The rosebuds in the garden had opened in the spring night, and rare flowers blossomed out in the soul of the youth.
With transcendent delight, Roland welcomed his recovered teacher to the house. He went in high spirits to his mother's room, but she was so exhausted that he could not see her. He forgot Fräulein Perini's distant reserve towards him, and announced to her jubilantly, that Eric was there, and would now remain; she was just to say so to his mother.
"And have you no inquiries to make about the Chevalier?"
"No: I know that he is gone; he was not with me even when he was here. Ah, forgive me, I don't know what I am saying! O, why does not the whole world rejoice!"
Roland's rejoicing received the first check when Fräulein Perini said, that no one could estimate correctly the inconsolable distress which his mother had suffered from his flight.
The boy stood still, but he felt assured that now all would go well; that everybody must now be well and strong.
He came across Joseph in the court, and joyfully informed him that he now was acquainted with his native city; he nodded to all the servants, he greeted the horses, the trees, the dogs; all must know and rejoice in the fact that Eric was here. The servants looked at Roland in astonishment, and Bertram, the coachman, drew his long beard through the fingers of both hands, and said,—
"The young master has got, during these two days, a man's voice."
Joseph smilingly added:—
"Yes, indeed, a single day at the University has made him a different being. And what a being!"
In fact, Roland was wholly different. He returned to his home as from a voyage; yes, even as from another world: he could not comprehend how everything should appear so changed, illuminated so brightly; he had been alone with himself, and had gained possession of himself in solitude.
Eric had made no definite agreement about his salary, and Sonnenkamp said to the Major, smiling:—
"These enthusiastic Idealists have a concealed policy. The man does as people do when they are invited to dinner; they let themselves be served by the host and hostess with some nice dish, and so receive a larger stare than they would have helped themselves to."
Eric had only made one demand, that he should inhabit with Roland the house-turret, remote from all noise, and furnishing an extensive prospect. This was granted, and Eric felt himself strangely free in these handsome, spacious rooms, with their outlook upon the river and the landscape.
How confined is one's life in those small, close apartments of the University-town, and yet how far the spirit can extend itself beyond that narrow enclosure! And these carpets, this elegant furniture, how soon will it become an ordinary thing, forgotten and unconsidered, like the wide view of the landscape! It seemed to Eric as free, as inspiring, and as commanding, as if—he himself laughed when the comparison came into his mind—as if he were living on horseback. We can go very comfortably over hill and vale with a light walking-staff, but to sit on horseback, and course away, with a double, triple strength united to our own, and elevating us above the ordinary level, this is a rare exhilaration.
Roland came to Eric, and he expressed to the boy his joy at the beautiful and peaceful life they would live here; but Roland begged:—
"Give me something to do, something right hard; try and think of something."
Eric perceived the boy's state of excitement; sitting down near him, he took his hand, and showed him that life seldom furnished a single deed on which one could employ the whole strength of his voluntary powers; they would work quietly and steadily, and make each other wiser and better. The boy was contented, and looked at Eric as if he would, with his eyes, draw him into his soul, and make him his own. Then he lightly touched Eric's shoulder, as if to be newly assured that he was really with him.
Now they put things in order, and Roland was glad to render all kinds of assistance. In spite of his former deliberation, Eric had entered upon the new relation so unexpectedly, and plunged into it so suddenly, that he had hardly settled upon anything. Then there was so much to be discussed with his mother, deciding what he would take with him, and what he would leave behind, that they postponed all to a future arrangement by letter.
When temporary order was established, Eric complied with Roland's request to go with him upon the platform of the tower. They sat down here, and looked about, for a long time, in every direction. Eric could not restrain himself from telling the boy how new and beautiful all life appeared to him. They had formerly built castles upon the heights, for strife, for feuds, and for robbery of travellers upon the highway; but we, we work with the powers of nature, we endeavor to gain wealth, and then we withdraw, and place our dwelling upon an elevated site, in some lovely valley, and desire to take in only the eternal beauty, which no one can take away. The great river becomes a highway, along which industrious and noble men erect their habitations. The generations after us will be obliged to say that, at this time, men began to pay loyal homage to nature, as had never before been paid in the history of humanity; this is a new religion, even if it has no outward form, and shall never acquire any.
