For a long time neither uttered a word; at last the Professorin said,—
"You seem to be called to a higher life, from having been obliged in early youth to suffer so hard an experience, and to feel deeply the discord among men."
"I? How?" asked Manna. "What do you know?" She trembled.
"I know," answered the Professorin, "that you have suffered under that cruel burden which weighs upon your great and noble father-land."
"My father-land? I? Speak more plainly."
"It pains me that I tear open a wound which is scarred over, but this scar is a mark of honor for you, and it is not your fault, my child, that you are set in the midst of this life-struggle."
"I?"
"Yes."
"How? Tell me all; what do you know?"
"I mean that it should elevate you to have been obliged to bear humiliation and bitterness in your own person; it gives you a loftier consecration."
"Tell me plainly what you mean."
With an altered tone, like the hiss of a serpent. Manna spoke sharply and angrily; her gentle eyes sparkled restlessly.
"Heaven knows," said the Professorin, "I would not wound you; no, protecting and blessing you, would I lay my hand upon you."
She tried to place her hand on Manna's head, but the girl shrank back and cried:—
"Tell me distinctly, who knows it? What do you know? Pray speak."
"I know nothing, except that you had to suffer severely on your entrance into the convent; that two American girls took you for a half-blood, and would not associate with you."
"Yes, yes, that's it! Now I know why they examined my nails, and Anna Sotway stood by, Oh, it's well! it's well! I thank thee, holy God, that thou hast suffered me to experience this. In myself, in my own person, I was to feel the suffering that a slave feels in being examined! Why did they not open my veins? I thank thee, O God! But why dost thou suffer them to worship thee, and then to scorn thee in thy creatures? Then it was not because I tried to be reverent and obedient, no, but because I was of pure blood, that I was tolerated here! Pah!"
It was a different being who spoke these words, and cried aloud in the wood:—
"Ye trees, why does each of you grow after its kind, and blossom and grow green and flourish, warmed by the same sun, and with the birds singing in your branches? Alas! alas! where am I?"
"In the right path," answered the Professorin. Manna gazed at her as if she were a spirit, and she continued:—
"A pure spirit is speaking again through you, my child; you have spoken truth. When Lessing said, 'I would not have all trees covered with the same bark,' he had no presentiment that his spirit would manifest itself anew here in the cloister, in a child just waking to life. His pure and holy spirit is between us now, my child, and I think Lessing would say: Forgive them; they will learn that God alone is constant, while the races of men are only the ever-varying, ever-returning figures of a dream."
Manna appeared hardly to have heard her, for now she grasped her arm asking:—
"Did you not tell me, that you were specially in the confidence of my mother?"
"Yes."
"And has she told you the secret too?"
"I do not understand you."
"Speak openly with me. I know all."
"Your mother has told me no secret."
Manna seized the cross on her breast convulsively, and gazed silently before her for a long time.
With heart-felt earnestness, the Professorin expressed her deep regret at having moved her so greatly, and her desire not to force herself upon her, but to be her true friend.
Manna made no answer. At last she turned and kissed the lips of her startled companion.
"I kiss the lips which have spoken the dreadful words, and all the rest. Yes, I must experience it, I, myself. I believe that I am now first consecrated as the sacrifice."
The Mother stood helpless before this enigmatical being, and Manna at last promised to be quite calm. She seated herself on a bench which stood under a fir-tree, leaned back against the tree, and gazed up at the sky.
"Why," she said to herself, "does there now come no voice to us from the air? Ah, I would so gladly follow it forth over mountain and valley, to darkness and death."
Manna wept; the Professorin reminded her of her promise to be quite calm, but the girl declared she could not, it grieved her so to be torn from this place, which she must leave, since she could not be true in it. She would be living falsely, because people had not been true to her.
Now, for the first time, the Professorin understood that Manna had known nothing of what had passed, and she shuddered at what she had done. She mourned over having so disturbed Manna's young soul, saying that she could never forgive herself. And now Manna turned, and tried to calm and console her unhappy companion.
"Believe me, pray believe me," she cried, holding up her clasped hands, "only the truth can make us free, and that is the dreadful thing, that the park, and the house, and all the splendor are lies—No, that I did not mean—but one thing I beg, do not repent, when you have left me, that you told me what you did; it does not hurt me, it helps me. Ah, I beg—it helps me. I had to know it, and it is well."
The Professorin composed herself, and as she praised Manna's truthful impulses, the girl shook her head, saying:—
"I will not be praised, I do not deserve it; I do not deserve the whole truth, for I am hiding something myself."
The Professorin felt what a heavy weight she had brought upon the child, and she explained to her how the Superior had cured her troubles, like a physician who does not tell his patient all. Manna gazed wonderingly at her, as she said:—
"I am sorry that I too have not been quite sincere with you."
"You too?"
"Yes, I have not told you that your father came here with me; that he is waiting for my return on the other shore, and hoping that you will go home with us."
Manna rose and sat down again, hastily. "The father hides from his child and sends strangers!" she murmured to herself. "Come with me to the Superior," she suddenly exclaimed.
She seized the Professorin's hand, and drew her towards the convent. Heimchen came towards them, crying:—
"No, Manna, you must not go away and leave me here alone."
"Come with us," answered Manna, taking the child by the hand.
She went to the Superior and asked permission to go with Frau Dournay to her father, who was waiting for her on the main-land.
