Before Eric started, Manna came to him, saying that she must immediately go to the convent; that she thought it her duty, above all, to confess the truth there, and that she did not wish to postpone any thing so difficult, but to undertake it at once.
Eric was perplexed. Why should Manna wish to re-enter the convent? He soon recognized in this desire, however, the impulse to do something, not to remain in inactivity; and, moreover, the manner in which she sought to sever the old ties in peace was thoroughly noble: so he merely said,—
"Only do not forget that you are no longer justified in imposing castigations and mortifications upon yourself, or in allowing them to be enjoined upon you by others; for you no longer belong to yourself, Manna, you are mine: you must neither torture my Manna, nor allow others to torture her."
Manna looked at him with beaming eyes, and from out of all her tribulation sounded a serene voice, as she said,—
"It was through you, Eric, that I came to this resolution."
"Through me?"
"Yes. You told me how much good it did you, when one of your comrades, after you had taken leave of him, came to you and said, 'Do not think hardly of me if I ignore you. You could not do otherwise; and I neither can nor dare do otherwise.' I am going to imitate you and your comrade. The souls of those in the convent shall not be burdened with my desertion, which they must consider as apostasy."
Manna wished that Aunt Claudine should accompany her; but Eric thought it more fitting that she should travel with Roland. The brother and sister would thus be alone together, out in the world; and Roland would have to protect his sister, to render her services which would lift him out of his state of dead dejection, out of his heavy, monotonous sorrow.
"You can scarcely imagine how happy it makes me to let you command me," said Manna, as Eric arranged every thing.
Roland agreed at once.
"But you must ask your parents' leave," was the next order; and the children felt painfully that this was but a form: every thing was torn asunder and rent to shreds; all obedience and all dependence.
"Manna, now is the time," said Roland, in great agitation.
"For what?"
"You ask father; perhaps he will tell you whether we have no blood-relations in Europe. Whoever they may be, they ought to come to us now. It is hard enough that we have never troubled ourselves about them."
Manna looked imploringly up to Eric, who, rightly discerning in the youth the instinctive longing for family ties, begged them to abstain from urging the matter for the present, saying that the time for it would come by and by.
Manna went to her father, and said that she wished to go to the convent.
Sonnenkamp was alarmed, but quickly regained his composure on Manna's adding that she went thither for the last time, in order to bid farewell forever, as she had decided never to become a nun.
In spite of all its distortion, a gleam of triumphant satisfaction lighted up Sonnenkamp's face.
"Do you see at last? They knew—I now have certain evidence that they knew—what money, and in what manner earned, you brought them. Did they ever say a word to you about being unable to accept it?"
Manna avoided this view of the question. She would gladly have confessed all to her father at once, but had not yet the courage. Moreover, she had promised Eric to follow his guidance implicitly.
The weather was foggy and cold, as the brother and sister, and Fräulein Perini, went down the river: yet the journey refreshed them, for Roland said after a short time,—
"Ah! Thereisa world outside after all!"
Towards noon, the sun pierced through the mist, which melted away, and every thing became suddenly bright. The vessel steamed down the stream, shooting rapidly along over the clear water, between the sun-illumined mountains, on which, here and there, harvests were still being gathered.
The passengers stood or walked on deck, enjoying the wide prospect; but below in the cabin, lay Manna, with closed eyes, not heeding Fräulein Perini's injunction to come up and refresh herself with the view and the free air, only begging to be left alone. And so she lay and thought, half dreaming, half awake, of all that had happened to her and hers. How utterly different it was when she went up the river, with Roland, last spring! Eric's warning came into her mind, how wealth, and the ease with which it enables one to make disposition of external means and of those who serve, seduce us into healing ourselves with amusements and outward remedies.
This reproach did not now trouble her: she only wished to part peacefully from a Past, under obligations contracted in her soul to the friendly souls there, which she wished to fulfil, even though outwardly separating herself from them. Her soul lay bound by obligations to the women yonder: she wanted to take care to be truly comprehended, even though she was outwardly cutting herself off from them.
The difference of faith between Eric and herself again arose before her. But what course remained to her? To become untrue there to the pious sisters, or here to Eric; but no, that was no longer possible. She hoped that the great soul of the Superior would give her calmness; and thus she lay, sunk in a half-slumber during the whole trip.
On deck, Fräulein Perini was glad, on the whole, that Manna had remained unseen; for here and there among the passengers Sonnenkamp was mentioned, and the report was, that the Prince's negro had lifted him up with both hands, and had carried him, struggling, down the staircase, until he was set at liberty by the servants, who brought him to the carriage. An agent, whom Fräulein Perini knew, was already wondering who would buy the Villa, for it was absolutely certain that the man would not remain there.
In the forward cabin, where Lootz had ensconced himself, he was obliged to hear the fruiterers who were carrying to the Lower. Rhine the fruit which they had brought from Sonnenkamp's head-gardener, saying one to another, that they would not be willing to take a mouthful of fruit cultivated by this man. They granted him the merit, however, of having done much toward the introduction of a species of apples which grew easily and bore well.
At the last stopping-place but one before the Island Cloister, two black-robed nuns came on board. Fräulein Perini, who knew one of them, went down with them into the cabin where Manna was sleeping. Both nuns placed themselves opposite to her, took out their prayer-books, and prayed for the poor soul lying there in the sleep of sorrow.
Manna opened her eyes and gazed around in astonishment. She knew not where she was. One of the nuns—it was the shy one, who always kept in the background—welcomed her in the French language, and bade her comfortingly, resign herself to all that she must endure.
Manna sat up. So, then, the news had already reached even their ears! She went on deck with Roland and the three ladies. The Island cloister came into view. Every thing was so clear and bright, that she felt as though she had now suddenly returned to earth. There was every thing, just as it used to be, seeming to look at her with the question, "Where hast thou been this long time?"
They got into the boat, and were rowed toward the island. Every tree, every bench, every shrub, greeted her like a long-vanished Past. She cast a melancholy glance at the beautiful round seat on the landing-place, where she had so often sat with Heimchen. Now wet leaves lay upon the bench.
They reached the convent.
Manna sent her name at once to the Superior, but received the answer that she must first remain an hour in the church, and then come to her.
