The morning air was fresh and cool. Bertram was not on the box of the carriage, but a hired coachman sat next to Lootz. Roland knew the horses, and wanted to take the stranger's place, but Sonnenkamp said in a hoarse voice:—
"No, my child, don't leave me. Sit with me. Stay with me."
Roland obeyed, and took a seat in the close carriage, with his father and Pranken. They drove in silence through the city, each thinking: When, and under what circumstances, will you ever come here again? Roland looked out as they were passing the pleasure-grounds, where in the summer they had excited so much attention at the officers' entertainment. Withered leaves were lying on the tables, and everything was bare and desolate. Sighing and shutting his eyes, Roland leaned back in the corner of the carriage. The bloom of youth had faded out of his countenance over night, and everything was wilted like a flower touched by the frost.
They drove along, for a time, without speaking. Roland, however, soon heard his father making himself merry over the unadulterated rascality of mankind, and one and another person who were generally spoken of with respect and held in high estimation were spoken of as hardly fit to associate with galley-slaves. A beginning was made with the Cabinetsrath, who had allowed himself to be bribed in such a way, and yet could act as if there had never been anything of the kind. And so, in succession, the good name of everybody was torn into shreds.
Pranken let Sonnenkamp expend his violence and rage, not saying a word even when Clodwig was attacked. What was the use! It is the delight of one suffering under mortification, above all one who is suffering through his own fault, to bring down others to his own level. Roland was deeply, troubled, and his heart grew cold at the thought of being able to hold his own position only by being made thoroughly acquainted with, and keeping constantly before his eyes, the darker side of all human beings.
Tenderly and cautiously, Pranken began to bring into notice the idea that a firm religious belief was the only adequate support, and he openly inveighed against those who would withdraw this support, the only real one, and the highest, from one who relied upon it. Roland knew that Eric was intended, but he did not let it be seen. Pranken went farther, and said that Eric's father, whom mother and son decked out as a demi-god, was a man who at the university had no scholars, and at whom all the learned men had shrugged their shoulders.
Gloomy thoughts, like cloudy forms, thronging in succession, overcast the soul of the youth. One thought prevailed over all others, and allowed him no rest:—Yesterday, honor was everything; to-day, it has no existence. What is honor? It is the seasoning in each particle of life's food, and without it existence is tasteless. This thought startled Roland as if he had seen some terrific vision. He saw the clouds actually before him, in the shape of dense volumes of smoke from Sonnenkamp's cigar. A voice cried out, in mock-merriment, from the midst of the cloud: The people in the whole region round ought to give him a special vote of thanks, for now they were, in comparison with him, snow-white angels, and all that they needed was a pair of wings. All the little men and little woman could say: Lord, I thank thee that I am not like this Sonnenkamp here. "I am truly a godsend to you; thank me, O world!"
This humor pleased Pranken, and he said, laughing, that no one, a year hence, after one had become accustomed to it, would think anything of the present troubles; and he would urgently entreat that not a word should be said about selling the villa and moving away.
Sonnenkamp gave Pranken a nudge, but he had no idea that this communication, although it gave Roland anew the feeling of homelessness, affected him far less than the jeering outburst of his father concerning the thanks due him from the world.
A disintegration of the thoughts and feelings of the youth had taken place, and it was impossible to anticipate what changes might be brought about in these different elements through the introduction of a new agency. A feeling had been awakened within him, that he must bear an indelible stain for his whole lifetime.
The mists dissolved, the day was bright, the sun shone warmly, but Sonnenkamp was chilly, and wrapped himself in his cloak. He sat in the carriage, staring out upon the road, but he saw nothing except the shadow of one of the horses, and this shadow was moving its legs to and fro. Is everything only a shadow in like manner? Is what moves you and draws you onward just such a shadow as this?
A vehicle coming towards them raised a cloud of dust, at which Sonnenkamp stared. Whenever you look at this dust, you feel as if you must be smothered by it; but when you are in the midst of it, turn your face away, and it is not so bad after all. Perhaps what has now happened is just such a whirling cloud of dust. Turn your face away.
He saw the shepherds with their sheep upon the stubble-field, and asked himself: Is that a better life? He wanted to sleep; he threw away his cigar and shut his eyes. It seemed to him as if the carriage were all the time going down hill. But when he opened his eyes, they were on the level road.
Again he shut his eyes, for this was the only way he could be alone.
