would be, therefore, important for Roland to adopt some permanent calling, and not one merely temporary. With his peculiar characteristics, it is very hard for another to determine for him; but you, Herr Weidmann, you, with the powerful impression which you and your active usefulness have made upon Roland, you would be exceedingly well adapted to give to him the decisive impulse in one particular direction which I could not do, because I have not seen clearly what is best.

"Let us take counsel together," agreed Weidmann. "We here have had a great deal of experience."

"Do you think," Eric broke in, "that a better result would come from a consultation of many, than from the quiet meditation of a single person?"

"Aha! doubt in the efficacy of parliamentarianism," said Weidmann smiling. "I can imagine it possible. I answer your question with a simple yes. What the deliberation of many settles upon is suitable for many, and a person rich like him has in himself the power of many and for many. Let us consult together."

They sat down, and the Banker began,--

"I believe it is Jean Paul who said,--If you come into a new dwelling-place, and it does not seem homelike to you, then go to work and you will begin to feel at home. I should like to extend this further. One feels at home in the world only through labor; he who does not work is homeless."

The conversation was again interrupted by the entrance of the Russian prince, Weidmann's son, and Knopf. The subject was again stated.

"We have a good council of deliberation," said Weidmann, sitting back in his chair. "You have all seen the noble-looking youth, Herr Sonnenkamp's son, and Captain Dournay has trained him so that now, we might say, he is fitted to enter upon whatever calling he may adopt. What now shall the boy do?"

"Allow me one preliminary question," interposed Knopf. "Must a rich man produce, accomplish anything himself? Is it not his task to further the production, the doing of others, whether art, science, industry, or labor, and to make himself so far familiar with it as to give such aid?"

"You wanted to answer something." Weidmann pointed to the Banker, whose features were very expressive, and who seemed to have a remark on his lips.

"Not exactly answer," responded the Banker. "I wanted, first of all, to distinguish between vocation and business. There are active pursuits which are only a business, and again there are positions which are only a vocation. This is the chief difficulty, that a person so excessively rich must have only a vocation; there is no necessity of his pursuing any business. Rich people's children degenerate, because there is no such necessity."

"What do you understand by vocation?" asked Weidmann.

"I can't at once define it."

"Then allow me to help you," said Eric. "Vocation is a natural gift, or a necessity, which we turn into a law that acts freely. The brute has no vocation, because he follows natural instinct alone."

"Very true," nodded the Banker gratefully. "One question more," he said, turning to Eric. "Hasn't your pupil, as I am sorry to say most rich men's sons have, the desire to be a cavalier, a young nobleman?"

As Eric made no answer, he continued,--

"Our misfortune is, that the sons of the rich are satisfied with being heirs, and do not want to find a means of active development for themselves."

"As we have heard already," began Weidmann's son-in-law, "the young man wishes to become a soldier, and I believe that he ought to be encouraged in that purpose. I hope that it won't be attributed to prejudice in favor of my own calling, but I must repeat our father's view, that the military profession, more than any other, gives a certain decision of character. To have to stand ready every day with bag and baggage, scrip and scrippage, this makes one prompt and decided; this standing army becomes a fact, as it were, in each individual soldier."

"Granted," rejoined Weidmann. "But is it not to be feared that a man, who has been a soldier for the best years of his life, will be able to take up with great difficulty any other employment? He always regards himself as on furlough; and the great misfortune--I might call it the leading tendency of our time--manifests itself especially in the rich, who look upon themselves as on furlough, always on vacation."

"The best thing about it is, Roland will run through his money, and then it is scattered among the people," jokingly observed Weidmann's son, showing those impertinently white teeth that Pranken objected to so strongly.

"I would like to say one word," the Russian remarked to Knopf, who cried,--

"The Prince requests to have the floor."

Weidmann bowed to him pleasantly.

"I think that we can furnish an example in Russia. Our wealthy men are obliged to become agriculturists, whether the inheritance consists in money or goods. Why should not the young man be simply an agriculturist?"

"Agriculture has five branches," replied Weidmann, "and they ought to have their roots in five corresponding inclinations. Agriculture consists of physics, chemistry, mineralogy, botany, and zoology, and one of these, that is, the inclination to one of these sciences, and the activity growing out of it, must have its foundation in the natural bent or genius, otherwise there is no happiness in one's calling. And do you know," he turned toward the Prince, smiling, "do you know what is the first requisite for an agriculturist?"

"Money."

"No, that's the second. The first is a sound human understanding. There are far more intellectual men than there are men of genuine common sense."

The Prince nodded to Knopf, and he gave a merry nod in return.

Weidmann opposed, with a warmth that was very different from his usually composed manner, the view generally entertained of agriculture as a sort of universal refuge, to which every one could have recourse; and yet the conclusion was finally arrived at, that it would be the most suitable thing for Roland to devote himself to agriculture, in connection with other branches of industry carried out on a large scale.

The conversation broke up into groups. Knopf said to Eric, that at the present time there was no longer an Olympus where the fate of human beings could be decided, and Weidmann added, that the worst thing of all was, that Roland had nothing to expect, nothing to wish for and to obtain, and for which he must exert his energies, happy when he succeeded in his first attempt, and then girding himself immediately for another; for this is the impelling cause of all movement and progress, that what is attained becomes the seed of a new effort.

"You were right," he closed, finally turning to Eric, "we cannot provide for another in advance, least of all here. And no one can be trained to be a giver of happiness. There must be awakened within the youth a desire to associate himself with his fellow-men; he must not merely want to confer happiness, but to create something. Out of creative activity alone proceeds happiness. He must be educated both for himself and for others; he must refer everything to others, and at the same time to himself."

Dr. Fritz had taken no part in the discussion; he sat meditatively with his brows contracted.

"Why have you had nothing to say?" said Weidmann in a low tone to him, when the conversation had become general. Dr. Fritz replied in the same low tone:--

"It is hard enough to know what to do with such an enormous inheritance righteously acquired; but how much harder, with one to which guilt adheres."

Weidmann made a significant sign to his nephew, and laid his finger upon his lips, as if begging silence. Eric had heard nothing of the conversation between the two, but as he looked at them, he had a feeling, as if something transpired there which was calculated to excite alarm. He had an involuntary dread, for which he could not assign any reason.