Manna understood what this meant; but did the Superior, then, already know of her defection? She went towards the church, but remained standing at the door, without entering. She feared the picture within, knowing that she could not do otherwise than raise her eyes towards it, and yet that must not be. She turned round again, and went out towards the park. She heard the children in the house playing together; she heard singing in another class; she knew how all were sitting; she knew every bench; approaching the fir-tree where she had so often sat, she saw that the seat was no longer there. On the kneeling-stool where Heimchen used to sit, lay withered leaves. "To Heimchen," said a voice within her. Turning back, it seemed to her, in passing the convent, as though she were guilty of rebellion and sin in not having obeyed the Superior's command. She came into the churchyard. On Heimchen's grave stood a cross with this inscription in golden letters:—
"The child is not dead, but sleepeth."—Mark v. 39.
"How?" cried Manna. "Why these words here? They are spoken in Scripture of that child who was re-awakened on its death-bed, but not of a buried one."
She sank down upon the grave, and her thoughts grew confused: she lost all consciousness of the passage of time. At last, composing herself, she turned back toward the convent. Admitted into the reception-room, she was still obliged to wait alone; the pictures on the wall seeming to withdraw into the distance if she looked up at them.
At last came the Superior. Manna, hastening toward her, would have thrown herself upon her neck; but she stood rigid, winding both ends of her hempen girdle around the forefingers of her right and left hand, so that the rope cut into the flesh.
Manna sank down at her feet.
"Rise," said the Superior severely. "We suffer no vehemence here. It is to be hoped you yet remember this. Have you been in the church?"
"No," said Manna, rising.
It was long ere the Superior spoke. She probably-expected Manna to acknowledge her transgression; but Manna could not utter a sound. Every thing that she had experienced, and that was now within her, seemed to crowd upon her at once.
"I came hither," she began at last, "in order to leave no sorrow in your heart, Reverend mother, at my ingratitude. Your treatment of me has been most noble: you have"—
"No praise. Nothing about me. Speak of yourself."
"My memory must not be a grief to you. I came to beseech you"—
"Why do you hesitate so long? Speak out! What do you wish?"
"Nothing save your faith in the honorable struggle through which I have passed. I could not do otherwise. I am betrothed to Eric Dournay."
"How, to whom? Did I rightly understand you? Is Herr von Pranken dead? You are—But no. Speak!"
Faithfully and openly did Manna acquaint her with all that had happened, standing erect, and speaking in a firm voice. When she had ended, the Superior said,—
"So you have not come to do penance?"
"No."
"For what, then?"
Manna, grasping her brow, said,—
"Have I then not clearly confessed that I do not feel myself culpable? I came in order to offer you thanks, heartfelt thanks, for the good which you did me in time of need, and my memory must not be a sorrow to you. You yourself once told me that the battle which I must fight with life would be a hard one. I have not sustained it, or rather—only, I implore you, be not wounded. Grant me a peaceful resting-place in your memory."
"Do you wish that, even now? Yes, that is the way with the children of this world. Even the suicides demand a consecrated grave. You are dead, and can have no grave in our holy ground. You stretch out your hand for reconciliation, but of what sort? Your hand is not clasped."
A lay sister entered, bearing a request from Fräulein Perini to be admitted into the presence of the Superior and Manna.
She entered.
"Have you any thing to say?" asked the Superior, turning towards Fräulein Perini.
"Yes. Here stands Fräulein Manna. I remind her before you, worthy mother, of a sacred promise which Fräulein Manna obtained from me."
"A promise? From you?
"Yes. You, Fräulein Manna, extorted from me a promise to hold you fast with all manner of punishments and of bonds, if the spirit of apostasy should ever gain a foothold in your soul. Did you not. Manna?"
"I did."
"And now?" asked the Superior.
"Now I belong to myself no longer. I no longer call any thing my own: no possession, not even myself. I cannot give in expiation what is not mine."
The three women stood long in silence. Finally the Superior said,—
"Have you confessed to the Priest?"
"No."
The Superior had turned away, and spoke with averted face:—
"We force you not. We bind you not. We could; but we do not wish to. Go, go! I will see your face no more! Go! Alas, what a hell you bear within you! The trace of your footsteps here shall disappear. No, I will hear nothing more. Go! Has she gone? Do not answer me. Dear Perini, tell me—is she gone?"
"She is going," replied Fräulein Perini.
"Where is my sister?" they suddenly heard Roland's loud voice saying.
The door was thrown violently open. Roland, quickly perceiving what had been going on, cried,—
"You have humiliated yourself sufficiently: come with me." He seized Manna by the hand, and left the convent with her.
When they were in the open air, Roland said he had been unable to endure the suspense any longer. He had feared lest Manna would allow herself to be maltreated, enduring unkindness as a penance.
"And that you must not do, even if you could bear it yourself, for Eric's sake. You must not allow Eric's betrothed to be insulted and abused."
How Manna's eyes shone as she gazed into Roland's glowing countenance!
"It is over," she said. "A whole world is swallowed up behind me. It is well that it is over."
Fräulein Perini remained some time longer with the Superior, then followed Manna. Sitting beside her in the boat, she said in a peculiar low whisper,—
"I was obliged to say that. I could not do otherwise."
Manna held out her hand, saying,—
"You only did your duty. I am not angry with you. Forgive me."
Manna knew not how she had left the convent. Only when she embraced Roland did her tears begin to fall. On their homeward journey she did not go below, but sat on the deck beside Roland, looking at the landscape with her great black eyes wide open.
On his way to Mattenheim, Eric met the Major. He felt cheerful enough to tell him that he was scouring the country as if enlisting a corps of firemen; and, when he explained this meaning of his words, the Major needed no urging to agree to his part. He looked on the affair in the light of a court of honor, from which no one should shrink.
"Poor man! Poor man!" he repeated, over and over again, "He was not open with me; but then, neither was she. I do not take it ill of him. She was not so either: it was the first time in her life. She"—this was of course, Fräulein Milch—"knew that I could not endure it. I can do much, comrade: you would not believe how much I can do. But there is one thing of which I am incapable; and that is hypocrisy. I cannot have friendly intercourse with a man whom I neither love nor esteem. I knew that the man had been a slaveholder; and I have always said that no one who associates with poodles can keep off the fleas: and who would believe that the man could utter so many kindly words? And with you, comrade, he talked like a sage, like a saint. I, with my dull brains, cannot make out, and even Herr Weidmann could not help me, why the good children must suffer all this. But now I will explain it to you. Now I know the reason. It came into my head on the road. This is how it is. I have not learned much. I used to be a drummer: I'll tell you my story some time."