And now he really went to sleep. Roland gazed in silence out into the bright sunshine. Ah, the sight of nature is helpful only to the joyous, or to one who is beginning to rally from sorrow; she brings no consolation to the heavy laden and the deeply saddened spirit; her changelessness, her unsympathizing and steadfast life, seem almost insulting.
Up to this time, Roland had lived in that twilight realm which separates youth from manhood, and now the period of youth was closed. His pride had been turned to shame, but he was mature enough to forget himself soon, and to direct his regards to his father, who is doubly unhappy; unhappy on his own account, and on account of having brought harm upon others—upon those nearest to him.
Sonnenkamp slept; but in his dreamy state between wakefulness and sleep, the rattling carriage-wheels seemed to him the clanking chains of fettered slaves.
He woke suddenly, and stared as if bewildered. Where was he? What had happened? He wrapped himself in his cloak again, and hid his face.
Pranken bent toward Roland, whispering to him:—
"I know how you are inwardly shattered, but there is one cure for you, a grand act, the most sublime deed."
"What is it?"
"Speak lower, don't wake up your father. The one thing for you to do,—-it is grand,—the great and noble thing for you is to enter the Papal army; this is the only thing to be done. This is the last, the highest tower to be defended now, and if that falls, the atheists and communists have won the day. I would do it myself, if-—-"
"Yes," interrupted Roland, "that would be the thing! We give away all our property to the Holy Father, and he issues a bull in favor of the abolition of slavery."
Sonnenkamp could not keep asleep any longer.
"That's right, my young fellow," he cried. "That's right! the Pope ought to do it. But do you believe that he will do now for money—even were it ten times as much—what he has not done of himself? The idea is a grand one, Herr von Pranken, very grand and very—very shrewd."
There was a little raillery in this commendation, for he thought: You want to get the whole inheritance, and hand over my son to the knife.
"But my dear, noble, high-aspiring young friend," was what he said aloud, "honestly, do you believe that the Pope will do what our Roland expects?"
"No."
They drove on in silence. They saw the Villa in the distance, and on the tower the banner of the American Union was flying, together with the green and yellow flag of the country.
When they came to the green cottage, Roland asked to got out of the carriage, and permission was given.
Roland went into the garden, where a bright voice called to him:—
"Mutual congratulations! we congratulate you, and you should congratulate us, too; we are betrothed."
Lina and the Architect were coming, holding each other's hand, through the meadow from the Villa. Lina left her lover and came up to Roland, saying:—
"We didn't want to wait until the dedication of the castle, we have our celebration by ourselves. Oh, Roland, how beautiful and how happy everything is in the world! But why don't you speak? Why do you make up such a melancholy face?"
Roland could only wave her off, and hurried into the house. The betrothed remained standing in the garden, sorely puzzled, when Lina said:—
"Oh, Albert, there's no good in being here. Nobody welcomed us at the Villa, Manna was not to be seen, Herr Dournay isn't there, and Roland runs away. Come, we'll quit the whole premises. Forgive me for having brought you here before going anywhere else. I thought these were the people to whom I should make known my happiness in the very first place. Come, we'll go to your castle, and spend the whole day for once; you shall be a solitary knight, and I'll be a castle-maiden. Come, I thought there was to be a betrothal here to-day, too; but it doesn't look like it at all, and there's something frightful the matter."
Lina and her betrothed went together to the castle, up through the vineyard, but they were detained at the Major's, who was standing utterly helpless by the garden-hedge.
Such a thing had never happened as took place to-day.
Fräulein Milch had locked herself in her room; she must have met with something very extraordinary.
The Major was perfectly delighted to hear of the betrothal, but he only said:—
"Ah, there might be one down therein the Villa, too; but I'm afraid—I'm afraid we'll hear some bad news from there."
The Major insisted upon the betrothed couple taking a seat in his arbor, saying that Fräulein Milch would soon be down.
The Fräulein was sitting in her chamber alone, for the first time in a sore struggle. The world had been a matter of indifference to her, and only of account so far as some thing could be obtained from it agreeable to the Major. She found the neighborhood very friendly, and she was grateful to the soil, for the Major had a good digestion, and elsewhere he suffered from dyspepsia. She was also grateful to the Rhine, which occasionally furnished a nice fish, and she would nod to the mountains, as if she would say: That's right! just produce good wine; the Major likes to drink it when new, but he mustn't drink too mach of it. Thus was the Fräulein kindly disposed towards man and beast, towards water and plants; it was a matter of indifference that nobody troubled himself about her. She had strenuously declined every intimate connection, and now, through the Professorin, she had been drawn more among people, and had to-day been so deeply mortified. She had known Bella for a long time, although very distantly, and she had disliked her for a long time, although very distantly; but what she had experienced to-day was something wholly novel, and it grieved her sorely.