"Go on speaking, go on, on further," said Roland, nestling up to Eric; he could not say that he would like to hear just the sound of his voice; he closed his eyes and cried again: "Go on speaking!" Eric understood the imploring call, and went on to relate, how, when he stood for the first time upon the Righi, looking at the setting sun, he had been impressed with the thought whether there might not be some form, some service, by which the devotional feelings of these assembled spectators, in this temple of nature, might find expression. He had learned that this was impossible, and perhaps was not needful: nature imparts to each one a joy of his own, and joy in nature to each a private feeling of devotion, in which no others can share. Then extolling the happiness of being able thus in one's own house, on a tower erected by one's self, to appropriate the world, and the beauty of the earth, he showed how wealth, its pursuit, and its possession might be the basis of a grand moral and social benefit. Riches, he explained, were only a result of freedom, of the unfettered employment of activities, and must have only freedom as their resultant product.
Roland was happy; he did not comprehend the whole, but he felt, for the first time, that wealth was neither to be despised nor to be gloried in. All his teachers, hitherto, had endeavored to impress upon him either the one view or the other.
Joseph came to the tower, and asked whether Eric and Roland wished to dine together in their room; he was answered in the affirmative. They were happy, sitting together, and Roland cried:—
"We two dwell upon an island; and if I ever live in the castle, you must also live with me. Do you know what one thing more I want?"
"How! you want one thing more?"
"Yes; Manna ought to be with us. Don't you think she is now thinking of us?"
"Probably not of me."
"Yes, indeed! I have written to her about you, and this evening I am going to write again, and tell her everything."
Eric was puzzled, for a moment: he did not know what he ought to do. Ought he to restrain the boy from writing about him? There was no reason for doing so, and he would not disturb Roland's impartial candor.
Roland was writing in his room, and, as he wrote, frequently uttering the words aloud to himself. Eric sat silent, looking at the lamp. What was the use now of wishing? He stood in front of the unpacked books; there were but few. During the last fifteen minutes before going to the train, he had gone once more into his father's study, and locked up the papers left by him; glancing his eye around the library, he took down a book, the first volume of Sparks's handsome edition of the works of Benjamin Franklin. This volume contained the autobiography and the continuation of the life. Some leaves were inserted in the handwriting of his father.
And now he read, on this the first night of his new occupation, these words,—
"Look at this! Here is a real man, the genius of sound understanding and of steadfast will. Electricity is always here in the atmosphere, but does not concentrate itself and become visible lightning.
"This is genius. Genius is nothing but electricity collected in the atmosphere of the soul.
"With this book a man would not be alone, if he were alone on an island; he would be in the midst of the world.
"No philosopher, no poet, no statesman, no artisan, no member of the learned professions, and yet all of these combined in one; a pet son, with Nature for his mother and Experience for his nurse; an outcast son, who, without scientific guidance, finds by himself all medicinal herbs in the wild woods.
"If I had a youth to educate, not for any special calling, but that he might become a genuine man and a good citizen, I would place my hands upon his head and say, 'My son, become like Benjamin Franklin—no,—not this; develop thine own being, as Benjamin Franklin developed his.'"
Eric rested his chin upon his hand, and gazed out into the darkness of the night.
What is that? Are there miracles in our life? He looked to the right and to the left, as if he must have heard the voice of his father; as if he had not written, but was speaking the words,—My son, become like Benjamin Franklin!
Eric, with great effort, continued his reading:—
"It is indeed well for us to form ourselves after the first men of the old world, the period of generative, elementary existence; the characters of the Bible and of Homer are not the creations of a single, highly endowed mind, but they are the embodiments of the primitive, national spirit in distinct forms, and embrace a far wider compass than the span of individual existence.
"Understand me well. I say, I know in modern history no other man, according to whose method of living and thinking a man of our day can form himself, except Benjamin Franklin.
"Why not Washington, who was so great and pure?
"Washington was a soldier and a statesman, but he was not an original discoverer of the world within himself, and an unfolder of that world from his own inner being. He exerted influence by ruling and guiding others; Franklin, by ruling and guiding himself.
"When the time shall ever come, and it will come, that battles shall be spoken of as in this day we speak of cannibals; when honorable, industrious, humane labors shall constitute the history of humanity, then Franklin will be acknowledged.
"I would not willingly fall into that sanctimonious tone, the remnant of pulpit oratory, that comes out in us whenever we approach the eternal sanctities; and I hope our tone must be wholly different from that of those who claim to speak in the name of a spirit which they themselves do not possess.
"God manifested himself to Moses, Jesus, Mohammed in the solitude of the desert; to Spinoza in the solitude of the study; to Franklin in the solitude of the sea." (This last clause was stricken out, and then again inserted.) "Franklin is the man of sober understanding, who knows nothing of enthusiasm.
