Eric walked in silence with the ladies. The Mother spoke first, saying,—
"I am glad that here, again, I have words of your father's to support me. Nothing is more weakening and more to be avoided than repentance," he often said; "the acknowledgment that we have made a mistake must come, quick and sharp, but then we must reconcile ourselves to circumstances. I have deeply repented no matter how much good I may do, that I have bound myself to this family so firmly that any drawing back or loosening of the ties is extremely difficult. But now that it is done, we must endeavor to make everything turn out for the best."
The Aunt, who spoke but little, added how painful it was that people over whose lives hung some dark crime were banished, as it were, from the kingdom of the spirit; and must meet everywhere with terrible reminders.
They went on again for a while in silence. High above, from the mountain crest, they heard the screech-owl, the harbinger of extreme cold, uttering his dreadful cry; which rose and died away with a mingled tone of lamentation and of triumph. The party stood still.
"Ah," said Eric, "what trouble Herr Sonnenkamp has taken to destroy all the owls in the neighborhood; but he cannot do it."
They walked on once more without speaking. Everything seems a sign and a portent to an excited mood. Hardly breathing the words aloud, the mother said that Frau Ceres' emotion was incomprehensible. She had thrown herself on her neck, sobbing and weeping.
"I do not know how to explain it," she continued; "there is some deep mystery here, and it troubles me."
Eric told them of what had passed among the men, and how Roland, to his alarm, had spoken of Parker. It was plain that Sonnenkamp wished to erect into a moral system the existing relations of slavery.
"Nothing more natural," answered the Mother. "Whoever stands in such relations all his life long, must make something for himself which he calls moral principle. I cannot help thinking of your father again; he has shown me a thousand times how people cannot bear to confess to themselves that their life and actions are bad; they feel obliged to prop them up with good principles. Yet, as I said, we must be quiet, we have one good young spirit to be led to noble ends; that is our part. Whence it sprang, or through what past life it may have come to us, is not for us to determine. The past is our fate, the present, our duty. There's another saying of your father's; and now good-night."
With a more composed mind, Eric returned to the villa. The owl had flown from the mountain, and was now perched on the top of a tree in the park, boldly sending forth its cry into the air. Eric heard it, and Sonnenkamp heard it in the ante-room of his wife's chamber. There must he, the father and husband, wait till his son came out, admittance having been refused him while his wife spoke to Roland. At last the boy came out, and his father asked him what his mother had said: he had never done so before, but now he felt obliged to do it.
Roland answered that she had really said almost nothing; she had only kissed him, and cried, and then asked him to hold her hand till she went to sleep, and now she was sleeping quietly.
"Give me Parker's book," said Sonnenkamp.
"I haven't got it now; the Professorin took it away from me, and blamed me very much for having read it secretly, and before I was old enough."
"Give my regards to Herr Eric; you have a better teacher than I thought," said the father.
Roland went to Eric's room, but he had not yet returned.
The owl's cry was heard again from the tree-top in the park. Roland put out the light, opened the window, took his rifle from the wall, fired, and the owl fell from the tree. Roland ran down stairs, met Eric, and told him that he had hit the bird; he then hurried into the park and brought the creature in.
The whole house was in alarm. Frau Ceres was awakened, and her first cry was:
"Has he killed himself?"
Sonnenkamp and Roland had to go to her room again, to show that they were alive. Roland took the dead owl with him, but his mother would not look at it, and only complained of having been deprived of her sleep.
The father and the son withdrew, and Sonnenkamp praised Roland for having brought down the bird so promptly and boldly.
Eric went back to his mother, who must also have been awakened by the shot, and he found her still awake; she too had feared that it had been some suicidal shot.
The whole house was in a commotion, and it was some time before it could be restored to quiet.
In his pride at having shot the owl, Roland forgot everything else, and went contentedly to bed and to sleep.
But above in the castle, and below in Sonnenkamp's work-room, lights burned late. Eric sat gazing at the flame, and strange forms moved confusedly through his mind. There was Shakespeare's play, there were all the people who had listened to it; but more than all he tried to enter into Roland's mind; and it seemed a fortunate thing to him, that the boy's love of sport had driven away all wondering speculation from his mind. Action, action alone makes free. Where is it, the great all-liberating power? It does not show itself. Independent of our will, and of reflection, there is a great power in the Past and in the view of God working in it, which alone can bring forth the deed. The deed is not ours, but to be armed and ready is in our power.