Frau Weidmann now came in, and invited them to the table. They got up at once and proceeded to the dining-room.

Eric sat by the side of Knopf, and said to him:--

"I have a question to ask you, Herr Colleague, which you may take until tomorrow to answer."

"What is it, pray?"

"What would you do; if you should become the possessor suddenly of many millions?"

Knopf, who had just put his glass up to his mouth, began to cough and choke so that he was forced to leave the table. He came back again after a while; but he ate and drank nothing the whole evening.

The Banker, who read a great many journals, asked Dr. Fritz if the horrible stories one reads of American life had any foundation in truth.

"Most certainly," answered Dr. Fritz--Roland looked sharply at him--"if we fix the gaze upon some individual and separate fact in the development of life in the New World, we shall often be wounded by monstrous appearances of deformity; but a very distinguished statesman once gave me a striking illustration, of which I am glad to make a wider extension. This gentleman said to me:--'I was at Munich, and there I first understood aright my fatherland. I was at the foundry where the gigantic statue of Bavaria was cast, and the different parts of the figure were lying around, here an arm, a knee, a hand, there the head and a part of the trunk, all horrible to look at in this separate condition. But when I saw the whole colossal statue set up in its place, and in all its beautiful harmony of proportions, then it occurred to me that America must be looked at in this way. The separate parts appear monstrous, but if one regards it at as a whole, it is of an unequalled beauty and grandeur.'"

At these words, Roland looked up at Eric with a bright, triumphant glance, and smiled.

They rose from the table. Lilian was soon put to bed, and when Dr. Fritz took leave previous to retiring, Roland retained his hand firmly, saying:--

"I thank you for having so beautifully extolled my fatherland. I shall never forget it."

"Shall you not consider Germany as your fatherland?"

"No," was Roland's loud and decided answer.

"Stay here; I have something yet to say to you," said Weidmann in a low tone to Eric.

Roland walked about with Knopf in the bright starry night, and Knopf had to promise him that he would wake him up to say good-bye to Dr. Fritz and his child. Roland then consented to go to bed, but was long in falling asleep, for the events of the day, the noise of the brook, and the clattering of the mill kept him awake. But at last weariness and youth gained the victory, and he slept soundly.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

V. NOCTURNAL INFORMATION, AND A FAREWELL LOST BY SLEEP

Roland slept; he little thought that over him and his destiny two men were keeping watch in the deepest anxiety.

Eric had followed his host into the workroom, and here Weidmann asked him: "Do you know why you are sent here?"

"Sent here?"

"Yes."

"Herr Sonnenkamp wants to establish friendly relations with you, and I myself have wished for some time----"

"Good. The best spy is often the one who doesn't know that he has to be a spy, who looks on innocently and reports innocently."

"I don't understand."

"Take my word for it, Herr Sonnenkamp didn't for a moment think of coming to our house, especially as he does not yet know when Dr. Fritz leaves; his pretending to you that he was called away was quite harmless. Send a messenger, and he will send you word with his regrets that he cannot come himself, but will send the carriage. Ah! my young friend, there is no pleasure in following up the trail of the beast of prey in man. But first of all, one question. Do you know how Herr Sonnenkamp comes on in his endeavors to get a title?"

"No."

"Do you know that I have hit upon means to be relied on of forming an opinion of Herr Sonnenkamp's deserts?"

Eric expressed his ignorance, and Weidmann continued:----

"I have told you that the groom who blows the trumpet was once a convict. I have still another convict that I keep on an out of the way part of the estate, for he doesn't do well, not so much from an evil disposition, as from a spirit of braggadocio when he is amongst men. You see then that I do not reject men of criminal antecedents; for pride in our own virtue is very weak-kneed. It is, at the best, only good luck if we, by teaching and example, and with the means of subsistence assured to us, do not burden ourselves with many an ill deed that we cannot blot out. Of course, a long-continued, closely-calculating occupation, revolting to every feeling of humanity--but as I said, I will put no obstacle in Herr Sonnenkamp's way, only it is incomprehensible to me that he should seek to be ennobled, and in that way voluntarily challenge inquiry into his antecedents. If, as my friend Wolfsgarten says, you have great influence over Herr Sonnenkamp, advise him to give this thing up."

Eric held his hand before his eyes; his eye was burning, he strove to speak, but could not.

Weidmann, who misapprehended this emotion, said in a mild tone:--

"I admire your power, in having been able, as Herr Knopf informed me, and as I myself see, to bring an atmosphere of noble feeling into this family, to hold your pupil in the path of innocence, and to naturalize him in all that is good. If this boy should one day learn----"

"Learn what? what? I beg of you," Eric was at last able to utter.

"Do you mean to say," answered Weidmann, pressing his head with both hands, "do you mean to say that you know nothing about it?"

"I know nothing more than this, that Herr Sonnenkamp owned large plantations with great numbers of slaves, that he grew tired of the life, and therefore came back to Germany."

"Herr Sonnenkamp--Herr Sonnenkamp!" said Weidmann, "a pretty name! and it is well for him that his mother bore it. So you have never heard of a Herr Banfield?"

"Nothing very definite; but the head gardener told me that Herr Sonnenkamp was very angry on his return from the Baths, when he found that name registered in the visitors' book. But tell me, what is there in that?"

"Herr Sonnenkamp, or rather, not Herr Sonnenkamp, but, as his name really is, Herr Banfield, is in so many words the most notorious slave-dealer ever known in the Southern States; nay, more. My nephew, Doctor Fritz, could tell you many a thing he has done; he even went so far as to defend slavery in the public prints, and he was so shameless as to set himself up as a proof that all Germans had not degenerated into sentimental humanity, but that he, a representative of Germany, supported slavery, maintaining it to be right. He has a ring on his thumb; if he takes the ring off, you can see the marks of the teeth of a slave whom he was throttling, and who bit him in that thumb."

A cry of horror was wrung from Eric's heart; he could only gasp out the words:--

"O Roland! O Mother! O Manna!"

