The Doctor desired Eric to tie his horse to the back of the carriage, and drive with him part way to the villa.
When the two were seated together, the Doctor began, after first puffing out a long breath:—
"A beautiful woman is Countess Bella, and a clever. She loves her parrot, which, apparently, is allowed to fly at liberty in the forest, but must return obediently to his mistress's shoulder."
"Permit me one observation," interrupted Eric. "I have noticed that here in the country, and wherever the society is limited, the conversation is apt to turn upon a third person, and generally—not in your case, perhaps, but in the case of most persons whom I have heard talk—in a not very charitable way. Do you not consider this a proof of narrowness, or whatever else of that nature you may choose to call it?"
The Doctor perceived that Eric was disinclined to pursue this subject, but he nevertheless replied:—
"The human race affords the most abundant material for conversation, and of that race the most inexhaustible matter is furnished by the variety woman. I am not meaning now to speak of Bella, but of myself. I have discovered in this woman an entirely new variety."
"With your permission, honored Herr Doctor, the Countess seems to be in perfect health."
"Did you never know Frau Bella before?"
"But slightly," said Eric reluctantly.
"I, however, knew her well. She made a marriage of convenience, as many others have done, and I think none the worse of her for it. My opinion on such matters differs from that of most men. The Countess is modest as far as her talents are concerned, but is proud of her morality. I happen to know that she told the Count before the betrothal, that she was too insignificant for him, was, in fact, not worthy of him. In regard to intellect, her modesty was sincere, though somewhat exaggeratedly expressed. She has talent, but no soul; she is all seasoning, no solid food. But morally this confession was perfectly true; morality with her is only propriety."
"I must beg you—" interposed Eric.
"And I must beg you," broke in the Doctor, "to let me finish my sentence. Her morality I mean is that of the world, which considers only the outward marriage essential, and knows no relation of marriage save a relation of the outward tie. To Count Clodwig, purity and beauty are a law; every sin against them offends his nature; he could not be guilty of the smallest violation of them, even if no mortal eye should detect it."
In the pause which ensued, Eric's heart beat hard. Was the man describing Clodwig's purity, in order to show him how base would be the slightest approach to injuring or betraying such a friend?
The Doctor continued:—
"A man can receive no higher honor than that of being Clodwig's friend. I do not love the aristocracy; nay, I may even say I hate them; but in this Count Clodwig there is a nobleness which perhaps can only come to perfection through the fostering care of generations, and cannot be fully developed among us commoners, where everything is a fresh conquest smelling of the new varnish, which is always likely to crack away. There is a steady, even temperature about Clodwig, never amounting to a hot blaze, but always a beneficent warmth. You see I have learned from you to make illustrations," he said playfully, then continued, more seriously:—
"His one passion is for rest, which makes it the more remarkable that he should have sacrificed so much of it for your sake. I do not agree with the wicked world in pronouncing Countess Bella to be a very dragon of virtue. On the contrary, she must have every week, or every month at farthest, some fair name to destroy, or, better, some guilty person to use her cat's claws upon; like a well-trained hound, she likes best to attack a poor hare in the eyes; then she is satisfied, perfectly polite and obliging, harming nobody, for she is not really cruel and pitiless. She speaks very kindly of any one so long as he is unfortunate; when people are humbled she readily pardons them; as soon as a man is sick she is most kindly disposed towards him, but as long as he keeps well he need expect nothing but severity from her. She has beautiful and abundant hair, but that does not please her so much as the being able to tell of this woman or that, how many pounds of false hair she wears. If she can say that any woman is scrofulous, she is quite happy; for she would have only the Prankens perfectly sound. Once let her make an assertion, and she never retreats from it; better that her husband, Pranken, the whole world, should be illogical, than that she should be mistaken. Bella von Wolfsgarten never allows herself to be mistaken. She has never worn an unbecoming dress, has never said a word which might not be engraved upon stone. That she calls character; that she calls strength,—never to confess to a mistake. Let the logic of the whole world go to the devil first! She can make the eggs dance nicely in conversation. Did you ever receive one of her dainty little notes? She can dance even upon paper with the most supple grace."
Eric passed his hand across his brow; he no longer knew where he was. The Doctor threw away a half-smoked cigar, and continued:—
"The wicked world hopes, and, alas! its hopes cannot be fulfilled without stabbing our noble Clodwig to the heart,—it hopes that this dragon of virtue will one day find its unsaintly George. But that would have to be a man whose ambition is, as we say, to be successful with the women; not one to whom the words love, magnanimity, aspiration, are realities, and who could not use them as a cloak for other ends."
Eric knew not what to answer. He clenched his fist to keep himself still, for he felt himself trembling.