At last Eric found rest.
Sonnenkamp paced up and down his great room like a prisoner. The lion's skin with the stuffed head lay upon the floor, and the eyes stared at him, till he covered the head with a part of the skin. He asked himself again and again what he ought to do. This Herr Eric was teaching his son to oppose him, and the Mother, who was always regaling them with sayings of her husband, preserved in spirit, forever calling up, as Pranken says, her husband's wandering ghost, the departed Professor Hamlet—no, she was a noble woman.
But why had he taken upon his shoulders this beggarly family, so puffed up with their own ideas? He could not shake them off, without attracting attention. No, he would make use of them, and then throw them away.
At last, a happy resolution quieted him. We must have new surroundings, new diversions; and then, straight to the goal! The day after to-morrow will be New Year's day. On New Year's day we will go to the capital. With this thought Sonnenkamp also found rest at last.
The first thing in the morning, Roland wanted to carry the owl, which lay frozen outside his window, to Claus, who knew how to stuff birds.
All the events of the past day seemed to have vanished from his mind, leaving no trace, in the joy he felt in his splendid shot.
"Stop!" cried Roland suddenly, as he was stretching out the owl's wings, "stop; I've just thought of what a man said to me in my dreams; he looked like Benjamin Franklin, but he was thinner. I dreamed that I was going to battle; the music was making a great noise, discordant, and broken by shouts, and every now and then the man said: 'A good name—a good name'—and then there suddenly appeared thousands of black heads, nothing but black heads, a perfect sea of them; and they all gnashed their teeth, and I woke up in dreadful agony."
Eric could not answer, and Roland went on:—
"To-day is the last day of the year; we ought to enter upon a wholly new world tomorrow; I don't know why, but I long to have it so."
Eric laid his hand on the boy's brow, which was feverishly hot.
Roland was summoned to his mother, who wanted him; Eric watched him thoughtfully as he went; he felt also that a new page was to be turned, without knowing what it was to be. He looked towards the door, for he expected that Sonnenkamp would send for him. The man had shown on the previous day such new and strange moods that an explanation was necessary. What would it be? This could not be guessed. As if in a vision, Eric saw Sonnenkamp in his own room, in a state of the greatest excitement, sometimes bursting out violently, then calming himself again. He heard the steps of two people approach his room. Roland entered, holding his father's hand.
"Mother is asleep again," he said, "but there is some news. Eric, we are going to the capital together, to stay all winter."
"Yes, I have decided upon it," said Sonnenkamp, in confirmation, after saying good-morning to Eric, "and I hope that your mother will go with us."
With calm deliberation, he went on to say that gay society would be good for all of them, after the loneliness of their retired life in the country; and, with a watchful look at Eric, he added:—
"We shall meet your friend Clodwig, and his charming wife, at the capital."
Eric looked at him calmly, and said that he should feel it to be his duty to meet all of Herr Sonnenkamp's social acquaintances.
"I have thought much about last evening," began Sonnenkamp, seating himself near Eric. "You are a learned and also a bold man."
His manner was extremely polite, almost affectionate, for he was inwardly happy when he could play the hypocrite; whenever he could make fools of all around him, he felt an elevating and sustaining satisfaction. He was in such good humor that he said to Eric:—
"I hope to convert you; to make you see that the best way of living in the world is to hold yourself a stranger in it, and not to bother yourself about the immediate regulation of the affairs of state."
"In some respects," answered Eric, "Aristotle agreed with you; he lived generally in Athens, having a sort of certificate of residence without being a regular citizen, and without being responsible either actively or passively in the choice of rulers; for only in this way, as an alien, could he live wholly in his ideas."
"I like that. One is constantly hearing something new and sensible of the old philosophers. Then Aristotle was free also to go wherever he pleased? That's good!"
Sonnenkamp looked amused. These learned gentlemen are very convenient; they know how to find great historical reasons for what we do selfishly or thoughtlessly. He smiled in a friendly way, and his smile did not disappear, though Eric explained that what befitted a philosopher like Aristotle very well would not do for everybody; for if every one were like him, the world could not last; who would undertake municipal and state affairs?