"It grieves me to tell you this, but it is best that you should learn it through me. You cannot conceive that a man with such antecedents can at times appear so well, and engage in the discussions of principles. Yes, this man is a swamp encircled with flowers. The fellow has cost me many days of my life, for I cannot understand how he can live. Slave-dealing is murder in cold blood, the annihilation of free existence for one's own gain; the murderer from passion, and the murderer from rapacity, stalk over the corpses of their victims to gratify their desire of establishing their supposed rights. The world is to them a field of battle and a conflict, an annihilation of their foes, to find room for themselves. But a slave-dealer--a slave murderer! And this man is now a fruit-grower, a most excellent, careful fruit-grower, in mockery of the words: 'By their fruits ye shall know them.' Oh! my head was fairly crazed with this man, until I brought myself to the point of being able to forget him!"

Weidmann spoke on uninterruptedly, as if he did not wish these sad thoughts to settle down upon him.

Soon Eric raised his head and besought him:--

"Tell me all."

"Yes, you shall know all,--ah, what is all? You have heard of the fate of Captain Brown at Harper's Ferry?"

"Certainly. Was Herr Sonnenkamp there too?"

"He was a ringleader."

Eric related how Roland at one time in his fever dreams shouted, "John Brown is hanging on the gallows!"

The more he spoke of Roland, the more feelingly his voice trembled, and at last hot tears burst from his eyes. He apologized for this weakness before Weidmann, who said:--

"Your tears consecrate you in my eyes forever; you shall find in me a friend whom you may call upon at any time and in any situation of life. Whatever is in my power is yours, your deeds shall be mine. You are not weak, you are strong, you must be; and it is a noble vocation for you to be placed as you are at the side of such a youth, with such a fatal inheritance."

Eric Stood up and drew a long deep breath; the two men held fast each other's hands, and laying his left on his heart, Eric said:--

"I hope that I shall show myself worthy of your appeal."

"I knew this, and it is better, as I said, that you have learned the thing from me. There's no doubt about the matter, depend upon it."

For a long while not a word was spoken. Eric had called out Manna's name with Roland's and his mother's. Now, for the first time, in the deepest sorrow, it broke upon him fully, that he loved Manna; and with a sense of satisfaction the thought shot through his soul that he had not yet spoken to her a word of love.

Terrified at this selfishness he started up.

How could he think of himself, and not of her hard fate? He grieved for her, above all, that she should be the daughter of such a man.

How will she bear it? And did she know it perhaps already? Was this the cause of her secluded life, of the eagerness to sacrifice herself and take the veil?

"Don't lose yourself in thoughts and anxious speculations," said Weidmann admonishingly.

Eric did not dare to speak of Manna; he merely asked Weidmann whether he thought he ought to communicate this information to his mother; for it was doubly agonizing to have involved his mother in such a connection.

Weidmann said that he well knew what a frightful thing it must be to eat this man's bread, to drink his wine, to receive services at his hand. But he impressed upon Eric the necessity of sparing his mother the recital as long as possible, since he needed her sorely as a stay for Frau Ceres and Manna. Yes, Weidmann called it a rare piece of good fortune to have at one's side, aiding and supporting, a woman so noble, and so tried in the battle of life.

It was long after midnight when Eric left his host.

He went to his room; he saw that Roland was asleep, and a silent vow rose to his lips, as he gazed upon the handsome, sleeping boy.

Eric wandered restless through the house and through the woods; meteors darted hither and thither through the sky; in the distance glistened the waves of the Rhine; a dewy atmosphere lay upon the whole earth; Eric found no rest, nay, he found hardly a moment's meditation. What should he, what could he do?

Morning began to glimmer; he returned to the courtyard.

Here everything was full of life.

He first fell in with Knopf, who said to him:--

"I haven't slept a wink the whole night on your account. Ah, that question of yours! Theoretically it cannot be solved, since all the real relations of life are made up not of whole numbers, but of fractions only, and can only be expressed in fractions. So the total also cannot be expressed in one whole number. I can't make out, and it turns my head to think of what I should do if I were possessed of many millions. To found benevolent institutions, that is hardly enough; the whole world shouldn't be a vast almshouse, a piously endowed establishment. I would have joy and beauty everywhere; men should be not only fed and clothed, they should also be happy. In the first place, I would found in every town a good salary for the teacher who leads the singing-club, and a pint of wine for every member on Sunday; and I would build a concert-hall in every town, with lofty summer-saloons, and well-heated rooms in winter, ornamented with beautiful paintings; and in them should be hung up the prizes gained by the club.

"I would also erect an institute for poor children, and make myself director of it; and then I would found a refuge for deserving tutors. I have even fixed on the name it should go by,--'The Home for Eventide.' Oh, that will be magnificent; how the old teachers will wrangle and each extol his system as the best! I have also decided to let the principal lie, and take a million from it to go travelling with. I would take with me a dozen or more companions, honest, capable men, naturalists, painters, sculptors, merchants, politicians, teachers--in a word, capable men from all callings. I would have them equipped with everything needful, and we would stop wherever and as long as we chose. In this way I would learn what are the best social arrangements in the world, and when I came home I'd establish similar ones. I do not expect to find it out all at once. Only think what a fine thing such a journey would be, with a dozen or more right clever men, with our own ship for the sea, and with mules for the mountains. In a word, it would be splendid, and useful at the same time. And when Roland comes home he must turn agriculturist; it is altogether the best life; that is to say, man has in that life the best basis to stand upon--the most natural basis. But, as I said, I am counting my chickens before they are hatched."

Eric hardly heard what Knopf was saying, and for the first time woke up out of his dreams when Knopf asked him,--

"Where is Roland? I promised to wake him in time for the departure of Doctor Fritz and his child."

"Just let him sleep."

"On your responsibility?"

"On my responsibility."

"Very well," rejoined Knopf. "Indeed, I had rather not wake him. In that way Roland will have to suffer a pretty little bit of romantic pain. I cannot tolerate this sentimental nonsense between children. Now he has taken his leave, or rather not taken his leave in the night, and while he was sleeping she disappeared; that is a bit of romantic pain. This taking leave! In the morning, shivering and shaking on the steamer-landing, or at the railroad station, you take leave; then the ship or the train moves off, then you stand there like one who has been robbed, and then you have got to go back. Ah, it is so absurd! I shiver a whole day after a farewell. But now if Roland wakes up and the child has flown away, that may leave a sweet, strong, ecstatic remembrance behind in the soul; and we too, you, Doctor, and I, are both giants in this children's story."

