A stranger is inspecting the house, the garden, the park, the hot-houses, the stables. Who owns them all? An American, about whose past life there is a mystery.
Sonnenkamp returned to his old home-life as in a dream; he looked back upon a time long past; it was no longer himself, but a stranger who was examining the place; he who had built, and planted it all was dead. Sonnenkamp smote his forehead with his hand, to banish the spell which was overmastering him. What power was weaving it over him, and depriving him of his own personality? Nothing but this woman's poor pride in her own virtue.
"I still am, I still will, and all of them shall serve me," he said aloud to himself.
He examined the trees in the garden; a pure tender covering of hoar frost upon the branches kept them motionless, and threw over all around an aspect of such stillness, yet so shining and glorified, that the spectator involuntary held his breath. Here and there trees and shrubs had been cut down by his direction, as was necessary in order that the artistic effects that were aimed at in the laying out of the park should be preserved; and Sonnenkamp never allowed the growth of the trees to exceed the conception he had in his mind when planning his grounds.
Two fine Newfoundland dogs, which had always been his close companions, he ordered to be let loose, and smiled as the creatures leaped upon him full of delight at greeting their master. There was something that could give him a joyous greeting and be glad in his presence; dogs after all were the best creatures in the world. He made the entire circuit of the place with the dogs, and when he reached the fruit orchard looked about him with a pleased smile; the carefully trained branches, with their mantle of snowy rime, were like the most delicate works of art. He only wished that he could transplant them just as they were into the capital, and set them up before the astonished eyes of his guests.
His guests! Would they really come? Would not this entertainment so pompously announced end in humiliation? The branches of fruit-trees can be trained and beat at will; why are men so obstinate? Suddenly his face broke into a smile. He had heard a great deal said of a famous singer who was enchanting all Paris; she must come, cost what it would, and she must pledge herself to give no public concert, but to sing only in his drawing-room, and perhaps at court. He would offer the contemptible beau-monde of the capital what no one else could.
He had the dogs shut up again, and heard them whining and barking. That was all right; the only kind of creatures to have were those that could be sent for when you wanted them, and shut up when you were tired of them.
Sonnenkamp had the horses harnessed at once and drove to the telegraph station, whence he sent a message to his agent in Paris, stating exactly his plan, and ordering the answer to be returned to him at the Capital. Animated with fresh courage, full of contempt for the whole world and of pride in his own fertile invention, he drove back to the hotel. That same evening he received the intelligence that the singer would come. Pranken was with him when the message was received.
Sonnenkamp was anxious to have the world at once informed of this extraordinary entertainment which he was able to offer them; it should be announced in the court journal. But Pranken was opposed to any such public announcement, and advised that one and another of the guests should be confidentially informed of the pleasure in store for them; and then every one would be flattered by the confidence, and would duly spread the news abroad. Pranken himself undertook to communicate the extraordinary intelligence to some of his favorite companions at the military club.
The singer came, and exercised a greater force of attraction than the Frau Professorin could have done.
Bella appeared early on the evening of the ball, and congratulated Sonnenkamp on his great success; and in fact nothing was wanting to the brilliancy of the entertainment. The popular Prince appeared with his wife, and the rooms were filled with the cream of the society of the capital; the American Consul-general, with his wife and two daughters, was present also; everywhere were heard expressions of admiration of the host, and thanks for his generosity. Frau Ceres alone was somewhat out of temper at having her own splendor eclipsed by the wonderful talent of the singer, who drew the whole company about her. The Prince talked with her a full half hour, while with Frau Ceres he spoke but a few minutes.
Sonnenkamp moved among his guests with a feeling of triumph in his heart. Outwardly he affected great modesty, but inwardly he despised them all, saying to himself,—
A handful of gold can work wonders; honor, distinction in society, everything, can be had for gold.
Two topics engrossed the conversation of the capital the next day: Herr Sonnenkamp's ball, the like of which the city had never seen, and the death of the young husband of Fräulein von Endlich, news of which had been received the evening before, but had been kept back in order not to deprive the family and numerous connections of the Court Marshal from enjoying Sonnenkamp's ball.
The next evening, the paper edited by Professor Crutius contained a witty article upon the two events, sarcastically blending the news of the death with the Sonnenkamp ball. The splendor of the occasion was thus partially dimmed, and Sonnenkamp discussed with Pranken the possibility of gaining over this poor devil of an editor also with a handful of gold.
Pranken opposed the plan, on the ground that no communication of any kind should be held with these communists, as he called all those who were not in sympathy with the government; and this man, who scorned no means that could further the plan of being admitted to the nobility, was amazed that Sonnenkamp should not be ashamed of employing bribery here.
Sonnenkamp appeared convinced, but appealed to Eric, who before had been the medium of conveying relief to the man, and desired him to put himself again in communication with him, and let him know that Sonnenkamp was ready to assist him if he were in need.