The Doctor pulled a string which brought the drag against the wheel; the wagon went creaking and scraping down the hill; they looked over the precipice, at the bottom of which a little brook was babbling over rocks. Such an abyss had opened before Eric. When they were driving again comfortably through the valley, the Doctor resumed:—
"When I say the wicked world, I am not using merely a figure of speech. I must explain to you what this new variety is that I have discovered in Frau Bella. It is this. There have been, and there exist still, many women who are, or who imagine themselves to be, no matter which, very unhappy, or consider themselves very unfortunate because they have such inferior husbands,—men who love horses, dogs, and such like, while they themselves are lofty, unappreciated, ethereal souls. This new variety, however, which Frau Bella represents, is different. She is unhappy because of the greatness of her husband. Had she one of those well-trained puppets which are in the world for the purpose of wearing a court-dress, she might be unhappy, but loftily so; she could look upon herself as a fair flower-crowned victim, suffer with patience, bewail her fate, be on a pinnacle in fact, a being ever debarred from the noblest emotions of the heart. But by the side of the husband she has, she grows constantly more odious, more insignificant. He humiliates her by casting her into the shade; nay, more: by condemning her immature ideas only by a raising of his eyebrows. In fact,—she does not, I think, acknowledge it to herself,—she hates her husband for making solemn earnest of her light trifling with intellectual and moral things; he compels her to acknowledge mistakes and follies, and severely enough is he punished for doing so. I understand now the fable of the Harpies. The modern harpies besmear every noble thought till it becomes unpalatable and nauseous; and thus must Clodwig wrestle and fight for the common daily bread of the spirit. With all this, she is not without nobleness; she likes to help the sick, only is somewhat despotic in recommending her remedies. But do you know what the most dangerous thing about Frau Bella is?"
"Indeed I do not; I cannot imagine what climax you have yet to reach."
"A very simple one. We hear the devil talked about in the churches, but in these days he appears as a very complaisant, very noble and self-sacrificing demon, who comes to us and says,—Here, you are the friend of this woman; avail yourself of her esteem for you, her confidence in you, to put her in the right frame of mind; you must teach her to appreciate her husband, to honor him as he desires to be honored. This sophistical demon seems to be very subtle, but is really the clumsiest of all; for never did one human being learn to value another, least of all, a wife her husband, through a third person's influence. There is a final impulse of life, and a final impulse of love, which must come from the person himself; and where that does not exist, the tongues of angels would be employed in vain. Have you seen the head of Medusa? The ancients esteemed the victory over Medusa to be the greatest achievement of Theseus; she is poisonous beauty. In ancient times she hardened men to stone, in modern, she softens them into effeminacy. I have a special hatred against this Frau Bella; do you know why? Because she makes a hypocrite of me every time I go to Wolfsgarten. I have no business to be so polite as I am to her; and the fact that I am so, out of regard to Clodwig, is no excuse. No one has such a bad effect upon me as this Frau Bella; she makes a hypocrite of me, and she kindles in me such a passion for destruction as I had not thought myself capable of. She is a quack doctress. If I prescribe a medicine, she always knows beforehand what I am going to prescribe. Medicinally I have pretty much broken down her pretensions, but intellectually she has more than ever. She has family medicines and figures of speech at her tongue's end, as if she had been a deep student, whereas the root of her whole nature is want of reverence, an impertinent meddling with every subject; for everything is a vain show to her mind; she has no respect even for herself, knowing that she is herself nothing but a vain show. One deep-rooted trait in her is ingratitude. Come what may to her, she will still be ungrateful. If you want to see the exact opposite to Bella, look at the Major, who is grateful for everything, even for the very air he breathes. That old child of a Major is seventy years old, and has not yet lost faith in human goodness. If the devil incarnate were to appear, he would find something good in him; but this Bella is without principle. A man may be evil-minded, and yet have strength and active powers left for the world's service; but an evil-minded woman is wholly evil and only evil. Do you know who would be a fit mate for Frau Bella?"
"I know nothing about it," cried Eric in despair; he felt as if he must jump out of the wagon.
"The only man who would do for her, the only man capable of subduing and governing this whole menagerie which bears the name of Bella, is Herr Sonnenkamp; in fact, there is a secret sympathy between them."
Eric was glad he could laugh; but the Doctor continued:—
"I am a heretic, my young friend; I believe that woman is an inferior variety in the human race. A man can never be so bad as a woman, can never be so hypocritical. For the latter quality, to be sure, women are not responsible, having been taught from childhood that the world cares only for appearances. But the main defect is, that they have no broad humanity; they, do not go down to the first principles from which all things start; they regard everything as being sewed and colored, in the same way that their hats and mantillas are by the mantuamakers. On the other hand, they stand under the curse of the beasts: they cannot heartily rejoice with another; slander is a peculiar symptom of blood-thirstiness. Throughout all nature, the female is the crudest."