"The world would not have much beauty if all human beings were like Franklin; his nature is wholly destitute of the romantic element, (to be expressed differently," was written in the margin, and attention called to it by a cross,) "but the world would have uprightness, truthfulness, industriousness, and helpfulness. Now they use the word love, and take delight in their beautiful sentiments; but you are permitted to speak about love when you have satisfied those four requirements." (This last sentence was underlined with red ink.)
"In Franklin there is something of Socrates, and there is specially noticeable a happy vein of humor; Franklin enjoys also a good laugh.
"Franklin is, through and through, good prose, intelligible, transparent, compact.
"We do not have to educate geniuses in the world. Every genius trains himself, and can have no other trainer. In the world we have to form substantial, energetic members of the common weal. What thou dost specially, whether thou makest shoe-pegs or marble statues, is not my business but thine.
"We shall never be in a right position in regard to the world, if we do not believe in purity, in the noblest motives; the inmost of humanity is revealed to us only on this condition. There is no better coat-of-mail against assaults, than faith in the good which others do, and which one is to do himself; one hears then, within, the inspiring tones of martial music, and marches with light and free step onward through the contest of life.
"It is the distinguishing and favorable feature in Franklin's life, that he is the self-made man; he is self-taught, and has discovered by himself the forces of nature and the treasures of science; he is the representative of those, who, transplanted from Europe to America and in danger of deterioration and decay, attained a wholly new development.
"If we could have, like antiquity, a mythological embodiment of that world which is called America, which carried with it the gods of Europe,—I mean those historical ideas which the colonists carried over with them, and yet freely adopted into their own organic life,—would you have these ideas embodied in a human form,—here stands Benjamin Franklin. He was wise, and no one taught him; he was religious, and had no church; he was a lover of men, and yet knew very well how bad they were.
"He not only knew how to draw the lightning from the clouds, but also the stormy elements of passion from the tempers of men; he has laid hold of those prudential maxims which are a security against destruction, and which fit one for self-guidance.
"The reason why I should take him for a master and a guide in the education of a human being, is this:—he represents the simple, healthy, human understanding, the firmly established and the safe; not the erratic spirit of genius, but those virtues of head and of heart which steadily and quietly promote man's social happiness and his moral well-being.
"Luther was the conqueror of the middle ages; Franklin is the first in modern times to make himself. The modern man is no longer a martyr; Luther was none, and Franklin still less. No martyrdom.
"Franklin has introduced into the world no new maxim, but he has expressed with simplicity those which an honest man can find in himself.
"In what Franklin is, and in what he imparts, there is nothing peculiar, nothing exciting, nothing surprising, nothing mysterious, nothing brilliant nor dazzling; it is the water of life, the water which all creatures stand in need of." (Here it was written on the margin,—Deep springs are yet to be bored for, and to be found here) "The man of the past eighteenth century had no idea of the people, could have none, for it was wrung and refined out of the free thinking that prevailed even to the very end of the century, even to the revolution.
"He who creates anew stands in a strange and hostile, or, at least, independent attitude towards that which already exists.
"Franklin is the son of this age; he recognizes only the in-born worth of men, not the inherited. (Deeper boring is yet to be done here)."
With paler ink, evidently later, it was written,—
"It is not by chance, that this first not only free-thinking,—for many philosophers were this,—but also free-acting man was a printer.
"In the sphere of books lies not the heroism,—I believe that the period of heroic development is past,—but the manhood of the new age.
"Because our influence is exerted through books, there can be no longer any grand, personal manifestation of power." (Here were two interrogation-points and two exclamation-points in brackets, and there was written in pencil across this last remark,—"This can be better said.")
Then at the conclusion there was written in blue ink,—
"Abstract rules can form no character, no human being, and can create no work of art. The living man, and the concrete work of art contain all rules, as language contains all grammar, and these are the good and the beautiful.
"He who knows the real men who have preceded him, so that they live again in him, enters into their circle; he sets his foot upon the holy ground of existence, he is consecrated through the predecessors who trode it before him."
And again, in a trembling hand, there was written, at a late period, clear across the previous writing:—
"Whoever takes a part in the up-building of the State and the community, whoever fills an office and makes laws, whoever stands in the midst of the science of his time, becomes antiquated in the course of the new civilization that succeeds him; he is not, by virtue of his position, an archetypal pattern of the coming age. He only is so, who discerns, clears up, lays hold of and establishes anew, those eternal laws of the human spirit, which are the same from the beginning and throughout all time; therefore Franklin is not a pattern, but rather a method."