Eric emphatically excused himself.
The singer was not summoned to Court, it being contrary to etiquette that she should sing there after appearing in the house of a private citizen. She left the capital, and Sonnenkamp, ball, and music were soon forgotten.
Sonnenkamp was even obliged to submit to the humiliation of not being invited himself to Court. He was openly given to understand that the Sovereign had been much displeased with his having, at the French play, so awkwardly introduced a matter which needed to be handled with the greatest delicacy. Pranken told him this in a tone of malicious pleasure mixed with regret; Sonnenkamp should always keep in mind that he was to be indebted to him for his patent of nobility.
The evening of the court ball, which was the one subject of conversation throughout the capital, and which was attended by two noble families from the Hotel Victoria who had come from the country for the purpose, was a most trying time to Sonnenkamp; yet he had to hide his rage and exert himself to comfort Frau Ceres, who kept insisting on leaving the capital at once, since this was the one thing she had been aiming at, and now it was all over.
Even the Cabinetsräthin absented herself this evening, being obliged, to her great regret, as she said, to appear at Court. Thus the family sat by themselves; and this evening, for the first time, Eric managed to acquire again a firmer hold upon Roland's mind, for Roland, too, was full of indignation. He listened in silence, but with dilating eye, as Eric described the emptiness of all worldly honors if we have not a consciousness of self-respect within us; for they make us dependent upon others, and such dependence was the most abject slavery.
At the word slavery, Roland rose and asked Eric if he had forgotten his promise of telling him how different nations dealt with slavery. Eric was amazed that the subject should have dwelt in the boy's mind through all the excitement he had undergone, and promised to give him the history of the whole matter, as far as he was able, when they should return to Villa Eden.
Sonnenkamp had great difficulty in concealing his sense of injury, yet he must not give additional weight to the slight that had been put upon him by allowing his feelings to appear. The family of the Cabinetsräthin he took especial pains to load with friendly attentions. They must be made to keep to their bargain; they had had their pay, and were not to be allowed to cheat him. He made the young cadet a spy upon his son, giving him money for taking Roland to the gaming-table, tempting him to high play, and then making an exact report of his behavior. He was not a little surprised at the cadet's reporting that Roland utterly refused to play, because he had promised Eric never to gamble, even for an apparently trifling stake.
Sonnenkamp would have liked to thank Eric for this great influence over his son, but judged it best to feign ignorance of the whole matter. He begged Bella, when she came for Eric to fulfil his promise and take her to the cabinet of antique casts, not to disturb his wife's present tranquillity by referring to the court-ball.
Eric took Roland with them to the museum, and though Bella said nothing, she understood his motive for doing so. On their way thither they met the Russian prince, and Bella ordered the carriage to stop and invited him to accompany them, thinking that thus the party could divide into two groups, the Russian walking sometimes with Roland, and she with Eric; but she could not manage it so; Eric did not once let go of Roland's hand.
They stood long before the group of Niobe and her children, Bella jokingly protesting that the teacher, who seeks to protect the boy from the arrow of the god, was of the Russian type. Eric might explain as often as he would that the head was a modern addition and represented a Scythian, that the teacher was a slave who attended the boy to school or wherever he went, as one of our lackeys might, she still insisted that he was a Russian. As Eric called attention to the fact, that the maiden in the centre of the group clings to her mother Niobe and hides her face in terror, while the boy by the side of his attendant voluntarily turns toward the danger, and with outstretched hand strives to avert it, Roland gazed fixedly upon him, and turned almost as white as the plaster itself; his eye sparkled, and the soft dark hair just beginning to show on lip and chin seemed to tremble. On the way home he drew close to Eric, and trembling as if with cold said:—
"Do you remember when that letter with the great seal came to your parent's house?"
"Certainly—certainly."
"Then you should have been director, and is it not strange, here stand these figures day and night, summer and winter, waiting for us, and keeping still, and looking on while we are dancing and dying."
"What are you talking of?" asked Eric, alarmed by Roland's strange tone and manner.
"Oh, nothing—nothing. I don't know myself what I am saying. I seem to be only hearing the words, and yet am really saying them. I don't know what is the matter with me."
Eric hurried the feverish boy home.
Every day, whenever Frau Ceres saw Roland, she would say:—
"Why, Roland, how pale you look! Does he not look very pale?" Here she invariably appealed to Eric, and upon his answering in the negative seemed reassured.
But one day when the Mother exclaimed in terror:—
"Why, Roland, you do look so pale!" Eric could not deny it.
"I don't know what is the matter with me," he complained as Eric took him to his chamber.
"Everything seems to be turning round me," he said as he looked about the room.
"What does it mean? Oh! Oh!"
He sank down on a chair and burst into a sudden fit of weeping.
Eric stood amazed.