At this point Herr and Frau Weidmann came upon the scene, as well as their sons, the Russian, the Banker, and all the inmates of the house. All shook hands once more with Doctor Fritz and his child, and Lilian cried,--

"Herr Knopf, give my compliments to Roland, the sleeper."

Away rolled the carriage, the inmates of the house retired to bed; all but Eric and Knopf, who still roamed about in the morning twilight; and Knopf was especially happy to watch so closely once more the universal awakening of nature.

He said that one always neglected it, unless compelled to observe it; and that there were doubtless many poets who sang of the dewy twilight of the morn, who were at the same time frightfully late sleepers.

Eric listened to the good Knopf, but could not conceive how there could be a man out there in the open air alive to such contemplation; with him every thought and every act, the very idea that there was still much to do in life, seemed like a shadowy dream.

On the other hand, Knopf thought that Eric was all attention, and expressed regret that the child had gone; he still had the Russian Prince to instruct, indeed, but the child had made the whole house happy; she was like a living, speaking rose transplanted from the New World. They were evidently expressions which were to serve as ornaments to a poem already begun or in contemplation.

Eric listened to it all patiently.

At last he asked Knopf if Doctor Fritz had said much to him about Herr Sonnenkamp.

Knopf confirmed a part of Weidmann's information; but he did not seem to know everything.

"I take the holy morn to witness," exclaimed Knopf, "you are a man to be honored, Herr Dournay. If I had known at the time the antecedents of Herr Sonnenkamp, I should not have felt so secure when I was teaching Roland. I should always have felt as if there was a loaded pistol at my ear, to go off at any moment. Yes, you are a strong man; this is a new kind of greatness, for I know what it means to control and manage Roland as you do."

Knopf had seized hold of Eric's hand, and in his excessive enthusiasm he kissed it.

Eric was calm, and Knopf had a beatific look; his countenance with its smiles was like the stream, on whose bosom the wind tosses along the rippling waves. He maintained that they were both happy in being co-workers in the solution of the most difficult and most sublime problem of the century; for Eric had Roland to instruct, who would be obliged to have relations with slavery, and he himself had the Russian for a pupil, who had now the emancipated serfs to manage.

He represented that the prince wanted him to go home with him, and establish a school for the liberated serfs; Doctor Fritz, on the other hand, wanted him to go to America and manage a school for the children of freed negroes. He reproached himself with not having really a stronger inclination for the negro children, for as he wished to be honest, he must confess he would only go to America for the sake of seeing Lilian once more, and observing how she developed, and what fortune was in store for her.

As Eric was returning to the courtyard, he saw Weidmann and the Banker getting into the carriage; they were going to the capital to negotiate for the domain. Eric bade good-bye to them, and expressed his determination to return at once to Villa Eden. As he named Villa Eden, he felt a shiver creep over him. Weidmann stepped out of the carriage once more, took Eric aside, impressed upon him the necessity of being circumspect, and from the carriage exclaimed,--

"Dear Dournay, both for your mother and your aunt, my house is always yours."

Eric went away to waken Roland. As he woke up, he cried,--

"Is it morning already? Are they still here?"

"Who?"

"Lilian and her father."

"No; they have been gone this long while."

"And why didn't you wake me up?"

"Because you needed sleep. In one hour we are going home again."

Roland turned defiantly away; but while Eric was talking to him with great earnestness, he turned his face towards him at last, and on his long eyelashes stood big tears.

"What tears will those eyes one day shed?" said Eric to himself.

The carriage in which Doctor Fritz and his child had left came back. The coachman brought still another greeting from Lilian to Roland. The horses were not taken out, but fed in harness, and soon Eric and Roland were journeying homewards.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

VI. THE WORLD A MASQUERADE

If romantic affliction manifests itself in a pale face, a feeling of loathing, obstinacy, and hatred of one's neighbor and of everything, then had Roland experienced a genuine romantic affliction. He sat near Eric in the carriage, and shut his eyes so as to see nothing but what was going on in his own imagination; he pressed his lips hard together, pale and trembling, determined not to say a word.

Am I a child still, he asked himself, that can be knocked about hither and thither, that must obey and ask for no reason? Why didn't Eric give a reason for his returning so suddenly? Why did Knopf, with a triumphant smile, tell me that he didn't wake me on purpose? Then it flashed upon him that Knopf had taken upon himself the responsibility that Eric had assumed, and he might have thought that it would be better for Roland to be angry with an absent one, than with him in whose hands he had to remain. In the meanwhile Roland glanced over towards Eric, to see whether he wasn't on the point of beginning to explain everything to him; but Eric was silent; he had also shut his eyes.

In the bright day, through a landscape full of life, they both rode on wrapt in their own reveries.

Overcome with fatigue, Eric sat as if sunk in a half sleep, in which the rattle of the carriage sounded like a demoniacal rumble. At times, when they were descending, and the locked wheels squeaked and grated, he would look up, catch a glimpse of the Rhine in the distance, then shut his eyes, and in his half dream pierce through the view of water of mountain; and it seemed to him, as if everything was flooded over, and in the midst of the waves stood two men on rocks, far from, and still beckoning to, each other. On one stood Clodwig, speaking of a Roman relic which he held in his hand, and on the other stood Weidmann, talking of life insurance, and between whiles they were talking about Eric and Roland. And just as he woke up he heard quite distinctly, as if both had shouted out to each other, "Eric and Roland have reached home safely!"

"Here there are," they had shouted; "here they are," shouted a voice from without.

The horses stopped; Fräulein Milch was standing at the garden hedge; they were at the Major's. Eric greeted her, and taking it for granted that they had not come to see her, Fräulein Milch called out:--

"The Major drove over to the Villa more than an hour ago, and left word with me, that he would not be back to dinner."

Eric got out; he asked Fräulein Milch about his mother, and whether she knew what was going on at the villa. He learned that there must be something unusual, for everything was in happy confusion; to-day, undoubtedly, the betrothal of Von Pranken and Manna would be solemnized.

Eric allowed Roland to go home alone; he had to shape his course anew.

"The whole world is a masquerade," said Fräulein Milch.

Eric, who honored the good old lady sincerely, did not, however, feel in the mood for discussing generalities about mankind; and when Fräulein Milch tried to get out of him what he had learned at Mattenheim, he approached the limit of impoliteness in answer to her repeated inquiries. He did not suspect that Fräulein Milch, who knew everything already, wished to come to an explanation with him.