"O," said she to herself, "O, Frau Countess, you are highly virtuous, virtuous in the extreme, most respectfully virtuous, and beautiful too, you are; but I was once young and beautiful, and no one has ever ventured to give me an uncivil word; I have gone through the streets unattended by a servant, I was my own attendant, my own protector, and my own support. O Frau Countess, you stand very far up on the list of rank, I don't know but that you ought to be addressed as Your Highness! O Frau Countess, take care, there is another list of nobility which the Major ought to give you a glimpse of; no, not he; it would mortify him to death; but Herr Dournay, he must do it. No—nobody—only myself."
And just as she had become composed, the Major again knocked, crying:—
"Fräulein Milch! dear good Rosa," he added in a whisper, "Rosie, Rosalie!"
"What do you want?" the Major heard laughingly asked.
"Oh heavens! it's all right now you are laughing again. There are two good people here, the Architect, and Lina the Justice's daughter; they are betrothed, and have come to receive our congratulations. Do come, join us in the garden, and bring right off a bottle and four glasses."
Fräulein Milch opened the door. The Major asked:—
"Mayn't I know what has been the matter with you?"
"You shall know, sure enough, but don't ask me any more now. So the young people are betrothed, and at the house? I must dress myself up a little, and I'll come down immediately."
"So do. That's nice."
Fräulein Milch was delivered from all her own trouble, when the duty was enjoined upon her of rejoicing with the joyful; and the betrothed couple forgot the castle, and remained for hours sitting with the Major and Fräulein Milch in the arbor.
Then the journal came, and the Major begged to be excused for reading it before his guests; he received the paper after the burgomaster, the school-master, and the barber had read it, and so he could keep it. As he had nothing more to do with the world, it made no difference whether he learned an hour or two sooner or later what had happened.
"Oh, here's a great black mark," exclaimed Lina.
"That's the burgomaster's mark," said the Major. "Fräulein Milch, would you read to me? There must be something very special."
The Fräulein took the paper, but she covered her face with her hand after she had looked into it.
"What's the matter? You read, dear Lina."
Lina read the bitter paragraph by Professor Crutius; she wanted to stop after the first few lines, but the Major begged:
"Read on; do read on."
She read on to the end.
"O Thou really good Builder of all the worlds, what queer material you've put into the construction of the world! Good heavens! there's something frightful about a newspaper; now everybody knows about this."
Fräulein Milch was just on the point of saying that this was no news to her, but she had the self-command, doubly difficult for a woman, to keep from telling what she knew. It was better to say nothing, as she would thus escape a long explanation to the Major why she had said nothing about it a long time ago. Not till the Major begged her to go to the Professorin, who would be greatly troubled by this communication, did she say:—
"The Professorin, as well as I, knew it a long time ago."
In his bewilderment, the Major did not ask how it happened that she knew; he only opened his eyes wider. He had said to her a great many good and kind things, but the best of all was when he observed:—
"Yes. You might belong to our Brotherhood, you can keep a secret."
After a while the Major continued:—
"Look, children, down below there is the wonderfully beautiful Villa with its parks, its gardens, and with its millions inside the house—ha! and Roland and Manna. Fräulein Milch, don't try to prevent me. I must go down there, for nobody knows what's going on there, and I must do something to help them. Don't say anything against it, Fräulein Milch, I entreat you."
"I haven't said anything to hinder you; on the contrary, I think you ought to go."
Before she had finished speaking, a messenger came from the Villa for the Major to go there.
Lina wanted to join him, thinking she might be of some assistance to Manna; but the Major said that the Professorin and Aunt Claudine were enough already, and Lina ought not to spoil now any of her happiness.
Just as the Major was about to set off, a voice cried:—
"Herr Major, just stop. I'm coming."
With flushed face, and out of breath, Knopf came up.
"Do you know it?" asked the Major.
"Yes, indeed, and that's the reason I've come. Perhaps I can do something at the Villa."
"Good! I'm going, so come with me. No, you stay here, stay with the Fräulein. I'll have you sent for if you're needed."
And so the Major walked down the mountain, and the four who remained followed him with affectionate looks.
Roland entered the cottage, and found the Professorin, Eric, and Manna in grave conversation together; they had imparted the dreadful secret to each other, and what weighed the most heavily upon them was the thought how Roland would bear it when he should learn of it. He now came in and said:—
"Manna, we are disgraced children!"