The boy seemed to lose consciousness, and, with his eyes wide open, stared at Eric as if he did not see him.
"Roland, what is the matter?" asked Eric.
Roland did not answer; his head was like ice.
Eric gave a pull at the bell, and then bent over the boy again.
Sonnenkamp entered, to know why they did not come to dinner. Eric pointed to Roland.
The father threw himself upon the lifeless form, and a piercing cry was wrung from his breast.
Joseph was sent in haste for a physician, and by the use of strong salts Roland was restored to consciousness. His father and Eric undressed him and put him to bed, the poor boy moaning all the while, and his teeth chattering with the chill that followed the first attack of fever.
Sonnenkamp looked in terror at the anxiety depicted on the physician's face when he saw his patient.
"It is a very violent attack; I don't know what the result may be. Has he often such?" asked the doctor.
"Never before! never before!" cried Sonnenkamp.
After the application of various restoratives Roland was able again to speak, and his first words were:—
"I thank you, Eric."
The doctor left, after giving strict orders that the patient should be kept quiet, so that if possible he might sleep. After an hour of anxiety, during which Eric and Sonnenkamp scarcely ventured to speak to one another, he returned; and having examined Roland again, he pronounced that the nervous system had been overstrained, and that he was threatened with nervous fever.
"Misfortunes never come singly," said Sonnenkamp. They were the only words he spoke that night, during the whole of which he watched in the adjoining room, occasionally stealing on tip-toe to the sick boy's bed to listen to his breathing.
When Frau Ceres sent to know why they did not return to the drawing-room, they sent an evasive answer and begged her to go to bed. Having understood, however, that Roland was slightly unwell, she came softly to his bedside during the night, and seeing him quietly sleeping returned to her own room.
"Misfortunes never come singly," Sonnenkamp repeated when the next morning at dawn the physician pronounced the fever to have declared itself. He ordered the most careful nursing, and wanted to send for a sister of charity, but Eric said that his mother would be the best nurse Roland could have.
"Do you think she will come?"
"Certainly."
A telegram was at once despatched to the green house, and in an hour the answer came that mother and aunt were on their way.
The news of the beautiful boy's severe illness spread rapidly through the city. Servants in all manner of liveries, and even the first ladies and gentlemen, came to inquire after him.
The noisy music of the noon parade startled Roland as it passed the house, and he screamed:—
"The savages are coming! the savages are coming! the red skins, the savages are coming! Hiawatha! Laughing-water!—The money belongs to the boy; he didn't steal it.—Hats off before the baron, do you hear? fly!—The blacks!—Ah! Franklin!"
Eric offered to request the Commandant for an order to have the band pass through another street, or at least stop playing when passing the hotel.
A sudden thaw having carried away the snow, it was found necessary to spread straw before the whole front of the Hotel Victoria, to deaden the sound of the wheels.
Eric's mother received a most cordial greeting from Sonnenkamp, and did her best to soothe Frau Ceres, who complained that it was horrible to have Roland ill, and that she had to suffer for it, as she was ill herself. At the Mother's suggestion, which Sonnenkamp at once adopted, being only too happy to have anything to do, any new means to try, Dr. Richard, who was familiar with Roland's constitution, was also telegraphed for. He arrived at a late hour of the night, and approved of all that had been done for Roland. He laid his chief injunctions upon Eric and his mother, impressing on them the necessity of guarding themselves as much as possible from the nervous excitement attendant on a life in a sickroom, of taking plenty of rest and amusement, going out often and refreshing their minds with new images. He would not leave them till both had given a promise to this effect.
After a consultation with the attending physician he prepared to depart, but when shaking hands at parting stopped to say:—
"I must warn you against the Countess von Wolfsgarten."
Eric was startled.
"She has remedies for every possible disease; and you must politely but resolutely decline whatever she, in her dictatorial way, may press upon you."
"He is not going to die, is he?" asked Sonnenkamp of the physician, as he stood upon the steps.
The physician replied, that in extreme cases the powers of nature were all we could rely upon.
Sonnenkamp fairly shook with rage, rage against the whole world. With all his wealth he could do nothing, command nothing; but must fall back upon the powers of nature, in which Roland had no advantage over the son of a beggar!
Frau Ceres lay upon the sofa in the balcony room among the flowers and birds, staring vacantly at them, scarcely speaking, and eating and drinking almost nothing. She did not venture to go to Roland's bed, but required to be informed every hour how he was.
The entire want of union among the members of the household became now apparent. Each one lived for himself, and thought every one else was there only for the purpose of adding to his or her comfort.
At noon a great event occurred, nothing less than the reigning Princess sending her own court physician. Sonnenkamp was full of gratitude for this distinction, which unhappily he had to receive under such melancholy circumstances.