He had desired to compose himself here as in a sort of ante-room, and to think matters over, and now he went away as if frightened. He saw the handsome villa glistening in the bright sunshine, the blazing panes of the glass house and cupola; he saw the park, he saw the green cottage in which his mother lived--and all this was built and planted from the profits of traffic in human beings.

Does Pranken know it? He must know it, and then it remains to be seen whether he will extend his hand to the daughter of this house. Hatred and bitterness that Manna should belong to this house penetrated his whole being, made his hair stand on end, and clenched his fists; he would dash the whole lying structure to pieces. But Manna--how would she take it? He stood still, upbraiding himself that he had ever thought himself capable of cherishing one noble thought within his soul. He stood still and stared at the rocks as if he would have dashed them down into the valley, crushing everything beneath. A physical pain, a pang through his heart, almost took away his breath. Beaming out from the surrounding darkness it stood before him--he loved Manna; and without being aware of it, he laughed aloud.

"The daughter of this man thy wife, the mother of thy children? The world is a masquerade."

The words of Fräulein Milch came back to him, and he added to them,--

"And I am not called to tear off the mask from the faces of the maskers?"

Inwardly composed he went to the villa.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter VII

A MILLION OF POUNDS IN HAND, AND A UNIFORM TO BACK IT.

When Roland came to the Villa, he was at once summoned to his father; and as he approached him, Sonnenkamp exclaimed:--

"My son! my son! it is thou indeed! everything for thee; thou art forever secure, and elevated forever. My beloved son! Everything for thee!"

The strong man now raised up the youth like a child, and exclaimed:--"Roland, it is accomplished; forget not this moment, the crowning moment of my whole life, crowded as it has been with dangers and wanderings. My son, from this day forth, you are to be called Roland von Lichtenburg."

Roland stood once more on the floor, and trembled as he cast an involuntary glance into the large mirror.

"Yes," laughed the father, "look at yourself; so does the young baron appear. Ah! my child, you will know after a while what has been done for you. But let it remain concealed between ourselves how we have been affected by this, for I cannot show the world, and you must not, that I laid so much stress on the matter. I shall appear indifferent; we must both appear so. Above all, do not let Herr Dournay know anything of it. You came quick to-day; where did you meet my messenger?" Roland said that he knew nothing of any messenger. He now heard that his father, in the night, had sent a messenger to Mattenheim, with word to come back at once; and also that the son of the Cabinetsrath, the ensign, had been on a visit to the house with many companions, who were again coming at noon to see Roland.

"And where is Herr Dournay?" again asked Sonnenkamp.

Roland replied that he had remained behind with Fräulein Milch. Sonnenkamp laughed, and impressed his son with the necessity of continuing his customary deportment towards Eric; he must always be grateful to him, and he should be especially careful to be right modest.

"You must also learn to treat our elevation of rank as unimportant before the world. Now go to your mother--no, wait. You must still have something more that will make you strong, that will make you proud, that will make you feel safe. Stand here, I will show you how highly I esteem you, how I look upon you as a grown man."

He fumbled hurriedly in his pocket finally he brought out the ring of keys, went to the fire-proof safe built in the wall, rattled back the knobs on it, and at once opened both the folding-doors.

"See here," said he, "all this will, one day, be yours, yours and your sister's. Come here, hold out your hands--so." He took a large package out of the safe, and said:--

"Attend to what I say; here I put a million pounds sterling--so--hold tight. Do you know what that is, a million pounds? more than six millions of thalers are contained in these papers, and, beside that, I have something to spare. Does your head whirl? it must not; you must know what you possess, what will make you master of the world, superior to everything. Now give it to me. See, here it lies in this place; close by it are the other papers; underneath them is gold, coined gold; a good deal of it; I like coined gold; uncoined, too; that lies here. I may die. I often feel that a vertigo might suddenly seize me, and carry me off. Over here, see here--here lies my will. When I die, you are of age. Now, my full-grown son, you are a man, give me your hand. How does the hand feel that held in it millions of your own? That gives strength, does it not? Be not faint-hearted; I trust you, you and I alone know it. Now go, my son, be proud within yourself and modest before the world; you are more, you have more, than all the nobility of this land, more perhaps than the Prince himself. There, my child, there! this moment makes me happy--very happy. If I die, you know already--you know all now. There, go now. Come and let me kiss you once. Now go."

Roland could not utter a word; he went, he stood outside the door, he stared at his hands,--these hands had held millions of his own; everything that, he had ever thought and heard of the joy and woe of riches, everything was in utter confusion in his mind; inwardly, however, he experienced a sensation of joy, of proud enthusiasm, that had almost made him shout aloud. If he had only been permitted to tell it all to Eric! He felt as if he could not keep it to himself; but then he was not allowed to communicate it to any one. His father had put his trust in him; he dared not betray the trust.

He went to his mother. Frau Ceres, handsomely dressed, was walking up and down in the great hall; she gave Roland a haughty nod, and gazed at him a long while without saying a word; at length she said:--

"How am I to be saluted simply with 'Good-morning, mamma?' It ought to be, 'Good-morning, Frau mamma, good-morning, Frau Baroness. You are very gracious, Frau Baroness--I commend myself to your grace, Frau Baroness--you look extremely well, Frau Baroness.' Ha, ha, ha!"

Roland felt a painful shudder thrill through him; it seemed to him as if his mother had suddenly become insane. But in a moment she was standing before a mirror, and saying:--

"Your father is right--quite right; we have all been born to-day for the first time, we have come into the world anew, and we are all noble. Now come, kiss your mother, your gracious mother."

She kissed Roland passionately, and then said, that if she could only have all the malicious tale-bearers there, they would be smothered with envy at beholding the good fortune that had befallen her.

"But where is Manna?" asked Roland.

"She is silly, she has been spoiled in the convent, and will not hear a word about anything; she has shut herself up in her room, and will not let any one see her. Go try if she will not speak to you, and get her to smile. The Professorin has always told me that I was sensible; yes, now I will be sensible; I will show that I am. The big Frau von Endlich, and the Countess Wolfsgarten, proud as a peacock--we are noble too, now--will burst with indignation. Go, dear child, go to your sister, bring her here; we will rejoice together, and dress up finely, and to-morrow you shall go with your father and Herr von Pranken to the capital."