And now, finally, came the words, which were twice underlined:—
"My last maxim is this:—'Organic life, abstract laws!' We can make brandy out of grain, but not grain out of brandy. He who understands that, has all that I have to say."
Eric had read so far, and now he leaned back, and endeavored to form an idea of his father's thought, and to catch the whole meaning of these often half-expressed utterances.
He felt as if he were walking upon a mountain-top in the midst of clouds, and yet seeing the path and the goal.
He placed his hand upon the manuscript leaves, and a happy smile came over his countenance; then he arose, and almost laughed aloud, for the expression of the architect, on his arrival, occurred to him.
"We have it!"
"Yes," he cried, "I have it, I have the spring, from which clear, sparkling water shall flow forth for Roland and for me."
He found no rest; he opened the window, and looked out for a long time on the night. The air was full of the fragrance of roses, the sky full of the glory of stars; occasionally a nightingale sang, and then ceased, while in the distance, where the river was dammed up, the frogs kept up a noisy croaking.
Now Eric heard a man's voice—it is the voice of Pranken below on the balcony—which was saying in a loud tone,—
"We attach much, too much importance to it. Such a family-tutor ought properly to wear a livery; that would be the best."
"You are very merry to-day," replied Sonnenkamp.
"On the contrary, very serious; the sacred order of things, without which neither society nor the state can exist, has a sure support in the differences of rank being maintained, if each one shows his particular class. Service—"
Eric closed the window softly; he deemed it unworthy to listen.
The nightingales sang outside in the thicket, and the frogs croaked in the swamp.
"Each sings in its own way," said Eric to himself, as he thought of the cheering words of his father, and the expression of the young baron.
On the morning, Roland wanted to ride before doing any thing else; but Eric, whose maxim was that the day could be consecrated only by taking some good influence into the soul, made him read aloud the first chapter of Benjamin Franklin's autobiography. This was the dedicatory act of their new occupation, and when they were called to breakfast, both were very animated. They could take an equal satisfaction with Fräulein Perini, who returned from mass with Herr von Pranken.
Eric had not mistaken, Pranken was there. He greeted Eric with a sort of studied respectfulness, but he fulfilled, after his way, the demands of sincerity; whilst he, as a man who has nothing to conceal, openly acknowledged that he had frequently thought it would be better that Eric should not enter upon the position, with great decision, and in a tone of satisfaction, he added to this, that there were mysterious presentiments in the soul, which we must humbly acknowledge; and so this self-willed act of Roland's was the finger of fate, which laid upon Eric, as upon all the others, the duty of compliance.
Eric looked at Pranken in utter amazement. He had mistaken this man; Pranken brought forward principles of conduct which he should never have supposed, nor would now have attributed to him.
The breakfast passed off cheerfully; the amusement was at the Major's expense, more indeed while absent, than while present. He had naturally narrated to Pranken the terrors of the extra train, and Pranken knew how to tell the story again very much to their entertainment; he could imitate the Major's thick way of talking, and Fräulein Milch was always spoken of as Fräulein Milch with the black eyes and the white cap.
After breakfast, Eric requested Herr Sonnenkamp that he and Roland might, for the future, be excused from this breakfasting in common, and might be left alone together until dinner-time.
Sonnenkamp looked at him with surprise. Eric explained that he asked this on the first day, in order that there might be no precedent of custom established. It was thoroughly needful to keep Roland undisturbed, and in a persistent determination; this could only be done by leaving to them at least half of the day, and the freshness of the morning. Sonnenkamp agreed to it, shrugging his shoulders.
At breakfast it had been casually mentioned that Bella and Clodwig would dine with them to-day.
Eric saw at once the chief difficulty of his calling, which lay in the liability of diversions becoming interruptions. He drew a line of demarkation between himself and all the household, especially Sonnenkamp, which was not expressly defined, but yet could not be overstepped; and this was so much the more difficult, as Eric was not taciturn, and readily entered into the discussion of all matters. But what was this line? There was a something in him which said to each one that he must not ask more than Eric was ready, on his part, to answer. He labored with Roland, and found out where the boy was well-grounded in knowledge, where there was only a partial deficiency, and where there was total ignorance.
A carriage drove into the court. Roland looked towards Eric. He did not appear to have heard the rattling wheels.
"Your friends have arrived," said Roland. He avoided saying that he himself was very impatient to greet Clodwig and Bella, and, under the form of a reprimand, to receive praise for executing the bold deed. But Eric insisted that they had no friends except duty; that there was nothing and nobody there for them until they had performed their duty.