Day and night, Eric, his mother, and aunt sat, now by turns, and now together, by the sick boy's bed. He knew no one, but lay the greater part of the time in a half sleep; sometimes, however, in an access of fever, he would start up with a glowing face and cry:—
"Papa is dancing upon the black people's heads! Give me back my blue ribbon! Ah, ah!" Then as if in an ecstacy he would exclaim, "Ah! that is the German forest! quiet, Devil! There, take the may-flowers—blue ribbon—the boy has stolen the ring—the laughing sprite—respect to the young baron—back, Griffin!"
The touch of Eric's hand upon his forehead always soothed him. Once when his father was present, Roland sang a negro song, but so unintelligibly that they could hardly make out the words. Suddenly, however, he cried out:—
"Away with those great books! take away the great books! they are written with blood!"
Sonnenkamp inquired if Roland had ever sung the song when he was well; and if Eric knew from whom he had learned it. Eric had never heard it. Sonnenkamp's manner towards Eric and his mother was full of humble respect. He gratefully confessed that this illness, which threatened his very existence, had yet given him that which otherwise he might never have obtained. He had never believed in human goodness and unselfish devotion; but he saw them now displayed before him in unceasing activity. He would gladly kneel before the Mother and worship her, he added with an expression that came from his heart, for she had refused to come for pleasure, but was ready at once when called to night-watching and the exercise of sorely tried patience; he should never, never forget it.
The Mother felt that there was another patient here needing her care, besides the fevered boy who lay there with closed eyes. Her intercourse with Sonnenkamp became more intimate; he complained to her of his never-resting grief, and again and again would come the thought: What I desire, I desire only for this son. If he die, I shall kill myself. I am worse than killed now, and no one must know it. Here is a being who has no past, must have no past; and now his future is to be taken from him!
"Am I to have no son because I was no son?" he cried once, but quickly controlling himself he added: "Do not heed me, dear lady; I am speaking myself like a man in fever."
The Mother begged him to compose himself, for she was sure that by the mysterious laws of sympathy, any excitement in those about him would react upon the patient.
In the stillness of the night the Mother sat by the boy's sick-bed, listening to the chimes that rang out the hours from the church tower; and these bells, heard in the night by the sick-bed of the poor rich boy, brought up her own life before her.
Eric often reproached himself for his too great indulgence, in having allowed Roland to be drawn into that whirl of excitement which was now perhaps killing him; and he remembered that day in the cold gallery before the Niobe, when the fever first showed itself. He was another whom the Mother had to soothe. She alone preserved a firm balance, and offered a support on which all others could lean. She handed Eric the letter she had received from Professor Einsiedel on New Year's day, and asked about the scientific work which she had not before heard of. Eric explained how it had all come about. His mother perceived that he had yet learned nothing of Sonnenkamp's past life, and took care to tell him nothing, thinking he ought not to have the additional burden of such knowledge at this time of anxiety for the sick boy, and of increased difficulties in the way of his training.
In obedience to Dr. Richard's strict directions, the Mother often went out to visit her old friends, among them the wife of the Minister of War, and was greatly comforted at learning that Eric could have a professorship in the school of cadets, when Roland entered the academy. She always returned home greatly cheered from these visits.
Eric, too, made calls, spending many hours with Clodwig. Bella he seldom saw, and then but for a short time; she evidently avoided now any interview with him alone.
Pranken took great offence at Eric's mother having been sent for without his advice; these Dournays seemed to him to be weaving a net about the Sonnenkamp family. He came sometimes to inquire for Roland, but spent most of his time at Herr von Endlich's, in the society of the young widow lately returned from Madeira.
Much as Eric had desired to become better acquainted with Weidmann, the whirl of society had hitherto prevented, and now that the Parliament was no longer in session, Weidmann had left the capital without any closer relation having been formed between them.
Weeks passed away in trembling suspense. The sick boy's wandering fancies took a wholly new direction. He imagined himself with Manna, and was constantly talking to her, caressing her, jesting with her, and teasing her about the picture of Saint Anthony. Manna had not been told of her brother's illness; it seemed useless to burden her with anxiety, when she could do nothing to help.
Sonnenkamp continued to be greatly vexed that there was nothing to be done but to wait for the forces of nature. He sent considerable sums of money to the poor of the capital and to all the charitable institutions; he reminded Eric of what he had told him of the teachers' union, and handed him a handsome sum for the furthering of the objects of the association.
One day he asked the Professorin if it were not possible that prayer might help the sick. She replied that she knew no positive answer to such a question, that Sonnenkamp must compose himself, and be glad if he could cherish such a beautiful faith. He looked sadly at her.
Roland talked so constantly with his sister, that Sonnenkamp asked the physician if Manna had not better be sent for, and was delighted at receiving an affirmative answer.
It was a comfort to him in the midst of his duties, to think that now he could force his child from the convent, and never let her leave him more. His heart rejoiced in the prospect of being able to have both his children with him, when Roland was well again. He walked up and down the room, rapidly opening and shutting his hands, as if he were leading his children by his side.