"Send for him to come here."
"No, I would rather go to him."
Permission was granted. It was difficult for Manna to free herself from Heimchen, who could be pacified only by Manna's solemn promise to return.
Manna sat gazing into the water while they were in the boat. With Frau Dournay, she entered the garden of the inn, where they found Sonnenkamp and Pranken sitting in the shade of the arbor.
"You are going home with us?" cried Sonnenkamp to his daughter.
She received his embrace, but did not return it. Pranken greeted Manna joyfully, and as she extended her hand to him, said smiling:—
"I have hardened my hand, but my heart is still soft, perhaps too soft."
Manna cast down her eyes. There was some merry jesting about the manner in which Pranken had settled himself here in the neighborhood. He described pleasantly how his new life struck him; there was a fresh vigor in his bearing, and a tone of warm feeling in all his words. He saw with satisfaction what impression his deportment made upon Manna, who said, at last, that she believed she might speak openly before this gentleman and lady, who were not really strangers though not members of her own family. She was not yet quite resolved, but she felt a real longing to leave the convent very soon, or still better, not to return to it again, letting her father or the Professorin go over to say good-bye for her.
"May a friend say a word about it?" asked Pranken, as Sonnenkamp loudly expressed his joy.
Manna begged him to speak, and he explained that, as a friend, he would urge Manna to act properly and worthily; whatever might have passed, it was Manna's duty not to break too abruptly the close and holy ties which had united her with the convent, and, above all, with the Superior; hardness and ingratitude towards others left a weight and bitterness in the soul. He must believe, that, as Manna had entered the convent from her own wish and a pure resolve, she would leave it in all kindness and friendly feeling. It seemed to him the right course that Manna should return for a short time, to take leave of her companions and the holy sisterhood quietly and considerately. He repeated, that though he desired nothing more earnestly than to have Manna return to the outer world as soon as possible, and as fully as possible, still he considered it the duty of a friend to save from remorse and inward disquiet one to whom he stood in any near relation. There was more than excellence, there was a real nobility, in Pranken's manner as he said all this, and various were the looks and thoughts of the three who were watching him.
Sonnenkamp was angry, and yet he said to himself: "After all, aristocratic blood knows what's the proper thing."
The Professorin believed that Pranken meant to win Manna anew by these noble sentiments; Manna herself was quite subdued.
"You are right," she exclaimed, as she extended her hand and held Pranken's firmly. "You show me what is right. I thank you, and will follow your advice."
Sonnenkamp was beside himself as he saw his dearest wish again disappointed; but still greater was his astonishment, when the Professorin expressed her acquiescence.
After Manna had begged Pranken to avoid any meeting with her until she returned home, they all walked down to the shore, and the two ladies returned to the island.
Heimchen, who had wept constantly, had already been put to bed, and was still mourning that Manna had gone. Manna went to her and found her crying, and her pillow wet with tears; she dried her eyes and talked to her till she went to sleep; and while pacifying her, and promising all sorts of good things, she became calmer herself.
Until it was quite late, Manna walked up and down the broad pathway on the island, holding the Superior and the Professorin by the hand. It seemed to her, that two loving potencies, each of which had its own valid claim, were contending to get possession of her.
It would be difficult to say how they came upon the topic, but the two ladies were discussing the subject of dogmatic belief. The Professorin maintained that salvability consisted in a willingness to perceive and acknowledge a wrong impulse, an error, or a transgression. The Superior agreed with this, but showed that one was always liable to return to a false view in the highest things, if a fixed and unalterable revealed doctrine, continually published anew through some infallible medium, did not provide a remedy against error; otherwise, one never knew whether he had not fallen into it afresh, and can never be freed from the pain of choosing.
The Superior had always a positive belief to fall back upon, while the Professorin was obliged to find some new basis and reason for every question that came up, which made her appear unsettled and doubtful. And this apparent indecision was increased by the feeling she had of not being justified in contending against a faith so firm and so beneficent in its influence. An unrest, like that of a spy, who, from the highest patriotic motives, inspects an enemy's camp, characterized her whole manner, and she blamed herself for having undertaken the commission. But she was now at the post, and must defend her views. Wishing to find some impregnable position, she represented to Manna that her father wanted to organize a general plan of systematic charity, and that it would be a noble vocation for her to take part in it. The Superior waited for Manna to reply, and she now said:—
"My father's donations do not fall into the right hands; we can do nothing but restore the property to him who alone has the right to determine what use shall be made of it."
There was more in Manna's reply than appeared on the surface.
The Professorin remarked that every poor man was a messenger of mercy, and every one who needed help made a demand for sacrifices; that it was not enough to bestow gifts, but one must personally devote himself to the distressed. The alms was not the important thing, but the pains which one must take on the supplicant's account. How often a man, as he goes along the street in winter, well wrapped up in his furs, bestows an alms upon a poor, freezing beggar! For him to unbutton his coat, and to look for something to give, is of more account than the gift itself, at least to the giver.
Manna answered that women could not do such a work by themselves. The Superior joined in, saying that she had advised decidedly against Manna's taking the veil, for it was to be feared that she had no true vocation for it. Then she added in a sharp tone to the Professorin:—"We are wholly indifferent to the accusation of having tried to get possession of the child's property; we do not despise the wealth, we can do a great deal of good with it; but it is the child's soul that we value, and we do not stop to inquire whether worldlings believe it or not."
