Roland rubbed his eyes; before him stood a child, a little girl in a snow-while dress and blue sash. Her face was rosy, great blue eyes beamed out from it, and long golden curls hung loose over her neck. In her hand she held a bunch of wild-flowers.
Griffin stood in front of the child, and kept her from coming nearer.
"Back, Griffin!" cried Roland, rising; the dog fell behind his master.
"This is the German forest!" said the child with a foreign accent, and a voice that might belong to a princess in a fairy tale. "This is the German forest! I have only been gathering flowers. Are you the forest prince?"
"No, but who are you?"
"I have come from America. My uncle brought me here this morning, and now I am to stay in Germany."
"Come, Lilian! Where are you staying so long?" cried a man's voice from the road.
Roland saw through the trees an open carriage, and a tall, stately gentleman with snow-white hair.
"I'm coming directly," answered the child; "I have some beautiful flowers."
"Here, take this one from me," said Roland, gathering a full-blown lily of the valley.
The little girl threw down all the flowers which she held, took Roland's, cried, "Good-bye," and ran to the carriage. The man lifted her in as she pointed back to the wood; the carriage rolled away, and Roland stood once more alone.
Whoever could then have looked down from the vault of heaven would have seen a marvel, for at the very moment when the child was talking with Roland, Sonnenkamp stood on the terrace, lost in thoughts which made him shiver in the frosty morning air.
Roland pressed his hand to his brow. Had it really happened, or had he only dreamed? He still heard the roll of the carriage in the distance, and the plucked flowers on the ground bore witness that he was living in the actual world. But had the child really said that she was from America? Why had he not followed her then? Why had he not spoken to the old man? And now no one could tell him who they were, and whither the child had gone.
For a while Roland gazed at the flowers before him, but picked up none of them. Griffin barked at him, as if to say, Yes, and men assert that there are no more miracles! He sniffed round the gathered flowers, then ran off on the track of the child and of the carriage, as if he wished to fulfil his master's desire to detain the people, that he might talk with them. Roland whistled and called him; Griffin came, and Roland reproved him:—
"You don't deserve to have any sausage, you are so unfaithful."
Griffin lay down beseechingly at his feet; he could not explain how good his intention had been.
"Well, now we will go," said Roland. And they took up their march again.
He heard the whistle of a locomotive in the distance, and went in that direction. The wood was soon passed, and the road led again through vineyards. On a side-path Roland saw several women carrying powdered slate, from a great heap, into a newly-planted vineyard. On its border, near a hedge, burned a fire, close to which stood pots, whose contents an old woman was stirring with a dry bough. Roland stopped, and the old woman called out to ask him to join them; he went up to the group, and saw that coffee was boiling. The other women, young and old, came nearer, and there was much jesting and laughter. They turned their baskets up and sat upon them; such a seat was also prepared for Roland, and a sort of cushion placed upon it, as they asked him whether he were not a prince. Roland answered, no; but it flattered him to be taken for a prince in this way; he was very condescending, and knew how to joke with his companions. An old vine-dresser, the director of the work, told Roland, whom he held in some regard as being of the masculine gender, that he drank no coffee: it was a stupid custom, which sent money out of the country to America, never to come back.
Roland was struck by this second mention of America. The whole party listened attentively when he told them that it was not coffee, but sugar, which came from America.
"And our sugar," said the old woman, "has all staid in America, for we haven't any."
The first cup, and the cream off the milk, were given to Roland, with a bit of black bread. He wished to give the people something in payment, but now discovered that he had not his porte-monnaie about him. He knew that he had had it in the inn; the knavish-looking hostler must certainly have stolen it from him. He soon overcame his trouble about the lost money, however, and told the people that, some time or other, he would show kindness to a stranger, in return for what he had received.
He wandered on. He had learned what it was to enjoy the kindness and bounty of poor men, now that he was himself poor and helpless; that was his best experience.
The world is beautiful and men are good, even if a hostler could not resist a well-filled purse. With these cheering thoughts, he went on his way and soon reached the railway-station. Ha had carefully avoided any of the nearer stations, where he was known and might easily be traced; he wished, after making a circuit, to take the cars at a distant point.
Here Roland was accosted, like an old acquaintance, by a man in worn-out clothes, and with one boot and one old slipper on his feet.
"Good-morning, my dear Baron! good-morning!" cried this shabby-looking personage, coming close up to him.
It was doubly disagreeable in this fresh morning, after such a night, to come within the atmosphere of this man so impregnated with brandy, who was excessively confiding in his manner towards Roland. A railway official, in the most polite manner, begged the half-drunken fellow to leave the traveller in peace; he nodded knowingly to Roland from a distance, as if there were some important secret between them. Roland learned that the man belonged to a respected family of the nobility: his relations had wished to help him, and had made him an annual allowance, but it was of no use. Now he was boarding with a baggage-master, and his whole amusement was in the railroad. Every one showed him due respect, because he was a baron, and very much to be pitied.