Eric sat still and heard all this talked at him. When they arrived at the place where the Doctor was to get out, the good man puffed out another long breath, and said, his face glowing with his earnestness,—
"Now I, feel better. I have been choking with this for a long while. Thank you for having listened so patiently. Young friend," he continued, laying his hand kindly on Eric's shoulder, "I am angry with the poets, who, from fear of giving offence to women, have dressed up this clever show-woman. If I have said too much of Frau Bella, as is possible, I yet pray you to keep in mind the truths I have told of her, which I have not exaggerated, and which I am ready any moment to maintain."
Eric took his horse by the bridle, but did not mount; he travelled on, lost in thought. That he should have heard such things against Bella, and should have so poorly defended her, pained him. With a look almost of devotion he gazed upward to the cloudless heaven above him; he would keep himself free from the guilt of palliating his own faults. His heart turned to Roland, and something within him said, I hope from this time to be worthy to educate a human being; for never again shall any criminal trifling with thoughts and feelings have place in me. I was vain; I was pleased at appearing brilliant, at being praised by a handsome woman, at feeling the light touch of her warm glove upon my hand. No such man should dare to say, I will in all purity educate a human being. I hope now I am a man who can.
With a feeling of inward happiness he pursued his way and reached the villa.
A telegram was awaiting him, saying that the family would spend the night in the capital.
Eric was alone.
Frau Ceres expressed herself in the morning strongly disinclined to return to the villa. The fête on Rudolph's hill still floated before her fancy, and she wanted to have another just like it to-day. She urged the Cabinetsräthin at least to go back with her to the villa and make her a visit. The invitation was declined, but a visit promised at an early date.
Frau Ceres was so much out of spirits, that to cheer her up Sonnenkamp made Pranken sit in the carriage with her, while he drove with Roland. When he was alone with his son, he questioned him on all kinds of subjects; he even went so far as to ask him how often Eric visited the Countess Bella, and whether they often took walks alone together.
Roland was perplexed.
On the road they overtook the saddle-horses, which had been sent homewards in advance of the party. The horses were wholly enveloped in coverings, so that only their eyes and feet were visible. Sonnenkamp ordered a halt to be made; the creatures' great eyes were fixed with a singular expression on their master from under their close coverings. He severely reprimanded one of the grooms, whom he had seen at a distance sitting on one of the horses instead of walking by the animal's side. The next act of disobedience should lose the man his place. As they drove on, Roland made the remark that these horses were better clothed than many men.
Sonnenkamp threw a sidelong glance of surprise at his son, but made no answer.
All at once Roland beckoned to the driver to stop. He had noticed by the road-side the teamster, employed in carting the stone bottles to the mineral-spring, whom he had walked with on that eventful night. Alighting, Roland held out his hand to the man and requested him to tell the hostler, when he met him, that he was innocent; whereupon he resumed his seat in the carriage, the teamster all the while staring after him, while his father desired him to tell him more about the strange rencontre.
Roland related all he knew, not omitting the legend of the laughing sprite; but the story about this sprite seemed to have no effect upon Sonnenkamp's risibles; and when Roland remarked, that he liked to familiarize himself with the life of poor people battling with abject misery, Sonnenkamp whistled the inaudible tune to himself. At the same time, the more Roland talked, the more surprised did his father appear at the mental activity of the lad; and the conversation in the old castle, after Claus had questioned him, was brought back to his mind with strange associations and connections.
Sonnenkamp was inwardly debating what to do. To dismiss Eric on the spot would not answer, on Roland's account; such peremptory dismissal might only make him cling all the more obstinately to his erroneous views and tendencies. Besides, it would be ill-advised to bring about a rupture with Eric, on account of the Cabinetsräthin, especially since she had expressed herself strongly on the point of procuring the assistance of Eric's mother; above all else, however, Clodwig had to be considered, for the connection with Clodwig was not Pranken's, but Eric's work, and Clodwig was the most powerful ally in the execution of the plan.
Sonnenkamp was actuated by a twofold jealousy: the clergy had taken one child from him; this time, a man of the world was on the point of taking away the other. He did not disapprove in direct terms of Eric's ideas, he merely cautioned his son as to there being no need of such utter submission to a paid person, adding that he saw no necessity of his fretting too much about his studies, which might do well enough for people who had to fight their way in life, but certainly not for a young man who required just about knowledge enough to be able to express an opinion of his own. He admonished his son not to allow his life to be disturbed by fantasies; and found it an easy task once more to make the glitter of a soldier's life in the capital appear very attractive to him.
Soon after the first salutations were exchanged, Sonnenkamp enquired of Eric where he had been the day before; putting this question very much like a master, whose servant's time is by right his own, and who is therefore justified in demanding a proper account thereof.