The Professorin was glad to find herself at last in the cell where she was to sleep. She had never slept at a convent, and she had again the disagreeable feeling of being a traitress and a spy. She said to herself with a smile:—
"I am rejoiced now that I forgot Parker's book; it would be a fresh treachery to have and to read his words and his thoughts here in this house."
She gave up the purpose of exerting an influence over Manna, for here were prior experiences which were beyond her control, and relations that were involved in obscurity. A deep sorrow preyed upon the child, which could only be revealed at the confessional, and which perhaps there only could find relief.
The Professorin was deeply disturbed, and had troubled dreams. She seemed to be in the midst of Wallenstein's camp, and in fetters as a spy; she was being interrogated by the sergeant of the guard, when, all of a sudden, he was changed into Professor Einsiedel, who said to her:—
"Be not afraid, I have influence on every one here, I will set you at liberty."
Then she was standing in the midst of the court-circle, and all were laughing at thevivandière—years ago when she was a young, frolicsome girl, she had once taken that part—and now, as she met the glance of her son; she felt ashamed of her appearance.
These dreams whirled through her brain in strange confusion. She was rejoiced, on waking, to find that it was all a dream.
The hour for rising at the convent was a very early one, but long before the matin bell of the church rang, the Professorin had dressed, and stood watching from her cell the breaking day. The impressions of her troubled dreams faded like the mists on the river, which were now struggling with the dawning light. She dwelt in imagination upon the hundreds of young souls who now lay asleep, preparing to meet a peaceful future. She thought upon the nuns who had renounced life, to whom the day brought no event of personal interest, nothing but the uniform round of duty.
She shuddered as she thought of venturing to disturb such a life.
There may be many incidental and casual irregularities here, she thought, but a holy will has authority over these spirits; and at this early morning hour, a saying of her husband's recurred to her:—
"You can oppose an established positive religion only by having more religion than is embodied in it. The idea of the pure is persecuted, hunted down, obscured, in the world; and the hand must be sure of its high consecration, which ventures to attack a sanctuary of that idea."
The morning sun had become lord over the mist, shining brightly over river and mountains. The convent bell rang, and the great house was all astir.
The Professorin went down, and knelt behind a pillar; the sisters and the children assembled together.
She remained until the morning service had ended, and then going into the dining-hall, she begged Manna and the Superior to permit her to take leave. They accompanied her to the shore.
The Professorin exhorted Manna to stay at the convent, and devote herself to reflection and pure thought. She spoke with such earnestness that the Superior, taking her by the hand, uttered in a low tone what was evidently a prayer.
The Professorin perceived that her old friend was praying in her behalf. And why should there not be just as good grounds for this form, as for an inward thought and wish for another, on whom one would invoke every blessing, unexpressed in words? With a light heart, she was set over to the main-land.
Sonnenkamp was surprised that she did not have Manna with her; but she said, in explanation, that she would not interfere any farther in this matter. She went back with Sonnenkamp to the villa. On board the boat, she sketched out in full the plan of an organized system of charity, which must be so arranged that Manna could go from one sanctuary into another.
Sonnenkamp listened in silence, but in no pleasant humor. The whole world seemed to have entered into a conspiracy against him, to make of him a sanctified hypocrite.
Yesterday, Pranken had made the same demand upon him, and he had said in reply, that it was a contemptible thing for the very nobility to be desirous of playing the hypocrite; but Pranken had insisted principally upon the religious obligation.
Sonnenkamp had shrugged his shoulders, for the man kept his mask on even when he was alone with him. He only consented after Pranken had added, that, by this means, the Court would not only be justified in conferring the title of nobility, but would feel bound to do it. Here now was Frau Dournay making a similar demand; and this was so far good, that her intentions were most likely honest.
The journey home was not very animated, for they were returning from a bootless errand. Sonnenkamp was disturbed because he was called upon to do this and that, and no object had yet been accomplished.
A strange spirit, meanwhile, made its appearance at Villa Eden. It was kept in concealment, and yet had nothing spectral; it was bright and luminous, and yet produced a great hurly-burly.
The morning after the departure of Eric's mother, Roland had gone to the vine-covered cottage, to get a book out of the library for Eric. With the simple desire of seeing how it looked now the Mother was away, he had entered the open door of her room. An open book was lying upon the table, and on the fly-leaf there was written in English: To my friend Dournay—Theodore Parker.
Roland was startled. This is the man, then, whom the Mother had spoken of as a saint a few days ago, and whom he was to get acquainted with by and by. He took the book and secreted it.
At noon, he asked permission to go and see Claus, and it was given. Eric remained at home, for he wanted to finish a letter to Professor Einsiedel that he had begun some time ago. But Roland did not go to see Claus; he sat down under the lofty willows by the river-bank, steadily reading, with occasional glances at the stream.
What does this mean? Here is a champion, an inspired one, a God-revering champion, fighting for civilization and against slavery. He read of a man, whose name was John Brown, who was hanged on the gallows at Harper's Ferry for his attempts to abolish slavery. He read and learned how Parker had prophesied a mighty struggle; and these words fell into the youth's soul like a spark of fire: "All the great charters of humanity are written in blood."
He read on and on, until he could see no longer for the darkness. And now it occurred to him that he had meant to call upon Claus, and he hurried towards the village.