"Yes; but what have you discovered?"
"Just so she always reminds me when I wander off from what I was saying. This is it. You see, man, as it says in Scripture, is born in pain, trouble; and the human soul is also born in pain, want, and misery. We poor fellows know that; and that is why rich and distinguished people are not fairly in the world. I mean—you know—and now our Roland is born anew, into true nobility, for the first time. The Prince can ennoble the name, but not the soul, you understand; so it is. And our Roland is now the real nobleman. To endure evil and do good, that is the motto which he has now received; and that is a device which has yet been engraved upon no knightly shield: but you see it stands written within, and there it will remain."
The Major pointed to his heart with a trembling hand. Eric listened in astonishment, as this timid man, so slow of speech, uttered all this, with many interruptions, it is true, but with great fervor; and now the Major reminded him how they had tormented themselves with the problem of what Roland should do with so much money, and said that it was now decided, once for all, he must do nothing but good with it.
When, at last, Eric was about to separate from the Major, the latter held him fast once again, saying,—
"Listen only to this one thing more. I was a drummer: I'll tell you the story some day. I became an officer; and my comrades did not dream how they honored me, when they used secretly, thinking I did not hear it, to call me Capt. Drumsticks, or, for shortness, even Sticks. Yes: they did honor to the Capt. Sticks; for, from that time forward, it became clear to me. I was unable to explain it so to myself, but she made me understand: she knows every thing. Yes: so it is. He is only half alive whom Fortune has made into something. Misfortune is the Holy Spirit, saying to mankind, 'Arise and walk.' You understand me?"
"Yes," said Eric earnestly, pressing the old man's valiant hand and riding on.
Looking back, he saw the veteran still standing on the same spot. He nodded to the horseman, as though he would have said to him, in the distance. Yes: to you I have given good baggage,—my best. You will not lose it; and now, if I die, it is in the possession of one who will keep it, and not give it away. He thanked the Builder of all the worlds, that he had caused him to pass through so much that was hard, and yet always to come out of it unharmed.
Meanwhile, Eric was riding cheerfully towards Mattenheim. On the way, however, he turned round. It seemed to him that he was bound in honor to summon Clodwig first. That in forming this resolution he was also influenced by an impulse of curiosity as to how Bella was now behaving, he frankly acknowledged to himself: nevertheless, he rode first to Wolfsgarten.
The parrot shrieked from the open window, as though wishing to inform all the inhabitants of the arrival of so unusual a guest; for it was long since Eric had been there. He thought he had discerned the form of Bella in the room adjoining that at whose open window the parrot hung; but she did not show herself again.
Entering Clodwig's room, he found him, for the first time, in a state of despondency. He must also have had some bodily ailment; since he did not rise, as had always been his wont, greeting his young friend with as much formality as heartiness.
"I knew that you would come to me," said Clodwig, breathing hard, but speaking in a mild voice.
"If one spirit can influence another at a distance, you and your mother must have felt most clearly that I was with you at this time. And now, if you please, let us talk very quietly, as I am somewhat indisposed. Let us forget, first of all, that we are starved by intercourse with that man. I think we ought, in this case, to think of him, and not of ourselves. See,"—taking up a phial,—"look at this. I take a childish delight in this new chemical stuff, which looks exactly like clear water, and yet serves to efface a written word without scratching the paper at all; and now I am thinking, ought we not to be able to find some moral agency similar to this?"
Eric, seeing the matter which he had in hand immediately referred to, laid the plan of the jury before Clodwig, and called upon him to bear his part in it. Clodwig declined, with the remark that Herr Sonnenkamp, or whatever his name was, must have a court of his peers,—men of similar rank, or, rather, of a similar profession with himself. He, for his part, was no peer of Herr Sonnenkamp, or whatever he called himself.
Eric reminded his friend, with great caution, of his having dwelt on the equality of privileges at Heilingthal; but Clodwig seemed to give no heed to these words.
There must have been a great weight on the soul of this man, usually so attentive; for, without noticing Eric's reminder, he related how much he had exerted himself in these latter days for the American, some hot heads at court having wished to summon him before a tribunal on a charge of high treason. This idea had been very repulsive to the Prince, who had written Clodwig a letter with his own hand, thanking him for having given his counsel against any elevation to the ranks of the nobility. Clodwig had thereupon advised the Prince to desist from any further proceedings against the man, who, he said, had been allured and seduced into things with which he should have nothing to do.
Again Eric expressed his wish that Clodwig would assist at the trial.
He merely replied,—
"I will inform the Court that the man summons a tribunal of his own accord. It will have a good effect there; and to oblige you"—here he sat upright, and his expression of languor changed to one of resolution. He passed his hand over his whole face, as though feeling that he must wipe away its look of distress—"yes, on your account, in the belief that your connection with that house may be, by this means, severed, or that light may be thrown upon it, I do not shrink from the appeal."
It was hard to Eric that this consent should be given for his sake, and not with a view to serving the cause. He was on the point of announcing his intention of becoming the man's son, when approaching footsteps were heard. Clodwig rose hastily, and, seizing Eric's hand, said, in a low but decided voice,—
"Well, I yield. The man wishes a court of honor: he shall have one."
Clodwig had uttered these words quickly and precipitately, for at that moment Bella entered.
She greeted Eric with Latin words; and it was with a strange confusion of sensations that he perceived in her a sudden defiance, utterly out of keeping with the present state of things, and, above all, with Clodwig's dejected mood.
"Pray tell me," she asked, "did you ever pass through a phase in which you admired men of force, like Ezzelin von Romano? There is, after all, something great in such violent natures, especially when contrasted with men of petty interests and weak dilettanteism"—,
Eric could not understand what this meant. It did not occur to him that Bella, screened by the presence of a stranger, was discharging arrows, none of which missed their mark.
Clodwig gently closed his eyes, nodded, and then opened them again.
"Oh, yes," she continued, more calmly, "I am glad that I remember a question which I wished to put to you. Tell me, what would Cicero or Socrates have said, on reading Lord Byron's 'Cain'?" Eric looked at her with a puzzled air. This question was so extravagantly odd, that he did not know whether it was intended as a sneer, or whether she was insane. Bella, however, went on:—
"Has Roland ever yet read Byron's 'Cain'?"