Roland clasped his hands tightly together under the table, and compelled himself to be quiet.
Suddenly, in the midst of a mathematical axiom, he said,—
"Excuse me, they have fastened Griffin by a chain, I know it by his bark; they must not do it: it spoils him."
"Let Griffin and everything else alone; all must wait," Eric said, maintaining his stand.
Roland pranced like a horse who feels the rein and spurs of the rider.
Soon, however, Eric went with Roland down into the court. Roland was right; Griffin was chained. He loosed him, and both boy and dog seemed unchained, madly sporting together.
Bella was with Frau Ceres.
A servant informed Eric that Count Clodwig was expecting him. Clodwig came to meet Eric with great cordiality, greeted him as a neighbor, and rejoiced that the boy had exhibited so much energy.
"If we were living in the ancient times," he added, "the boy would have received a new name from this exploit." What Clodwig said of Roland was, at the same time, noble in sentiment and good in the manner of expression.
When they were at the dinner-table, Eric heard in what way Bella jested with Roland; the boy was beaming with delight, for Bella told him of the hero, Roland.
Eric was greeted in a friendly but measured way, by Bella; she called him repeatedly, "Herr Neighbor," and was extremely unconstrained. It could seem to her now as a laughable piece of prudery and timidity, that she had endeavored at one time to exert an influence to remove Eric from the vicinity. Had then the man made an unusual impression upon her? It appeared to her now like a dream, like a mistake.
Eric had thought of this first meeting with a sort of anxiety; now he chided also his vanity.
"Shall you have the library of your father brought here?" asked Clodwig.
Eric replied affirmatively, and Bella stared at him. He knew now why Bella had been so indifferent and unconcerned; he had received money from her husband, and he now ranked, therefore, very differently in her estimation.
At dinner he saw Frau Ceres again, for the first time; and when he went to her, she said in a very low tone, "I thank you," but nothing further; the words were very significant.
They were in good spirits at table. They thought that the journey would be a benefit to Frau Ceres. It would be a suitable preparation for the journey to the baths. One and another day was named for setting out.
Eric did not know what this meant; Roland saw his inquiring look, and said to her in a low tone,—
"We are all going to see Manna, and bring her back to journey with us to the baths. This will be jolly and fine."
Eric experienced anew that the chief difficulty of a life so abounding in means and so unconfined by regular duties was, that every one in the family, and the boy especially, was living either in the reaction from some dissipating amusement, or in the expectation of engaging in it. He would wait quietly, until the question was asked him, in order then to make his resolute decision of some account.
After dinner it happened, as if by chance, that Bella walked with Eric. She first told him how happy Clodwig was that Eric was to remain now in his neighborhood, and then suddenly standing still, and with a furtively watchful look, she said,—
"You will shortly see Fräulein Sonnenkamp again."
"I?"
"Yes. You journey with us, do you not?"
"No one has so informed me."
Bella smiled.
"But surely you will be glad to see Fräulein Sonnenkamp again?"
"I did not know that it was she when I met her."
Bella smiled again, and said,—
"I have seen enough of the world to have no prejudice. The daughter of the house and my brother Otto—Ah, you know well enough what I wish to say."
"No, gracious lady, you give me credit for too much wisdom."
"It should offend me if you are reserved towards me, and are on such intimate terms with the outside acquaintances of the family. The Major's housekeeper boasts of your being her favorite, and yet do you know nothing of the private betrothal?"
"Not until this moment. I offer my congratulations, and I am proud, gracious lady, that you initiate me with such confidingness into your family affairs."
"Do you know," cried Bella quickly, "do you know that I promise myself a great deal of pleasure from you?"
"From me? What can I do?"
"That is not my meaning, to speak in direct terms. I have thought a great deal about you. You are of an impulsive disposition, but you are still an enigma to me, and I hope that I also am to you."
"I had not allowed myself, indeed—"
"I allow you to allow yourself. Then, Herr Captain, or Herr Doctor, or Herr Dournay, but, at any rate, Herr Neighbor, we will make a contract. I shall try to resolve for myself the contradictions and oddities of your nature, and make such investigations as I am able to; on the other hand, I allow you to do the same with me. Do you not find this attractive?"
"Attractive and dangerous."
Bella straightened herself up, and Eric continued:—
"Dangerous for me, for you know what friend Hamlet says, that if our deserts are known, 'who can escape a whipping?'"