Eric told him of his visit to Wolfsgarten, dwelling more particularly on a description of the Russian prince.
Sonnenkamp smiled; he was pleased to see, that this proud virtue knew so well how to hide his deviations from the straight path.
Roland was evidently inclined to break through the strict discipline which Eric had introduced, and which he himself had re-established; whenever he stayed through a lesson he looked sullen, the instigations of his father beginning to show their effect. A glance at Eric frequently would show the latter, that Roland almost looked upon him as his jailor. Hitherto Roland had only seen things with Eric's eyes, and regarded whatever happened to him as if he were expected to accept it for Eric's sake, all this was now at an end. In the dim distance still resounded, the notes of martial music and the laughter of military officers conversing gaily.
Eric could not but notice this change in his pupil; it made him feel sad. He could devote all his energy to Roland. Roland received it much against his will; and since he no longer hesitated to manifest his displeasure, his ill-humor of old returned and revived. Again and again the hardship of a tutor's profession presented itself to Eric's mind. He lived the past over again. In his garrison, when off duty, he had lived quietly by himself; at the parental home he was allowed to indulge in his own fancies, his mother having been habituated by his father to the belief that she ought to wait quietly to be spoken to, inasmuch as learned men ought not to be disturbed in their reflections; and Eric had been treated in the same way: he was never disturbed, and was left entirely to his own thoughts. Now, however, at table, or while out driving, he had to answer the numerous queries of both pupil and father, who were fond of asking questions, and having intricate ones solved for them. For a long, long time, he had been accustomed to an independent life, devoted to his own mental improvement; now, however, it seemed to him as if, together with his state of servitude, he were losing himself, as if he were but the shadow of his former past, and nothing new nor fresh was stirring in him, while all his former thoughts and feelings appeared to require a forcible awakening. Eric mourned over his mental decline. Formerly he had hardly dared to confess to himself, that he had derived new animation and pleasure from being near Bella—and that was to cease henceforth. What then remained for him?
He stood aghast at perceiving, that the whole sanctity of his inner self had been staked on another being, and a new revelation came to him, which made Sonnenkamp's dissatisfaction, as well as that of his pupil, appear as a just penalty. He redoubled his zeal, but in vain.
An event, seemingly trifling, and of a surprising nature, brought the disturbing elements to a crisis. Sonnenkamp paid Eric the first instalment of his salary in Roland's presence, looking all the while triumphantly at his son. Eric trembled, but quickly recovered his self-control. He took the gold and advanced a step or two towards the window at which Roland was standing. Sonnenkamp supposed, for a moment, that he was going to throw the gold out of the window, but Eric said, in a tone of forced composure:—
"Roland, take my pay and carry the money to my room. There you may wait for me."
Roland took the gold, looking confusedly at his father and Eric.
"Do me the favor of carrying that gold to my room," repeated Eric. "And now go." Roland went. He carried the money as if it were a heavy burden, and repaired to Eric's room, where he deposited it on the table. He then turned to go, when the thought suddenly occurred to him, that he ought also to watch it; he was on the point of locking the room, when he remembered, that Eric had ordered him to wait for his coming. He stood there, while everything seemed to be whirling around. What had happened?
Suddenly Pranken came in to bid him good-bye. He congratulated Roland upon his speedy deliverance from Eric. Then only did he realize what had happened, and what was to follow. Pranken referred slightingly to Eric, as to a man to whom he might make certain concessions from sheer pity. Merrily he bade Roland farewell. After he had gone. Roland felt that he could no longer have any love for Pranken, and realized a sense of loss; he quietly remained standing at the table, looking down upon the money before him. In a childlike way he began to count the sum Eric had received. For what length of time had he received it? He could not make it out, and turned angrily aside to look out of the window. Behind him on the table lay the money; he felt as if somebody near him were whispering all the time: Forget me not!
Meanwhile Eric was still in the room with Sonnenkamp, who, with an air of great astonishment, said,—
"You are wantonly destroying all attachment between us."
Eric replied, that he might perhaps have chosen a more appropriate time, and that nothing but the manner in which he had been paid had compelled him to act as he had done.
"Have I hurt your feelings?"
"I am not very sensitive. I appreciate money as far as it deserves to appreciated and am always pleased at receiving my honest wages. I am inclined to think that I love your son more than—no matter! there is no standard to measure love by,—it can only be measured by itself."
"I am obliged to you."
"I beg your pardon, sir; allow me to finish my sentence. Just because I love your son, I prefer to have the blame fall upon me rather than upon his father."
"Upon me?"
"Yes, sir. I might have paid you back for the way in which you paid me off in my pupil's presence; I might have told you that free labor—I abstain from using the word love, and simply confine myself to refer to such work as one man will do freely for another—can never be paid. I suppressed my feelings, because I wished that your son should love and respect you more than he does other people, than even myself."