The three hastened to him, and affectionately embraced and kissed him.
"Be strong, brother!" said Eric, throwing his arms around him. "I can blow you strong, my brother."
Hiawatha's saying echoed in Roland's soul, and he looked around on all sides, as if bewildered. He sat down speechless on a chair, and the three dear to him sat in silence near him.
Sonnenkamp, meanwhile, had got out at the entrance of the park, and walked towards the villa; it seemed to him as if the ground would give way under his feet, and the house and trees vanish. Are you sick? he asked himself. You are not to be sick! He whistled softly to himself; his gigantic strength still held out.
Here everything is as it was, and you yourself are here, too, he said, exerting a powerful control over himself, as he stood upon his property and grounds. He seemed to be wrestling with a hostile world enlisted against him, and he repelled the encompassing foes with heroic strength; they should not cut off the sources of his confidence and power. He felt himself well armed and equipped. Pranken is right; one must not let himself be cowed, one must bid defiance to the world, and then it will bow itself in humility, and in a year—no, much sooner, all will come and flatter him.
He remained standing on the steps, holding on by the railing, for all his strength seemed exhausted; but drawing a deep breath, and plucking up his courage, as it were, he soon recovered his self-possession. He looked about without constraint, he had become so accustomed to feigning, that he was determined no one should see in him any trace of disturbance.
He went up the steps with a firm and steady stride. He took Pranken's arm, and told him in a candid tone how highly he esteemed him and admired his strength, of which he already felt the effect in himself.
He went with Pranken to his room, nodding to everything, which still held its place here, and should hold it firmly for the time to come. He requested his son—so he called Pranken—his son, of whom he was proud, to impart what had happened to Frau Ceres, the very first thing, in his quiet and self-possessed, his easy, his all-subduing manner that he so much admired.
"Make no reply if she storms. This stormy outburst is no longer formidable."
In this declaration there was a sort of tranquillizing influence which Sonnenkamp himself felt. It is better that the whole world should stand up in arms against him, than to be forever and forever under the dominion of this crafty, threatening, and annoying woman. Now her weapon was gone, and the dagger which she had always kept hidden was now unsheathed in the eyes of all the world, and was in every hand.
Pranken went to Frau Ceres; he had to wait a long time in the ante-room, but at last Fräulein Perini came out.
Pranken briefly told her that the secret she had confided to him, and which he had kept so faithfully, was now made public.
"So soon?" said Fräulein Perini; and when Pranken inquired how Frau Ceres would be likely to receive the annihilation of her hopes of being ennobled, and the whole detestable uproar in the world, she replied, smiling, that she could not tell, for Frau Ceres was now suffering under a terrible trial of a wholly different kind.
She could hardly go on, she was so choked with laughter, but finally it came out.
Yesterday morning, Frau Ceres in some incomprehensible way had broken off her most beautiful nail, a real prodigy of most careful cherishing, and she was utterly inconsolable.
Pranken could not help joining in the laugh. He accompanied Fräulein Perini into the room.
Frau Ceres gave him her left hand to kiss, holding the right carefully concealed. She asked whether Pranken had brought with him the armorial device, and pointed to an embroidery frame on which she wanted at once to work the coat-of-arms, and also to an altar-cloth, whose border was already completed.
Pranken now broke the news to her in a very careful manner.
"And he always said I was stupid! I am cleverer than he," Frau Ceres burst out; "I always told him that Europe was no place for us, and that we ought to have remained where we were. Hasn't he caught it now? He's ashamed to come himself, and so he has sent you. He's ashamed, because I, the simpleton, who had never learned anything, knew the affair so much better than he did."
In this first moment, a mischievous joy seemed to be Frau Ceres' predominant feeling; the man who had always treated her as a feeble plaything must now see that her ideas were more correct than his.
She sat long in silence, moving her lips, and with a scornful, exultant expression, as if she were uttering to her husband all her present thoughts. Pranken thought it incumbent on him to add, that in a short time the family would be as much respected as before.
"Do you believe that we shall be ennobled then?"
Pranken was perplexed what reply to make, for it seemed as if the woman did not yet comprehend what had happened. He evaded a direct answer, and only said that he remained true to the family, and regarded himself as a son of the house.
"Yes, to-morrow ought to be the wedding. Here in Europe, you have so many formalities. I'll drive to church with you. But where's Manna? She has horribly neglected me."
"But, my dear Baron, it is well, this connection with the tutor's family will now come to an end. Don't let it continue any longer, dear Baron."
She requested Fräulein Perini to tell Manna to come to her.