Eric met him as he was going, and was very angry at being deceived.
"Where have you been?" asked Eric.
"With this man;" handing Eric the book.
Roland had eaten forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge, and Eric was surprised to see how deep an impression had been made upon the youth. A new and difficult task was before him, to keep the youth from saying anything in his father's presence.
"Who is Brown?" inquired Roland. "Can you tell me about him?" Eric told him. He narrated the martyr's history, and dwelt with emphasis on the fact, that even in our day life is offered as a sacrifice, and that a pure self-surrender raises to the sublime even the man wearing a captain's gay uniform of the present day. He wanted to show, incidentally, that the costume of every age and every condition in life could be the symbolic expression of the highest greatness; but Roland did not go along with him, and he had the apparently difficult task of justifying, or, at least, of explaining the position of Sonnenkamp, who had incontrovertibly taken the opposite side.
"Yes, yes," exclaimed Roland; "now I remember you said, when we were with the Russian at Wolfsgarten, 'You could not imagine that a white boy and a negro boy could be comrades.' Are you, too, a friend of slavery?"
Eric tried to explain his meaning; and, while striving to reconcile the difference, he was pleased to notice how open the youth's soul was to every impression, and how tenaciously it clung to things spoken of only in a cursory and incidental way.
Eric sat with Roland until it was very late; he was obliged to satisfy his ingenuous mind, and this was almost the hardest task that had ever been laid upon him. The youth was to be made to perceive that there was another way of considering the question, one that regarded slavery as justifiable and a righteous necessity; he was never to let his father know that he considered him in the wrong, and that he had happened to become acquainted, through the Professorin, with a spirit that ought not to have been conjured up in this house. Eric called to mind his mother, who had admonished him, with reason, that he was to adopt that course of instruction for Roland which was necessary, and not that which the youth himself preferred. Circumstances now rendered it necessary to follow only that track which the youth had entered upon for himself. It was a matter of rejoicing that he had of himself struck out the path; it was just what all education proposed: and now was he to turn aside from this track, and to shatter in pieces the abiding fundamental principle. Thou shalt, and thou shalt not?
"It seems to me like a dream," Roland went on to say; "a great negro once held me in his arms; I remember distinctly all about him; I remember his woolly hair, and how I pulled him by it; his face was smooth, without any beard at all."
"The negroes have no growth of beard," added Eric, and the youth continued, dreamily:—
"I have been carried by negroes—by negroes."
He continued to repeat the word in a lower and lower tone, and then became silent. Suddenly he passed his hand over his brow, and asked,—
"Are the people who are slaves fond of their children? Do you know any song they sing?"
Eric had very little to say in reply. Roland wanted to know how all the ancient nations regarded slavery. Eric could give him only a superficial statement; he proceeded to open his letter to Professor Einsiedel, and requested that he would tell him what books treated upon the subject of slavery among the Jews, Greeks, Romans, and especially the ancient Germans.
When Roland was at last ready to go to bed, he produced Thomas à Kempis, and placed it beside Theodore Parker.
"I would like to imagine," he said, "how they would regard one another, if they stood side by side. I fancy Thomas à Kempis to be an extremely devout, refined monk; and when I imagine Theodore Parker, I think of him as a grandson or great grandson of Benjamin Franklin."
Eric was more and more amazed, for he saw how deeply Roland had thought about them both.
Thomas à Kempis makes men recluses, leads them continually into themselves, and then above the human world; Parker also leads men into themselves, but afterwards out of themselves and into the world around them.
When Roland and Eric went, the next day, to post the letter to Professor Einsiedel, they saw the boat coming up the river, on which were the Mother and Sonnenkamp. They made a signal, and repaired to the landing. Roland was astonished that Manna had not come with them, for his father had promised to bring her. Sonnenkamp went on in advance with Eric, and asked after the household. He seemed in a very bad humor.
Roland detained the Mother, and when the others were out of hearing, he asked her:—
"Did Manna tell you too that she was an Iphigenia?"
"No. What did she mean by that?"
"I don't know."
The Mother pressed her lips together; she had some idea of what she meant; she understood her lamentation, and her thankfulness to God, for having called her to endure the extreme of woe. She inquired about the connection in which the expression had been used, but Roland interrupted her by telling her that he had read the book which she had forgotten.
The Mother was startled, but felt more at ease when Roland related to her that Eric had set him right in the matter, and that he himself would be sure to keep the secret.
Nevertheless, she was deeply troubled, on reaching the villa, at having brought hither a spirit which could not dwell under the roof. The freedom of her soul was taken away, for that which she had kept in concealment had now begun to exert an influence openly. It was no longer subject to her control, and it might suddenly appear in a frightful and perplexing form.
Frau Ceres was sick again. Fräulein Perini could not be spared a moment, and sent her thanks for the kindly greeting of the Professorin and Sonnenkamp.
Like a child who is always bright and cheerful, always living in the present moment, disturbed by no confusion, and no subtleties of thought,—so appeared the Major, and every one took delight in his steadfast and natural equability. He thought it was well that Manna had not returned now; when the castle was completed, it would be just the nicest thing: out of the convent into the castle. He should be glad when they were all together again; he couldn't stand this everlasting starting off and bursting away from each other like a bomb-shell; there wasn't a better and finer place than right here in the country, and they couldn't get anywhere more than sky, and water, and mountains, and trees.