"I am glad that you are not polite, but neither should you be diffident."
"I mean, that it might be dangerous for me, not for you."
"I am too proud to sell, or to throw away politeness, as the Austrian proverb says."
"I am glad that you are too proud for it too."
"And now tell me in what way you saw Manna, and how she appeared to you."
Eric narrated the casual meeting, and how he had first learned her name through the daughter of the Justice.
"Ah, indeed, indeed, Lina," said Bella, and her fingers moved very rapidly, as if she were playing a piano in the air. It was an agreeable recreation to look upon the playing of this sentimental game, for Lina had a decided penchant for Otto. But the naïve Innocence knew very well that Otto had a preference for Manna, and it was not so very bad a plan to introduce to Manna so handsome a suitor as Eric.
While Bella was walking with Eric, Pranken had taken Roland very confidingly by the hand, and visited with him the stables and the young dogs; then he led him into an unfrequented part of the park, very remote from the road. Their talk was very naturally about Eric, and Roland could not find words to tell how all-wise and all-good he was. Pranken rebuked, with a stern countenance, the application of such words to a human being, and he impressed very strenuously upon him, that he could learn much from the worldly man that would be advantageous to him in the world, but there was a highest which he was not to entrust to him, and wherein he was to be in no way obedient.
And now he spoke of Manna. There was an expression of devotion in his words, as well as in his tone. He took the book, which he always carried over his heart, out of his breast-pocket, and showed Roland the exact place which Manna reads to-day; by running away, Roland had let several days slip without reading the same passages, but he could now catch up by diligence. But, more than all, Herr Dournay need know nothing of it, for no one of a different faith should step between Roland and his God.
Pranken seated himself with Roland under a great nut-tree, by the road, and read aloud some expressive passages. The boy looked at him in wonderment. The Wine-chevalier rode by; he called out a greeting to Pranken, but the latter returned it with only a friendly wave of the hand, and continued his reading.
It was like a release to Roland when Bella and Eric came along, engaged in a merry, jesting conversation. He called to them, and shortly after joined Eric; and Bella went by the side of her brother, who twirled his moustaches and surveyed his handsome boots. When Eric and Roland had departed, Pranken straightened himself up, and began to appeal directly to Bella's conscience for coquetting and trifling thus with a young man.
Bella stood still, seemingly at a loss whether to laugh at her brother or sharply reprove him; but she concluded in favor of the former course, and ridiculed the new convert.
"Ah," she cried, "you are very properly afraid that this Herr Dournay will be pleasing to the glorified Manna, and you suppose the same in regard to me. You have just hit it. The man has something bewitching for us women, provided we are shut up in the bonds of wedlock, or in a convent."
Pranken did not fall in with this tone; he repeated, that every jest, every act of trifling, bordered upon a sin, and jesting was liable to remove imperceptibly the boundary line. He was so zealous, that he took the book out of his breast-pocket, and read aloud to Bella a passage having reference to the subject.
Bella looked with astonishment when Otto exhibited so pious a book: she pointed out to her brother, meanwhile, what impregnable virtue was; she made fun of the young man, who had a truly revolting self-confidence. Moreover, Otto could be wholly at rest, if there was the appearance of an understanding between her and Eric; yes, she would willingly make, so far, a sacrifice for him; her virtue would be secure from every misconstruction, and she would assume this appearance, in order to free Otto from a dangerous rival.
"I am, indeed, in earnest," she concluded. "Are the good to deny to themselves a friendly intercourse, because the bad conceal under this appearance all kinds of baseness? That would be a world turned upside down; that would be the subjection of the good to the evil."
Bella was not aware, or she did not think it worth while to take note of it, that she here set forth a remark of her husband. Pranken looked at her with surprise. Was he, in fact, misled by his newly awakened zeal, or was this only a nicely-woven veil, a mere outside show of virtue? He was in perplexity; he was at a loss what to say in reply to this jesting and playful tone, to these insinuous and flexible evasions of his sister.
Eric found great difficulty in keeping his pupil steadily at his lessons, so completely was he taken up with the thought of the journey.
The day came for the journey to the convent; it was a bright day of sunshine.
Eric requested that he might remain behind; Sonnenkamp immediately agreed, adding kindly that it would probably be agreeable to Eric to have a few quiet days alone. This considerateness appeared very friendly to Eric, who returned it by saying that it should be his endeavor not to estrange Roland from his family.