Roland shrank from the man as if he were a ghost. The excitement of the night, and of all which he had been through, was still affecting him, yet the thought was present to him how strange it was that a half-witted, half-intoxicated man should be so respectfully treated, simply because he was a baron.
Roland succeeded in borrowing money for his journey from the restorator at the station, with whom he left his diamond ring in pawn. He bought a ticket for the university-town, and at last took his seat in the car, where he could not refrain from saying to a fellow-passenger,—
"Ah! it is good that we are off."
His neighbor stared at him; he could not know how happy it made the sorely weary boy, to be carried along towards Eric without any effort of his own.
"Where lies your way, Herr Baron?" asked the neighbor,
Roland named his destination, but looked in surprise at the man who called him Baron; had he become one in the course of the night? At a junction, where a new set of officials took charge of the train, his neighbor, who was leaving it, said to one of them,—
"Attend to the young Baron, who is sitting there."
Roland was pleased to be so called, and a peculiar feeling came over him of the satisfaction one must have in being really a baron; then one would have a lasting title with lasting honors in the world. The thought only passed through his mind, and quickly vanished, as he began directly to imagine Eric's pleasure at seeing him; his face glowed with impatience and longing.
Suddenly a painful thought struck him. Where had he left the dog? He had quite lost or forgotten him. But on rolled the cars through valleys, cuts, and tunnels, and it seemed to Roland a year, since he left his home.
Not far from the university, where the road again divided, some students entered the train. They soon let their fellow-passengers understand that they had performed the great exploit of drinking a May-bowl at their fathers' expense: for anybody could drink native wine. They had also brought some provision into the car, and in their generosity or their ostentation they wanted Roland to drink with them, but he declined with as much modesty as decision.
Twilight had gathered when they reached the university-town.
Roland asked for Doctor Dournay; one of the students, a fine-looking youth who had kept aloof from the noisy party, told him to come with him, as he lived near the widow of the professor. As Roland went with him, a strange fear came upon him: what if he could not find Eric? or if Eric would have nothing more to do with him? How much might have happened since they parted!
With beating heart he ascended the steep, dark, wooden staircase. At the top, the door of a room opened, and at the door stood a woman, who asked,—
"Whom do you wish to see?"
"The Herr Captain Dournay."
"He is away from home."
Roland asked to be allowed to come in and wait, and was led into the sitting-room; the servant maid told him that Eric had gone to the capital, but might possibly return that day. His mother had gone to the grave of a son, of whose death this was the anniversary. The maid went out to light the lamp, and Roland was alone in the room where the twilight shadows gathered; he sat in the corner of a sofa, weary, and his mind full of varied thoughts.
Wonderful! there are so many human dwellings in the world, one can enter them, and all at once one is seated in a strange house.
Outside, in accordance with an old custom, there sounded from the tower a choral, played by trumpets. Roland dreamed of the outer world, no longer conscious where he was, but remembering only that he had once travelled through many countries and towns, and that everywhere in the houses lived men, who led their own lives, of which other people knew nothing.
Eric's mother entered. She stopped at the door, as Roland rose, saying,—
"Good-evening, mother."
Stretching out her arms, the mother cried,—
"In Heaven's name, Hermann—thou?"
"My name is not Hermann. I am Roland."
The mother approached him trembling; just then the aunt came in with a light, and all was explained. Roland said that he had followed Eric, because he wished never to leave him. The mother kissed him, weeping and sobbing.
Steps were heard on the stairs, and Eric entered. Roland had no strength to rise from his seat as Eric exclaimed,—
"You—here!"
Roland could hardly utter the words to explain what he had done. He stared wildly at Eric, who stood before him like a stranger, without even holding out his hand. As soon as Roland had finished speaking, Eric said sternly,—
"If you were my son, I would punish you severely for your self-will, and the anxiety you have caused your family."
"You may punish me, I will not stir. No one in the world could punish me like you; you do not punish like-—-"
The beating of his heart prevented his finishing what he was about to say, and perhaps also an aversion to complaining of his father restrained him. He had forgotten till now what had last incited him to run away, and only remembered the longing for Eric; now he looked around him, as if he saw his father's upraised hand in the air.
The mother took him again into her arms, saying,—
"Your willingness to bear punishment atones for and washes out everything."
"Stay here with my mother," said Eric, sternly; "I will come back directly." He hurried out, and sent a telegram to Herr Sonnenkamp, with the inquiry whether he would come for Roland, or wished to have him brought home.
When Eric returned, he found Roland already asleep on the sofa. He was tired out, and it was with great difficulty that they could awaken him to be put to bed. Eric sat a long time with his mother, talking of the wonderful manner in which fate seemed playing with them.