Sonnenkamp still smiled. This German pedagogue is a funny fellow, he thought to himself; the very hour before starting on a journey, he is ready for a learned discussion. Looking extremely well pleased, he said to Eric:—
"I am very much obliged to you; one always learns something of you; you are always up to the mark."
Every word was meant to give a stab, but Eric took it quite seriously, and was grateful for the gratitude of Sonnenkamp, who was inwardly excessively diverted by this man, so childishly unsuspicious with all his learning.
He desired Eric and Roland to make the necessary preparations for the journey, and then left the room, a servant having come to say that his gracious lady was ready to see his master.
He entered Frau Ceres' room. She looked at him languidly as he said he was glad she was better, and that she would be able to undertake the journey to the capital on the following day. In glowing colors he represented the pleasant life in the city, upon which they had a sure hold through the family of the Cabinetsräthin, Count Wolfsgarten and his wife, and also through Herr von Endlich's family.
He added in a very confident tone: "Be strong and charming, lovely Frau Ceres; you will return to these rooms a Baroness."
Frau Ceres sat up, and only mourned that the dresses ordered in Paris had not yet arrived. Sonnenkamp promised to telegraph directly, and promised also that the Professorin should go with them, so that the entrance into society could be made under her auspices.
"You may kiss me," said Frau Ceres.
Sonnenkamp did so, and she said,—
"I think that we shall all be very happy. Ah, if I could only tell you my dream, but you never like to hear about dreams, and it is better that I should not tell it. But there was a bird with great wings, enormously large, and I was sitting on the bird, and was carried through the air; and I was ashamed because I was not dressed, and all the people below were looking up at me, and hooting, and shouting, and laughing, and then the bird turned its head round, and it was the Professorin, and she said: You are so splendidly dressed! and then I had all my ornaments on, and my lace-trimmed satin dress—but I know you don't want to hear my dream."
Sonnenkamp left the room in good spirits. The day was bright, a keen, cold, sparkling winter-day, when the whole landscape, every rock, every tree, stood sharply out against the blue sky; the ice had closed over the Rhine, and a strange quiet, like a repressed breathing, lay over the whole scene.
Sonnenkamp was glad that the bright daylight had driven away all the spectres of the night, and brought fresh life. He immediately gave orders in the stable, that two pairs of horses and a second carriage should be sent to the capital. An hour afterwards, as he was walking with Eric and Roland to the vine-clad cottage, they saw the horses, covered with warm blankets, on the highroad, already on their way to the capital. Roland begged that his pony might be sent also, and permission was given; then he asked which dogs he might take, and when told that only one must go he could not decide which it should be.
The Professorin's large sitting-room looked like a yearly fair; on tables and chairs lay great packages of knit and woven woollen garments for men and women. Fräulein Milch was reading from a large sheet of paper the names of various needy people, and a list of the articles intended for them, while the Mother and the Aunt compared the bundles with the list.
When this was done, Fräulein Milch called in Claus, with his wife and daughter, and the Seven-piper with his whole family. They were directed to deliver the bundles to the people to whom they were addressed, and were very ready to undertake the work.
"It's very well that you don't give any money," said Claus; "but there's something wanting."
"What is it?"
The entrance of Sonnenkamp and Roland prevented his replying.
Sonnenkamp expressed much pleasure with the discreet manner in which his money had been used, and spoke a few friendly words to Fräulein Milch, whom he had not seen since the morning when Roland was missing.
He asked for the Major, and learned with regret that he had not been well during the night, and had not slept till nearly morning, so that he was probably still asleep; he had, happily, a constitution which always recovered its tone by sleep.
The Professorin asked to be excused, as she wished to send off the things before she attended to her early visitors; she now asked Claus what he meant by saying that an important thing was wanting.
"Yes," said the huntsman, "Herr Sonnenkamp is just the man for it."
"For what?"
"I mean that it is all well and good to wrap people up and protect them from the cold; but hilarity and joy are still lacking, and I think something ought to be done about warming up inside, and it wouldn't go amiss to send every one of them a bottle of wine. Every year the people see the vineyards before their eyes, and work in them, and most of them don't ever drink, so much as a single drop of the wine."
"Good!" said Sonnenkamp. "Go to the butler, and tell him to put with every bundle a good bottle of last year's wine."