Sonnenkamp clenched his fists. He stared at Eric for awhile, but soon looked down; he had to exert great self-control in order not to betray that he trembled.
At last he said,—
"I don't know what you mean by some expressions you have used, and I don't want to know. But I am the man to put a bullet through the forehead of him who attempts-—-"
"I very readily comprehend your excitement," said Eric, quietly straightening himself up and looking Sonnenkamp coolly in the face.
"Who are you? Who am I?" asked Sonnenkamp, while his features were strangely distorted.
"I am your son's tutor, and I know the accountableness of my position; I am in your service; this is your house, you can turn me out of it at once."
"I will not do that—not that! Have I said that I would? I must only explain myself to you, and you must explain yourself to me. Have you not said to Roland that the time will come, or has already come, when there would no longer be any private property?"
Eric assured him that he had not the remotest purpose of doing anything of the kind; he was sorry that he made use of the illustration, and regretted Roland's misconception.
"Let us sit down," said Sonnenkamp, his knees trembling. "Let us talk calmly, like reasonable men, like friends, if I may be allowed to say so."
He whistled to himself, and then said, in a wholly different tone,—
"I must tell you, that irrespective of this mistake, your whole tone of thought seems to me dangerous to my son. You seem to me, in fact, a philanthropist, and I honor that; you are one of those persons who would like to thank every common laborer in the road for his toil, and pay him also as much as possible. You see I believe your philanthropy is genuine, and not taken up merely for the sake of popularity. But this philanthropy—I speak without any disguise—is not the thing for my son. My son will have, at some time, a princely income; and if a rich man must go through life in this way, always looking around to see where there is poverty, where there is not adequate compensation, he would be condemned to greater wretchedness than the beggar in the ditch. The worst thing that could be done to my son would be to make him sentimental, or even pitiful and compassionate. I am not one of those men, and I would not have my son to be one, who are eternally longing after the ineffable, and, as I believe, unattainable; I want for myself and for my son a practical enjoyment of existence. Believe me, a contraband-trade will be driven in feelings, if one persuades himself that men in lower conditions have the same susceptibilities that we have."
"I thank you," replied Eric, "for this straightforward plainness of speech, and I am glad that you have given me the opportunity to tell you that I have endeavored to make Roland good-hearted, but not weak-hearted. He is to comprehend the goodly advantages of his life, so that he may receive and make his own the noblest and the highest; he is to be a noble administrator of the grand power that is to be put into his hands."
Eric unfolded this more in detail, and Sonnenkamp, extending his hand to him, said,—
"You are—you are—a noble man, you have also to be my educator. Forget what has happened. I trust you now, unconditionally. I confide in you, that you will not alienate from me the heart of my child, that you will not make him a soft-hearted helper of everybody, and everything."
Sonnenkamp jerked these words out forcibly, for he inwardly chafed, that this man, whom he wanted to humble, had humbled him, so that he was compelled to stand before him like a beggar, entreating a stranger not to alienate from him the heart of his child.
"Why,"—he at last began again, "I pray you, I only ask for information, for I am convinced that you have good grounds for every such step,"—a spiteful glance, notwithstanding all his guarded discretion, gleamed forth at this question—"I only ask for information, why you have restrained Roland from making a free use of his purse, as, since my return, I have been informed is the case."
"I cannot give definite reasons for all my doings, but I have a valid one for this. Roland lavishes and squanders money, and he does it ignorantly and wantonly, while I consider the control of money a part of self-control."
And now Eric informed Sonnenkamp what an impression the robbery had made upon Roland. Exultantly Sonnenkamp cried out:—
"I am rejoiced that he has found out so early how completely one is surrounded in the world by knaves; he will be cautious whenever he comes to manage his own affairs. Yes, Herr Philosopher, write down in your books: The one trait in which man surpasses the brutes is, that man is the only animal who can dissemble and can lie. And the sooner and the more perfectly my son can know that fact, so much the better am I pleased. I should be very glad if Roland had been through the second grade of schools."
"The second grade?"
"Yes; the first is, to bestow benefits upon people, and then to get an insight into their rascality; the second is, to play games of chance, believing that one can make any gain thereby. Debts of beneficence and debts of the gaming-table are not very willingly paid."
There was a certain fatherly tone in Sonnenkamp's voice, as he praised Eric's transcendental benevolent intents, at the same time warning him of the baseness of the whole brood of human creatures. His fundamental maxim was, that man is a wolf to his fellow-man.
When Eric came to Roland, the latter stretched out both his hands to him.
"I thank you," cried the boy, "for treating me as my father treated you; yes, I will have nothing more to do with money. I beseech you, forgive my father for paying you like a servant."
