Pranken came the next day, and when he met the widow of the Professor, summoned to his aid his most polished manner; she gave him to understand at once, that she regarded him as a son of the house. She did this with so much delicacy and such a charming tact, that Pranken was extremely delighted.
When she thanked him for having been the means of obtaining such a position for Eric, he declined receiving any thanks for what he had done, as it was only a trifling amount toward the payment of his debt to the late Professor, to whom he owed all the culture he possessed.
He said this with a tone that entirely won the Widow's heart; she could make allowance for the exaggeration of politeness, but she felt there was a basis of sincerity, inasmuch as no one, unless he were utterly abandoned, could have come within the sphere of her husband's voice and eye, without receiving therefrom a good influence for life.
Pranken spoke of his brother-in-law and his sister, and how much Eric was liked and loved at Wolfsgarten; and he conveyed in a happy turn, how much he expected the lady's presence would effect in composing and calming the recently excited and disturbed state of his sister. He hinted at this very guardedly, representing only how difficult a task it is to live with an elderly man, even a very noble one, and how in some unexpected way the apparent harmony might be disturbed.
She understood more than Pranken imagined, and she was very glad to find the young man disposed, in the retirement of country life, to a deeper consideration of the influence of one human being upon another.
Pranken could not refrain from disclosing something of his religious transformation, but he did it as an act of special confidence. There was suddenly presented to him the vision of this lady near Manna, who would lay open to her her whole soul, and would be assured that he acknowledged his inward change to the whole world; and it just occurred to him now, that the Superior had spoken in high praise of this lady in Manna's presence. A smile came upon his lips, for he thought how excellent a use could be made of her in diverting Manna from her childish intention of taking the veil, although it was in every way to be deplored that this lady was not a member of the same church.
He then invited the Professor's widow, by Sonnenkamp's request, to drive with them to the country-house which the Cabinetsräthin—he corrected himself immediately and said the Cabinetsrath—thought of purchasing; she would certainly do her part towards securing such an agreeable neighbor for Herr Sonnenkamp. Her objection, that she was hardly yet settled, was flatteringly set aside.
The carriage drove up.
The Cabinetsräthin and Sonnenkamp entered, and the mother must drive with them to the villa now for sale. They were in extreme good humor on the way, but involuntarily there came over Eric's mother the thought that she was mixed up in some sort of intrigue, and that her simplicity was made use of for some interested purpose. What it was, she was wholly ignorant. She felt serious anxiety, and this positively increased when Sonnenkamp said, as they entered the house, that it belonged to him, and he was glad to be able to pass it over to his noble neighbor.
What does this mean? Has a surprise been prepared for her? Does Sonnenkamp mean to give her the house?
She was soon aware of her mistake, for the Cabinetsräthin immediately proceeded to assign the rooms to herself, her husband, and her children. She had two sons in the army, and one invalid daughter; rooms were also designated for her grandchildren, and when she was looking for a choice spot for herself, Sonnenkamp promised to have the grounds laid out anew. She was amazed to find what capabilities the grounds possessed.
Sonnenkamp was extremely complaisant; it had been, indeed, his desire to reserve the country-seat as the payment for his patent of nobility,—for the sum to be paid by the Cabinetsrath was merely nominal,—but he had been obliged to give way to Pranken's representations that this was utterly impracticable, and that it was much wiser to be on neighborly terms with so influential a man, as thus every thing would come about much more naturally.
The Cabinetsräthin sat with the Professor's widow in the garden, and endeavored to impress upon her that she would surely be glad, through her great influence, to aid the Sonnenkamp family in obtaining the rank which was their due; at first she went no farther, but it was her fixed plan that the widow should apply the main lever, and that neither she nor her husband should take a prominent part. Should the plan miscarry, they would remain concealed, and the learned widow, who was reputed as somewhat erratic, would be the only one committed.
Under high-sounding and lofty expressions of magnanimity and disinterestedness, there was a hidden policy not easily unravelled.
When Pranken was alone with Sonnenkamp and the Cabinetsräthin, Sonnenkamp smiled, as one does who considers it a good joke to allow himself for once to be circumvented. He listened in a very friendly way while Pranken was representing to him that the Cabinetsrath must be put in possession of the house at once, for if it were done later, either shortly before or shortly after the consummation of their wishes, it would give rise to scandalous remarks.
Sonnenkamp smilingly congratulated his young friend on being so well-fitted for a diplomatic career; it was not denied by Pranken that he should adopt that as his employment, rather than the life of a landed proprietor, provided it could be done with the consent of those nearest to him, and of his fatherly friend, as he termed Sonnenkamp.
Pranken knew a very accommodating notary, who came that very evening.