Sonnenkamp was in a most lavish mood, for he put, besides, in each bundle a gold-piece; but he almost spoiled the whole by saying to Claus,—
"You see how much confidence I have in you. I have no doubt that you will deliver it all faithfully."
All the huntsman's jolly good humor seemed damped, but he restrained his anger, and only pressed his lips tightly together.
Roland helped carry the bundles to a cart which was waiting before the house, Sonnenkamp wanted to prevent him, but the Mother made him a sign to let him do it. With the last package, Fräulein Milch disappeared.
In the emptied room Sonnenkamp told the Professorin of his plan of removing to the capital, and begged her to accompany the family.
Gratefully, but most positively, the Professorin declined; and Sonnenkamp had some trouble in hiding his vexation, when he found that no persuasions could change her decision. He took leave politely, but out of humor, and Roland promised to leave Griffin with her as a guard.
The Professorin felt that the boy wanted to be doing something for her while he was away, and to sacrifice for her something which he cared for.
"Life will go well with you." she said, as she pressed his hand.
Roland felt a thrill through his whole being; he had received one of the holiest of blessings, though it was given in such simple words.
The Professorin had promised to come that evening to the villa, where they were all to watch out the old year.
When she came, she found great black chests in the hall; in Frau Ceres' parlor all the chairs were covered with clothes, and Frau Ceres was as happy as a child, directing everything with an activity never seen in her before. At last they all repaired to the dining-room and sat down to tea.
All felt that a great break had come in their life; while the conversation went on easily and continually no one noticed the time, and all believed that it would be very hard work to keep awake till midnight. The Professorin felt the strain, the haunting ghost, if one may so call it, of the impending separation; they were, in fact, no longer here, no longer together. She said more of this than she really meant to, and told them of her entrance into the great world.
Frau Ceres was very attentive, and kept begging her to go on. Suddenly she rose and asked her husband to leave the room with her. Sonnenkamp soon reappeared, and begged the Professorin to do his dear little wife a favor. She declared herself quite ready; and it seemed she was to play the Princess, Eric the Court-Marshal, Sonnenkamp the Prince, and Aunt Claudine the Mistress of Ceremonies. The Aunt resisted the arrangement, and blushed deeply; but the Professorin persuaded her, and managed to make her take therôleof the Princess.
After a little waiting, the folding-doors were opened. Eric stood at the door with a wand, and led Frau Ceres, who glittered and beamed in diamonds and pearls, to the throne of the Aunt.
The Aunt condescendingly dropped very slightly the fan which she held, and Frau Ceres made a truly courtly reverence.
"Come nearer," said the Aunt. "It is very good in you to take up your abode in our country."
"It was my husband's wish," answered Frau Ceres.
"Your honored husband is very benevolent."
"I thank you," replied Frau Ceres.
"If I were in your place," exclaimed Sonnenkamp, "I would say, Your Highness, it is our duty, and we are highly rewarded for it by its meeting your gracious notice."
"Please write that out for me, I will learn it," said Frau Ceres, turning to her husband. She seemed to have grown younger, and her cheeks glowed.
The Professorin was extremely animated, and after saying: "I am your Mistress of Ceremonies," she led Frau Ceres to a seat.
"No, not so,—you must look after your train a little, and spread it out handsomely. So,—that's light, and then open your fan, you have the right to open it now, but not before. It is best to have it hung to your wrist by a small cord; it falls so easily."
The jesting went on merrily; when twelve o'clock struck, Roland cried:—
"Father, now your health is being drunk by hundreds of people."
Sonnenkamp kissed his son, Frau Ceres kissed the Professorin, then bent her head and waited calmly for a kiss on her brow from her husband. Outside, the bells rang, and guns were fired.
"Welcome to the New Year! to fresh life!" cried Eric, as his pupil gratefully kissed the hand which grasped his own.
In the neighborhood of the villa, there was much noise of guns and shouting; and Sonnenkamp was quite indignant that the good German police should allow such doings; it was nothing but rude vulgarity.
Eric said, on the other hand:—
"We can find in this inharmonious noise, if we consider it psychologically, an expression of joy. Without knowing it himself, the insignificant man who fires off a pistol, takes pleasure in the sense of surprise that he can produce an effect so far off, and that so many people must notice what he does. So this custom, barbarous in itself, is to be explained; it gives force to the human voice, you see, to the vociferous shouting."