"I believe not."
"Give him the book now. It must have an effect upon him. He, too, is a son, who has a right to revolt at his father's banishment from Eden. It is wonderful, the correspondence between the two stories,—is it not? Do you know that we are all, strictly speaking, children of Cain? Abel was childless; yes, the pious Abel had no children: we are all descended from Cain. A grand pedigree! One more question, dear Herr Doctor, Have you never got out of thesavantsthe form and color of the mark branded on Cain's brow by God the Father?"
"I do not understand you," Eric answered,
"Neither do I understand myself," laughed Bella, It was a dismal laugh.
She then continued:—
"I began to read Cicero, 'De Summo Bono,' with the help of a translation, of course; but I did not get far, and took up Byron's 'Cain,' instead: that is the finest thing the modern world has produced."
Eric still know not what to reply, and only gazed into the faces of Bella and Clodwig. "What is going on here?" he said to himself.
Bella began again,—
"Were not the female slaves who served the Roman ladies obliged to puff out their cheeks, when a noble matron wished to strike them in the face?A propos, how is Fräulein Sonnenkamp?"
"She has gone to the convent," replied Eric with downcast eyes.
It oppressed him to be obliged to answer Bella's questions with regard to Manna.
"That seems to me very sensible," was the rejoinder.
"Such a cloister is a shelter where the sensitive child will best find repose until the storm is past. What will Roland now do? What are your intentions, and those of your mother?"
These questions were put in a manner so superficial, so distant, and so conventional, that Eric was able to reply with a certain degree of cheerfulness,—
"In the interim, we have recourse to the great deed which is so universal."
"The great deed?"
"Yes: in the mean time, we are doing nothing."
In the midst of this conversation, Eric's thoughts were in the convent with Manna. There she, too, was now confronting people who had once been such near friends to her. How did they now appear in their new character of enemies and antagonists? Surely they had not assumed this cold, indifferent tone. He felt as though he must stretch out his hand protectingly over Manna, who was now bearing crushing reproaches, and, perhaps, even allowing a penance to be laid upon herself. He grieved that he had let her travel alone with Roland and Fräulein Perini. He felt that he ought not to have left her.
Such was his absorbing thought; and so he absently took leave, saying that he must go on to Weidmann's. Again he rode through the wood which he had traversed on Clodwig's horse the first time that he went to Villa Eden. How utterly different was the Villa to-day! And here at Wolfsgarten,—here he felt that there was some mystery which he could not unravel. How extremely happy had Bella and Clodwig then seemed to him! and now, what were they? Bella's strange, wandering talk, jumbling together Cicero and Byron's 'Cain,' showed that she must have passed hours in dragging herself restlessly through all sorts of things. Then Clodwig seemed overwhelmed by melancholy from which even his universal kindness could only temporarily rouse him.
Eric felt that he must forget all this, since he had in view an end which he must pursue for others and himself,—more than for himself, for Manna. Only he who is personally free from care can devote himself fully and freely to the service of others.
It was already night when Eric reached Mattenheim. The Weidmann family had entered their winter residence, as they called the beautiful, bright rooms on the upper story of their house, with pictures on the walls, and open fires burning on the tasteful hearths.
Frau Weidmann was sitting with her daughter-in-law behind the table on which stood the lamp, while her son was reading aloud. Herr Weidmann was in his study.
Eric begged leave to seek him there, and found him among the alembics and retorts of his laboratory.
"I cannot shake hands," cried he gayly; "but, first of all, turn your mind from the weight which oppresses you. That will help matters. You see you find me in a cheerful mood. We are trying to profit by a new discovery. We have found that a new sort of printer's ink can be prepared from the skins and grounds of grapes. The matter promises well, and our friend Knopf is probably already writing a poem on this subject. He wishes, that, in future, all lyrics, but especially drinking songs, should be printed only with ink prepared in this manner. Look, here is the new stuff boiling. But you had better wait in the next room, where you will find some very interesting newspapers. Wait a little while, and I will be with you."
Eric, going into the adjoining apartment, found the table strewn with American newspapers, containing accounts of violent election struggles between the Republicans and the Democrats. The latter name had been assumed by those who wished to enforce State rights so far as to be incompatible with the existing Union; their true and chief object being the preservation of slavery. On the other hand, the Republican party was united in the name and spirit of Abraham Lincoln.
"In these days in which we live," thought Eric, "the great cause is being decided in the New World. In what state of mind is Sonnenkamp awaiting the result of this struggle?" He read on without knowing what he read.
Weidmann came in, saying that he had expected Eric, and asked how Sonnenkamp's children had endured the publicity of this affair. He declared his readiness to serve, as soon as Eric had explained to him the plan of the jury. He added, that he could not as yet foresee any permanent result that could come from it, but that at least a clearer insight into the matter would be obtained by this means, and, perhaps, the power of putting the children in the position due to them.
Weidmann was the first person out of the family, with the exception of the Major, to whom Eric communicated his connection with Manna. He was not in the least surprised, having looked upon this relationship as inevitable, from all that he had heard of Manna, in connection with what he knew of Eric. He even added, that it was on Eric's account that he had instantly acquiesced in the plan proposed, knowing how nearly the restoration of the honor of the house, in such measure as was possible, must concern him, and feeling that it was the duty of his friends to stand by him.
"Oh, I was so proud of my integrity!" lamented Eric; "and now"—
"You may remain so," interrupted Weidmann; "and I can put your mind at ease on one point. It is certain that the greater part of the wealth of this man at Villa Eden was not gained through the slave-trade. That I know from my nephew."
"Pray, assure our Roland of that, first of all."
"I will. Send him to me as soon as possible."
He asked how it happened that Herr von Pranken continued to consider himself as the son of the house, clinging to this connection with inexplicable tenacity.
Eric could only say that he and Manna, in order not to cause more confusion at this juncture, had kept their affection a secret with the greatest care.
Weidmann urged that it should be made known before the trial; and Eric gave him his word that it should.
His friend then returned at once to the preparations for the jury, saying,—
"One other thing will be hard to arrange. I think that we ought to include the negro Adams."
Eric doubted whether Sonnenkamp would consent to this; but Weidmann repeated that the blacks had precisely the same right to judge the whites, as the latter had to judge them. Eric promised to propose this, but begged Weidmann, meanwhile, not to make his participation in the business dependent on this.