His mother related how, as she came from the churchyard, the painful thought had oppressed her that even she, his own mother, could not quite recall how Hermann had looked. She could bring his face to mind, because it was preserved in the photograph which hung, in its frame of immortelles, just over her sewing-machine in the bay-window. But Hermann's motions, his gait, his way of throwing back his head with its thick brown hair, of laughing, jesting, and caressing; the sound of his voice, the low, dove-like laugh,—all these had vanished from her—his mother. So she had walked on, with downcast eyes, often stopping, as she tried hard to call up the image of the lost one. So she had come home, and here came to meet her a form like Hermann, and it had cried out to her,—"Good-evening, mother!" in his very tone. She could not tell why she had not fainted, and she spoke now of Roland with the same delight which Eric had felt when he saw him for the first time.
Eric, on his side, told her of the reasons for and against undertaking the school, and then of the Minister's offer. He would there enter a position which his father had not reached, and which would, perhaps, have saved his life. The idea of receiving an appointment by inheritance, and through favor, without any merit of his own, oppressed him somewhat.
His mother soothed both these scruples, which were really one, and quite uncalled for, as he had the right to collect the debt which was due to his father, and still more if it was over due.
Very lightly she touched upon the good fortune of the nobility, in being able to receive what had been stored up by past generations, and to hand it down to future descendants. With a slightly jesting tone she said,—
"Our professor of political economy used to say that capital was accumulated labor; so family standing is nothing but accumulated honor."
There were times, though they were rare, when the mother, from the standpoint of her inherited opinions and habits, saw in many of the sentiments and views of the burgher class an obstinate and perverse independence which she could not approve. In her husband this had rarely and slightly shown itself, but in Eric it was more active; he had that haughty self-reliance which makes a man unwilling to thank any one but himself for his position and power.
She had never repented leaving her own class to marry her husband, she had been too happy for that; but she saw in Eric's position something like a grievous consequence of her own act. Moved by these thoughts, which she never expressed, she said,—
"I can easily understand how you feel drawn to this American; there is the greatest honor in being a self-made man. Let us unite the two plans then. You can bring it about, since the boy is in your hands, that the American shall entrust him to you, and you can at the same time maintain an independent position."
Eric replied that his objection to the situation did not consist simply in his receiving it as a favor; the task of conducting foreign visitors of princely rank through the art-collections was distasteful to him; he did not think that he could conform himself to it.
Suddenly his mother remembered that a letter had come for him, and she gave it to him. It was from Clodwig. The noble man placed at Eric's disposal twice the sum that he had asked for. Eric was made happy by this news, and his mother nodded with hearty assent when he said that the gift rejoiced him, but still more did the assurance that his confidence in men had met with so glorious a confirmation.
Midnight was past, and mother and son still sat together. Eric begged his mother to go to bed and leave him to wait for Sonnenkamp's reply. He sat long alone in the night, thinking over all which had passed, till sleep overcame him.
In the spirits of men, as well as in the history of nations, thoughts and sentiments are formed which are to be brought into action from their own free will, when suddenly there comes an over-mastering fact, which converts the free choice into an inevitable necessity. Thus Eric's entrance into Sonnenkamp's household seemed to have been made an unavoidable necessity by Roland's rash step.
Eric went again, with scarcely audible steps, into the boy's room. So wholly was his spirit turned toward him that the sleeping child moaned, "Eric," but soon, turning over, slept soundly again.
Eric went back to the sitting-room, and then it first occurred to him that there was no night-watch at the telegraph office in Sonnenkamp's neighborhood; the father could not receive the news till morning. Eric also now went to bed.
Everything was late in the house of the professor's wife the next morning; Eric slept longest. When he entered the sitting-room, he found Roland already with his mother, holding a small wooden coffee-mill in his left hand and turning it with his right. This mill was an heir-loom which had belonged to Eric's grandfather, who had been a distinguished anatomist at the university. The mother had already told Roland this, and had shown him all sorts of ancient household furniture, also relics of the times of the Huguenots.
"Ah, how pleasant it is here with you!" cried Roland to Eric, as he entered.
Something of long-established family existence opened upon the young spirit, and, at this morning hour, with the friendly eyes of three people resting upon him, Roland felt very content in the simple, old-fashioned, domestic life.
"I've been through a great deal, but that I should ever be obliged to go through this! If we can only come out of this with a whole skin! This may be called a wanton exposure of one's life—and one has no weapons of defence."
Such were the Major's words, stammered out at intervals, as he held on to a tassel of a first-class railway car, and looked sorrowfully at the dog Laadi lying at his feet, while he was travelling with Herr Sonnenkamp in an extra train. Herr Sonnenkamp appeared to feel a joy in this mad speed.
"In America," he said, "they go three times as fast in an extra train."