Sonnenkamp smiled, and Eric was glad that he had brought, not his pupil alone, but the father also, to a gentler view of humanity.
But Sonnenkamp thought: This walking university, these ready catechetical answers on every subject, begin to grow a little tedious; it is well that we are going into a wider circle.
Then he smiled, and bade Eric and Roland a cheerful good-night.
Warmly wrapped in furs and attended by two servants, the Professorin and the Aunt returned to their own house; and soon all was still, and every one dreaming of the New Year.
In the morning, when Eric and Roland were saying good-by at the green cottage, a message came from Fräulein Milch to offer herself and the Major that day, as visitors to the Professorin.
The Professorin praised to aunt Claudine the tact of the housekeeper, who evidently felt that they would be lonely on that day.
It was snowing steadily, and from her closed window the Mother made a sign of farewell to her son and to Roland, who drove by in the first carriage, and afterwards to Herr Sonnenkamp and Fräulein Perini, who bowed from their carriage: Frau Ceres lay in the corner, closely wrapped up, and did not move.
The Major and Fräulein Milch soon arrived. The Major kept himself under strict military discipline, and allowed no slight indisposition to change his stiff bearing; he was rather hoarse, and could say even less than usual, but he offered the congratulations of the New Year to the ladies with as much cordiality as formality.
"This year," he said, "will complete the fifty years that we have lived together."
He pointed to Fräulein Milch, and his hand said, Not a better creature walks the earth. But his looks said still more, which was not so easily understood.
They had a very cheerful dinner, and Fräulein Milch told them how many pleasant things she had already heard about the valuable presents, in the various houses.
The Major forced himself to master his indisposition, to be fit company for the three ladies; he praised the Professorin for knowing how to make such excellent soup, though she was such a learned lady.
"Yes, yes," he laughed, "I've really had to force Herr Sonnenkamp to have soup at his table. You see, if I had to go a day without soup, I should feel as if I were wearing my boots without stockings; the lower story of the stomach is cold."
They laughed at this comparison, and the Major thus encouraged, continued:—
"Yes, Frau Professorin, you know everything; can you tell me how it is that though this day is just like yesterday, we feel that there's something peculiar about it because it's New Year's Day? I feel as if I'd put on clean clothes for the whole year."
Again there was a general laugh, and the Major chuckled, well pleased; he had done his part, now he could leave the others to themselves.
After dinner, the Professorin insisted that the Major must take his nap; she had had the library warmed on purpose, and the Major was not a little proud that he was to sleep in the arm-chair there.
"Ah," he said, "I can sleep as well as the best Professor; but so many books, so many books! it's frightful to think that a man can read them all! I don't understand how it's possible."
The Major slept the sleep of the righteous; but he would have had no rest if he could have guessed what was passing between the ladies.
Fräulein Milch sat at the window by the Professorin, who listened in astonishment as the simple housekeeper said how strange it was that Eric should have consented to read the harrowing drama of Othello; the Major had been driven almost crazy by it, and, besides, there were so many points in it which could not be touched upon in the family.
"Do you know the play?" asked Frau Dournay.
"Indeed I do," replied Fräulein Milch, her whole face flushing to her very cap-border. Then, to the Professorin's surprise, she went on to remark upon the poet's wonderful stroke of art in placing the young married pair on the island of Cyprus, where strong wine is produced and drunk, not always in moderation; for in that solitude, and under that hot sun, wild, burning passions were fostered, too. The greater the happiness of a fondly loving pair on such an island, the more miserable would they be if any discord rose between them.
The Professorin listened as if a new person were speaking, whom she had never known before; but she said nothing of her thoughts, only asking:—
"Do you think then that the play was unsuitable to have been read there because Herr Sonnenkamp has been a slave-holder?"
"I would rather not say more about it," said Fräulein Milch evasively. "I do not like to talk about the man; it rejoices me,—no, that isn't the right word,—it makes me easier that he scarcely notices me, and seems to think me too insignificant to be looked at. I am not angry with him for it, but rather grateful, because it is not necessary for me to look at him; and friendliness towards him would be hypocrisy."