The careful Lootz was despatched to the convent with an urgent letter enclosing the doctor's directions, to which he would gladly have added a few words of the Professorin; but she was resolved to interfere in no possible way of Manna's plan of life, even in a case of extreme necessity, and refused to write.
Snow lay upon the roof of the convent, and upon the trees, meadows, and roads of the island; but within the great house was an animated twofold life, for the whole sacred narrative was here rehearsed afresh in the minds and before the eyes of the children. Every day were recalled those mighty events, so touching and blessed, that took place in Canaan nearly two thousand years ago. Manna lived so entirely in these representations, that she often had to stop and force herself to think where she was. She was seized with a longing to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, to kiss the soil of the Holy Land, and there atone for all the evil done by those who were near to her, and those who were strangers to her.
Her eyes beamed as with a fire from above, while with wonderful power she repeated the sacred history to little Heimchen, who was again sick in bed. But the little girl made her smile to-day by asking:—
"Is there snow in Jerusalem too, then?"
Manna had scarcely considered what season of the year it was, so entirely was she absorbed in the life she was describing. As she turned to look at the melting snow, a lay-sister entered and handed her a letter.
"Where is the messenger?" she asked.
"He is waiting in the reception-room."
"I will give him an answer," returned Manna, and began to read her letter a second time.
She paced the cell backwards and forwards; at one moment she wanted to seek the Lady Superior and ask what she should do, but the next, her heart shrank at the thought. Why ask advice of another human being? She looked at her hand, which had been pressed upon her eyes. You cannot weep, said a voice within her; you must not weep for aught in this world.
"What is the matter?" cried Heimchen from the bed. "What makes you look so cross?"
"I am not cross, I am not cross; do you think I am?"
"No; now you look pleasant again. Stay with me, Manna—stay with me; don't go away—stay with me, Manna. Manna, shall die."
Manna bent over the child and soothed her. This is the first trial, she thought, and it is a hard one. Now I must show whether love of mankind, of the Saviour, is stronger in me than family affection. I ought, I must! She committed Heimchen to the care of a lay-sister, and, promising soon to return, descended to the church. At sight of the picture, which made her think involuntarily of the man who was with Roland, she covered her face with her hands, threw herself in deep contrition upon her knees, and prayed fervently. Thus she lay long, her face buried in her hands. At length her decision was made, and she rose. I ought and must, and I can! I must have strength for it! I am resolved to live only for the service of the Eternal. Roland has good care taken of him; he recognizes no one; if I go to him it will be to remove my own distress, not his. Here, on the other hand, is Heimchen sick and needing me. There is no question as to my duty; I will stay at the post where not my will, but that of the Highest, has placed me.
She remembered the Lady Superior telling her how her father and mother had died, and she could not leave her convent to go to them. Manna resolved to do the same thing voluntarily, under the compulsion of no vow. She trembled as she thought that it might be better for Roland if he could die now before he fell into sin, and perhaps had to hear the dreadful secret. The idea was almost more than she could bear, but she held her resolution fast.
Manna returned to her cell, meaning to write and tell all that was in her soul, but she could not. She descended to the reception-room, told Lootz simply that she could not go back with him; and then, returning again to her cell, looked out upon the landscape. Life seemed frozen within her, but as the melting snow dripped from the roof, so her tears broke forth at last, and she wept bitterly; yet her decision remained unshaken. The whole night was spent in watching and prayer, and the next morning she told her story to the Lady Superior, who made no answer besides a silent inclination of the head.
Again in her cell, Manna read the letter, and was made aware for the first time that Eric's mother was nursing Roland. The paper trembled in her hand, as she read of Roland's constant talking with her in his fevered ravings. Why did her father write nothing of Pranken? Where was he? she asked herself; then, indignant that her thoughts should still cling to the world, with a sudden resolve she flung the letter into the open grate, and watched it break into momentary flame, and then float in light flakes up the chimney. So had it been in her heart, so ought it to be; nothing more from the outer world should reach her.
"He is saved!" said the doctor, and "He is saved," was repeated by voice after voice through the whole city.
The doctor enjoined double care in guarding Roland from the least excitement of any kind, and when the boy complained of the horrible tedium of his sick-room, both Eric and the doctor laughingly reminded him that he had his good time in the first place, and that ennui was the first sure step towards recovery. Roland complained also of being kept hungry, and then added, his face seeming to grow fuller and fairer as he spoke:—
"Hiawatha voluntarily suffered hunger, and do you remember, Eric, my thinking then that man was the only creature that could voluntarily hunger? Now I must practice what I preached."
Roland showed himself particularly full of affection toward Eric's mother. He maintained that she was the only person he had recognized during his delirium, and that it had caused him the greatest distress not to be able to say so at the time, but the wrong words would keep coming from his mouth. Even the Mother did not stay with him long at a time.