While they were sitting cheerfully at the table, came a new guest, the Doctor. He had been attending a patient in the neighborhood, and was in high spirits, having just performed a successful operation. Soon turning to Eric, he said,—
"There you have an example. Oh, if we could only prescribe a sedative that would quiet for weeks or months!"
He told them about the man whom he had just left, adding,—
"See how much the fine doings of nobility and virtue signify. The man from whose estate I came is an illegitimate Royal son, and his children are already allied by marriage with the clan of high society. So, in twenty years, no one will ask whence came the wealth of our Roland."
When he had heard of the jury, and how his assistance was taken for granted, and as a fixed fact, he cried,—
"Yes! That is the way with the old tyrants! They love a mock burial. But you won't see me in the funeral-procession. Do you really believe that he will submit to your decree? His only object is to compromise other men. He is deceiving you all; and you, dear Dournay, have interfered enough on this man's behalf. I advise you to leave matters as they are. You are trying to help a negro, no, a negro-dealer, to wash himself white."
The Doctor, as he proclaimed his opinion, gave his jolly laugh, which no one could hear without laughing too.
"The fellow would be quite to my taste," he went on; "he would have been a good, healthy scoundrel of the old sort, only that rascals nowadays, alas! are all so reflective, so self-conscious. They are not satisfied to act as one of Nature's elementary forces, but they are constantly making outrageous attempts at logical self-justification. If this Herr Sonnenkamp really wished to change himself, it would be despicable cowardice."
"Cowardice?" interrupted Weidmann. "He who has not a good conscience can easily be overthrown, and has no persevering fortitude. He can be bold, he can be foolhardy; but temerity is not courage."
"Ho, ho!" interrupted the Doctor. "Have I not already told you that I have an aversion to all this sentimental fuss on behalf of the negroes? I have a natural repugnance for negroes. I don't see why my reason should brand such an innate physiological antipathy as a prejudice. It shows prejudice, moreover, to say that all prejudices are groundless. I could wish that we had more of such inborn dislikes, and that we did not permit so-called civilization to rob us of those which we have. The slave-trade is not a fine thing, it is true. If I had been a prince, I should, after all, have ennobled the man. I should have said, 'Good friend, take a bath; but then be merry, and the Devil take orthodoxy!' The thing which vexes me most is, that this Professor Crutius has obliged the nobles by firing off his article beforehand. Could he not have waited a day longer? Then Sonnenkamp would have been one of the nobility, and they would have been obliged to swallow it as they could. Would not that have been much better?"
The Doctor seemed determined not to regard the matter in a serious light. When they were leaving, however, and he had insisted on Eric's sitting beside him in the carriage, and tying his horse on behind, he said,—
"As for the rest of it, I acquiesce, and, to tell you the truth, on account of your faith. You believe that the past can be atoned for by an effort of the will; and do you really believe this man will repent? Well, your faith shall remove me, the mountain of unbelief. We will see."
Eric told him that he had been at Wolfsgarten, and was not a little astonished when the Doctor said that the incongruity and want of harmony between Clodwig and Bella had reached a crisis.
"Bella," he said, "seeks a narcotic. She studies Latin, and, while smaller natures intoxicate themselves with brandy, she strives to stun herself with Lord Byron's poetry. I ought not to speak of Byron. I was once too much inspired by him, and now go to the other extreme. I consider this sort of writing to be not wine, but—But then, as I said, I am a heretic, and, indeed, a renegade heretic."
Seeing that Eric shrank back, he added,—
"You are horrified by my heresy; but then, it is only my individual opinion."
The Doctor was going on to abuse Bella again in his old way. Eric said involuntarily, how strange it seemed to him that the Doctor should be so imbittered against her, for whom he had once shown a preference.
"Ah, bravo!" cried the Doctor in a loud voice. "My respects! I admire that woman. So, then, she told you that I had once paid her my addresses? Excellent! A stroke of genius! I admire the adroitness with which she would fain have deprived my opinion of all weight in your eyes. What bunglers we men are! Shall I make you a solemn protestation? No. Do you believe me capable of the villany of speaking so of a woman whom I had loved, even for a minute, or liked even for a second? But I thank you. I am enriched by a goodly addition to my knowledge of humanity. I thank you. My conscience is soothed, for I have not judged this woman too harshly. Recall this day's ride to my mind at, some future time. I tell you, that woman will yet earn some notoriety. How—what? That I cannot tell you; but such a wealth of inventive power will yet bring, something to pass."
All this jarred on Eric's mood. Why must it come at such a time? Was there not a sufficient weight on his spirits? He scarcely heard the Doctor, as he went on to relate how hard a struggle Pranken had had with his noble connections, and to keep his place at court, owing to his refusal to renounce Sonnenkamp.
When they had reached the valley, Eric took leave of the Doctor, unfastened his horse, and rode back to the Villa.
In Sonnenkamp's room there was still a light. He sent for Eric, who informed him that all had agreed to the plan. He said not a word about Adams being proposed as a juryman.
"I thank you, I thank you heartily," said Sonnenkamp, who was seated in his armchair. His voice sounded like an old man's. "One thing more," he said, sitting upright. "Does the Countess Bella know of this?"
"I cannot say; but I do not doubt that the Count will inform her of it.
"Did she say nothing about me?"
"No."
"Nothing at all? Did she speak of no member of this household?"
"Oh! yes. Of the children."
"Indeed! Of the children? Well, I thank you. Pleasant dreams."
Eric went to his chamber. He stood long at the window, gazing out upon the landscape.
The reign of Nature continues through all human revolutions; and happy is he, who, in contemplation of this, can forget himself.
It was a dark night. A black, wide-spreading cloud hung over the mountains. Then a bright streak of light appeared on the edge of the ridge, and stood between the mountains and the cloud, which grew lighter. The moon rose, the black cloud ingulfed it, and now the light shone out on both sides, above and below; but the dark mass was darker than before, while detached masses of a leaden color floated on the right and left.
Eric closed his eyes, and lost himself in thought. When he looked up again, the moon was standing above the dark cloud, and the landscape was bathed in its light, which quivered on the stream. And again, after a time, the moon was hidden by another cloud. Eric looked out long and fixedly, till the cloud had vanished. The whole sky was as clear and bright as steel undimmed by a breath; and peacefully shone the mild sphere of light, high in heaven.