He seemed to experience a secret satisfaction in showing the Major that there was a courage wholly different from that of the battle-field, which he possessed and the Major did not. He had accounts to tell of trips made in America on wagers. And when they stopped to take in water, Sonnenkamp took leave of the Major, saying that he was going to ride on the locomotive, for he must try once more how that seemed.
The Major sat with Laadi alone in the only car attached to the locomotive; he stared fixedly out of the window, where trees, mountains, and villages flew by like a whirlwind, and he thanked God that Fräulein Milch knew nothing of his consenting to make such a mad trip with Herr Sonnenkamp on an extra train.
And why is this man in such a hurry? The Major does not understand it. Sometimes he was stingy about a kreuzer, and so very modest that he wished to make no show and to excite no observation, and then again he was very lavish with his money, and did every thing to attract people's attention. The Major did not understand the man. He must certainly have been a locomotive-driver; and what is there that he may not have been!
"Yes, Laadi," exclaimed he, speaking to the dog, "come, lie down by me. Yes, Laadi; neither of us could ever dream of going through this! If we only once do get through it! Yes, Laadi, she will mourn for you too if we are killed."
The dog growled away to himself; he must have been full of wrath also at the fool-hardy Sonnenkamp.
Madder and madder was the speed: down they went over descending grades near the river, and the Major expected every instant that the locomotive would run off the track, and the passenger-car be dashed in pieces and tumbled into the stream. Yes, there came over him such a settled fear, or rather expectation, of immediate death, that he braced his feet against the back of the seat, and thought to himself,—
"Well, death, come! God be praised, I have never harmed anybody in the world, and Fräulein Milch has been cared for, so that she will never suffer need."
Tears wet his closed eyes, and he made a strange face in order to stifle his tears; he was unwilling to die, and then, too, when there was no need of it. He opened his eyes with rage, and doubled up his fists; this extra train is wholly unnecessary; Roland was known to be in good hands. But this man is such a savage!
The Major was very angry with Sonnenkamp, and yet more with himself, for being drawn into any such mad freak. All his heroic mood was gone, he was wholly unreconciled to the position, he had been duped, this was not fit for him. Fräulein Milch is right; he is weak, he cannot say no.
Whenever he looked out he became dizzy. He found a lucky expedient; he placed himself so as to ride backwards. There one sees only what has been gone over, and not what is coming. But neither does this do any good; it is even more terrible than before, for one sees now the bold, short curves which the road makes, and the cars incline on one side as if to plunge over. And now tears actually flow out of the Major's eyes. He thought of the funeral service which the lodge, would perform for him after he was dead; he heard the organ-peal, and the dirges, saying to himself,—
"You eulogize me more than I deserve, but I have been a good brother. The Builder of all the worlds is my witness that I meant to be."
The car rolled on at a more measured speed, and the Major consoled himself with the thought that no accident had ever yet happened on this road. But no, he went on thinking, perhaps one would be safer on a road where some accident has already happened; the people here are too careless, and thou must be the first victim. Which would Fräulein Milch consider the more dangerous, a road which had already experienced mishaps, or one like this, that has now to meet with them for the first time? I must take care to put the question to her. Don't forget it, Laadi, we must ask her. He had now overcome all fear, and he became so free and cheerful that he ridiculed his own apprehensions, thinking that the millionaire on the locomotive had a much greater stake involved, putting his life in peril, and that he would not do it if there were any real danger.
The dog must have scented out the peril of the rapid journey, for she was in a continual tremble, and looked up appealingly to her master.
"Thou art a lady, and thou art afraid," said the Major, addressing her. "Take courage! Thou art not so faint-hearted. Come! so—so—get up into my lap. Clean enough, clean enough," he said, smilingly, as the dog licked his hand.
And from the midst of his anguish, the Major was already pleasing himself with the thought, how, in a few days, in the quiet arbor in his garden, he will tell Fräulein Milch of the imminent peril. He caressed Laadi, and rehearsed to himself the whole story of the impending danger.
They arrived at the station where the road branches off to the university-town. Here they are told that no extra train could be furnished, as there was only one track. They must wait an hour for the next regular train.
Sonnenkamp stormed and scolded over these dawdling Europeans, who did not know how to put a railroad to its proper use; he had arranged, indeed, by telegram for a clear track. But it was of no use. The Major stood at the station, and thanked the Builder of all the worlds that all was so unalterably fixed. He went away from the river, and saluted the cornfields, where the standing corn, in its silent growth, allowed itself to be in no way disturbed out of its orderly repose; he rejoiced to hear, for the first time this season, the whistling of the quail, who has no home in the vineyard region; and he gazed at the larks singing as they flew up to heaven.