"But you must not turn me off in that way. Can't you tell me why you thought it unsuitable for being read?"
"I cannot."
Aunt Claudine, thinking she saw that Fräulein Milch had something to tell which was not for her to hear, quietly left the room.
"Now we are quite alone," said the Professorin, "you can tell me every thing. Shall I assure you that I can keep a secret?"
"Oh, I am only sorry that I have gone so far," stammered Fräulein Milch, drawing her cap-strings through her fingers. "It is the first time for fifty years that I have paid a visit, or eaten at a stranger's table; I ought not to have done it; I have not yet gained self-control enough."
Her face quivered, and her brown eyes glowed.
"I thought that you looked on me as a friend," said the Professorin, holding out her hand.
"Yes, so I do," cried Fräulein Milch, seizing the hand with both her own, and pressing it with fervor. "You cannot tell how I thank God for having granted me this before my death; since I devoted myself to him, I have renounced all the world; you are the first—oh, I think you must know all, you need be told nothing."
"I do not know all. What do you know of Herr Sonnenkamp?"
Fräulein Milch hung her head sadly, then put both hands before her face, crying,—
"Why must I tell you?" Then she rose, put her mouth to the Professorin's ear, and whispered something. Frau Dournay threw her head back, and grasped the sewing-machine, which stood before her, with both hands. Not a word was spoken. Outside, all was still, except for the cawing of a flock of crows which were hovering over the Rhine.
"I do not think you would tell me such a thing on a mere rumor," said the Professorin at last. "Go on, and tell me plainly how you learned it."
Fräulein Milch looked round timidly, and answered:—
"I have it from the most trustworthy of men, whose nephew has sent a child here to be educated; he knows the name which Herr Sonnenkamp formerly bore, and all about his past life. But, dear, noble lady, why should not a man be able to take up a different life, a new existence, whatever he may have done?"
"Of that another time," interrupted Frau Dournay; "tell me the name of the man who has told you this."
"So be it then. It was Herr Weidmann."
The Professorin covered her face with her hands. "What are you saying of Herr Weidmann?" asked the Major, entering suddenly. "I can tell you, Frau Professorin, that any one who doesn't know that man, doesn't know one of the best and truest men in the world. He's one of God's masterpieces, and God himself must have satisfaction in him; every day, when He looks down from heaven, he must say: The world isn't yet so bad, for down yonder I have my Weidmann; he is a man—a genuine man. Everything is included in that, there's nothing more to be said."
Both women felt a sense of relief in the entrance of the Major, who now prepared to go home with Fräulein Milch. After they had gone a few steps, the Professorin called Fräulein Milch back, and asked in a whisper,—
"Does the Major know, too?"
"Oh no, he could not bear it. Forgive me for having laid such a burden on you. Believe me that it is not made lighter to me, but heavier."
The guests departed; and soon after, the postman brought a letter from the University-town. Professor Einsiedel, who for twenty years had brought his New Year's greeting to Frau Dournay, did not choose to fail in it to-day; they were cordial and significant words which he wrote, but they seemed to come from a different world. Twice she read the postscript, for there was a greeting for Eric, with the message, that the Professor would soon send him a book on slavery which was announced as just published; and he added the exhortation that Eric should finish his work within the new year.
The Professorin looked thoughtfully at the words. What did it mean? Eric had never spoken to her of any such work. She passed her hand through the air before her brow, as if she would drive away every strange thought. A recollection rose within her. This very morning she had been expressing her sorrow to Aunt Claudine that she could no longer dispense any charity of her own, though it was the duty of every one to give from his own store. What she did seemed nothing; only the gifts seemed of importance. Almost involuntarily, she opened the box in which lay the money that Sonnenkamp had intrusted to her. How could she say in future to those who received it: You must not thank me, but Herr Sonnenkamp.
She collected herself, and went to the library, where she stood gazing out of the window. It seemed as if something were actually gnawing at her heart. In spite of inward reluctance, she had allowed herself to be brought into these relations, and her power of clear and intelligent perception seemed clouded.
Down the river there was a heavy roar, with a sharp cracking sound, as if a new world were opening; the ice had broken up. Great blocks were floating down the stream. They were hurled, against each other, turned over, crushed into fragments, brought together again, and floated on. Every block, large and small, was crowned with a wreath of snow, formed by the icy splinters that were ground to powder and thrown on top by the breaking up; the fragments floated down the river so swiftly that one realized, for the first time, how rapid and strong the current always is.