Roland went to Manna's room, he knocked and called; she answered finally that she would see him in an hour's time, but now she must be left alone.

As Roland was going to his own room, Pranken met him; he embraced him warmly, called him brother, and accompanied him with congratulations to his room. Here lay the uniform, which had been ordered for Roland. Pranken urged him to put it on at once; but Roland did not want to, before he had passed his examination.

"Pah!" laughed Pranken, "examination! that is a scare-crow for poor devils of commoners. My young friend, you are now a Baron, and by that means you have passed the best part of the examination: what is now to come is only form."

It required no great persuasion to induce Roland to put on the uniform. Pranken helped him. The uniform became him admirably; he looked both lithe and strong; he had broad shoulders, and the pliancy of his form did not disguise his manly strength of muscle.

"Really, I had rather have gone into the navy," said he, "but there doesn't happen to be any."

Once more, accompanied by Pranken, he went to Manna's room, and cried out, that she ought to see him in his uniform, but Manna returned no answer whatever.

Pranken now went with Roland to his father, and both conducted him to his mother; she was ravished at his appearance. Roland did not know what to do with himself from excitement; he went into the park, he saluted the trees; he showed his uniform to the sky and to the plants; but his salutations met with no response. He showed himself to the servants, and they all congratulated him. While he was standing, his left hand upon his sword, near the porter, who was saluting him in military fashion like a veteran, Eric came up. He did not recognize Roland at first, and seemed to wake up only when his pupil began to speak. Roland's cheek was glowing with excitement, and he exclaimed in a loud voice:--

"Ah, if I were only able to tell you all, Eric! I feel as if I were intoxicated, and metamorphosed. Tell me, am I awake or dreaming? Ah, Eric, I can't say anything more now."

Roland went with Eric to his room, and questioned him eagerly whether he had not also been as happy the first time he had put on his uniform.

Eric could not give him an answer; he tried to remember how he felt the first time he had donned his uniform, but he recollected much better how he felt the last time he had doffed it. A remembrance did come to him, however, a long forgotten remembrance. The Doctor had once said that Roland never took any pleasure in a new suit, but now he was in raptures over the gay-colored soldier's coat; all ideals seemed to have disappeared, or at least to have concentrated in this coat. Eric gazed at him sadly; he came near saying that the two most beautiful moments in the soldier's life were, when he put on the uniform, and when he took it off forever. But he could not now make this reply, for there are things which every one must experience for himself, and cannot learn from others; and what would anything amount to on this present occasion?

Joseph came and said that Eric must repair to Herr Sonnenkamp.

With the ground reeling under him, with everything swimming before his eyes, like one in a dream, Eric went across the court and up the steps; he stood in the antechamber. Now is the decisive moment.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

VIII. RESERVATIONS

Eric entered; he did not venture to look at Sonnenkamp; he dreaded every word he might have to say to him; for every thought that Sonnenkamp expressed to him, everything which his thoughts had touched on, seemed to him polluted. But now as he fixed his gaze upon him, Sonnenkamp seemed to be transformed, as if he had by some charm contracted his powerful frame. He looked so modest, so humble, so childlike, smiling there before him. He informed Eric, in a quiet tone, that the Prince had seen fit in his graciousness to invest him with a title of nobility, and was soon to deliver him the patent confirming it with his own hand.

Eric breathed with still greater difficulty, and could not utter a word.

"You are surprised?" asked Sonnenkamp. "I know the Jewish banker has been refused,--and I even think--the gentlemen are very shrewd--I even think--however, it doesn't make any difference; every one works his own way. I know also that a certain Doctor Fritz has been at the philanthropist Weidmann's, and that he has spoken a good deal of slander about a man whom I unfortunately resemble--isn't it so? I see it in your countenance. I hope, however, that you will not--no, be quite at ease, my dear, good friend; rejoice with me and for our Roland."

Eric looked up now freely. There is certainly some mistake here, for the man could not be so composed, if he had anything to dread.

Sonnenkamp continued:--

"You will remain our friends, you and your noble mother."

He held out his hand; now again Eric shuddered all over. The ring on his thumb--is that too a mystery, a deception? Sonnenkamp could not but feel that there was something wrong; he suddenly drew back the outstretched hand, as if a wild beast had extended its claw towards it, but said with great composure:--

"I know you are an opposer of election to the nobility."

"No; more than that, I wanted to say something," interposed Eric; but Sonnenkamp interrupted him hastily.

"Excuse me if I do not wish to hear any more."

Suddenly shifting the conversation, he continued in an earnest tone, saying that Eric had now only the finishing stroke to put to his work, by guiding and fortifying Roland into a true appreciation of his new position and his new name.

"It would be a fine thing if you should take the Professorship; I would then let Roland, until we ourselves moved into town, and perhaps even then, occupy the same residence with you; you would remain his friend and instructor, and everything would go on excellently."

With great frankness, he added, that he desired, since he, as a father, was not in the position to see to it himself, that Roland should be wisely and discreetly led to a personal knowledge of that thing which men call vice; this alone would preserve him from excess.

Eric remained silent; he had come with warnings, and full of anxiety; now the whole affair was ended, now nothing remained to be done; yes, through Sonnenkamp's own acknowledgment that he was mistaken for Herr Banfield, every objection seemed to be put at rest. For the sake of saying something, Eric asked where the Major was. With great satisfaction, Sonnenkamp replied that the building of the castle had fortunately so far progressed, that they would be able on their return from the capital to open it; the Major had just gone to the castle to make the necessary arrangements.

"Have you seen your mother yet?"

"No."

"She has, I am sorry to say, sent word to me that she is a little unwell, and will not be able to partake in our rejoicing."

Eric hastened to his mother. He had never yet seen her ill; now she lay exhausted on the sofa, and was delighted at his returning so immediately upon the reception of her letter. Eric knew nothing of any letter, and heard now, also for the first time, that Sonnenkamp had sent a messenger, to whom his mother had also given a letter.

His mother, who was feverish, said that she felt as if a severe sickness was threatening her; it seemed to her as if the house in which she was, was floating on the waves nearer and nearer to the sea; she had to force herself to keep awake, for as soon as she closed her eyes, this sensation returned to her more frightful than ever. She sat up and said:--

"Now you have come back, everything will be well once more. I felt timid alone here in this perverse world."