A train had come into the station and stopped. The Major heard men's voices singing finely, and he learned that many persons, who were already seated in the cars, were emigrating to America. He saw mothers weeping, fathers beckoning, and while the locomotive was puffing at the station, many village youths stood on the platform together, in a group, and sang farewell songs to their departing comrades. They sang with voices full of emotion, but they kept good time.
"It will rejoice Fräulein Milch when I relate this to her," thought the Major, and he mingled among those who remained behind, giving them words of consolation; he went to the emigrants and exhorted them to continue good Germans in America. In the midst of his weeping, an old man cried:—
"What are you waiting for? make it go ahead!"
The rest scolded the man for his rudeness, but the Major said,—
"Don't take it ill of him, he cannot do differently, he is too miserable." The old man nodded to the Major, and all the rest looked at him in surprise.
In the mean while, the train arrived which was to carry those going on the branch road.
"Herr Major! Herr Major!" shrieked the employés of the road from various quarters. They had great difficulty in bringing the Major over to the other side of the train.
"One might almost envy you, you are such a child; you allow yourself to be distracted by every occurrence on the way, and to be drawn, away from your destination like a child."
"Yes, yes," laughed the Major—he had recovered his broad laugh—"Fräulein Milch often tells me that."
He told Sonnenkamp of the affecting parting of the emigrants and their friends, but Sonnenkamp seemed to have no interest in it. Even when the Major said that the Freemasons had taken all pains to block the game of the kidnappers who cheated the emigrants, even then, Herr Sonnenkamp remained speechless. The Major sat by him in silence.
They reached the university-town. No one was there to receive them, and Sonnenkamp was very indignant.
The family of the professor's wife were at breakfast. Roland drank his coffee out of the cup which had Hermann's name upon it, and Eric said that they must be at the station in an hour, since Herr Sonnenkamp would probably come by the express train: it was not to be supposed that he would come by the accommodation train, which had no connection with the West. Just as Eric was saying this, there was a knock; the Major walked in first, and after him, Sonnenkamp.
"Here is our devil of a boy!" cried the Major. "Here is the deserter himself!"
The awkwardness of the first interview was thus removed. Roland sat immovable upon his chair; Eric went to meet Sonnenkamp: he turned then to the boy, and ordered him to ask his father's forgiveness for what he had done. Roland complied.
The mother prayed Herr Sonnenkamp not to punish the boy for his wilfulness. His father replied, good-humoredly, that, on the contrary, this bold stroke of the boy gave him particular delight; he showed courage, resolution, and self-guidance: he would rather reward him for it. Roland looked at his father in amazement, then grasped his hand and held it fast.
Eric requested his mother and aunt to retire with Roland to the study, and he remained with the Major and Sonnenkamp. Sonnenkamp expressed his satisfaction and gratitude to Eric, who must certainly be familiar with magic, to have so bewitched his son that he could not live apart from him.
"Do you think so?" Eric asked. "I must express to you my astonishment."
"Your astonishment?"
"Yes; I have, I am sorry to say, no talent at all of that sort, but I may be permitted to say that I almost envy those who can accomplish such things."
Sonnenkamp looked inquiringly at Eric, who continued:—
"It is a master-stroke of pedagogical science that you have effected. I see now that you have declined my service in Roland's hearing, in order to induce him to act from his own free-will; this will bring him under my influence as nothing else would be likely to do."
Sonnenkamp looked amazed. Is this man making fun of him? Does he wish to ridicule him, or, by means of this refined policy, to get the better of him still farther? This would be a touch of diplomacy of the highest order. Pranken is probably right, and Eric is a wily trickster under the mask of honest plainness. Well, let it be so. Sonnenkamp whistled to himself in his inaudible way; he would appear not to see through Eric. He let it be understood that he had played a nice game with Roland, and he smiled when the Major cried:—
"Fräulein Milch said so—yes, she understand everybody, and she has said,—Herr Eric, he is the man who sees clear through Herr Sonnenkamp's policy. Yes, yes, that is a whole extra train of smartness."
Sonnenkamp continued smiling deprecatingly and gratefully, but his astonishment was renewed, when Eric now made the declaration,—
"Unfortunately, life itself is so self-willed, that the best-laid logical chain is cut in two; I find myself obliged, on my part, to decline positively your friendly offer."
Sonnenkamp again whistled inaudibly. Another stroke of diplomacy, then! He could not grasp him; the antagonist has enticed his foe out of his stronghold; Sonnenkamp joined battle in the open field. Eric related that he had the offer of acting director in the Cabinet of Antiquities, with the promise of a permanent appointment.
"That's it," nodded the Major to himself, "that's it, screw him, make terms for yourself, as a singer does who is in demand; you can have your own price, they must give you all you ask."
But the Major's look suddenly changed, when Eric continued,—
"From your practical American standpoint you would certainly approve of my refusal, if that were necessary, in order to attain higher conditions, whether internal or external, of my own freedom. But I tell you frankly, that I have no motive for this refusal, except the duty of gratitude towards my patron."