The sun set in a glowing sky across the Rhine; half aloud, the Professorin said to herself:—
"This first day of the year, which is now declining, has brought me a terrible experience; it must be borne, and turned to some good end."
A line of carriages was standing in front of the Hotel Victoria in the capital; multitudes of sparrows were fluttering about them while the drivers stood together in groups, or walked to and fro, bandying jests with one another, and beating their arms across their chest to keep off the cold. The sparrows quarreled together, and after picking up all the crumbs they could find, took their flight. The drivers had exhausted their jokes and lapsed into silence. What more could be said and done on a winter's afternoon in the snowy, deserted streets of the capital? Everything is as still as the blessed prince whose stone image stands on the great column, with a cap of snow on his head and snow epaulettes on his shoulders. The parade is over, the officials are sitting in their offices, and the shutters of the Casino are closed for the better enjoyment of the cards by lamp-light. There is a change of guards at Prince Leonhard's palace, over the way; the soldiers wear large cloaks, and carry pistols. The man released from duty whispers something, which seems to be of no great moment to the one who succeeds him. An official messenger carrying a bundle of papers comes along, meets a court-lackey wrapped in a long coat that almost touches the ground; exchanges a pinch of snuff with him, and passes on. Such is the life of a small capital on a winter's afternoon.
But now wide awake! there is something going on. A great stir began among the coachmen, and up came the courier Lootz, with a wagon load of trunks.
Now there was abundant material for conversation. It was fine to have this "Gold-nugget, the King of California," come to the capital.
"Run up to your father, the bell-ringer, and tell him to set all his bells going," cried one.
"Give me a drink that I may shout a good huzza," said another. "Now begins a merry winter for us. Gold-nugget will scatter more money than three princes, and seventeen counts, with seven barons into the bargain."
"Let me tell you something," chimed in a third. "Let's send a deputation to him when he arrives; he will do it, he is just the fellow for it. I've a plan."
"Out with your plan."
The man thus addressed,—a little humpback, with intelligent, cunning eyes,—kept his comrades in suspense for a while, and then said,—
"We will petition Herr Sonnenkamp to give every coachman a daily pint of wine. He will do it, you see if he doesn't. If I had seventy millions, I would do it too."
A broad-shouldered, somewhat disreputable-looking coachman said,—
"I have been a hotel-keeper myself; I know what that means. The landlord of the Victoria has got a winter guest who will keep the house warm, and the wheels well greased."
Within the hotel, meanwhile, were none but smiling faces. Even the handsome landlady was handsomer than ever to-day, as she took a final survey of the sumptuous suite of rooms on the first floor, and found that all was in order, only a covering here and there still remaining to be spread. The feet of the butlers, waiters, and maids, as they hurried to and fro, made no sound on the thick, soft carpets. The gorgeous silk furniture glistened and gleamed, as if grateful at being freed from its mourning wrappers, and allowed to show itself to the light.
Lootz was full of business; he seemed bent upon trying every kind of sitting-place; now one chair and now another, here a sofa and there a lounge, he ordered to be differently arranged. Even the beds he appeared disposed to test, but contented himself with pressing the springs up and down a little. One blue silk boudoir, that opened on a charming balcony, he re-arranged entirely with great skill and excellent taste.
All was at last ready.
When evening came on, the whole long suite of rooms was illuminated; all the burners in the chandeliers, on the tables, and on the mantles being lighted. The entrance hall was decked with flowers. Now they might come.
The head-butler, with a cigar in his mouth, stepped into the streets and surveyed the row of windows with great satisfaction; but with still greater, did he look across the streets at the residence of the Crown-prince, where all was dark and deserted; how jealous they will be there!
A carriage drove up full of the servants of the establishment, men and women, then another, in which were Eric and Roland, and finally appeared a coach drawn by four horses. Bertram drew up at the door, and out stepped Herr Sonnenkamp followed by Fräulein Perini, and lastly by Frau Ceres, enveloped in the costliest furs.