The purchase was concluded, and the Cabinetsrath was the neighbor of Herr Sonnenkamp.
As Sonnenkamp was taking a walk with Pranken in the mild evening, the latter for the first time shrank from his expected father-in-law, when he said,—
"My dear young friend, you must certainly have had something to do with usurers before this. I know these tender-hearted brethren; they hang together like a secret priesthood. But I would say to you, that the most delectable insight into the so-called human soul would be furnished by a history of bribery. I am acquainted with the different nations and races, I have tried it everywhere, and it has hardly ever been unsuccessful."
Pranken looked strangely at the man. He had confidence in him; but that he should speak so freely of the bribery of all nations disturbed him somewhat, and it pained him greatly to think that he himself was to be son of such a man.
Sonnenkamp continued good-humoredly,
"You evidently entertain the old prejudice that bribery is a bad thing, just as a little while ago usury was regarded to be. It's nothing but a matter of business, and it's a stupid thing for the government to require an oath from persons, that their transactions shall not be affected by any receiving of money. As far as I am concerned, it may be, and it usually is, with the judges, only a matter of form; when it comes to that point, a rich man knows how to get off, provided he hasn't foolishly gone too far. It's very curious, that among other nations, among the Romans and the Sclaves, men took the offered money, and, under some form or other, gave an opportunity for competition in bidding; but among the simpering Germanic people, the women are employed in this business. Of course! Among no people in the world are so many cows employed in agriculture as among the Germans, and in this business, too, they harness in the cows. Here the lady must be applied to in extremely gallant style, and I must confess that I would much rather deal with the women, for they keep their word; there's nothing more common than to give a bribe, and to have the bribee fail to keep his promise, unless another is added just as large. My father-—-"
Pranken started. For the first time in his life, Sonnenkamp spoke of his father, but he went on quietly,—
"My father was a connoisseur in the art of bribery, and in Poland his way was, to give a man a note for a hundred or a thousand dollars, as it might be, but he tore the note in two, kept one part himself and gave the other to the person bribed, surrendering his own half only when he had gained his end. You do not think it is necessary to divide thus with the Cabinetsräthin?"
Pranken felt hurt to hear a lady of the nobility pointed out and arraigned in this style. He gave Sonnenkamp the most conclusive assurances, who said further,—
"All proceeds in a regular order, and what is designated by the old-fashioned word bribery, is a necessary consequence of an advanced civilization. As soon as a people enters into complex relations, bribery is there, must be there, sometimes open, sometimes concealed; and I know this, that nothing has a greater variety of forms than bribery."
As Pranken stood there in fixed amazement, Sonnenkamp, taking his arm, continued,—
"Young friend, it is the same thing whether I buy an agent or a vote for my election as member of Parliament or of Congress, or whether I buy an agent or a vote to make me a noble. In America we are more open about it. Why should not this Cabinetsrath and his spouse make some profit out of their position? Their position is their whole property and capital. I am glad—it's all in order. In Germany you are obliged to cloak matters over respectably. It's all the same. If you take up the diplomatic career, as I hope you will, I shall be able to give you a good many lessons."
Pranken declared himself ready to learn a great deal, but inwardly he had an inexpressible dread of this man, and this dread changed into contempt. He proposed to himself, if he ever married Manna, to keep away from this man as far as possible.
Sonnenkamp was so happy in finding a fresh confirmation of his knowledge of men, that he endeavored to impart it to his own son.
The next morning, as they were leaving the breakfast-table, at which the Cabinetsräthin had been present, he took Roland with him into the park, saying to him,—
"Look, these noble people! All a pure cheat! This Cabinetsrath and his family, they are beggars, and I make them persons of property. Don't let it out, but you ought to know it. They are all a rabble; great and small, high and low, they are all waiting to have an offer for their souls as they call them. Every one in the world is to be had for money."
He took delight in dwelling upon this at length; he had not the remotest conception what a deep commotion and revolution this was exciting in the youth's soul.
Roland sat speechless, and Sonnenkamp turned over in his mind whether he had acted properly, but soon quieted his doubts. Religion, virtue, all is an illusion. Some—this Herr Dournay is one of that number—still believe in their illusions, and impose upon themselves and upon the world. It is better, he quieted himself in conclusion, that Roland should know all to be a mere illusion.
After the first days, the Mother understood what her son meant when he complained of the difficulty of maintaining a steady and firm hold upon thought, in the midst of the distractions with which he had to contend, like those upon a journey. In such a house as this, with extensive possessions and a great variety of duties, that devotion of the mind, which is so necessary for the thorough acquisition of any branch of knowledge, is continually interfered with, and it is even difficult, in such relations, not to lose one's self. Without laying out any programme, at any rate without any announcement of one, she resolved to regulate her own method of living; only when one possesses himself can he have anything to supply to the calls of others.