Eric had great difficulty in making an explanation to the boy, so as not to disturb and bewilder his natural feelings and perceptions. The son must preserve love and respect for his father.
"Put away the gold," Roland entreated. Eric immediately put it away out of sight, for he saw how it annoyed the youth.
"Give me something," he then besought,
"I have nothing to give," answered Eric. "But you will know henceforth, that one human being can give something to another which is of more value than all the gold in the world; we will both hold fast the proverb: A friend who can desert you was never your friend."
Roland kissed the hand which had received the gold. Eric was opposed to all sentimentality, but here he had witnessed the opening of a flower, and had inhaled its earliest fragrance, and this flower was a youth's heart.
"We will go and see the Major," said Roland at last; it was evident that he wanted to be with some person who had nothing to do with all this perplexity, and simply lived his own quiet life.
They went to the Major's, but did not find him in. They walked for a long time together, until after dark, without speaking a word.
Sonnenkamp also walked about the park in the silent night, inwardly chafing at the thought that there was always something to conceal, for a single expression of Eric's that day had awakened a powerful struggle within him. That expression was, free labor. And then he began to wonder how it had happened that he had allowed himself to do anything to wound Eric, while it was still his intention to send for his mother. It produced a thrill of satisfaction in him, when he thought how infinitely charitable people would consider that. If he himself could only have believed that it was true charity! But he knew what his own object really was. No matter! If the world believes in the noble and kindly, that is enough. She who is rouged, knows that she has not red cheeks, but she takes pleasure in the thought that the world believes she has, and she is gay and girlish.
Sonnenkamp had desired that Pranken should purchase the neighboring villa which they wished to sell to the Cabinetsräthin. Pranken had declined to do it in a friendly manner, and for good reasons, that it would seem a natural measure for Sonnenkamp to take, in order to secure a good neighbor. Sonnenkamp did not know whether to hope or fear that Pranken had already taken measures beforehand, and thereby made a profit for himself. Was he to be over-reached? But it would be fine if his son-in-law had such a prudent eye to his own advantage.
Sonnenkamp did not concern himself much the next few days with house or garden, with Roland or Eric; he visited the country-house, offered to purchase the vineyards appertaining to it, and became completely convinced that Pranken had taken no steps in the matter. He was well satisfied to acknowledge to himself that he had not been thoroughly acquainted with the nature of the nobility; Pranken was a man who would have nothing to do with any clandestine methods of gaining a pecuniary profit.
The Wine-count was his principal competitor for the country-house offered for sale; it was said he wanted to purchase it for his son-in-law, the son of the Marshal of the Prince's household. Sonnenkamp closed the bargain immediately.
If Claus had heard in prison that Sonnenkamp had bought another country-house, he would certainly have exclaimed,—
"Yes, indeed. Of course he'll buy up the whole Rhineland yet." But he learned nothing of it.
The legal inquiry was protracted, and the Judge was sufficiently well disposed to draw up new papers for the interrogation of Eric and Roland at the villa; yet this unpleasant occurrence interrupted the course of instruction more than one could have believed.
Entertainments also were not wanting, for Roland one day announced to Eric:—
"Count Wolfsgarten is to give a grand fête; father and mother are rejoiced; and you and I are also invited."
Sonnenkamp was very well satisfied with Pranken for having brought this about; Eric's coöperation was no longer of any account. It was settled with Pranken, that Clodwig, who was the most influential member of the Committee for conferring nobility, should be gained over to favor the object now exclusively occupying their attention, and induced to take actively the initiative.
Sonnenkamp stood before his armory, and before the large money-safe built into the walls; here were many potent agencies, but they were of no help in this matter, where personal influence alone availed. He was despondent for a short time; then he proudly drew himself up, thinking that he had already succeeded in other undertakings, and here also there would not be wanting to him the requisite means.
He had a severe contest with Frau Ceres on the day they were to go to the fête; she wanted to wear all her jewelry to dinner, and even Fräulein Perini could not divert her from her purpose, by representing how irrefragably settled it was that no diamonds should be worn by daylight. Frau Ceres wept like a little child, and she preferred to remain at home if this pleasure was begrudged her.
Sonnenkamp entreated her to dress plainly, and not annoy the Countess by wearing jewels worth twenty times what she herself possessed; and it was promised her, that at the next fête given at the house, she might appear in full costume.
But Frau Cores persisted in saying that she would not accompany them if she could not wear her jewels.
"Well, then," said Sonnenkamp, "I will send a messenger to Wolfsgarten immediately, to inform them that you will remain at home."
He had a groom sent for at once, and gave him orders to saddle a horse, in order to ride immediately to Wolfsgarten. He went off. Frau Ceres' look followed him with a very angry glance; she was then the miserable child who must remain at home, when all the rest were going to the fête. After a time, she hastened to Sonnenkamp's room, and announced that she would go with them in the way they desired.