The Major cheered up the company, who were sitting at the tea-table in a strangely absent mood. The Professorin afterwards accompanied him home. She sat talking with Fräulein Milch until it was quite late, and appointed her as first assistant in the charitable organization. She seemed exactly fitted for it, as she knew everybody and everybody's circumstances. She desired that, for the first thing, a dozen sewing machines should be distributed in the surrounding villages; she would herself teach the women and girls how to use them.
The Major and Fräulein Milch accompanied the Mother back to the villa by starlight. She was refreshed and strengthened. Her soul was peaceful, and a saying of Goethe's seemed to be sounding within her:—"Thou canst not perceive what thou art by reflection, but only by seeking to perform thy duty."
She had a work before her that would uplift her and the whole neighborhood.
The Professor's widow accompanied the Doctor for several days in his professional rounds. She obtained in this way, by direct observation, an insight into the country life.
She laid before Sonnenkamp a plan matured by herself and Fräulein Milch, which he very readily assented to, especially that part relating to the furnishing of sewing machines. Besides being an American "institution," this would create a good deal of talk. He made a trip to the capital himself, and bought the machines.
He took great pleasure in hearing the widow speak of the satisfaction she derived from having the ability to do so much good, formerly through the Princess, and now through Herr Sonnenkamp.
"How does it happen," he inquired of her, "that the poor, or the comparatively poor, are united together so much more closely than the rich?"
"I have never reflected upon the matter," she replied with an embarrassed smile, "but if I should now express an opinion upon it, I should say, that the rich man clings to his property, and is obliged to think of himself; he can't do otherwise. He is not permitted to survey the lot of others; his soul, his eye, if I may use the expression, does not have, the beseeching glance of him who sits forlorn by the wayside. But the poor man is hoping, waiting; he has nothing but a bundle in his hands, or probably nothing but his empty hands; he is independent of others, and dependent on them too."
Sonnenkamp was very eloquent in praise of this considerate, indulgent view, as he termed it; and the Professorin was delighted with the polite manner and the delicacy of this man, apparently so bad and selfish.
"Perhaps," she continued, blushing deeply, "perhaps we might take an illustration from the animal world."
"In what way?"
She was silent, and only replied after Sonnenkamp had repeated the question:—
"I will give you my thought, crude as it is. I was thinking of the beasts of prey who live singly; and wolves only herd together when there is some common booty to be got, the rest of the time, each living by himself. The herbivorous animals, on the contrary, live together in herds, and afford a common protection."
She interrupted herself smiling, and then continued:—
"My wisdom is of yesterday, and it is not worth very much. The field-guard, Claus, told me that, in autumn, the birds which feed upon grain assemble in flocks, but those which live upon insects do not."
Sonnenkamp was very amiable. The Professorin added in continuation:—
"But yet the granivorous birds are no more virtuous than the insectivorous; each kind lives in accordance with its own law."
Sonnenkamp became more and more charmed with the Professorin; she spread his table with viands which could not be imported from abroad, and which the garden did not supply.
The journals, day after day, now published Herr Sonnenkamp's praiseworthy endeavors to ameliorate the condition of the people. The Cabinetsräthin came, and congratulated him upon the excellent result, adding that, according to a report from her husband, this noble deed of Herr Sonnenkamp had been noticed in the highest quarter.
Sonnenkamp was now exceedingly zealous. He was anxious that there should be no intermission in the public notices, and that something should be said about him every day. Pranken, however, who had returned from his farming escapade, showed that it would be better to hold up a little, and then to come down upon the public with a fresh sensation. He had evidently heard of the good impression which the Professorin had made at the convent, and of the earnest exhortation to Manna; and when Sonnenkamp unfolded to him his plan of having the Professorin reside there permanently, he immediately assented to it.
A path was laid out from the villa to the vine-covered house, through the beautiful meadows and along the river-bank. Sonnenkamp invited the Professorin, on a certain day, to accompany him into the garden, and all the family must go with them.
A new gateway had been made in the wall which surrounded the park. Sonnenkamp said that the Professorin should be the first one to pass through it. He gave her the key, and she opened the gate. She went through it and along the pathway, followed by the whole family, and Pranken among them.
They proceeded to the vine-covered cottage, and the Professorin was amazed to find here all her household furniture, and the library of her husband arranged in good order.
Aunt Claudine was here too; for Sonnenkamp had contrived that she should be released from Clodwig.
Sonnenkamp introduced, with a sort of pride, his valet Joseph, who had made all these arrangements, as a native son of the university.
The Professorin expressed her thanks to Joseph, and shook hands with him.
Pretty soon the Major came; and when the Professorin inquired after Fräulein Milch, he stammeringly made an apology in her behalf. It was plainly wrong in his view, that Fräulein Milch should so persistently refuse to go into society.
The Professorin had not recovered from her amazement and satisfaction when Clodwig and Bella arrived. Provision had been made for a cheerful repast in the garden, and Roland gave expression to the general feeling, when he said:—
"Now I have a grandmother and an aunt, safe in their nest."
In the evening, Eric received a large package of books and a letter from Professor Einsiedel, and also a large sheet of memoranda. He commended Eric's intention of writing a treatise upon the idea and nature of slavery, as it would prove a very fertile theme.
Eric put away the books, for he regarded it as a fortunate thing that Roland's thoughts were occupied neither upon slavery nor free labor, nor any kindred topic, but with something entirely different.