Pranken could not comprehend how this woman, half childish, half cunning, sometimes malicious, sometimes peevish, could be also sometimes so affectionate; but there was no time now to try to solve the riddle. He besought the Mother—such was the appellation he now gave to Frau Ceres—to leave Manna alone for a few days; he would first see her alone, and then they would come together to the mother and ask her blessing.
"I give you my blessing now," said Frau Ceres, forgetting herself so far as to give him both hands.
She told him that Bella had been there, and had hardly shown herself to her; that she had come, and then had driven away again in a manner that she couldn't comprehend at all.
Here a shot was heard.
"He has shot himself; he has done it now!" cried Frau Ceres, in a singular tone; it was not lamentation, nor laughter, but something peculiar, utterly inexplicable.
Pranken hurried away.
Sonnenkamp had seated himself in his room, and the letter-bag lay before him, but he did not open it. What matters it what the outside world desired! One thought was uppermost, that he must do something, something startling, something that would shatter the whole world to pieces. What? He did not yet know. He sat speechless in the midst of the fairest landscape, with the windows darkened, as in a cellar.
No, not harm thyself, that wouldn't do! anything but weakness, cried he to himself. Why be afraid of this old sentimental spinster, Europe, with her fine modes of speech! What hast thou done? Thou hast acted with due reflection, and thou standest by what thou hast done. It is well that there's nothing more to conceal, that everything is known.
He rose and went into the park. From a lofty acacia-tree one of the main branches was hanging down, which had been broken, so that the tree was like a bird that had lost one of its wings. The head-gardener told Sonnenkamp that a gust of wind had swept over the park the night before. Sonnenkamp nodded several times as he looked at the tree, and then indulged in his inaudible whistle.
A gust of wind may break down a tree like this, but a man like him stands firm.
He went farther on, and coming to the fruit-garden, saw the splendid show of fruit upon the trees; glass bell-shaped vessels, filled with water, were hung by wires underneath the different fruits, so that they might be continually supplied with moisture, and be made to grow. All this you can effect; you can direct nature, why not man? why not destiny? He gazed at the huge fruits as if they could give him an answer, but they remained dumb. He stood for a long time before one tree, that had been trained to the shape of a coronet, and stared at the branches.
In a spider's-web stretched between two twigs a fly was struggling—whew! how convulsively it struggled! perhaps it moaned also, but we couldn't hear it. Yes, high and noble fly, you have a fate no different from that of the human fly. Everywhere spiders—yes, spiders! And you are better off, you will be speedily eaten.
Sonnenkamp struck his forehead with his clenched fist: he was angry with his brain, that led him into such subtile speculations.
He turned away and went back to his room. The best thing you can do, he said to himself, is to make a speedy exit; then are your children free, and you are free too. He took a revolver from the wall just as some one knocked at the door.
"What's the matter? what do you want?" A groom gave his name, and Sonnenkamp opened the door. The groom informed him that his black horse rattled in the throat and foamed at the mouth; that he was sick, and they could not tell what ailed him.
"Indeed?" cried Sonnenkamp. "Have you not walked the horse out for exercise? Has any one ridden him?"
"Yes; the Herr Captain ordered the horse to be saddled the night before, and was a long time gone with him."
"So! Come, I'll cure him speedily." He went down to the stable, looked grimly at the horse, and then shot him through the head. The horse gave one hoarse rattle, and fell headlong.
"So! it's all over now!" cried Sonnenkamp. "Now you are free!"
As he was leaving the stable, Pranken came up.
"What have you done?"
"Pooh! I've shot a horse, and every one who doesn't mind," he said in a loud tone, so that all the servants might hear, "knows what to expect."
He ordered the groom to saddle another horse.
Joseph came with the inquiry from Frau Ceres as to what had happened.
Sonnenkamp sent word to Frau Ceres that he had shot the black horse. He smiled when he heard Pranken's report of his wife's state of feeling; he avoided going to her, and he experienced a sort of grateful joy towards destiny, that the large house rendered it possible for each of the inmates to live by himself.
He went to see the Professorin; it was hard for him to meet her eye and that of Eric, but it must be done; he must arm himself to look all men boldly in the face. Was he a coward? had he not bid defiance to the world, and was he now to be afraid of this tutor's family?
He entered the green cottage. He extended his hand neither to Eric nor his mother, and only asked where the children were. He received the answer that they had locked themselves in the library.
He said in a light way to Eric and his mother that he had been especially desirous for them to know the whole; it would now be seen who was faithful. Turning to Eric, he said:—
"I have shot the black horse, which you rode last night. What is mine is mine."