Sonnenkamp regretted that he had already sent the messenger off, and now Frau Ceres besought him, with tears, to send a second messenger announcing her coming. Sonnenkamp asserted that this was no longer possible, but finally yielded. He went himself to the stables, and had nothing further to do than to say to the groom,—
"Take off the saddle!" for he had not sent him away, knowing that Frau Ceres would, after a while, beseech him like a child.
They drove to Wolfsgarten. Frau Bella was extremely glad to be able to welcome the Cabinetsräthin; she was very amiable, and looked to-day lovelier than ever. She had a friendly word for everybody, and she was especially gracious to Eric. She thought that, at his last visit, he seemed to be a little out of tune, and she wished now to dissipate any such feeling by exhibiting a decided preference.
Eric received the friendly attention gratefully, but very coldly, as the sharp-eyed woman did not fail to perceive.
Sonnenkamp, who had quick perception, held his breath as a hunter does, when the game comes within range of his shot. Indeed, thought he, they know how to play a good game! The reputation of this house for virtue had hitherto weighed upon him somewhat, but now he moved about with a sort of home feeling.
It was a little court assembled here, and the etiquette, though savoring of rural freedom, was not the less precise. A large number of prominent personages were collected, and the fact was the more striking, because they were brought together from scattered points of country life; it was a group of separate and independent individuals drawn hither from their retirement. The larger portion were officers who had retired on pensions, or been honorably discharged from the service; there were red, yellow, and blue ribbons of different orders modestly tied in the button-holes; the old gentlemen had their hair carefully dressed, and their beards freshly colored; the ladies showed that they had sojourned at Paris some weeks in the year to some purpose.
The conversation was carried on in French, out of regard to a French lady.
A celebrated musician had also been invited, now staying at the country-house of a brother-artist, who had married a former music-pupil, a rich heiress, and had gained a highly respectable standing in the neighborhood.
Except Eric, Herr Sonnenkamp and the musical-artist were the only untitled personages in the company; his genius raised the artist, and his millions the rich man, into the new atmosphere. The Wine-cavalier might already be considered as one of the nobility, for it was known that his whole family were to be ennobled very soon. The newly betrothed couple had also been invited, but on the day of the fête, a letter was received which contained the information, couched in courteous terms of regret, that the bridegroom, having been taken slightly ill, was unable to be present, and the bride had therefore remained at home. No one of the Wine-count's family made his appearance, except the Wine-cavalier, who expressed in renewed terms regret for the indisposition of his future brother-in-law.
A famous portrait-painter was also present, who had been for several weeks at the country-house of the Wine-count in order to paint life-size portraits of the betrothed couple. He was very much the fashion, and was very successful in pearls, lace, and gray satin, and also in faces, except that they all had a strong tinge of blue; but he was very popular with the court, and there could be no question but that he was the only man to paint the distinguished bride.
The Russian Prince was, of course, a star of the first magnitude. Sonnenkamp occupied the place of honor next to Frau Bella, and on the other side sat the Prince. Clodwig had Frau Ceres by his side, and the Major was very naturally seated next, as an efficient ally. Clodwig entertained Frau Ceres in a very friendly way, and she ate freely to-day, out of embarrassment, without Sonnenkamp's intervention.
Sonnenkamp had brought into play his old weapons of gallantry, but he seemed to have no success, for Bella did not half listen to him, giving much of her attention to the conversation of Eric with the Russian.
All at once the conversation between different individuals ceased, as the Prince asked Herr Sonnenkamp,—
"Do they also designate the slaves in America as souls?"
"I do not understand your meaning."
"I mean that in Russia we designate the serfs as souls: a man is said to have so many hundred or thousand souls; and do they call them so in America too?"
"No."
"It is questioned indeed," interposed Clodwig, "whether the niggers really have souls. Humboldt relates that the savages have the notion that apes also can speak, but that they purposely refrain from doing so, because they are afraid that they also shall be compelled to work if it is known that they can speak."
A general laugh proceeded from the company at table, and Clodwig added,—
"If we dig up the smallest vessel belonging to the Greek and Roman age, we discover always some sort of beauty; but, so far as I am acquainted, the niggers have never embodied a single new beautiful form."
"Neither have they," interposed the Prince, "as has been said, ever invented even a mouse-trap!"
"Not even that," replied Clodwig. "The question comes up, whether the negroes can be inheritors of civilization, for they are not inheritors of the beautiful human form as it has been handed down to us from Egypt, Greece, and Rome, and so cannot become cultivators of the plastic arts; and art alone is the ennobler of humanity. They cannot create the beautiful after their likeness; and as it is said, 'God made man after his image,' so man fashions his gods after his own likeness, which the negroes cannot do. Perhaps in the coming time they will create something for themselves, but not for others; and they are therefore not partakers of the inheritance, for they are not included in the great human brotherhood, which is not to be entered by force."