The son of the Cabinetsräthin, the cadet, was now at the newly acquired country-seat, on furlough, and he exhorted Roland to be diligent, so as to be able before long to enter the military school.
Roland was now wholly bent upon entering the highest class, at the earliest possible moment. He spoke of it daily to his father and Pranken. The father one day took him aside and said:—
"My child, it is well, and I am glad that you are so diligent in getting fitted, but you will not enter—take notice, I show my respect for you by this communication; I look upon you as a grown-up and mature man."
He stopped, and Roland asked,—
"When is it that I am to enter?"
"Come nearer, and I will whisper it to you; you are to enter when you are a noble."
"I a noble? and you too?"
"Yes, all of us; and for your sake I must become ennobled, as you will see by and by. Do you feel glad at being made a noble?"
"Do you know, father, when I first began to respect nobility?"
Sonnenkamp looked at him inquiringly, and Roland continued:—
"At the railroad station, where I saw a crazy, drunken man. Everybody showed respect for him, because he was a nobleman, a baron. It is a great thing to be a nobleman."
Roland now gave an account of the meeting on the morning after his flight, and Sonnenkamp was surprised at the astonishing effect produced upon him, and at the lasting impression everything made. He now said:—
"Give me your hand, as a pledge that you will say nothing about this to your master, Eric, until I shall tell him myself. On the word of an officer."
After some delay and deliberation, Roland gave his hand.
His father now proceeded to explain to him how disagreeable it would be to enter the military school under a citizen's name, and while there to be ennobled.
Roland inquired why he was not to say anything about it to Eric.
His father refused to tell him why, demanding unconditional obedience.
And so Roland had now a two-fold secret to keep, one from his father, and the other from Eric. The youth's soul was distressed, and it found an odd expression in the question he once put to Eric:—
"Do the negroes in their native land have nobles too?"
"There are no nobles in their own right," replied Eric; "individual men belong to the nobility only when, and only so long, as others regard them as such."
Eric had thought that Roland's zeal for the military school had excluded all his former notions and speculations; but he now saw that they were still active, and had become connected with odd associations, which he could not explain to himself satisfactorily. But he took heed to make no further inquiry.
During his furlough, the son of the Cabinetsräthin was very constant in attendance upon the lessons given to Roland, and Sonnenkamp, having her sanction, proposed that the young cadet should leave the school for a time, and be instructed in company with Roland.
Roland was highly pleased with this plan, but Eric objected; and when Sonnenkamp stated to him that he had formerly desired that Roland should have a comrade who should receive instruction with him, Eric found great difficulty in explaining to him that it was now inexpedient; that the course of instruction he had undertaken with Roland was adapted exclusively to him, and that now any comradeship, and any reference to another's condition and progress, would be only a disturbing element.
Eric, by this means, alienated not only Herr Sonnenkamp and the Cabinetsräthin, but also for a time his pupil himself, who was out of humor and refractory, after the cadet had returned to the capital.
Sonnenkamp prided himself in growing the best wines; but the traditional account of the joyous celebration of the harvest-home is a mere fable. In the morning the mists were hanging far and wide over the valleys, and in the early evening they shut out the whole landscape. The leaves had fallen from the trees, and the hoar frost glistened on the bare twigs, when at last the grapes were gathered and pressed.
The Major would not allow it to be thought of for a moment, that they should omit firing their salute; he took extreme satisfaction in his two comrades, Eric and Roland, who fired at his word of command, so that the three reports sounded as one. But this was the whole celebration of the merry harvest-home.
Fires had been already made at the villa, and Sonnenkamp's pride in each stove having its own chimney was shown to be well founded. But it was a truly festive occasion when the Professorin had a fire kindled for the first time in her sitting-room. She had invited Eric and Roland to be present, and Fräulein Milch happened to be there. And as they sat together before the open fire-place, in serene and homelike content, it would be hard to say precisely what it was that made them so cheery and peaceful.
The Mother exhorted Eric to resume his habit of reading aloud, in the cosy winter evenings, some great poems, and he promised to do so. He felt that he must make some extra effort to dispel the coldness produced by his refusal to receive as a pupil the son of the Cabinetsräthin.
Sonnenkamp, who had an extensive hunting-park, sent out cards inviting some persons of the best society to a hunting-party. Invitations also came from the neighbors, and Eric was able to be present with Roland at a great hunting-party as often as once a week.
Roland was proud of his father's skill in the chase; he was regarded by all as the leader, and the whole company listened with pleasure to his accounts of grand hunts in America. He had even made a short excursion to Algiers, and there shot a lion, whose skin was now under his writing-table; it was meant for a sleigh-robe, but here in the country, a merry sleigh-ride was a rare thing.
The supper after the chase, in a large apartment fitted up for the purpose, was always of the merriest sort. The Major was here in his element, and officiated as lord of the castle; he spoke of the evenings which Eric enlivened at Villa Eden by reading the ancient and modern dramas; he never knew before that there were so many fine things in the world, and that one individual man could make everything so plain merely by his voice.