He went quietly away; he stood some time near the library door, and heard Roland and Manna talking, but without distinguishing a word.
He knocked twice, but there was no answer, and he turned away. Returning to the villa, and mounting a horse, he rode to the Cabinetsrath's villa, for he wished to give these people a piece of his mind. And as he was riding along, it seemed to him as if the groom behind him suddenly reined up, and then as if there were two following him. Who is this unknown companion? He forced himself not to look round. The horse trembled under the pressure of his legs. He reached the country-house of the Cabinetsrath, stopped at the gate, and asked after the minister's wife.
The gardener said that she was not there, and that she would not be there any more.
What does this mean? He laughed aloud when he was informed that the villa, with all its appurtenances, had been sold the day before to the American consul at the capital. He is outwitted; these people are his neighbors no longer, and there can nothing be said about demanding back the property bought at a merely nominal sum. And after the first flush of anger, Sonnenkamp experienced a peculiar satisfaction in the thought that there were so many sagacious people in the world; it is a pleasant thing that there are so many foxes and lynxes to be found everywhere, and under their own particular masks.
A court-lackey rode up. Sonnenkamp reined in. Could it be possible that they repented and were sending a courier after him?
"Where are you going?" he asked of the court-lackey as he stopped.
"To Villa Eden."
"To whom?"
"To the Professorin Dournay."
"Might I ask who sends you, and what your errand is?"
"Why not?"
"Well, what's the errand?"
"The Professorin was formerly a lady in waiting on the gracious mother of the Prince, and the gracious Princess was very fond of her."
"Very well, very well. And now?"
"Well, now, the Professorin is living there with a horrible man who has deceived the whole world, and is a slave-trader, and one's life isn't safe there a single minute, and now the gracious Princess sends me there, and I am to say to the Professorin—and if she will, to take her along with me at once—that she can be delivered from this monster."
The lackey was astonished to see the man who had questioned him ride away without speaking another word.
Sonnenkamp boiled with rage; but he shortly laughed out loud again.
"That's all right! afraid,—the whole world is afraid of him. This confers strength; this is far better than the silly honor, with which one must behave himself."
He felt a profound contempt for those in high station. Now they take up the neglected widow, now,—why not before?
He rode to the castle. Here were the laborers who were erecting a wing of the building; they saluted their employer with evident reluctance. Sonnenkamp smiled; at any rate, they had to salute him. He would have liked to get the whole world together, in order to look it, once for all, defiantly in the face.
He rode to the Major's. Fräulein Milch was standing at the window, and before he said anything, she called down:—
"The Herr Major is not at home." And now he turned homeward.
When he came to the garden-wall, he noticed some large letters, and riding nearer, he saw written in many different ways: Slave-trader! Slave-murderer! An artist, with no very practised hand, had drawn the picture of a gallows on which a figure was hanging with protruding tongue, and on the tongue was the word Slave-trader! He ordered the porter to keep better watch, and to shoot down the insolent fellows who should do any such thing.
The porter said:—
"I'll not shoot; I shall leave the service on St. Martin's day, anyhow."
Sonnenkamp rode back toward the green cottage; he wanted to take away his children, and he wanted to tell the Professorin not to give any more charity to the rabble that dared to write such words on the white wall of his garden. But he turned about again. The best way would be to take no notice of it.
Panting with rage he returned to his room, and he wondered at the thought which came over him, that this house was his own no longer; every one in the neighborhood was thronging in, scoffing, pitying, and he was living, as it were, in the street, for every one was speaking about him, and he could not help himself. He stamped his foot on the floor.
"Here 'tis! You wanted honor,—you wanted to be talked about, and now they do talk,—but how? I despise the whole of you!" he exclaimed.
He turned over all manner of plans in his mind, how he should get the better of the world. But what was there that he could do? He could not hit upon anything.
Roland and Manna sat in the library, holding each other's hand; they were like two children who had taken refuge from the storm in a strange hut. For a long time they were unable to speak. Manna was the first to gain composure, and in a tone of forced cheerfulness, passing her hand over her brother's face, she said:—
"Do you know the story of the little brother and the little sister? They lost themselves in the wood, and then found their way home again. And we are like two children in the wild forest. But we are children no longer; you are grown up, you are strong, you must be so."
"Oh, don't speak," replied Roland, "every word goes through my brain, even the sound of your voice. O sister! no, there's none like it! Do you think in all these hundreds and hundreds of books there's one single fate like ours? No, there can't be."