Pranken drove over with his sister, and Bella told Eric that Clodwig sent a message, begging for his company during their absence. Eric became thus aware, for the first time, that he had never been expected to join the party; he immediately stifled the sensitive feelings arising from this, as well as from some other occurrences. Roland alone urged him pressingly to go with them, saying, unreservedly,—
"Manna will be very much vexed if you do not come; she ought to see you too."
Sonnenkamp smiled oddly at this entreaty, and Pranken turned away to conceal his features.
Roland took a most affectionate leave of Eric; it was the first time that he was to be parted from him for hours and through the night: he promised, meanwhile, to tell Manna much about him. Something unusual must have been passing in the boy's mind, for just at the moment of departure, he said to Eric,—
"You and the house, you don't go away from your place."
Eric pressed his hand warmly.
They drove to the steamboat in three carriages. Pranken with Frau Ceres, Sonnenkamp with Fräulein Perini and Bella, and, in the third carriage, Roland and the servants.
They drove a short distance up the river to take the boat, and as they afterwards shot quickly past the Villa, Eric was standing on the beautiful, wooded hill, whence there was a view down the stream, where the mountains seemed to meet to compel the river to spread out into a lake. Roland waved his hat from the boat, and Eric answered the greeting in the same way, saying to himself,—
"Farewell, boy dear to my heart."
Whoever understands the meaning of the fact that Eric could not send a greeting into the distance, where it was inaudible, without speaking an earnest word of love,—whoever understands this, has the key to the depths of Eric's character.
The boat puffed by, the waves in its wake plashed for a while against the shore, and tossed the pretty pleasure-boat up and down, then all was still again. The steamboat shot down the stream, and the party on board was very cheerful. Pranken occupied himself with special attentions to Frau Ceres, who, wrapped in fine shawls, sat on the deck.
Roland had received permission to take Griffin with him. All on board were struck by the handsome boy, and many expressed their admiration aloud.
For a short distance the Wine-count and his son, the Wine-chevalier, travelled with them. The old gentleman, a tall, distinguished-looking man, wore his red ribbon in his button-hole; the young man was very much pleased to meet Pranken there, and especially happy to be able to salute Frau Bella.
Towards Sonnenkamp and his family both these old inhabitants had hitherto borne themselves with some reserve; to-day they seemed to wish to change this reserve for a more friendly manner, but Sonnenkamp held back, not choosing that they should make advances to him now that they saw him in a position of honor; and he was evidently relieved when they left the steamer, at the second stopping-place, where there was a large Water-cure establishment. On the landing stood the steward of the prince's household with his invalid son, waiting for the two gentlemen. Bella received a most respectful bow from his Excellency, and she told Herr Sonnenkamp, as they went on their way, that it was almost a settled matter, that the daughter of the rich wine-merchant was to marry the invalid son of the steward.
The day was bright and clear; hardly a breath of wind blew upon the swiftly-moving boat. Roland frequently overheard: some one whispering half aloud to some passenger, newly come on board, "There is the rich American, who is worth ten millions."
A special table was laid on deck for Sonnenkamp's party, and Joseph had it ornamented with flowers and brightly-polished wine-coolers. Sonnenkamp's servants, in their coffee-colored livery, waited on them.
At table Roland asked,—
"Father, is it true, that you are worth ten millions?"
"People have not yet counted my money," replied Sonnenkamp, smiling; "at all events you will have enough to allow you to order such a dinner as we have to-day."
The boy did not seem satisfied with this answer, and Sonnenkamp added,—
"My son, one is rich only by comparison."
"Mark the words, rich only by comparison," repeated Pranken; "that's a fine expression; it includes a whole balance-sheet."
Sonnenkamp smiled; he was always pleased when any one dwelt on an expression of his with special emphasis.
"Ah, travelling is so pleasant, so jolly, if we only had Eric with us!" cried Roland.
No one answered. The boy seemed unusually talkative, for as the champagne was opened, and Bella proposed Manna's health, he said to Pranken,—
"You ought to marry Manna."
The ladies gave an odd look at the two men; Roland had given utterance to the wish of all. He became more and more the central object of the conversation and the jesting, and more and more talkative and extravagant; he uttered the wildest nonsense, and at last complied with Pranken's request that he would imitate the candidate Knopf. He smoothed his hair back, took snuff from his left hand, which he held like a snuff-box, and constantly tapped; he suddenly assumed a perfectly strange voice and expression, as, in a stiff, wooden manner, he declaimed the fourth conjugation, and the precepts of Pythagoras, with a mixture of all sorts of other things.
"Now can you mimic Herr Dournay?" asked Pranken.