Eric had read aloud almost without exception one evening every week. The impression made upon the hearers was various. The Major always sat with his hands devoutly folded; Frau Ceres reclined in her easy-chair, occasionally opening her eyes, to show that she was not asleep; Fräulein Perini was employed with some hand-work, which she prosecuted steadily, exhibiting no emotion; the Mother and the Aunt sat there quietly; Sonnenkamp had a standing request that they would excuse his rudeness. Turning to Roland, he said good-humoredly,—
"Don't get this bad habit—don't get in the way of having a stick in your hand to whittle."
And so he sat and whittled away, occasionally looking up with a fixed stare, holding the knife in his right hand and the piece of wood in his left; then he would resume his whittling.
Roland always seated himself opposite the reader, so that Eric must look him in the face. Often, until it was very late, Roland would talk with Eric about the wonderful things he had been listening to.
Eric had been reading Macbeth, and he was glad to hear Roland say,—
"This Lady Macbeth could easily be transformed into a witch, like one of those who came in at the beginning."
Another time, when Eric had been reading Hamlet, he was not a little surprised at hearing Roland say to him in the evening, before going to bed,—
"Strange! Hamlet, in that soliloquy, speaks of no one returning from the other world, when, only a short time before, the spirit of his father had appeared, and he appears again afterwards."
One evening, after Eric had read Goethe's Iphigenia, Roland said,—
"I can't make out at all why Manna said once that she was Iphigenia. If she were Iphigenia, I should be Orestes. I, Orestes? I? Why was it? Do you understand Manna's meaning?"
Eric said no.
One evening when the Physician and the Priest were present, Sonnenkamp requested Eric to read aloud Shakespeare's Othello. Eric looked at Roland. Will not Roland be stirred up to fresh questioning concerning the negroes? He had no reason he could assign for declining, and he could contrive no excuse for sending Roland away.
Eric commenced reading. The fulness and flexibility of his voice gave the requisite expression to each character, and he preserved the proper distinction between reading and theatrical presentation. He brought out no strong colors; it was an artistic embodiment that allowed the outlines of form to appear, but gave no coloring; it was not an imitation of life, but a simple outline drawing of the general features, softened but sufficiently defined.
The Doctor nodded to the Mother, as much as to say that Eric's interpretation was very pleasant.
For the first time, Frau Ceres listened with eager attention, without leaning back once during the whole evening; she continued bent forward, and her countenance wore an unusual expression.
Eric read on continuously, and when he was giving the close of Othello's sorrowful confession of guilt, in a voice struggling with tears, like one resisting the inclination to weep, great tears ran down over the pale face of Frau Ceres.
The piece was ended.
Frau Ceres rose quickly, and requested the Mother to accompany her to her chamber.
Fräulein Perini and the rest of the ladies went away at the same time. The men were standing up, and only Roland remained sitting, as if spell-bound to the chair.
Glancing towards the Doctor, the Major said,—
"Isn't this a really wonderful man?"
The Doctor nodded.
The Priest had his hands folded together; Sonnenkamp surveyed his whittlings, placing them in a little pile together, just as if they had been gold-shavings, and even bending down to pick up some that had fallen upon the floor. Now he straightened himself up and asked Eric,—
"What do you think of Desdemona's guilt?"
"Guilt and innocence," replied Eric, "are not positive natural conceptions; they are the result of the social and moral laws of humanity. Nature deals only with the free play of forces, and Shakespeare's plays exhibit to us only this free play of natural impulses in men and women."
"That's true," interrupted the priest. "In this work there's nothing said about religion, for religion would necessarily soften, ameliorate, and rule over the savage natures, conducting themselves just like natural forces, or rather would bring them into subjection to the higher revealed laws."
"Fine, very fine," said Sonnenkamp, who was quite pale; "but permit me to ask the Captain to give me an answer to my question."
"I can answer your first question," Eric rejoined, "only in the words of our greatest writer on æsthetics: The poet would characterize a lion, and, in order to do it, he must represent him as tearing in pieces a lamb. The guilt of the lamb does not come into question at all. The lion must act in accordance with his nature. But I think that the deep tragedy of this drama lies hidden."
"And what do you think it is?"
"This maiden, Desdemona, without mother, brother, or sister, grown up from childhood among men, might love a hero, whose lyric, childlike nature, craving love and clinging fast to her, would make him crouch like a tamed lion at her feet. This submissive strength, renouncing no element of its wild energy, but, as it were, purified and exalted, opens the well-spring of that love which covers everything else with oblivion, overcomes the difference of race, and washes clean out the black color of the skin.
"When Othello kissed her for the first time, she closed her eyes, and he kissed her on the eyes; and her eyes are closed not for one instant merely, but for a long period. But an unparallelled horror, a wild insanity, would be the result of this shutting of the eyes when Desdemona should hold in her arms a child, who should appear, in its whole exterior, strange, abhorrent to her, like some creature that did not belong to the human race. Out from her heart, crushed and trampled under foot, there must have come a shriek of agony. A child upon her breast, a creature so unlike herself! That look, which Hegel describes as the highest of all that the eye can express, the first look of the mother upon the child, that first mother's look must have killed Desdemona, or made her raving mad."
Sonnenkamp, who had all the time been rapidly shifting the whittlings about with his fingers, now threw them all upon the floor in a heap, and went up to Eric, holding both hands stretched out at length. His huge frame trembled with emotion, as he cried out:—
"You are a free man, a freethinker; you are not to be humbugged. You are the first one that ever gave me a reasonable explanation of this antipathy. Yes, it's so. The instinct of the poet is wonderfully prophetic. 'Against all rules of nature!' This is the expression of Desdemona's father, and this is the whole solution of the problem. On this expression the whole turns, and every part is in harmony with it. The result must be, as it is, a product of nature. It's against nature!"