Nature, fixed on firm foundations, works on according to eternal laws. Must it not be so too with human life?
Eric thought of Manna, and with the thought a soft light was spread over every thing, like the radiance now diffused from on high.
While Sonnenkamp was carrying on the arrangements for the trial by jury, Pranken returned looking ill; and, on Sonnenkamp's urging him to tell him what was the matter, he drew forth the letters from his pocket.
He first laid before him the one in which he had been notified by the marshal of the Prince's household, that it was impossible for him, as chamberlain to his Highness, to retain any connection with a man who had not only forfeited his honor, but had behaved so wrongly towards the Prince, that the question was still being agitated whether he should not be openly arraigned on a charge of high treason.
Sonnenkamp trembled, but laughed at the same time, in a way peculiar to himself.
"Let me see the letter again," said he.
He read it; then, giving it back in silence, asked what the other letter contained.
Pranken said it was yet more decided; and handed him the document of the military court of honor, calling upon him to give up all intercourse with Sonnenkamp.
"And what do you intend to do?" asked Sonnenkamp. "I release you."
"I shall stand by you," replied Pranken.
Sonnenkamp embraced him. There was a pause, a strange silence between these two men.
"I defy them all," exclaimed Pranken; "but here is another letter. It is for you," giving him the letter of the Cabinetsrath.
Sonnenkamp read it.
The document was drawn up in very polite terms, and contained the request that he would travel for a time, until an opportunity should offer for putting down the party which was now urging his indictment before a court on a charge of treason.
"Do you know the purport of this letter?" he asked.
"Certainly. The Heir Cabinetsrath chose to give it to me unsealed."
"And what do you advise?"
"I second his request."
A convulsive twitching passed over Sonnenkamp's face.
"Prudent, very prudent," he said to himself. "You wish to banish me, and retain my estate."
A horror began "to creep over him as he saw a vision of himself seated in prison; but he drove it off.
"So you are of the same opinion?"
"Yes. But, before you leave for any length of time, allow me to point out a means by which you may earn new honors for us both."
"Is there such a means?"
"Yes. I have already told you that there is another faction, quiet but powerful, which is ours, and we, or, rather, you, have the means of binding it to you yet more closely."
And now Pranken told how he had promised to be present, almost immediately, at a council held by the nobles of this ecclesiastical province (which extended beyond the limits of the principality), in the archiepiscopal palace. The proceedings of this convocation were to be strictly confidential. Its object was to confer on the ways and means of rendering the Pope military assistance.
"You do not intend entering the papal army?" asked Sonnenkamp.
"I would, if I were not bound by the ties of duty, of honor, of love, to remain here at my post."
"That is fine, very fine. Excuse my interruption. And why do you impart this to me? I am not of the nobility, and have no place in this council."
"You belong to them, and will be present."
"I belong to them? I shall be present?"
"I will be brief. You will give a sum sufficient for the formation of a regiment, and I can assure you, I have security for your being not only unmolested, but crowned with honors."
"And, having given the money, can I remain here in honor?" Sonnenkamp said with a smile.
"It would be better, if you were absent for a time."
A look of exultation passed over the face of the questioner. This was better still, he thought. They wished to deprive him at once of a portion of his property, and to get rid of him, into the bargain. He looked at Pranken with an expression of great friendliness, and said,—
"Excellent! Does the priest of this parish know of this?"
"No. I have won over the Dean of the cathedral, though?"
"Will you allow me to send for the Priest?"
"Certainly, I will bring him myself."
"No! Remain here."
He gave through the speaking-tube an order that the Priest should be requested to come to him; then, turning again to Pranken, said,—
"And so you second the request? Most excellent! They sell blacks, buying whites instead, and the whites become snow-white. They even become saints."
"I do not understand you."
"Very likely. I am only pleased at the excellent arrangement of this world. My young friend, I believe that the thing called virtue is taught by means of a system in the Universities: they have a system of morality. We, my young friend, will work out a system of criminality. We will establish a chair in the University: Thousands of auditors will come flocking around us, whom we alone can instruct in the Truth, the real Truth. The world is magnificent! It must nominate me for the professorship of worldly wisdom, which is a science differing widely from the idea hitherto entertained of it. It is time that this moral rouge should be rubbed off. I know, thus far, but one human being whom I shall admit as my colleague into this faculty, and that one, alas! is a woman; but we must overcome this prejudice also. Magnificent!"
"You have not yet told me whether you accede to the plan"—
"Have I not? My young friend, you cannot yet become a professor. You are still a school-boy, learning the elements, the rudiments. I would fain found a new Rome, and, as once the Rome of Antiquity was peopled with a community of mere vagabonds, so I would fill my city from the houses of correction. No nation can equal their inhabitants. They are the really vigorous men."
"I do not understand you."
"You are right," said Sonnenkamp at last in a gentle tone. "We will be very upright and discreet, very moral and delicate. My young friend, I have something very different in view. The mouse-trap of your cathedral dean is too clumsy for me. I shall not snap at this bait cooked in lard."
Pranken was full of wrath. Sonnenkamp's manner of treating him like a boy still in his school-jacket roused his indignation.
He stood up very straight, and looked down at himself from head to foot, to see whether he were indeed a little boy. At last he said, throwing back his head,—
"Respected father, I beg you to desist from this pleasantry."
"Pleasantry?"
"Yes. I have united myself to you—you cannot deny it—with a loyalty that—I have wished to make you my equal in—no, I did not mean to say that at such a time—only I must beseech you not to withhold your concurrence from this project. We have obligations. We, have great obligations; and I demand that you should"—
"Why do you hesitate? Obey! Pray say the word. Yes, my noble young friend, I will obey you. It is fine, very fine. What uniform have you chosen? Shall we raise a regiment of cavalry or of infantry? Of course, we will make Roland an officer at once. Better say cavalry: he sits well on horseback. Look here, revered fanatic, I, too, have my fancy. We will ride over the Campagna. Ha! That is jolly! And we will have the best arms of the newest sort. I understand a little of that sort of thing. I have shipped many to America,—more than any of you know. What do you think of my raising the whole regiment in America?"
"That would be so much the better."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Sonnenkamp. "A morning dream! They are said to be the sweetest. Haven't you slept almost enough? Haven't you dreamed out your dream?"