Sonnenkamp looked up; his whole countenance expanded. This is the utterance of a man whose love of humanity is not to be questioned.
"That is a fact!" he interposed. "There is no sentimentalism in America: our plain common-sense views are declared heterodox indeed by pedantic wisdom, and branded as inhumanity, but there is a priesthood of so-called humanity; and it has its inquisition as well as the other priesthood."
Sonnenkamp spoke with a concentrated scorn, with a repelling violence, which clearly showed how unsuitable he considered the topic introduced by the Prince, although he had done it in a most civil manner. Clodwig thought that he ought to come to his assistance, and he began in a low tone but became more animated as he went on.
"Whoever considers historical facts with coolness and impartiality sees that the Idea is continually unfolding, working long in stillness, but without cessation; and this silent working goes on, until some unexpected fact which has nothing in common with the Idea brings it into clear light and perfect development. The Idea only prepares the way by setting the tune; the fact is irrefragable, and performs an actual part."
Bella said something in a low tone to the Prince on her right, but Clodwig was well aware that it was meant for an apology for his somewhat heavy and abstract statement; with a hardly perceptible twinge of his face, and his lips drawn somewhat pointedly together, he resumed:—
"I am of the conviction, that without Sebastopol the emancipation of the peasants would not have been brought about, and in the way it has been; and who knows when and how it could have been accomplished in any other way? Saul goes forth to-day, as of old, to look for an ass, and finds a kingdom,—the kingdom of a regal, all-powerful Idea. The Crimean war was undertaken for the purpose of humiliating Russia, and it brought Russia to the measure of establishing a free peasantry, and renewing herself in her inner life. These are the great facts of history, and they are not our doing."
"That is new to me, surprisingly new," interposed the Prince, while Clodwig continued:—
"The Russian ambassador informed me that during the Crimean war the rumor was spread—no one knew its origin, and yet it was in all mouths—that every one who had fought at Sebastopol, or who had volunteered for the war to deliver the Emperor from the Allies, should have land given him as a free present at its conclusion. This was a fixed notion in all brains, and where did it come from? The idea of the emancipation of the serfs, which had been mooted for a long time in books and journals and among the higher classes of the community, now took deep hold of the imagination, and assumed a definite form in the consciousness of the people, becoming a fact plain as day, that required only the imperial decree to set its seal upon it."
Clodwig stopped, as if wearied, but he summoned up his strength afresh and cried:
"This is the old grand saying: 'the swords shall be turned into ploughshares.'"
The entire company looked at each other with surprise, not understanding why and how Clodwig had fallen into such a strain; Eric alone gazed at Clodwig with a beaming countenance. As a hand was placed upon his shoulder, he looked round, startled. Roland, standing behind him, said,—
"That is exactly what you once said to me."
"Sit down, and be quiet," said Eric. Roland went to his seat, but he waited until he caught Eric's eye, and then drank to him.
Bella looked around, as if wanting help to start some subject more befitting table-talk: she looked at Eric, and nodded to him, as if beseeching him to divert the conversation from these detestable matters.
Just then the servants poured out some Johannisberg in delicate pretty glasses, and Eric said, holding the glass up before him,—
"Herr Count, such wine as this the old nations never drank out of those stone jars which we have dug up from the ground."
Bella nodded to him cheeringly, but as he said nothing further, she asked,—
"Have we any precise information about the ancient method of cultivating the vine?"
"Very little," replied Eric. "The ancients probably had no notion of this bouquet, this spirit of the wine, for they drank it only unfermented."
"I am very far," interposed Sonnenkamp, "from laying any claim to classical lore, but it is very easily seen, that without the cutting of the vines there can be no maturing and full concentration of the sap in the clusters; and without the cask there can be no mellow and perfectly ripe wine."
"Without the cask? Why the cask?" asked the Russian. "Does the wood of the cask serve to clarify the wine?"
"I think not," answered Sonnenkamp, "but the wooden cask allows the air to penetrate, allows the wine to become ripe in the vaults, allows it to work itself pure,—in a word, to come to perfection. In vessels of clay the wine is suffocated, or, at best, experiences no change."
With great address, Bella added,—"That delights me; now I see that a progressive culture contributes to higher enjoyment even of the products of nature."
Sonnenkamp was highly pleased; he was here able to add something interesting, and he appeared in a very favorable light. Then the conversation was carried on between different individuals.
There was general cheerfulness and hilarity, and every painful impression seemed to have passed away: their faces glowed, and their eyes shone brightly, as the company arose from the table.