After a longer interval, Manna again began:—
"Now I can tell you what I meant, when I said that I would be an Iphigenia; I wanted to sacrifice myself for you all, in order to take the expiation from you."
"Oh, don't speak. What do these stories of the children in the wood, of Orestes and Iphigenia, have to do with us? Orestes was happy, he could consult the gods at Delphi; at that time the gods could be offended and appeased; they were obliged to give a response—but now? we? Where, in these times, is there a single mouth which gives a response in the name of the gods? The Greeks had slaves too; and we? Now they tell us that love has come into the world, and that all men are the children of God! Is this love? And the priests blessed the marriage of a man who held slaves—children of God as slaves,—and they baptized these children, letting them still be slaves! Alas! I'm getting crazed! O, my youth! O, my youth! Alas! I am still so young, and I must bear for a long, long life-time—must bear this—everything! There's a blackness before my eyes, a spot upon everything I see—all is black—black! At the time when Claus was imprisoned—Children do not suffer for the crime of their father; they can have no part in it, but they do suffer from it a whole lifetime. Where is justice—help me, sister!—do help me!"
"I cannot, I do not comprehend it! O, it was that drove me out of the sanctuary! I don't comprehend it!"
The brother and sister sat together in silence, until Roland suddenly threw himself into Manna's arms, and hiding his head on her bosom, said:—
"Manna, I wanted to kill myself, I could not bear it. Yesterday, everything so beautiful—and here on your heart I cry—I must live—I don't know what I am to do—I must live! Were the children to kill themselves for their parent's guilt, that guilt would be made still greater."
Again Roland leaned his head on the arm of the sofa, murmuring to himself:—
"He did not carry it out at once, and now it will never be done."
"What do you mean?" asked Manna. Roland gave her a glassy stare, but he kept it to himself that he had exhorted his father to put away all his property, and that the father had led him to believe it should be done; but now he seemed to see clearly that nothing of the kind would ever take place. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and lay there paralyzed as in an awful void, everything crushed and shattered within him.
Manna understood how he felt, and kneeling by the sofa, she cried:—
"Roland, I have a great secret to tell you; Eric and I-—-"
"What?" exclaimed Roland, sitting upright.
"Eric and I are betrothed."
"You? you two?"
He sprang up, pressed her in his arms, exclaiming again:—
"You? you two?"
"Yes, Roland; and he has known everything for a long time."
"He has known everything? And he has not rejected you with disdain?—and he has instructed me so faithfully?—Oh!"
Roland and Manna held each other in a long embrace. There was a knock at the door, and they separated, looking at each other in dismay. They knew it was their father's knock, but neither of them said so. There was another rap, and they still were silent. Retreating footsteps were heard, and they knew their father's step. Both knew what it meant not to open when their father knocked, but each refrained from speaking of it.
Roland's thoughts must have gone from one person to the other, for he now said:—
"Herr von Pranken has advised me to enter the Papal army. O, if I only knew a battle-field where human brotherhood was to be fought for! O, if I knew where that was, how gladly would I die on it! But that cannot be won upon the field of battle. Oh, sister! I don't know what I'm thinking, what I'm saying. Hiawatha fasted, and we must fast too."
"Let us go home!" said Manna, finally.
"Home! home! What is home to us? What can be our home?"
Roland, however, rose up and went hand in hand with Manna through the meadow to the villa.
The sun shone bright, the hay exhaled so sweet a fragrance, the vessels were rushing up and down the stream, and just then a merry procession was moving towards them on the road; it was a so-called harvest mummery. On a cask sat the second son of the Huntsman crowned as Bacchus with vine-leaves; around him stood maidens clad in white, with dishevelled hair; they were swinging jugs, shouting and rejoicing. On the horses rode shapes disguised with moss.
Everybody was shouting and screaming amidst the loud report of fire-arms.
Brother and sister stood and gazed after the merry train, which disappeared behind the trees, and each knew the other's thoughts. Yes, all others can be merry, but we! They went on farther, and at last Roland said:—
"I know not how it is with me, I feel as if I were not really experiencing all this; I am only dreaming of it, and looking at it like a departed spirit. Everything is so distant, so inacessible, so dim, so shadowy. When I look upon you, I feel all the time that we cannot approach each other at all, that there lies between us a dreadful immensity of distance, and father—mother!"
With a wild stare he looked around him, as if he saw ghosts everywhere. Manna held his hand more firmly; he became more tranquil; nay, he even smiled thankfully.