Eric and Roland went every day to bid her good-morning, and a consecrated sphere soon encompassed the mother; whoever approached her acquired, in a degree, a nobler bearing, and pitched his conversation to a musical and well-tuned key. She had sterling good sense, without any claim to originality or genius either in her own eyes or those of others; her mind was not intuitional but logical, and what she comprehended and discovered by investigation appeared to her to be necessarily true; she made as little show of knowledge as of dress, for it is a matter of course that one should be neatly dressed.
Chasteness, in the highest and purest signification of the word, was the impression which the Mother made, both in regard to her external appearance and her inner being; she was pure in thought, and pure in feeling; she had been for thirteen years a lady of the court, and knew the world; but she retained something of an ideal atmosphere; she knew vice and believed in virtue; she was quick and cautious, ready to accept the gage of battle and nobly yielding, at the same time.
If she were externally and superficially compared with Bella, the older lady would be at a disadvantage; but on a nearer consideration, she had something satisfying in her presence and conversation, while Bella was only exciting.
Bella not only desired to excite attention to her personal appearance and her sentiments, but she was also fond of proposing subjects for discussion, and propounding the most difficult questions; she was always putting something forth and making a stir. She gave very cursory and off-hand replies to what was said to her, and could set out in good style what she heard, so as to be extremely taking at the first acquaintance, but a longer familiarity with her showed that it was merely fluent talk.
The Professorin, on the other hand, made no demands, was grateful for all that was offered, and was ready to lend it serious thought.
Externally, the ladies could hardly be compared, for the personal appearance of the Professorin was not what would be called distinguished; she was somewhat plump in figure, of a pale blond complexion, and that fresh purity of look which one sees portrayed in the pictures of well-preserved women of Holland. Her strongest characteristic was a uniform reserve; she could listen quietly to every communication, and she could withhold her reply, if she had any opinion to express, until she had patiently heard all that was to be said.
When questions were addressed immediately to her, to which she did not want to give a direct reply, she had the faculty of not seeming to hear them; and if she were pressed to give a decided reply, she answered only just so far as she thought best, never allowing herself to be urged beyond a prescribed limit.
She soon became the centre of the circle. The fundamental trait which characterized all that she said and did was truthfulness; she never spoke for effect, she never smiled when there was nothing to smile at; she gave to every utterance of her own the natural tone, and to every utterance of others the requisite degree of attention. This truthfulness was not compromised in the least by her reserve, for she never violated the truth in the smallest particular, and it is not necessary to speak out everything that one knows and thinks. This is not craftiness; it is rather the simple dictate of prudence, and prudence is a virtue too; it is the same thing as goodness; nature herself is prudent, that is to say, veiled.
She was very happy to indulge and cultivate her fondness for botany by means of Sonnenkamp's splendid collection of plants, and his essentially valuable communications.
The Mother and Aunt lived together in perfect harmony, and yet were very different in character; and as they had very different spheres of knowledge in which they found enlivenment, so also they had different spheres of life. Their amateur-pursuits were the two most beautiful in the whole circle of sciences. The Professorin was a botanist. Aunt Claudine an astronomer, sedulously avoiding, indeed, every appearance of the bluestocking; she passed many silent evenings in the tower making observations of her own, generally through a small telescope, without any one's being aware of the fact.
The Professorin took delight in spending several hours every day in the hot-houses, and among the rare imported plants; and when Sonnenkamp one day showed her his method of training fruit-trees, she did not express admiration and astonishment as other people did, but exhibited a great proficiency in the knowledge of the new French art of gardening, and remarked how peculiar it was that the restless French people, when they withdrew from the whirl of active life, should devote themselves with such tender and persistent care to the cultivation of fruit. Sonnenkamp's countenance gleamed with pleasure, when she maintained that in orcharding, as he practised it, there was the unfolding of a talent for military generalship, inasmuch as he was called upon to decide what part of the fruit should be allowed to mature, and what should be sacrificed and removed in its unripe state in order that the rest might thrive.
Sonnenkamp expressed himself as very much obliged for the compliment, but he smiled inwardly, thinking that he saw through the fine courtly breeding; that this lady, before she came there, had read up in his favorite pursuit, in order to render herself agreeable to him. He received this homage in an apparently natural way, as if he regarded it as sincere; but he determined not to allow himself to be taken in by any such arts.
He meant to offset politeness with politeness; and he hastened to place everything in a friendly way at the disposal of the Mother and Aunt Claudine.