Sonnenkamp answered, assentingly,—
"I am very far from desiring to interfere at all with your plan of life. I regret to be obliged to give it up, but I give it up."
"Yes," interposed the Major, "you give it up, and he declines. That's no go. The youth, what is he going to do? What becomes of him?"
Sonnenkamp and Eric regarded the Major in silence, who uttered the decisive words,—"What becomes of Roland?"
Eric was the first to collect himself, and requested that Sonnenkamp would commit his son to him for a year at the capital; for he himself must acknowledge that he should no longer be happy or at rest, until he could expend his best energies for the boy, in order to establish him in a noble career in life; and that it would be the best plan for Roland also to be brought up in the companionship of others, and he would see to it that he had good companions.
Sonnenkamp pressed his fingers to his lips, and then said,—
"Such a plan cannot be talked of for a moment; my breath is gone, when I know that the child is away from me. I must therefore beseech you, not a word of this."
He now requested the Major to leave him alone with the Captain.
The Major complied at once, and did not take it at all amiss, that Sonnenkamp disposed of him so readily.
And now that they were alone, Sonnenkamp said, rubbing his chin repeatedly,—
"I see clearly the difficulty of consigning Roland to any one but you; I have already dismissed the man who was employed by me. But now, one question. Were you not, voluntarily, employed in the House of Correction?"
"Why do you ask, since the asking tells me that you already know?"
"And do you think that you can now be Roland's preceptor?"
"Why not?"
"Do you think that it will not revolt the boy, or at least deeply wound him, when he shall at some time learn by chance, that he is under a man who has had the management of convicts?"
"Roland will not learn this by chance. I shall tell him myself, and he will have understanding enough to perceive that this is no degradation of my personal worth, but—I say it with all modesty—an exaltation of it. With my own free will, and holding an honorable position, I desired to devote myself to my fallen fellow-men; and I can only regret that I must acknowledge myself to have no talent for this. I am of the conviction that every man, whatever he has done, can become once more pure and noble; I was not able, unfortunately, in that position, to carry out my conviction."
Sonnenkamp listened, with closed eyes; he nodded, and thought that he must say something laudatory to Eric, but he did not seem able to bring it out.
At last he said,—
"I have introduced this matter only to show you that I keep nothing in reserve; we are now, I hope, of one mind. Might I ask you to call the Major, and let me join the ladies?"
The Major came, and when Eric was alone with him, naturally related first of all the terrors of the extra train, and that the clattering was no longer a perceptible beat, but one continued rumble. He knew how to imitate it very exactly, and to give the precise difference of sound when going by the stations, and the mountains, and over the dikes.
Eric could have replied that he was accurately acquainted with the road; he had gone over it a few days before, without speaking a word, engaged in his own meditations, but the Major did not suffer himself to be interrupted; he asserted that no one had ever before so rode, and no one would ever ride so again, so long as Europe had its iron rails, for Sonnenkamp had fired up after the American fashion.
Then he said,—
"I have come to know Herr Sonnenkamp very thoroughly, since his son went away. I have, indeed, no son, and cannot enter completely into his way of expressing himself, but such lamentation, such reproaches against himself, such raving, such cursing,—our hardest corporal is a tender nun in comparison—such words he brought out. It must truly be a fact! In countries where good tobacco grows, and snakes and parrots, Fräulein Milch has said, there the soil of men's hearts is much hotter, and there things grow up, and creatures creep out and fly about, such as we have no sort of idea about. And how Frau Ceres carried on, I'll not speak of.
"But you know who first told where the youth is? Fräulein Milch told it. And do you know what she said? 'If I were a young girl, I would run after Herr Eric too, over mountain and valley.' That is to say, she has said that in all honor; she has never loved any one but me, and we have known each other now for nine and forty years, and that is something. But why do we speak of such things now? we shall have time enough for this by and by. You are right, you are smarter than I thought for; it is shrewd in you not to make terms at once. Now he has come to you, into the house, you can make whatever conditions you want to. In his raving he cried,—A million to him who restores my son to me! You can claim the million, it belongs to you; I am witness of that."
Eric declared that he was irresistibly attracted towards the boy, but that he could not come to terms, for it would be the highest kind of ingratitude if he should decline the position that had been offered to him in such a friendly way, and of which a report had certainly been made, before this time, to the Prince.
In what light would he stand with his patron, and with the Prince, who had, besides, grounds of displeasure with him, if he should now say, "Thank you kindly; I have, in the mean while, made a previous engagement elsewhere"? The Major drummed with the fore and middle fingers of his right hand rapidly upon the table, as if his fingers were drumsticks.
"Bad, very bad," he said. "Yes, yes, fate often takes an extra train too; everything has an extra train now-a-days."