Eric felt that it was impossible to tell his mother anything of what he had learned at Weidmann's.

His mother complained:--

"Ah, I wish it may not be with you as it is with me; the older I become, the more mysterious and complicated are many things to me. You men are fortunate; individual things do not vex you so much, because you can see a united whole."

As the mother gazed confusedly about her she looked upon her son, and her eye sank; she would willingly have imparted her trouble to him; but why burden him when he could do no good? She kept it to herself.

Eric told her of the interesting life he had seen at Mattenheim, and how fortunate he had been in gaining there a fatherly friend. In the way in which he described the energetic activity of the family, it seemed as if he were bringing a fresh breeze into the room; and the mother said:--

"Yes, we forget in our troubles that there are still beautiful, harmonious existences in the world for a maiden like Manna." And just as she mentioned her name, a messenger from Manna came with the request, that the Professorin would come to her.

Eric wanted to say to the messenger in reply, that his mother was unwell, and to ask Fräulein Manna therefore to have the goodness to come to her; but his mother sat erect, and said:--

"No, she requires my assistance; I must be well, and I am well. It is best that my duty saves me from yielding to this weakness."

She got up quickly, and said to the messenger:--

"I will come."

She dressed hurriedly, and went with her son to the villa.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

IX. HERO ROLAND'S MOTTO

The Professor's wife announced herself at Manna's door; Manna opened it. With a bloodless countenance, she stood, before the Mother and languidly-held out her hand.

"I have wrestled with myself all alone," she said; "I cannot find the outlet; I must tell you all."

And now Manna related how she had grown up in most reverent respect for her father, and how she had often painfully lamented that her mother was so harsh and cold to him; but once--she had never learned what had transpired previously--her mother had said in the presence of her father:--

"'Know then who your father is, who your father is.' Don't look at me, I beg of you; I beg you, let me speak it softly in your ear."

She whispered the words softly in the ear of the Professorin. The latter sat there and held her hands in her lap, and shut her eyes; not a sound was heard in the room: it seemed as if the whole world was dead, and the two human beings that sat there opposite to each other, dead as well. Manna went on to say that she did not at first understand what this meant, but gradually it had come to her, and she had persuaded her, parents to let her go to the convent. On the way thither the thought was continually present to her, how, in old times, Iphigenia had offered herself up as a propitiatory sacrifice, and so she longed to offer herself up a willing and a hopeful victim, to wash away all the guilt of those who were dear to her.

"I felt then as if something had been cleft within me, as if a vein had burst in my heart. I looked upon myself as a victim on the altar. I had the courage then, I wanted to act decisively before that courage deserted me, for I was afraid of my own cowardice, and for that reason was anxious to bind myself at once."

Again, after a longer pause--the Professorin did not interrupt with a single word--Manna said that she did not understand what her father was doing, and she, she herself must be made noble, and become Pranken's bride, of equal rank with him. She had honored and esteemed Pranken; he was a man of the world, but of a profoundly generous and religious character.

Sobbing bitterly, she threw herself upon the mother's neck, and exclaimed:--

"I cannot! I cannot be his wife. Ah! I am too weak. You have told me that I should have to experience trying conflicts, but I had never thought, never dreamt of such a thing as this. No; no, indeed."

"What more?" asked the Mother.

Manna hid her face in her hands, then threw herself upon the Mother's neck and wept.

"The Mother entreated her to let her know the rest, but Manna remained silent; finally she uttered the words:--

"No, I shall take it with me into the grave; it is mine alone."

The Professorin spoke words of hope and comfort to her, and asked her whether she had ever mentioned in confession what she now confessed to her. Manna said no, and then threw herself upon her knees before the Mother, and besought her to tell no one what she had related of her father. But she started up suddenly as if bitten by a serpent, when the Professorin told her that she had known it all a long while, that it had been a heavy burden to her, but that it was the duty of the innocent not to withdraw themselves from one who seeks to efface a wretched past.

A strange agitation swept over Manna's countenance.

"Who else knows it? Tell me."

"Why should I, my child? Why do you so torment your soul, and make it wander from house to house, from man to man, crushed, begging, and imploring forgiveness?"

"My prayer, my sacrifice is rejected; I am cast out, we are all cast out. No, I am free; the holy ones in heaven have not been willing to accept my sacrifice. It shall live within my own bosom only, within myself, within my crushed and shattered heart. I am free--free."

"Your laugh makes me feel uneasy," said the Professorin, who was observing closely the play of Manna's features. Manna moaned that her sorrow was sevenfold.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "I have spoken with my brother only once about slavery, and then I felt as if something was whirling around me, when he said, Beings who are admitted to religious life are our equals. He is right; whoever enters the sanctuary of the knowledge of God is a free child of God; and I shuddered when I thought for the first time how it could be possible for a man to be praying in church, and have near by, separated from him only by a railing, men who were slaves. Is not his every word of prayer, is not his offering, a lie? It was a frightful pathway upon which I had entered, and all the powers of evil were pushing me on further and further. How is it then? how can a priest receive the child of a man, how could he receive us into the church, while our father still----"

As if a weight lay on her heart. Manna placed her hand there, and seemed unable to go on.

The Professorin consoled her.

"My child," she said, "do not lay the blame on Religion; cast no stone at those who cannot accomplish everything, who cannot equalize all the inequalities that have come into the world from sin. The temple is great, pure, and sublime, even though cares, sloth, and base submission have found hiding-places in it."

From the bottom of her heart, the Professorin sought to keep Manna from losing her hold upon religion; she spoke with enthusiasm of those who devote their whole existence to the Most High, who restlessly work and strive, without reward, to fashion the earth into a dwelling-place of love and virtue.

Manna looked up astonished at the woman who thus counselled her; her lips parted, but she could not utter the words that lay upon her tongue; she wanted to ask. "But are you not a Huguenot?" But she kept back the words, for it seemed to her at this moment as if every difference in form of religious belief had been blotted out; here was indeed nothing but a heart simple in its purpose, gentle, patient, suffering, and devoted to good. Now she felt that she had fully and entirely devoted herself to the noble woman; she flung herself into her arms; with tears in her eyes she kissed the Mother's cheeks, forehead, and hands, and asked her to lay her hands upon her head, and save her from dying of grief.