Griffin came bounding along just at this moment; he was overjoyed to see his young master once more, and jumped up on him again and again. Roland caressed him and said:—
"Yes, dear Griffin, when I had lost and forgotten you, then you found your way home. Ah, dear Griffin, don't you know a way home for me now? I am not your master, I am nothing."
The dog seemed to understand Roland's sad looks and words; he looked up at him so affectionately, as if he wanted to say:—Ah! do not pine thy young life away.
Brother and sister stood side by side on the bank of the Rhine. Roland exclaimed,—
"I see my face in the water, sister, there is no brand upon my forehead—no brand—and still-—-"
He wept bitterly, for the first time.
"Come, let us go on," said Manna consolingly.
"On, on! Yes, our path is long, unendingly long," rejoined Roland, as he allowed himself to be led away by his sister.
They entered the courtyard of the villa. The servants were slowly leading away the horses with their blankets on.
Roland opened his mouth: he wanted to cry out: Take off the blankets! Take off the blankets, and hide the shame with them! Let the horses all spring out into the open air. We have no more right over them, they are no longer ours! But he could not utter the words.
Then he looked up at the green-houses, at the trees, as if he wanted to ask them all if they knew to whom they belonged.
He asked Manna to go into the stable with him. He looked into the servants' faces as if begging respect from them, and he thanked them for saluting him, and for asking him what his commands were. Men still saluted him, men still obeyed him! In the stable, he caressed his pony and wept upon his neck.
"O Puck! shall you ever carry such a light-hearted youth again?"
The dogs were jumping round him; he nodded to them, and said sorrowfully to Manna:—
"The brutes are altogether the happiest creatures in the world; they inherit nothing from their parents, nothing but life—no house, no garden, no money, no clothes. Ah, my good Puck, what a fine long mane you have!"
There was something rising almost to frenzy in Roland's thought and speech, as, tugging at the beast's long mane, he exclaimed:—
"If slaves could not speak, could not pray, they would be happy like you, and like you, my faithful dogs!"
Manna was becoming uneasy at the unwearying tenor of Roland's thoughts; she said:—
"You must now remain all the time with our friend Eric, and not leave him a moment."
"No, not now—not now! Those are no arrows of Apollo, for the pedagogue to ward off!"
Manna did not understand what Roland was saying; his mind seemed to her distracted, and he did not explain how it was that the Niobe group rose before his eyes. At length, after some time, he said:—
"Yes, so it is! The maiden hides in her mother's lap, but the boy holds up his own hands and wards off the fatal shaft. And at night, when I was wandering off to Eric, I listened to the story of the laughing sprite. It takes a long while for an acorn to grow into a tree, and a cradle to be made out of the tree, and a child that lies in the cradle to open the door. Don't you hear? he laughs; he must go through his transformation."
Manna begged him to be quiet, and said:—
"I must go to father."
"And I to mother."
Pranken met them on the steps; he held out his hand to Manna, and she said:
"I am unspeakably thankful to you for the great loyalty you have shown to my father."
"Stop a while, I beg of you."
"No, I cannot now—no longer."
The brother and sister separated, and as Roland entered his mother's room, the latter said:—
"Don't trouble yourself about this Old World, we are going back again to the New, to your real home."
Roland caught these words as if they came from afar off; and he exclaimed:—
"That's it! that's it! It is the Delphic oracle!"
"What do you say? I am not learned." Roland did not answer. Something was beginning to emerge out of the chaos around him, but it sank quickly out of sight again.
"Wait a moment, it is time to go to dinner," said the mother.
She put on a shawl and went with Roland to the dining-room.
Here, also, were Pranken and Fräulein Perini; the two were standing talking together in a low tone.
Roland went for Eric.
"Isn't it dreadful to have to eat again?" he said. "What bits of slaves do we eat to-day? Ah, Eric! lay your hand upon my forehead. So—so—now that's good."
They had to wait some time before Sonnenkamp came, and Manna did not appear until some time afterwards.
Her cheeks were glowing.
They sat there at table so near together, and so far—far apart were they from each other. Eric and Manna looked at each other only once; there was in their glance an expression full of intelligence. Roland said softly to Eric,—
"When the huntsman came home from court there were potatoes on his table."
Eric laid his hand consolingly on his shoulder; he knew everything that was going on in the soul of the youth from this reminiscence. The huntsman was innocent, and here?
Pranken displayed all his tact in managing to bring forward every safe subject of conversation; the building of the castle furnished him abundant material.
They rose from the table, and all separated as before. Roland requested Eric to allow him to remain alone by himself for that day.