He rejoiced to see lilies of the valley in his room, and remembered that he had dreamed of them.
"Was not Manna with me too? I was always seeing her black eyes."
Heimchen's illness, they told him, prevented her leaving the convent.
He wanted to see the photograph taken of him in his page's dress, and said to Eric:
"You were right, it will be a pleasant recollection to me by and by. Indeed the by and by is already here; it seems to me two years ago. Do give me a glass, for I must know how I look."
"Not now," returned Eric; "not for a week yet."
Roland was as obedient as a little child, and as grateful as an appreciative man. The second day, he begged Eric to let him relieve his mind by speaking out what was in it.
"If you will speak calmly I will hear you."
"Listen to me then, and warn me when I speak too excitedly. I was on the sea, and dolphins were playing about the ship, when suddenly there was nothing to be seen but black men's heads, and in the midst of them a pulpit swimming, in which stood Theodore Parker preaching with a mighty voice, louder than the roaring of the sea; and the pulpit kept swimming on and on with the ship-—-"
"You are speaking excitedly already," interposed Eric. Roland went on more quietly, in a low tone, but every word perfectly distinct:—
"Now comes the most beautiful part of all. I told you how as I lay in the forest that time when I was journeying after you—nearly a year ago now—there came a child with long, bright, wavy hair, and said, 'This is the German forest;' and I gave her mayflowers, and she was taken up in a carriage and disappeared; you remember it all, don't you? But in my dream it was even more bright and beautiful. 'This is the German forest,' was sung by hundreds and hundreds of voices, just as it was at the musical festival, oh, so beautifully, so beautifully!"
"That will do," interrupted Eric; "you have told enough, and must be left alone awhile."
Eric told his mother of the strange fairy story, which that decisive journey had given rise to in Eric's mind—he had heard of it before from Claus—and mentioned as a singular circumstance, that this second revolution in the boy's nature resulting in his illness, should have recalled to him this story.
The Mother was of opinion that something similar to the story must actually have happened, but warned Eric not to refer to the subject again, for every recollection of past events retarded recovery and a return to a natural state of mind.
The first time Roland could stand up, they were all surprised to see how much he had grown during his illness. The down too, on his lip and chin, to his great delight, had increased perceptibly. When he saw, for the first time, the straw spread before the house, he said,—
"So the whole city has known of my illness, and I have every one to thank. That is the best of all. How many I owe gratitude to! Whoever shall come to me now, for the rest of my life will have a claim upon me."
Eric and his mother exchanged glances as Roland spoke, and then cast their eyes to the ground. Wonderful was the awakening to life displayed before them in this young soul.
"Did Eric tell you that I had seen Pranken? asked Roland.
"Yes. Now lie down to sleep."
"No," he cried; "one thing more!"
He called for his pocket-book, in which he had written the name of the groom whom he had suspected of robbing him on his night journey. Reproaching himself for having hitherto neglected to inquire about him, he charged Eric to find the man, who was now a soldier in his regiment here, and bring him to his room.
The soldier came, and received from Roland a sum of money very nearly as large as that in the purse at the time. Eric had no need to have given such strict injunctions to the man not to excite Roland by much talking, and vehement expressions of gratitude, for the soldier had no power to speak a word. He felt as if he were in fairy land, at being thus summoned into a great hotel, before a beautiful sick boy, and presented with such a sum of money; it was like being transported into another world.
Contented and happy, Roland lay in bed again. He begged his father, when next he came to his bedside, to give away all his clothes, for he would wear none of them again.
"Do you want to put on your uniform at once?" asked Sonnenkamp.
"No, not now; but I want to go home soon, as soon as we can, back to the villa; home, home!"
Sonnenkamp promised all should be as he desired.
The Professorin soon fell in with some young people whom Roland's clothes just fitted, and he exclaimed with delight when, he heard it.—
"That is good; now my clothes will go about the streets until I am there again myself; I shall be represented sevenfold."
He desired his father to express his thanks to all the persons who had so kindly shown an interest in him, a duty which Sonnenkamp would readily have performed without this admonition. It afforded the best possible way, better than the most brilliant entertainment, of coming in contact with the aristocracy.
With his handsomest carriage and horses, Sonnenkamp drove through the whole city. His wife had refused all his entreaties that she would accompany him; but he succeeded in inducing the Professorin to be his companion. She, also, refused at first, but yielded to Roland's persuasions. It was the first request, as he said, that he had asked of her since his return to life, and she should and must gratify him by going with his father.
In proportion to the pain it cost the noble lady to make her reappearance before the world in such companionship, was the ease with which all doors flew open, as if by magic, wherever Lootz showed the cards of the Professorin and Sonnenkamp.