Roland was struck dumb. A stony look came into his face, as if he had seen some monster; then he grew suddenly calm, and looked at Pranken as if he would annihilate him, saying,—
"I will never again imitate Candidate Knopf, that I vow from this day forth."
The boy, who was excited by wine and by talking, became suddenly quiet, and disappeared, so that the servants had to be sent in search of him. He was found on the forward deck with his dog, great tears in his eyes; he allowed himself to be led back to his friends without opposition, but he continued silent.
The steamboat glided on and on; the vineyards glowed in the midday sunshine, and soon it was said,—
"Only two more stops, then comes the convent."
Roland went back to his dog, and said,—
"Griffin, now we are going to Manna; aren't you glad?" It was still high noon when they landed by the weeping-willows on the shore, and entered the refreshing shade of the park which surrounded the convent. The servants were left in a large inn on the other bank of the river.
No one was on the shore awaiting the travellers, although their coming had been announced beforehand.
"Manna not here?" asked Sonnenkamp as he sprang ashore, and the fierce look, which he generally knew how to conceal, came into his face.
Frau Ceres only turned her head towards him, and he became gentle and mild.
"I only hope the good child is not sick," he added, in a tone which would have suited a hermit doing penance.
They went to the convent, whose doors were closed; the church alone was open, and a nun, with veiled face, was prostrate in prayer, while the bright sunshine sparkled out of doors. The visitors, who had crossed the threshold, drew quietly back; they rang at the convent door, and the portress opened it. Herr Sonnenkamp inquired whether Fräulein Hermanna Sonnenkamp were well; the portress answered in the affirmative, and added, that if they were her parents, the Superior begged them to come to her in the parlor. Sonnenkamp asked Bella, Pranken, and Fräulein Perini to wait in the garden; he wished Roland to stay with them, but the boy said,—
"No, I'm going with you."
His mother took his hand and spoke for the first time.
"Very well, you can stay with me."
Griffin remained outside. Roland and his parents were shown into the presence of the Superior, who received them with a very friendly and dignified bearing. She asked a sister who was with her to leave them alone, and then requested the visitors to be seated. It was cool and pleasant in the large room, where hung pictures of saints painted on a gold background.
"What is the matter with our daughter?" asked Sonnenkamp at last, breathing deeply.
"Your child, whom we may call our child also,—for we love her no less than you do,—is quite well; she is generally yielding and patient too, but sometimes she shows an incomprehensible self-will, amounting almost to stubbornness."
A rapid flash from Sonnenkamp's eyes fell upon his wife, who looked at him and moved her upper lip very slightly. The Superior did not notice this, for while she spoke she either closed her eyes or kept them cast down; she quietly continued,—
"Our dear Manna refuses to see her parents, unless they will promise beforehand that she may remain with us at the convent through the winter; she says that she does not yet feel herself strong enough to enter the world."
"And you have granted her this condition?" asked Sonnenkamp, as he ran his hand through his white neck-handkerchief, and loosened it.
"We have nothing to grant to her; you are her parents, and have unconditional power over your child."
"Of course," burst out Sonnenkamp, "of course, if her thoughts are influenced—but I beg your pardon, I interrupted you."
"By no means, I have finished; you have to decide whether you will agree to the condition beforehand; you have full parental power. I will call one of the sisters to conduct you to Manna's cell; it is not locked. I have only performed the child's commission, now act according to your own judgment."
"Yes, that I will do, and she shall not stay here an hour longer!"
"If her mother has any voice in the matter," began Frau Ceres.
Sonnenkamp looked at her as if some speechless piece of furniture had spoken, and Frau Ceres continued, not to him, but to the Superior,—
"I declare as her mother that we will lay no compulsion upon her; I grant her this condition."
Sonnenkamp started up and clutched the back of a chair; there was a violent struggle within him, but suddenly he said, in a most gentle tone,—
"Roland, go now to Herr von Pranken."
Roland was forced to leave the convent, his heart beating fast. There was his sister in a room above; what was to happen to her? Why could he not go to her, embrace and kiss her, and play with her long dark hair as he used to do? He went out of doors, but not to Pranken; he entered the open church, and there he knelt and prayed with deep fervor. He could not have said for what he prayed, but he asked for peace and beauty, and suddenly, as he looked up, he started back; there was the great picture of St. Anthony of Padua, and, wonderful to say, this picture resembled Eric,—the noble, beautiful face was Eric's.
The boy gazed long at it; at last he laid his head on his hands, and—blessed power of youth!—he fell asleep.