Towards Frau Ceres the Professorin soon established a definite line of conduct, allowing her to claim but a limited portion of her time; and now Frau Ceres went into other rooms than her own apartments, which she had never done before, and she frequently sent to ask the Mother if she might pay her a visit; the request was sometimes granted and sometimes refused.
Frau Ceres soon felt her mental influence, for she was always interested in some thought or other; she was like a priestess whose vocation it was to cherish perpetually a little flame upon an altar. When Frau Ceres was eager to make this and that inquiry about life at Court, the Professorin was able, in an unlooked-for way, to arouse her to think, and take an interest in general matters.
The Aunt, who was very reserved in her manners, brought a new element of life into the house. The grand-piano in the music-saloon, that had lain so long idle, now sent forth clear and brilliant tones; and Roland, who had wholly neglected musical practice, entered into it with zest, and became the aunt's scholar. The house, formerly called dry by Eric because it was void of music, was now refreshed and steeped in harmony; it was a cheerful time with the new guests. Sonnenkamp's countenance acquired an expression of satisfaction such as it had never worn before, when Frau Ceres, sitting by him in the music-saloon, said—
"I cannot conceive how it used to be before these noble ladies were here."
One day, after Aunt Claudine had played beautifully, and had repeated a piece twice at Eric's request, Frau Ceres said to the Mother:—
"I envy you, that you can so comprehend and enjoy all this."
She evidently plumed herself upon this little formula learned by heart, but the Professorin unintentionally stripped off this pretty adornment by saying:—
"Each one has his own satisfaction, either in nature or in art, if he is only true to himself. It is not necessary to understand and know a thing thoroughly before one can derive pleasure from it. I take delight in these mountains, without knowing how high they are, and what strata they are composed of, and many other things that men of science are acquainted with. So you can take pleasure in music. Endeavor first of all to get the simple truth, and try after nothing farther, and everything else will be yours."
No one imagined, not even Frau Ceres herself, that she went out of the music-saloon to-day a different being; for no one is able to say what word will have a direct influence upon a thirsting, aspiring, and receptive heart and mind. Frau Ceres was not conscious of the real change in herself; without learning, without acquirements, one can enter into the joys of life and of knowledge through one's own natural susceptibilities.
The quiet, healthful life of the house was suddenly broken in upon; a carriage rattled on the gravel of the courtyard; a silken train rustled: Bella and her husband made their appearance.
Like a bit of a home in a foreign land comes a meeting with friends among new surroundings, and the visit of Bella and Clodwig was a true pleasure to Frau Dournay; Bella embraced her rather impetuously, while Clodwig took her hand in both of his.
"But where is Eric?" asked Bella very soon, holding the Aunt's hand fast, as if she must cling to something.
With an uneasy glance first at Clodwig, then at Bella, the Mother answered that it was a rule not to allow the study-hours to be interrupted even by so pleasant a family occurrence as their welcome visit; she emphasized the wordfamily, and Sonnenkamp, acknowledging it with a bow, said that an exception might be made to-day, but Clodwig himself begged that this should not be. Bella dropped the Aunt's hand, and stood with downcast eyes, while the Professor's widow watched her closely.
Bella looked fresh and animated; she was in full dress, and wore a large cape of sky-blue silk, under which her bare arm was seen in all its roundness.
They went into the garden, and Sonnenkamp was pleased to hear Frau Dournay explaining his system of horticulture, but he left them in order to announce their visit to his wife, wishing to use every effort to prevent her declaring herself ill.
Bella walked with the Mother, and Clodwig with Aunt Claudine, with whom he was soon in animated conversation. The Aunt, who was an accomplished piano player, was herself something like a piano, upon which children or artists can play, but which, if no one wished to do so, remains quietly in the background.
Bella asked Frau Dournay many questions as to the impression which all the family made upon her, but she received only indirect answers: she talked much herself; her checks glowed, she let her cape fall a little, and her beautiful full shoulders were seen.
"It's a pity that Clodwig didn't know your sister-in-law earlier," she suddenly said.
"He did know her well, and, unfortunately for herself, she was, as you know, a much-admired belle at court; but that was long before your time."
Bella was silent; Frau Dournay threw a quick searching glance at her. What was passing within her? what did this restless fluttering from one subject to another mean?
Eric and Roland came; Bella quickly drew her cape over her shoulders again, and folded her arms tightly under it, hardly giving Eric the tips of her fingers.
Roland was extremely lively, but Eric seemed very serious; whenever he looked at Bella, he turned away his eyes again directly. She congratulated him on his mother's arrival, and said,—
"I think if a stranger met you, even in travelling, he would feel that you are still happy enough to have a mother; and what a mother she is! A man seems to lose a nameless fragrance when his mother is lost to him."