The men who were present had never before heard Sonnenkamp speak in this way, and Roland, who had been staring fixedly before him, looked up as if he must convince himself that it was really his father who was speaking. In an exultant tone, for he observed the effect produced upon them all, he continued:—
"Marriage—marriage! The Romans understood what was meant by that. Where marriage is in violation of nature's laws, there can be no talk of rights of humanity, equality of rights. Apes, with all their boasted reason, nothing but apes, are these silly preachers of humanity, who build up their theories and universal crotchets, without looking at the facts, and know really nothing of these brutes endowed with speech, who are not human beings, but everlastingly apish and malicious! Ho, ho! thou noble friend of humanity!" he exclaimed, striding up and down the room, "Marry thy daughter to a nigger, do that! do that! Be in terror, every moment, that he will tear her limb from joint. Hug a black grandchild! do that, noble friend of humanity! then come to me and harangue about the equality of the black and the white race!"
Sonnenkamp had clenched his fists, as if he were clutching an antagonist by the throat; his eyes flashed, his lips opened, and his jaws snapped together like a tiger leaping upon his prey. He now suddenly placed his hand upon his breast, as if making a powerful effort to hold himself in control.
"You, Herr Captain, and the poet, have taken me somewhat by surprise," he said, with a constrained smile; and then he again repeated that Eric had gone to the root of the matter. That a white girl could not become the wife of a nigger was no prejudice, but a law of nature.
"I thank you," he said in conclusion, turning once more towards Eric; "you have given me a great deal to think about."
The men looked at each other in astonishment, and the Doctor added, in a timid way very foreign from his usual manner, that he must give his assent to this on physiological grounds, for it was a well-known fact that mixed races, in the third generation, became sterile. A separation of the races, however, does not exclude human rights, any more than it excluded human duties; and religion laid them upon all alike.
While saying this he turned towards the Priest, who felt himself called upon to state that the negroes were susceptible of religious conviction, and capable of receiving religious instruction, and that this secured to them the full rights of men.
"Indeed!" exclaimed Sonnenkamp. "Is that the fact? Why then did not the Church ordain the removal of slavery?"
"Because the Church," replied the Priest quietly, "has nothing to do with ordaining anything of the kind. The Church directs itself to the human soul, and prepares it for the heavenly kingdom. In what social condition the body of man, the outside covering of this soul, may be, we have nothing to do with ordaining or determining. Neither slavery nor freedom is a hindrance to the divine life. Our Lord and Master called the souls of the Jews to enter into the kingdom of heaven whilst they were Roman citizens, and under subjection. He called all nations through his apostles, and did not stop to ask about their political condition and constitution. Our kingdom is the kingdom of souls, which are one and the same, whether they live in a republic or under a tyranny, whether their bodies are white or black. We are glad to have the body free, but it is not our work to make it so."
"Theodore Parker takes a different view," Roland suddenly exclaimed.
As if a bullet bad whistled close to his ears, Sonnenkamp cried,—
"What? Where did you find out about that man? Who told you about him? How's this?"
Roland trembled all over, for his father seized him by his shoulders and shook him.
"Father!" he cried out in a manly voice, "I have a free soul too! I am your son, but my soul is free!"
All were amazed. Nothing more would be said about his voice changing.
Sonnenkamp let go his hold, his breast heaving up and down as he panted violently for breath. Suddenly he exclaimed,—
"I am very glad, my son; that's noble, that's grand. You are real young America It's right! fine! splendid!"
They were struck with fresh amazement. This sudden change of mood in Sonnenkamp took all present by surprise. But he went on in a mild tone,—
"I am glad that you were not to be frightened. You have good pluck—it's all right. Now tell me where you found out about Parker?"
Roland gave a true account of matters, except that he said nothing about Parker's name having been mentioned by the Professorin when they were making their calls in the town.
"Why didn't you speak of it to me?" asked his father.
"I can keep a secret," replied Roland. "You've tested me yourself on that score."
"That's true, my son; you have justified my confidence."
"We ought to have gone home a long time ago," said the Major, and this was the signal for the company to break up.
The Major had never felt his heart beat so violently, never when stationed on some exposed outpost, never even in battle, as during the reading; and yet it beat worse, after the conversation had taken so threatening a turn.
He kept shaking his big head, and stretching out with his hands in the air deprecatingly and beseechingly, as if he would say,—
"For heaven's sake, drop this talk! It's not good, 'twill only do harm!"
Then he took another look at Sonnenkamp, shrugging up his shoulders. "Whatdoesthe man mean," he thought, "by talking to us in this style! We wouldn't put a hair in his path; what's the use of stirring us up in this matter! Oh, Fräulein Milch had the right of it, when she urged him to stay at home to-day.
"How comfortable it would be to be sitting in the arm-chair, in which Laadi is now lying! And one might have been asleep two hours ago, and now it will be midnight before one gets home! And there's Fräulein Milch sitting up, and sitting up, till he comes in. It was like being saved, when he took out his watch, and could say how late it was."
The Professorin came back at this moment, and told Roland that his mother wished to see him. Roland went to her.
Eric accompanied his mother and the rest, as they set out for home through the snowy night.