Pranken felt as though chains were being wound around and around him. His sensations were those of a man confined in a lion's cave. He must be gentle, yielding, conciliatory. He dares not rouse the lion. He must allow the brute to play with him, expecting every instant to be torn to pieces by his claws. Oh for some means of escape!
Pranken put his hand to his head. What manner of man was this? What did he want of him?
Sonnenkamp said, with his hand on the young man's shoulder,—
"I have nothing against your piety or your pious acts. It is to me a matter of indifference; but, my young friend, none of my money shall be thrown to those cowled fellows. Fine economy, that! Manna builds a convent; you raise a regiment. And is it for this that I have undergone so much? No, you were only joking; were you not? And now let us say no more about it. Be shrewd, and deceive those who think themselves the most so. You will find that the daintiest morsel. Ah! There is Manna coming into the court! We will call her here instantly."
He called through the speaking-tube that Manna was to come to him at once.
Before Pranken had time to say any thing, the door was opened without a knock, and Manna entered.
"You sent for me, father?"
"Yes. How did you get on at the convent?"
"I have taken leave of it forever."
"Thank you, my child, thank you. You do me good, and you know how much I need it now. So now let me arrange every thing on the spot. You look so fresh, so animated! I have never seen you so much so. Herr von Pranken," turning to him, "you see how Manna has freed herself, and I have your promise to give up the matter of which we have been speaking; have I not?"
Pranken made no answer.
"I did not know that you were here, Herr von Pranken," began Manna, "but now, now it is best that it is so."
"Certainly," said Sonnenkamp decidedly. "You can have nothing to say to me which our faithful friend may not hear. Sit down."
He took, according to his wont, a little peg of wood, and began to whittle.
Manna did not sit down: with her hand on the back of a chair, she said,—
"Herr von Pranken, I wish to prove to you my gratitude for your faithful"—.
"That you will, that you can," interrupted her father, looking up from his peg. "It is well. I need joy, I need rest, I need serenity. You are right. A cordial would now be doubly refreshing. Give our friend your hand now."
"I give it in farewell."
"In farewell?" cried Sonnenkamp, making a deep cut in the peg. He went up to Manna, and caught her hand.
"Pray, father," she interrupted. "Herr von Pranken, you are a nobleman whom I honor and esteem. You have proved yourself loyal to my father: as his child, I shall value you, and remember you with gratitude; but"—
"But what?" demanded Sonnenkamp.
"I owe it to you to speak the truth. I cannot become your wife. I love Herr Dournay, and he loves me. We are one; and no power of earth or heaven can part us."
"Youand the teacher, that Huguenot, that word-huckster, that hypocrite? I will strangle him with my own hands, the thief"—
"Father," returned Manna, drawing herself up to her full height, while the heroic courage which shone from her eyes made her appear taller and stronger than she was in reality,—"father, Herr Dournay is a teacher and a Huguenot. It is only your anger that speaks the rest."
"My anger shall speak no more. You do not know me yet. I stake my life on this"—
"That you will not do, father. We children have enough to bear already."
A cry, horrible as that of some monster, burst from Sonnenkamp's breast.
Turning to Pranken, he cried,—
"Leave us! Herr von Pranken. Leave me alone with her!"
"No," was the reply. "I will not leave you alone with your daughter. I have loved her. I have a right to protect her."
Sonnenkamp supported himself by grasping the table. A vertigo seemed to seize him, and he cried,—
"Do you hear, Manna? Do you hear? And will you reject such a nobleman? Revoke your decision, my child; I will implore you on my knees. See, how perverted your mind is! I have enough to bear already. Do not heap this upon me, too. Look at this man! can you refuse such a one? Manna, you are a sensible, good child. You have only been playing with us; you have only wished to test us. See, you are smiling. I thank you, I thank you for this trial. By means of it, you have obtained a fresh proof of his nobleness. Manna, there he stands. Take him in your arms. I will gladly die; I will do whatever the world demands: only fulfil this one request."
"I cannot, father, I cannot."
"You can, and you will."
"Believe me, father"—
"Believe you?—you, who but lately declared with such firmness, 'I will become a nun!' The infirm of purpose cannot be trusted."
"Father, it pains me unspeakably to be obliged to wound you and Herr von Pranken thus."
"Well—it is well: I must bear this too. You can cut my heart out; for, alas! I have a heart. Fie! And is it for this that I have defied the world, old and new? is it for this that I am thrust out of both,—to call a hypocritical rascal my son? Oh these philosophers! these idealists! these humanitarian fanatics! He smuggles himself into my house as a tutor, in order to marry millions. Oh, most practical philosophers, and rascally liars and hypocrites, into the bargain! I will not bear it!"
He bent his fingers like claws, and moved his hands rapidly, crying,—
"Give me something to tear in pieces, or I do not know what I shall do. You"—
Pranken laid his hand on his shoulder. The three stood facing each other in silence. All breathed hard, but Pranken the hardest.
Manna endured her father's gaze calmly; but she had no foreboding of its real meaning. He again called through the speaking tube,—
"Let Herr Dournay come here."
Then he went on.
"Manna, I do not force you; but I desire you to renounce this teacher, Yet more. Did you not tell me that you had sent word to the priest to come hither?"
"Certainly: you ordered that he should be summoned."
"I hear him in the ante-room. Admit him."
The Priest entered, and Sonnenkamp addressed him thus:—
"Sir priest, I announce to you, before these witnesses, my resolution to give my Villa for the foundation of a convent, provided my daughter Manna, here, takes the veil, as she has always wished to do."
Manna could not comprehend this. She could not suspect the cruel game which her father was playing with her, with Pranken, with Eric, with the Villa, with every thing. She knew not how to help herself, when, just as the Priest, turning toward her, offered his hand, Eric entered. He saw at once what had happened.
"Do you know who I am?" were the words with which Sonnenkamp turned upon him.
Eric bowed.
"And do you know who this man here is, and this girl? And when you look into that mirror, do you know whose image you see?"
Then, pointing to the wall where the hunting-whip hung, he cried,—
"And do you know what that is yonder? The back of many a slave"—He broke off suddenly:
Eric looked proudly around him, then said in a calm voice,—
"To be whipped by men of a certain sort is no dishonor."
Sonnenkamp gave a hollow groan, and Eric went on—
"I beseech thee, Manna, to leave the room."