Bella said this with a tone of feeling, and yet her mouth wore a peculiar smile, and her eyes seemed to seek applause for these ideas.
Sonnenkamp joined them, and, stroking his chin with an air of satisfaction, asked the ladies to come to his wife, who felt quite revived by a visit from such guests. He proposed that the gentlemen should drive with him to the castle, to take a view of the progress of the building, and of the place where the Roman antiquities had been found. Bella merrily upbraided Sonnenkamp for robbing her of her pleasant guests, then she went with the ladies to the garden-parlor, while the gentlemen proceeded to the castle. Frau Ceres was soon ready to go with them to the music-room, where the Aunt readily consented to play to them; Bella sat between Frau Dournay and Frau Ceres, while Fräulein Perini stood near the piano.
When the first piece came to an end, Bella asked:—
"Fräulein Dournay, do you ever play accompaniments for your nephew?"
The Aunt answered in the negative. Again the Mother threw a quick look at Bella, who seemed to be thinking constantly of Eric, and not to be able, nor indeed to wish, to conceal it. While Fräulein Dournay was playing again, Bella said to the mother:—
"You must give me something of yourself; let me have your sister-in-law at Wolfsgarten."
"I have no right to dispose of my sister. But, pardon me, a word spoken while she is playing annoys her, though she makes no claim for herself in any other respect."
Bella was silent, and Frau Dournay also; but while listening to a refreshing bit of Mozart's music, their thoughts took very different paths. What Bella's were could hardly be defined; her whole being was thrilling with joy and pain, renunciation and defiance. The Professorin owned that her instinctive perceptions were confirmed, though she felt as if they left a stain upon herself.
When the piece was finished, Bella said:
"Ah, Mozart is a happy being; hard as his life may have been, he was happy always, and he still makes others happy whenever they listen to him; even his sorrow and mourning have a certain harmonious serenity. Did your husband love music too?"
"Oh, yes; he often said that men in modern times express in music that imaginative romance of the human heart which the ancients wove into their myths. Music transports us into a world far removed from all palpable and visible existence, and transports us waking into the land of dreams."
They went out upon the balcony, and played with the parrots; Bella told one of them a marvellous story of a cousin at Wolfsgarten, which lived in a wonderful cage, sometimes flying off into the woods; but it was too gentlemanly to get its own living there, and always came back to its golden cage.
Bella's cheeks burned hotter and hotter; her lips trembled, and all at once it occurred to her that she must settle the matter then. She spoke to Mother and Aunt so earnestly, and yet with such childlike entreaties, that they at last agreed that the Aunt should go to her, within a few days, and remain as her guest.
"You will see," she said, in low but half triumphant tone to the mother, "Fräulein Dournay will be Clodwig's best friend; they are exactly made for each other."
Frau Dournay looked fixedly at her. Has it come to this, that the wife wishes to give a compensation to her husband!
The ladies withdrew to dress for dinner. Frau Dournay had let down her long gray hair, and sat some time speechless in her dressing-room, with her hands folded in her lap. It seemed to her as if her brain had received a heavy blow from what she had become convinced of by unmistakable indications. Her heart contracted, and her tears forced themselves into her eyes, though they would not fall. Was it for this that a child was cherished, guarded, and nurtured by all that was best, that he might end thus? No, not end,—begin an endless entanglement which must lead to utter ruin. Was it for this that a mind was endowed with all the treasures of knowledge, that they might be turned into toys, and masks, and cloaks of baseness?
"O my God, my God!" she moaned, and covered her face with her hands.
Before her mind's eye everything seemed laid waste,—the pure, free, upright, noble nature of Eric, and her own as well. She could feel no more joy in the glance, the words, the learning, of her son; he had used them all for falsehood and treachery.
Now the tears fell from her eyes, as she thought what her husband would have said to this. How often had he lamented that every one said: "The world is bad and totally corrupt; why should I alone separate myself and deny myself its pleasures? And so every one became an upholder of the empire of sin." But how the ruin embraces everything! This noble-hearted Clodwig, with his unexampled friendship—they must meet him, greet him, talk with him, and yet wish him dead. Shame! And he goes on teaching the boy, teaching him to rule himself, and to work with noble aim for others, while he himself—oh horrible! And this passionate woman who could not endure to devote herself to the best of men, what was to become of her? And this Sonnenkamp, and his wife, and Fräulein Perini, and the Priest? "Look," they would all cry, "Look! these are the liberal souls! These are the people who are always talking about humanity, and beneficently work for it; and meanwhile they cherish the lowest passions: they shrink from no treachery, no lies, no hypocrisy!"