Eric said, in addition, that service to an individual had its difficulty; he might perhaps be able to consent to appear ungrateful, and forfeit forever all favor, but he feared lest, in the dependent servitude to the rich man, he might often be troubled with the thought how much more free he might have been in the service of the State.
The Major continued to drum and drum, repeating the words,—
"Bad—very bad!"
He uttered the words so oddly, that it sounded like a crow, in the freshly-turned furrow, gulping down an earthworm.
While the Major and Eric were sitting together, Sonnenkamp was with the mother in the library; Roland and the aunt, in the recess, had a great book open before them, containing outline drawings of Greek sculpture.
The boy now looked up and cried,—
"Father, only think that Herr Eric must sell this fine library of his father's, and there is not a single leaf here that his father has not written on, and it must go now into the hands of strangers."
"It would be a favor to me," said Sonnenkamp, turning to the aunt, "if you, gracious Fräulein, would take my son out to walk; I have something to say to Frau Dournay."
Roland went away with the aunt.
Sonnenkamp now asked the professor's wife if what Roland had stated were true.
She replied in the affirmative, adding that the danger was over, as Count Wolfsgarten had furnished the required sum of money.
When Sonnenkamp heard the name and the amount, a surprising transformation seemed to take place in him. He said that he allowed no one the privilege of helping Eric in money-matters; he claimed that as exclusively his own. And now, having once begun to be beneficent, a new strength seemed to be unfolded in him; he considered himself very fortunate in being permitted to render assistance to such an excellent family, even if Eric should not remain with him.
The professor's widow could not refrain from confessing that it required great strength of soul to receive favors, and that her family were not accustomed to it. She spoke of her son.
"He is a child in feeling," she said, "without anything false, incapable of any indirection, a strong, steadfast, sincere, manly, and noble character. I ought not, as his mother, to say this, but I can only congratulate you. You can entrust to him that which you value most, as the precious jewel of your life, and I tell you that whoever loves Eric has a heaven in his heart, and whoever does not love him is without a heart."
Sonnenkamp rose, drawing a deep breath; he would have liked to say, How happy was that man who could call this woman mother; but he restrained himself. He stood before the flower-stand, which was artistically arranged, by an invisible contrivance, in a pyramidal shape, and all so well cared for and ordered, that it was a pleasure to behold it. He led the conversation to botany; Eric had informed him that his mother had a knowledge of it, and he was happy to meet in her an associate in his special pursuit—for he considered botany his specialty.
He turned the conversation, aptly and sympathizingly, to the lady's past history. He asked first, whether she would not take pleasure in coming, at some time, to the Rhine.
She replied that she should like much to do so, and that she had a special desire to see once more, before she died, a friend of her youth, the present Superior of the island-convent, and principal of the seminary.
"Are you so intimate with the Superior?" said Sonnenkamp, and something occurred to him which he could not make clear to himself, but he evidently impressed it upon himself to reserve this for further consideration. He smiled in a very friendly manner, when the lady dwelt at length, in a pleasant way, upon the strangeness of life. There sits a lady in her cage, and here another has her nest in a little garden, and they cannot come to each other. The older one becomes, indeed, so much the more enigmatical seem often the interwoven threads of human relations in the world.
She added, gently closing her eyes, that it had seemed so only since the death of her husband, for she had been able to say everything to him, and he had unfolded clearly and harmoniously what seemed to her a confused puzzle.
Sonnenkamp experienced something like a feeling of devotion, as the wife said this.
She made mention now of her life as a lady of the court, and her eyes glistened while speaking of the Princess dowager.
"I had not only the happiness and the honor," she said, "to visit and oversee with her, and yet oftener in her name and by her order, the many various institutions of beneficence of which her highness was the protectress, but I had the yet more important and often more melancholy, though blessed and refreshing duty, to visit those, or to institute inquiries concerning those, who applied to the Princess for assistance, often with heartrending cries for help. The greater part of the letters were entrusted to me, either to bring in a report concerning them, or to answer them. This was a sad, but, as I said before, a blessed and an ennobling service."
While the lady was thus speaking, placing at the same time her delicate, soft hand upon her heart, as if she must repress the overflowing feelings of this recollection, her whole countenance was illuminated by an inexpressible tenderness.
Sonnenkamp rose suddenly, as if some irresistible power had called to him, and there was deep feeling in his voice, as he said,—
"Might I be allowed, noble lady, to offer you a compensation, if you will be induced to live in our neighborhood? I am no prince, but I am, perhaps, as much overrun with begging letters. Our good Major frequently helps me in instituting inquiries. But you, honored lady, could render much more effectual service in this matter; and even if one cannot render assistance in every case, it is always a consolation to the poor to receive at least a friendly answer, and your look is radiant with a mother's blessing."