Silent and locked in each other's arms sat the two women, when a knock was heard at the door.

Sonnenkamp called out that he must speak with his daughter.

"You must speak to him," said the Professorin.

Manna rose, and pushed back the bolts of the door.

Sonnenkamp entered.

"I am glad you are well again," said he in a clear voice to the Professor's wife.

He did not dream with what eyes the Professorin and his child regarded him.

"I thank you," he continued, making a gesture which was intended to signify that he desired to be alone with Manna.

Manna perceived it, and she begged--she could not express her agony, but she begged earnestly--that her father would permit the Professorin to be present at the conversation; she had no secrets from the noble woman.

Sonnenkamp shrugged his shoulders.

Was it possible? No, it could not be, his own child could not have betrayed him.

He now said plainly that he would rather speak with Manna alone.

The Professorin rose to go, and Sonnenkamp begged her in a kindly tone to keep his wife company during his absence, and give her all the instruction and advice necessary to enable her to enter upon her new sphere of life with becoming repose and dignity.

The Professorin bowed and left them.

Manna had to sit down; she felt as if her limbs would never again support her; Sonnenkamp said to her that she had doubtless long ago forgotten the bitter epithet that her mother had applied to him; she might now go to her mother, who would assure her, that she had only made use of the words in anger.

Manna nodded, without saying a word; and then Sonnenkamp spoke of her marriage with Pranken, in regard to which he took a pride in feeling that he had never laid any constraint upon his child. Manna implored him not to press the matter upon her then.

"Very well, you need not make up your mind till our return, but promise me to be friendly to him."

Manna could promise this, and Sonnenkamp smiled inwardly at the thought of his keeping Pranken in suspense until everything was finally arranged; if any insurmountable difficulty came up then, it could not change what would be already settled.

"You are now a Freifräulein," said he impressively and smiling to his child, "you shall be free in everything; only, to-day, let everything remain still in suspense. I cannot be dishonorable." He really meant, that he did not so much mind deceiving Pranken, but he added that it would be much more proper to consent or to refuse when they had been for a short time, in the full possession of their new rank. And with that, he took leave of his child with friendly words.

At noon there was great rejoicing at the villa, for the Ensign with a number of his comrades had arrived; they rode out with Roland, who was treated as one of themselves.

In accordance with Pranken's wish, they started that evening for the capital.

When Roland took leave of Eric's mother, she gave him a paper on which was written,--

On the rim of the Hero Roland's helmet was once and is again inscribed, in golden letters,--"The weapons of the whole world must leave me still unstained."

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

X. DOWN BELOW

At the servants' table in the basement there was a big gap; the seat at the head, which belonged to Bertram, was not occupied by any one; Joseph and Lootz were also wanting, for they had gone with the old and the young master to the capital. The men and women at the table were whispering in a low tone; at last the head gardener said that the affair was no longer a secret; he maintained that, at the time of the Prince's visit, he had perceived the thing clearly. With a look of modest condescension, that plainly signified his regret at being obliged to exhibit his shrewdness before these people, he let out his words as if such folks could not appreciate what he had to say; Joseph alone, if he had been there, could have bestowed upon him suitable praise. The remaining servants, however, had an ill will against the self-asserting and pretentious head gardener. No one answered him. The big cook, who sat down to table very seldom, for she maintained that she ate hardly anything at all, now ventured to take Bertram's place, so that she could get up at any moment. She said that she had served with the nobility her whole life, and now it was going to be so again. Now the thing was out; and all felt as if a load had been taken off their hearts, since they were at liberty to speak of the matter. The second coachman turned up the skirts of his long waistcoat a little, and contemplated them with a searching look.

"Now then, buttons with coats-of-arms are coming," he said at last; "and our carriage will be new varnished, and a crest will be put on the coach-door; no more of the bare, solitary 'S'. Let Herr von Endlich's coachman say again that the S looks like an interrogation point, for no one really knows who Herr Sonnenkamp is."

One of the grooms was glad that on the horse-blankets a five-pointed coronet would stare everybody in the face.

The laundress complained of the great trouble it would be to mark all the linen anew, and the maid who took care of the silver was glad that she was going to have new spoons and forks, for everything would have to be melted over again and engraved anew.

"And the collars of the hounds will be renewed," exclaimed a hoarse voice.

Everybody laughed at the boy, who had charge of the dogs, who was grinning slyly at the idea of his having said something funny.

The old kitchen maid, who persisted in sitting on her stool and holding her plate in her lap, called over to the second cook:--

"We shall soon have a Frau Lootz. The master will now consent to the marriage."

"Has he given you his consent?"

"God be praised, I don't need it any more. But now he will remain here forever, and never go away any more. Now you can all marry."

The second gardener, the so-called Squirrel, declared with unction:--

"I should not have said a word, but if I were such a rich man I would never have had myself ennobled; no, I had rather be the richest commoner all up and down the Rhine, than the newest noble. I wouldn't flatter the nobility so much. If one has money, he is noble enough."

Everybody sneered at the forward fellow, and the head gardener looked at him with a patronizing air, nodding, his features saying at the same time, "I would never have given the simpleton credit for such an idea."

They now began to discuss what sort of livery the master would adopt, and whether he would have a "von" before his old name, or whether he would take an entirely new name. Finally the conversation turned upon Pranken's marriage. The fat cook reminded them that when Eric first came to the house, the old kitchen maid had prophesied that Eric would be the son of the house; now the reputation she had as a prophetess was gone, for the marriage was a fixed thing, and they were only delaying the announcement of it till the Fräulein was ennobled. Old Ursel made a wry face, looked about her and winked, pressed her apron against her mouth, and nodded triumphantly; at length she began to make her explanation:--

"I don't believe yet, that she will marry the light, twisted moustache. Remember what I say."

The laundress told the fat cook in confidence, that Joseph, the valet--she had observed it the whole winter through--was making love to the daughter of the landlord of the Victoria.

The conference in the basement lasted a long while; it was not broken up until a voice from overhead fell upon their ear with the message, that the horses would have to be harnessed again, night as it was, for the gracious Frau wished to drive out.

Where? No one knew.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us