Oh, these unhappy wives, these wives who call themselves unhappy! There runs through our time a great lie concerning the unhappy wife. The fact is this: girls want a husband of wealth and standing, and a young and brilliant lover besides. Why will they not marry poor men? Because they can give them no fine establishment. And these men, who offer themselves as lovers,—
"Lovers!" she exclaimed aloud. Frau Dournay sprang quickly up and rang the bell violently, for she heard the carriage drive into the court. She told the servant to ask her son to come to her directly.
Eric came, looking much excited; he gazed in astonishment at his mother, whom he had never seen looking as she did now, with her long hair hanging loose, and her face looking gray like her hair.
"Sit down," she said.
Eric seated himself. His mother pressed her hand to her brow. Could she warn her son plainly? What can a mother, what can parents do, if a child, grown up and free from control, wanders from the right path? And if he has already wandered, can he still be honest? Hemustlie; it would be double baseness if he did not shield himself with lies,—himself and her!
"My dear son," she began, in a constrained tone, "bear with me if I feel lost in this restless life, which has broken in upon my loneliness and quiet. I wonder at your calm strength—But no, I won't speak of that now. What was I going to say to you? Ah, yes, the Countess Wolfsgarten, the wife of our friend,"—she laid a quiet but marked emphasis on this word, and paused a moment, then continued, "wishes to have Aunt Claudine go and remain with her."
"That is good! that's excellent!"
"Indeed! and why? Do you forget that it will leave me quite alone in a strange house?"
"But you are never alone, dear mother. And Aunt Claudine can find a noble vocation at Wolfsgarten; Countess Bella is full of unrest, in spite of all the beauty which encompasses her life; a strong, true nature like Aunt Claudine's, steadfast, and bringing peace to others, will soften and compose her as nothing else in the world could do. I acknowledge the sacrifice that you must make, but a good work will be accomplished by it."
His mother's eyes grew loss troubled; her face quivered as from an electric shock, as she said smiling:—
"At last we have all found our mission, we are all to be teachers. Let me ask you how Countess Bella, our friend's wife, appears to you."
A two-edged sword went through Eric's heart; he saw how he was bringing a weight upon his mother's spirit. And perhaps Bella had betrayed by some passionate word a feeling which must not exist, and he appeared as a sinner and a traitor! There was a short pause; then his mother asked, with a sudden change of expression,—
"Why do you not answer me?"
"Ah, mother, I am still much more inexperienced than I thought myself; I cannot put absolute trust in my judgment of people. I have no knowledge of human nature, though my father used to say that psychology was myforte. It may be so. I can follow a given trait of character back to its remote causes, and forward to its consequences, but I have no true knowledge of human nature."
The Mother listened quietly, with downcast eyes, to this long preamble, in which Eric was trying to gain mastery of himself, but when he stopped, she said:—
"You can at least say something, even if it is not very clear-sighted."
"Well, then, I think that in this highly-gifted woman a struggle is going on between worldliness and renunciation of the world; between the desire toappearand the longing really tobe. It seems to me as if something had been repressed, checked, in the development of her life, and as if she were not yet quite ripe for the beautiful work of making life's evening full and perfect to so noble a man as Clodwig."
"Yes, he is a noble man, and to wrong him would be like the desecration of a temple," said his mother significantly.
The words came out sharply, and she went on: "You have judged rightly, the Prankens are a presumptuous and daring race. It was believed that Bella would marry her music-master, with whom she played a great deal; indeed she played with him in a double sense. But that's not to the purpose. An apparently insignificant event brought about in Bella a derangement—I don't know what to call it—a sort of overturn in her character. In her youth, while she might still be considered young,—she was twenty-two or twenty-three—she had to see her younger sister married before her; she bore it with the greatest composure, but I think that, from that time, a change came over her difficult to be described; she had suddenly grown old, older than she would confess to herself; there was something of the matron about her. This was affected, but a bitter tone was real. Her sister died after a few years, leaving no children. All these circumstances brought out something discordant in Bella; she really hated her sister, and yet behaved as if she were pining for her. She had no mother, or rather, she had one whose highest triumph was to hear people say, 'Your daughter is handsome, but not nearly so handsome as you were when you were a girl.' To be handsome is the chief pride of the Prankens. Bella is unfortunately a development of that unhappy class of society, in which people go to the theatre only to satirize and ridicule the performance, to church only to make a formal reverence to the mercy of God; in which women are held in low esteem unless they are handsome, and know how, as age comes on, to intrigue, and to affect piety. Such a being can say to herself: I have in the course of my life adorned with flowers eight or ten hundred yards of canvas, for perfectly useless sofa-cushions. Is that a life worth living? Now she has no children, no natural fixed duties—"
"And just for these reasons," interrupted Eric, "Aunt Claudine, without knowing it, will have a softening and tranquillizing influence; her calm nature, which never has to renounce, because it never longs for any change, seems just chosen for the work. However highly I value Frau Bella, our friend's wife, for herself, we must think first of all that we are fulfilling a duty to the noble Clodwig; it will establish anew and increase the purity and beauty of his life."