The coachmen before the house forgot their agreement, and raised no cheers for Sonnenkamp. Amidst utter silence he and his family entered the vestibule, where the bearded porter in a laced coat and broad-brimmed hat presented his, silver-headed cane. He stood motionless as a statue; only his eyes sparkled. His face assumed a satisfied expression as they ascended the warmed, lighted, and flower-hung stair-case. Frau Ceres was not in good humor, having slept almost the whole way; she sat down before the open grate, and consented after a while to have her furs taken off.
Sonnenkamp inspected all the rooms, saying, when he came to those intended for Roland and Eric,—
"All the comforts of this world have their price; those who have nothing must turn coachmen, and freeze down there, waiting for a passenger."
He returned to, his wife's boudoir, where Frau Ceres was still sitting motionless on a luxurious seat before the fire.
"What shall we do to-day?" she asked languidly.
"There is still time to go to the theatre."
"Dress myself over again? I won't."
Here, happily, the Cabinetsräthin was announced.
She was greeted with words of welcome, and very welcome she was. She apologized for not having been on the spot to receive her dear friends and neighbors upon their arrival, as she had intended, but a visit from Countess Graben had detained her. They thanked her, and were enchanted at her obliging politeness.
Eric and Roland were summoned to receive the Cadet, who had come also.
"Where is your mother?" inquired the Cabinetsräthin. "She is coming presently, I hope?"
Eric did not answer, and Sonnenkamp quietly interposed, saying that the Frau Professorin was unwilling to give up her country-life.
"That will cause general regret," returned the Cabinetsräthin, smiling as if she were saying something very amusing. "All the beau-monde are depending upon having this amiable, witty, universally esteemed lady another season among them."
"She must come," said Frau Ceres.
Sonnenkamp was sorely vexed. Did the whole glory of his house depend upon the esteem in which this woman was held?
His displeasure was increased by the lady's adding in a confidential tone,—
"The accomplishment of our beautiful and noble plan will be much hindered and delayed by the absence of the Frau Professorin,néevon Burgholz," as she always took pains to add. Herr Sonnenkamp would hardly be able to draw the best society to his house, she thought, without the lady's presence, adding, with what she meant for an expression of great modesty, that she should spare no exertions on her own part, but that she could not accomplish nearly as much as the Frau Professorinnéevon Burgholz.
The numerous lights in the great drawing-room appeared to Sonnenkamp's eyes to burn less brightly; he had sufficient self-control, however, not to betray the extent of his vexation.
The Cadet proposed that Roland should take part in a quadrille, which was to be performed on horseback by the first nobles of the court, towards the end of the month; in the royal riding-ring he could find a place as squire among the other citizen cadets, and engage in some of the evolutions.
Roland was delighted at the idea, but Herr Sonnenkamp cut the matter short by saying,—
"No! you will take no part."
He did not give any reason; there was no need to say that he did not choose to have his son make his first appearance among the common people admitted on sufferance.
The Cabinetsräthin had plenty of court news to tell, such as who had already given entertainments, and whose balls were still to come off, besides many a piquant bit of gossip, only half told on account of the presence of the children. The betrothal of the eldest son of Herr von Endlich, whose superb house was so famous, was soon to be celebrated, though there was reason to fear that tidings of death would soon be received from Madeira, whither the young pair had gone who were married in the summer.
The Cadet invited Roland to go with him to the theatre that evening, to see a grand ballet.
Eric looked in embarrassment at Sonnenkamp, who however said,—
"Certainly; go, Roland."
For the first time Eric saw his pupil led away from him, and taken to a place of entertainment, among a class of people, whither he could not accompany him. His heart trembled.
Roland had asked that Eric might go too, but the Cadet explained that there were no more places to be had; it was with great difficulty that he had been able to secure one for his friend. So Roland departed, saying to Eric as he went,—
"I shall come back to you as soon as it is over."
Eric became more tranquil. He could not prevent Roland's falling into company, and receiving impressions, which threatened the subversion of all his noble tendencies. He could only trust that his will and his conscience might be strong enough to withstand the danger.
Half with pride and half with regret, the Cabinetsräthin told of her son's precocity and cunning in the pursuit of adventures, and lamented almost in the same breath that Manna should be passing this brilliant season in the solitude of the convent; it would have been so pleasant for her, together with Frau Ceres, to introduce such a lovely girl into society.
Sonnenkamp replied that next winter would be time enough for that.