"Thee!—Manna!—" yelled Sonnenkamp, and would have sprung upon him, had not Pranken caught his arm, saying,—
"Herr Sonnenkamp, if any one here is to demand satisfaction from Herr Dournay, I have the first right."
"Very good!" cried Sonnenkamp, throwing himself into a chair. "Yours is the revenge, yours the honor, yours the life, and yours every thing else. Speak yourself; I've nothing more to say."
"Herr Dournay," began Pranken, "I brought you into this family; and I told you in so many words what relation I held to the daughter. Up to this time, I have had a degree of respect for you; and I regret to be compelled to withdraw it."
Eric jumped up.
"I shall not challenge you to fight," Pranken continued. "You have put on a coat of mail that makes you invulnerable to me. Your life rests under Fräulein Manna's protection, and so your life is inviolable, as far as I am concerned. This is my last word to you so long as my tongue can speak. Herr Sonnenkamp, I have one request only to make of you. Give me your hand, promise to grant it to me."
"I promise you every thing but the regiment, every thing else but that."
"Very well: I have your word that you will not harm this man."
He felt about with trembling hands, and then taking out of his pocket a little book, he handed it to Manna. His voice was filled with emotion, as he said,—
"Fräulein Manna, you once gave this to me: the twig is still lying in it, and it is bare. Take it again. As this twig, broken off from the tree, can never grow to it again: so am I detached from you and from every one here."
He looked Manna full in the face; and then closed by saying,—
"Now we are parted forever."
He drew on his gloves quietly, buttoned them, took up his hat, bowed, and left the room.
Manna looked after him with a humble glance, and then seized Eric's hand. The two stood before Sonnenkamp, who had covered his face with his hand, and who now said,—
"Are you waiting for my blessing? To be horse-whipped by a man like me is no disgrace; and such a man as I am can give no blessing. Go, go! or have I no longer any right to command, that you remain so motionless?"
"Herr Sonnenkamp," Eric began, "I might say, and it would be to some extent true, that I intended those severe words for Herr von Pranken, and not for you; but, as they were also applicable to you, I ask your pardon. I was not master of myself, and it was wrong in me to provoke and grieve you so sorely; not merely because you are Manna's father, but because you are a man who has had to endure so much. It was sinful in me"—
"Very well, very well; I know all about sermonizing; it's sufficient. And has not your whole life been a lie? Have you not been a thief? Did I not ask you if you had any such views when I was conducting you over the house? And could you so long play the hypocrite and retail your fine speeches? Curse upon all faith in mankind! I had faith in you, I believed you incapable of a breach of trust; and you've been a hypocrite from that first hour I went with you over the house until the present moment. As to the future—I've torn away the mask."
"Herr Sonnenkamp," replied Eric, "I have wrestled long and desperately with myself, before yielding to this love; but it is stronger than I am, stronger than every thing besides. That I am not seeking for your wealth, I prove by declaring to you that I shall take none of your possessions. I can add no farther assurance; for if you do not believe my simple word, how are you to believe an oath!"
"Indeed? Then you expect still to be believed? Yes, fine, noble, good, magnanimous man, I possess a great deal, but not what you ask,—faith in you. I had this faith once, it was my last illusion. I don't swear it; but I know that it's my last illusion."
"I entreat Roland's father and Manna's father"—Eric's voice trembled,—"I entreat him, as a child, to be just towards me. You will yet learn that I spoke the truth at that time, and speak it now."
"Truth? Whew, truth! Leave me, I wish to be alone: I must be alone."
Eric and Manna left the room, holding each other by the hand. They waited outside for a long time. Joseph, who had been summoned, now entered Sonnenkamp's room. When he came out, he told Manna that Herr Sonnenkamp had sent to the city for a notary.
Eric and Manna went into the garden. And this is the power of love: in the midst of the most direful pain and suffering, they were inwardly cheerful as if all misery had been removed far away from them.
"You must take it from me," said Manna, after they had walked together for a long time in silence. "I don't know what it signifies; but it will not leave me. At that time, when the Prince visited us, his kind message to you affected me as if he had bestowed a benefit upon myself Do you remember? I delivered the message to you. At that time he said you were to remember that you had been the companion of his boyhood, and that he would like to prove to you that he was not forgetful of the fact. Now, don't you believe that you could do something for us? I don't know what; but I think—well, I don't know what I do think."
"It's the same with me," replied Eric. "I remember it as if it were the present moment; but I have no idea how to begin to avail myself of this gracious favor. O Manna! that was the first time it broke upon me how you felt towards me."
And the lovers lost all idea of their anxieties in recalling the past, how they wanted to avoid each other, and could not. All present sorrow vanished away.
On Manna's face there was a light as of an inextinguishable gleam of sunshine: her large dark-eyes glowed, for a free and strong soul shone through them.
"What are you smiling at now?" she suddenly asked Eric.
"Because an image has occurred to me."
"An image?"
"Yes. I've heard that a precious stone is distinguished from an imitation of one, by the fact that the dimness of lustre caused by breathing upon it immediately disappears. You, my Manna, you, are such a genuine pearl."
Whilst the lovers were promenading in the garden, Sonnenkamp sat alone, almost congratulating himself that he had something new to trouble him; and in the midst of his vexation there was a degree of pride, of pleasure, when he thought how courageously his child stood up there before him. She was his daughter, his proud, inflexible child. And his thoughts went further: Your child forsakes you, follows her own inclination, and your duty is done: your duty was to the daughter, for the son will build up an independent life. Frau Ceres—poh!—let them supply her with dresses and ornaments, and lull her to sleep with a pretty story. He went into the garden, into the green-house, where the black mould was lying in a heap. He put on his gray sack, grubbed in the dirt, smelt the fresh earth; but to-day there seemed to be no odor to it. He rent the garment in pieces as he took it off.
"Away forever!" he exclaimed. "Childish folly! It's all over!" He stood for a while before the spot where Eric had taken breakfast on the first morning. So this was the man, and he to be sole master here for the future? He to possess all this,—a schoolmaster?
The Cooper came along the road. Sonnenkamp called out to him, and commended his bringing up the fire-engine, adding, with a zest, that the settlers in the far West found this their best weapon against the savages, spurting hot water upon them; and it was still more effective to put in a trifle of sulphuric acid, and blind every one hit in the face. The cooper stared, with eyes and mouth wide open, at the man who could say these horrible things in such a free and easy way.