"Well, Aunt Claudine is going to Wolfsgarten; and now leave me, my dear son,—but no, I must tell you something, though it may seem childish. When I saw you running so fast through the garden to-day, I thought of your father's pleasure when he had been on a mountain excursion with you; and once, when you were just eleven, when you had been in Switzerland with him, he said on coming home, that his chief delight had been in seeing you run up and down the mountains without once slipping; and you never did get a fall, though your younger brother was never without some bump or bruise."
It was with a glance of double meaning that she looked at Eric, as she passed her hand over his face.
"But we have talked enough; now go. I must dress for dinner."
She kissed his forehead, and he left her; but outside the door, he stopped and said, with folded hands:—
"I thank you. Eternal Powers, that you have left me my mother: she will save us all."
When they assembled again at the villa, the Doctor chanced to be there. Or was it not mere chance? Did he desire to note accurately, once for all, the relation between Eric and Bella?
He saluted the Professorin with great respect; she said she must confess that her husband, who made a point of mentioning frequently his distant friends, had never uttered, to the best of her recollection, the name of Doctor Richard.
"And yet I was a friend of his," cried the Doctor in a loud tone.
After a while, he said in a low voice: "I must be honest with you, and tell you that I was only a little acquainted with your husband; but your father-in-law was my teacher. I introduced myself, however, to your son as the friend of your husband, because this seemed to me the readiest way to be of service to him, exposed as he is here, in the house and in its connections, to a variety of perils."
The Professorin warmly expressed her obligation to him, but her heart contracted again. This man had evidently alluded to Bella.
The Artist who had painted the portrait of the Wine-count's daughter was there; and soon the Priest came too, and regret was expressed that the Major could not be present, having gone to celebrate St. John's day in the neighborhood; he considered everything appertaining to the Masonic order in the nature of a military duty.
The company in general were in a genial mood. The Doctor asked the painter how he got along with his picture of Potiphar's wife.
The Artist invited the company to visit shortly the studio, which Herr von Endlich had fitted up for him for the summer months.
"Strange!" cried the Doctor. "We always speak of Potiphar's wife, and we don't know what her own name was; she takes the name of her husband, and you artists don't refrain from painting nude beauties with more or less fidelity. The chaste Joseph presents always an extremely contemptible figure, and perhaps because the world thinks that the chaste Joseph is always a more or less contemptible figure. Æneas and Dido are just such another constellation, but Æneas is not looked upon in so contemptuous a way as the Egyptian Joseph."
It was painful to hear the Doctor talk in this style.
The Priest said:—
"This narrative in the Old Testament is the correlative to that of the adulteress in the New; and after a thousand years, the harmony is rendered complete. The Old Testament strikes the discordant note; the New Testament brings it to the accordant pitch."
Clodwig was exceedingly delighted with this exposition; there was something of the student-nature in him, and he was always enlivened and made happy by any new view, and any enlargement of his knowledge.
"Herr Priest, and you also, Frau Professorin," cried the Doctor, who was to-day more talkative than ever, "with your great experience of life, you two could render a great service to a friend of mine."
"I?" the priest asked.
"And I?" asked the Professorin.
"Yes, you. Our century has entered upon a wholly new investigation of the laws of the world; and things, circumstances, sentiments, which one would not believe could ever be caught, are now bagged in the statistical net, and must be shown to be conformable to laws. Nothing has been esteemed freer and more incalculable, even incomprehensible, than love and matrimony, and yet there are now exact statistical tables of these; there is an iron law, by which the number of divorces in a year is determined. My friend now goes a step farther, and from facts of his own observation has deduced the conclusion, that marriages in which the man is considerably older than the wife, present a greater average of happy unions than so-called love-matches; now, Herr Priest, and you also, Frau Professorin, think over the list of persons you are acquainted with, and ask yourselves whether you find any confirmation of this law."
The Professorin was silent, but the Priest said that religion alone consecrated marriage; religion alone gave humility, which was the only sure basis of all beautiful intercourse between men themselves, and also between man and God.
The Priest succeeded, continuing the conversation, in diverting it entirely from the subject so flippantly introduced.
Sonnenkamp stated that the Major wished to have a grand masonic celebration in the spacious knight's hall of the castle, when it was completed; he asked in what relation the reigning Prince stood towards Masonry.
Clodwig replied that he himself had formerly belonged to the order, and that the Prince was at present a protector of the brotherhood, without being a member.