The lady herself was often unconscious that this was the effect of her presence; she only knew that she was tightening between herself and Sonnenkamp the bonds from which she would gladly be free, and, whenever she returned to the carriage, she begged him not to say so much about her motherly care of Roland. Sonnenkamp, who was looked upon as of quite secondary importance by the persons visited, skilfully contrived to make himself the central point of the conversation by praising the Professorin's nobleness of spirit, and enlarging upon his own great happiness in being allowed connection with such a family.
On this excursion Sonnenkamp tasted the best pleasure of which he was capable; for his highest pleasure was in hypocrisy, and in the luxury of its exercise, he forgot his deep-rooted indignation at the pride of the resident families, who were now obliged to receive him as an equal. Where he hitherto had been permitted only a few hasty and unmeaning words, he was now allowed comfortably to display his manifold experiences, around all of which a softening halo was cast by the genuine sentiment that served as their setting, the sentiment of fatherly affection. His manner, also, of confessing that he had not always thought as favorably as he should of human nature, but had been taught by the Dournays to honor true nobility of mind, won for him the reluctant interest of all. He laughed to himself, as he went down the steps, at the thought of persons saying, as he knew they would, "We really never knew the man before; he has a vast deal of character and great sensibility."
He treated with especial consideration the members of the committee upon orders, knowing himself, and having had particularly enjoined upon him by Pranken, the importance of gaining them over to his plan.
Thus had Roland's illness given a fresh impulse to the nobility project; and the Professorin had, against her will, co-operated to the same end.
Sonnenkamp could not do enough to testify his respect for the lady who, after all, had gained him his greatest triumph. In spite of her refusal to come to his fête, and help in furthering his plan, she had now become his tool. He never grew tired of rejoicing in the conviction that all mankind could be used like puppets; some were to be bought by the ringing of gold, and some by the ringing of their own praises.
An audience had been requested of the Princess, that the Sonnenkamp family might present their thanks. The answer returned was that the Frau Professorin would be welcome, thus refusing to admit Sonnenkamp.
He next desired that Roland should write a letter of thanks to the Princess for the Professorin to hand to her, but several rough drafts, which his son wrote out, he so roughly discarded, that the poor boy was thrown into a state of feverish excitement which threatened to bring on a relapse. He was quieted by the interposition of the Professorin, who promised to deliver by word of mouth all that he had to say; but this scene put a violent end to the childlike affectionateness which had sprung up in him since his illness.
While the Professorin was at the palace, Sonnenkamp promenaded the palace garden, where he could keep in sight the carriage and servants, determined to hear at once what should be said of him there. This was the most painful experience that the Professorin had yet had to undergo. She was obliged to acquiesce in the Princess' praises of Sonnenkamp's generous nature, his extensive charities, and his noble magnanimity, of which the Cabinetsräthin, lady of honor to the queen, had given a full report, and nothing was left the Professorin but to listen, without the power to speak a word of contradiction. It was a fresh proof to her of the false position in which she was placed, and the dishonest game to which she had been made to lend a hand; first in the convent, and now at court. Yet she dared not raise her voice against this noble reputation of Sonnenkamp's, for in what light would she herself appear if she should confess what she knew?
When she was re-entering the carriage, after her audience from the Princess, a voice which cried "Stop!" made her tremble from head to foot. Sonnenkamp seated himself beside her, and required her to tell him instantly what the Princess had said. His delight at her report made him so far forget himself as to exclaim aloud,—
"Roland's illness has been a blessing to us all,—by giving us the right to call the Frau Professorin our friend," he quickly added, by way of correction. Even that she had to accept in silence, and was further distressed by being obliged to repeat the Princess' words for the benefit of Pranken, who, with Clodwig, now joined them.
She felt herself hemmed in on every side, and excusing herself early, she withdrew, in the hope of finding again in solitude her true self.
Clodwig had come, as member of the Committee upon Orders, to announce confidentially to Sonnenkamp that an order had been decreed him. Pranken embraced him when they were again alone together, exclaiming,—
"That is the first step, the first sure step."
Sonnenkamp was greatly delighted, and begged Pranken to wait while he hurried to carry the good news to Frau Ceres.
"So that is for you," she said, complainingly; "what is there for me?"
He assured her that the title of nobility would certainly follow speedily.
"Oh, but it takes so long," she complained.
He confessed to some disappointment and vexation on his own part at the slowness and formality with which everything in the Old World was conducted, but recommended patience.
"It is a good thing, to be sure," replied Frau Ceres, "that you should have an order; every one in society will see now at once that you are not a servant."
Sonnenkamp smilingly shook his head, but avoided any long discussions with Frau Ceres.
A few days afterwards, carriage after carriage drew up before the door of the hotel, bringing congratulations. Sonnenkamp affected great modesty, but Roland did not disguise his pleasure and pride, and insisted that his father should never go out without his new decoration.