The conversation was carried on in groups, and they left the table in a cheerful mood. The Doctor took leave.
It was now settled that the Aunt should go to Wolfsgarten; and, in order to give her time to make preparation for leaving, Clodwig and Bella were to remain over night and take her in the carriage with them on the morrow.
Bella was in very good spirits, and, on Sonnenkamp's offering to present her with a parrot, requested that it might be the wildest one, which she promised to tame.
In the evening Roland urged them to take a sail with him on the Rhine. The Aunt and Bella went together; Fräulein Perini withdrew with Frau Ceres; the Professorin remained with Clodwig, and Sonnenkamp excused himself to forward some unfinished letters.
On the boat there were laughter and merriment, in which Bella joined, dipping her hand into the water and playing with her wedding-ring, which she moved up and down on the finger, repeatedly immersing her hand in the Rhine.
"Do you understand what the Doctor was aiming at?" she asked Eric.
"If I had been willing to understand, I should have been obliged to feel offended," he replied.
"Now we are speaking of the Doctor," resumed Bella, "there is one thing I must tell you that I have forgotten to mention before. The Doctor is doughty, unadulterated virtue; but this rough virtue once wanted to pay court to me, and I showed him how ridiculous he made himself. It may very well be, that the man doesn't speak well of me. You ought to know the reason."
Eric was moved in his inmost soul. What does this mean? May this be a wily move to neutralize the physician's opinion? He could not determine.
After a while, Bella asked,—
"Can you tell me why I am now so often low-spirited?"
"The more highly-endowed natures, Aristotle says, are always melancholy," replied Eric.
Bella caught her breath; that was altogether too pedantic an answer to suit her.
They did not succeed in keeping up any continued conversation, but Bella said at one time abruptly to Eric,—
"The visit here of your mother vexes me."
"What! vexes you?"
"Yes, it wounds me that this man with his gold should be able to change the position of people, as he does."
Eric had abundant matter of thought in this casual remark.
"You have the happiness to be greatly beloved," said Bella suddenly. Eric looked up alarmed, glancing towards Roland, and Bella continued aloud,—
"Your mother loves you deeply." After a time, she said in a low tone to herself, but Eric heard it,—
"Me no one loves; I know why,—no, I don't know why."
Eric looked her full in the face, then seized an oar and made the water fly with his rowing.
Meanwhile, the mother and Clodwig sat together, and the former expressed her joy that Eric had been thrown into the society of men of such well-tried experience; in former times, a man could have completed his culture by intercourse with women; but now, that end could be attained only by intercourse with noble men.
They soon passed into those mutual unfoldings of views which are like a perpetual greeting, when two persons have pursued the same spiritual ends apart from each other, in wholly different relations of life, and yet with the same essential tendencies.
The Professorin had known Clodwig's first wife, and recalled her to remembrance in affectionate words. Clodwig looked round to see if Bella was near, for he had never spoken before her of his former wife. It was pure calumny, when it was said that he had promised Bella never to speak of the deceased, for Clodwig was not so weak, nor Bella so hard, as this; it was only out of consideration for her, that he never did it.
In low, half-whispered tones, the conversation flowed on; and finding in each other the same fundamental trait, they agreed that it was happy for human beings here below to pass lightly over what was untoward in their lot, and retain in lively remembrance only what was felicitous.
"Yes," said the Professorin in confirmation, "my husband used often to say, that a Lethe stream flows through the soul buoyant with life, so that the past is forgotten."
It was a season of purest, interchange of thought, and of true spiritual communion, for Clodwig and the mother. They were like two beings in the spirit-world, surveying calmly and clearly what had passed in this state of existence. There was nothing painful in the mutual awakening of their recollections, but rather an internal perception of the inexhaustible fulness of life; on this elevated height the sound of desire and plaint was no longer heard, and the individual life with all its personal relations was dissolved into the one element of universal being.
But now there was a diversion, and Clodwig expressed regret at having lived so much a mere spectator, and that he had without throwing himself into the great current of influence, waited passively in the confident expectation that the idea which was stirring in the world would accomplish, of itself, its own grand fulfilment. He expressed his satisfaction that the young men of to-day were of a different stamp, and that Eric was to him an inspiring representative of youth as thoughtful as it was bold, as moderate as it was active.
Bella entered just as they happened to refer again to the statistics of love. She was pale, but Clodwig did not perceive it; sitting down near them in silence, she requested them to continue their conversation; but neither the Professorin nor Clodwig resumed the interrupted theme.
Clodwig spoke of Aunt Claudine, asked after her favorite pursuits, and was glad to own a fine telescope, which she could use at Wolfsgarten.
After a brief rest, Bella left them and went into the park.