The following sentence, however, in Professor Crutius's paper added bitterness to their cup of joy:—
"(Market price of Honors) Herr Sonnenkamp, of Villa Eden, transplanted from Havana, has received, from the highest quarter, the cross of honor for his services, it is said, in the ennobling of horticulture, which includes the ennobling of the horticulturist. Nothing now is wanting in the garden of Eden but that genealogical tree, which flourishes so excellently in our favored land."
There were malicious persons enough ready to express to Sonnenkamp their indignation at this would-be witty sharpness, while they watched him with curiosity to see what face he would put upon the matter. He appeared quite indifferent, but inwardly resolved to buy over that most virtuous of moralists, called Public Opinion.
He went to the publishing office, was shown into the editor's room, and was received with the utmost politeness by Professor Crutius. He opened the conversation by saying that he knew very well how to take a joke, and that his life in America had familiarized him with publicity; which remarks Crutius saw no occasion for answering. With great condescension, Sonnenkamp proceeded to express his pleasure at finding the Professor in such an influential position; Crutius bowed his acknowledgments. A little gas jet was burning in the editor's room, at which Sonnenkamp asked permission to light his cigar, offering one at the same time to Crutius, who accepted with thanks.
"I remember," began Sonnenkamp, "a bold and striking remark which you made on the occasion of my having the honor of receiving a visit from you; you had the courage to say that America was approaching a monarchical form of government."
"I remember saying so," replied Crutius, "half in jest and half in earnest, and I threw out the remark not merely as starting a good subject of conversation, but because I was of opinion that the reluctance of the best men in America to take part in politics was a sign of approaching monarchy."
"And you are no longer of that opinion?" asked Sonnenkamp, as Crutius paused.
He knew that he was reported to be in league with the party who were aiming to form an empire in Mexico, and thence to extend the monarchical form of government over the New World. It was a harmless, in some respects, an honorable reputation to have, that of being an agent for establishing a monarchy in the Southern States of the Union. Crutius sat for some time in silence, eyeing the figure before him with a keen and smiling glance. At last he said:—
"I am no longer of that opinion. The indifference of the better classes in America has ceased, as is evident from the papers as well as from the public meetings. I have also seen some letters written to Herr Weidmann by his nephew Dr. Fritz, which plainly prove that a change for the better has taken place. All feel again their rights as citizens, and political and party strife is everywhere uppermost."
"Ah, Herr Weidmann," said Sonnenkamp; "I am told that that worthy gentleman has a share in your paper."
"I know no man; I know nothing but party."
"The true American principle. That is good!" exclaimed Sonnenkamp, and went on to express, in a friendly tone, the regret that all must feel at seeing the press here so far behind the high standard attained in other countries. For that reason he should be very willing, he said, if a man of the Professor's experience would establish a new journal, to come forward to its support with a considerable sum of money, as well as to communicate important items of intelligence from his private correspondence.
"The matter is worth considering," replied Crutius. He went to his strong box and opened it, evidently with the intention of returning to Sonnenkamp the money he had formerly received from him, but saying, almost in so many words, to himself:—No, not yet; you shall have a public receipt for it by and by,—he closed the box, and, resuming his seat opposite Sonnenkamp, began:—
"I have an apology to make to you; at the time I had the honor of visiting you at your villa, I took you to be the notorious Banfield."
He carefully watched the expression of his visitor's face as he spoke.
"Thank you for telling me so," replied Sonnenkamp, very tranquilly. "The only way to clear up such a misunderstanding is to tell it to a man's face. Unfortunately, I have been often confounded with that man, and once actually went to Virginia in order to become personally acquainted with this double of mine; but he died just as I arrived there."
"Indeed! I had not heard of his death, and am somewhat surprised that Herr Weidmann's nephew, who was at open war with Banfield, should not have informed me of it. But it is astonishing what a strong resemblance there is between yourself and him. Of course I shall not mention the circumstance in my obituary of Banfield."
"As far as I myself am concerned," said Sonnenkamp, smiling, "it would make no difference; but you know the delight which the European aristocracy takes in any American scandal, and such a connection of names might to my wife and children be—well, might be very disagreeable."
Crutius protested that all personalities were wholly indifferent to him; he dealt only with principles, a sentiment which Sonnenkamp entirely approved and considered one of the advantages of European culture.
Crutius accompanied Herr Sonnenkamp with great politeness, through the outer offices as far as the head of the staircase; but the air of the room seemed to oppress him when he returned to it, and he threw open the windows.
"It is he, nevertheless," he said to himself. "Take care. Knight of the Cross of Honor, I have hold of you by another ribbon, and am only granting you a little longer time to flutter about me."
He hunted up the paper that contained the notice, made a broad red mark and three exclamation marks on the margin, and laid the sheet by in a special compartment labelled, "For future use."