It was an hour in which Sonnenkamp experienced a blessedness such as he thought himself wholly incapable of receiving, and his fixed purpose was,—
"This must be; here is the starting-point in life which you have so long desired, and all the past is annihilated."
Sonnenkamp had formed an entirely different notion of the professor's widow and her sister-in-law. He saw in Eric's mother a stately lady of fine mind and high-bred manners; she was pale, and this paleness was very much increased by her black cap and her mourning dress.
The aunt seemed to him still handsomer.
It was a peculiar gesture that Sonnenkamp made in the air; it was as if he seized hold of the two ladies: for he mentally transplanted them to his splendid rooms, where they did the honors of the house, adorning his house, and his house adorning them, and when company were present a whist-table was formed, as a matter of course.
Sonnenkamp was obliged to restrain himself from asking the ladies at once whether they played whist, and with the consciousness that he was thinking about it, and with the exertion of self-control necessary to keep it to himself, his countenance assumed a variety of expressions.
During the conversation Roland had left the room, holding the aunt's hand; he now came in with Eric and the Major, holding in his hand a large letter with the seal of the ministry of education.
Roland said,—
"I beseech you, aunt, let me speak."
All were surprised at the appearance of the boy, who now said, holding up the letter,—
"The aunt has confided to me, that here is the decree appointing you to be director for the keeping of the beautiful bronze and marble statues of antiquity. Eric, I am not made of bronze or marble, and when you are there among those figures it will freeze you, and it will also freeze me forever, if you abandon me. Eric, don't do it; don't do it to yourself, or to me. Stay with me, I will stay with thee. I beseech you, Eric, do not leave me; I am not plaster; I am not marble; do not leave me. I beseech thee, Eric, do not forsake me—do not forsake me."
All were thrilled by this scene, and while the boy was speaking thus, the Major said in a low tone,—
"This is no child. What can it be? The lad speaks just as if a holy spirit possessed him!"
Eric went to Roland, raised him in his strong arms, held him high up, and said,—
"Roland, as I hold you now, and you hold me, so hold fast to me with all the strength of your life! We will together grow into something great; here is my hand."
The letter was forgotten. The mother begged to be permitted to open it, and she had hardly run it over, when she cried with a lightened heart,—
"Thank God, Eric, you need not be ungrateful."
The letter contained an expression of regret that the place had been already given to a young man of the nobility, who had shown himself unfitted for a diplomatic post.
Sonnenkamp requested them to let him have the letter; he might perhaps make use of it as a document against Eric's enemies, who charged him with being in ill-favor at court. And now he desired that mother and aunt would remove at once to Villa Eden; but Eric answered positively in the negative. He himself agreed to go, but his mother and aunt could not before the autumn; he must first become initiated, with Roland alone, into the family life.
No one was happier, that everything had turned out so well, than the Major. It was decided to start to-day. The Major promised that he and Fräulein Milch would help the mother and aunt in all the arrangements, when they removed later in the season; nothing else would do, as Fräulein Milch must be consulted in everything. He now requested leave of absence for an hour, to visit friends in the university-town, whom he did not know personally.
After the Major had gone, Sonnenkamp said, in a kindly tone of patronage, that the Major probably had some brother Freemasons to visit. Eric also asked to be excused, as he had yet to take leave of one man.
He went to see Professor Einsiedel. The Professor was always uniformly ready for every friendly call, but as uniformly angry, if, forgetting the hour of his lecture, any one came during the half hour previous; he could be very angry. His anger consisted in saying,—
"But, dear friend! how could you forget this? You must surely know that I have a lecture at two o'clock, and can now see no one. No, I must beg you very earnestly—very—very—very earnestly beg you to note my lecture-hour."
And while saying this, he pressed one's hand with great good-nature.
When Eric said that it would be of no service for him to note this for the future, as he was going to leave town to-day, Einsiedel requested to be informed of the hour when the train left; perhaps he would then meet him, but he would not make a definite promise, for if he did, it would disturb him in the delivery of his lecture.
Eric left him. The Professor went with him to the door, took off his black cap, and excused himself for not accompanying him down the steps, "I beg earnestly—very—I lecture at two," he turned back into his study. Eric was sure that the Professor would see him again.
The whole town lifted up their eyes, as the six persons were going to the station. Sonnenkamp escorted Frau Dournay, the Major the aunt, and Eric held Roland by the hand. They had to wait for the train to come in. Suddenly Professor Einsiedel made his appearance; and it was a great deal for the slender little man to do, as it interrupted the regular order of the day.
Eric introduced the Major and Sonnenkamp. Sonnenkamp had no special word to say to him, and the Major, notwithstanding his kind feelings towards everybody, could not find just the right friendly expressions with which to address this delicate, feeble-looking person, when Eric introduced him as his teacher and master. Roland, on the contrary, with hearty pleasure seized the hand of the little man, soft as a child's, and said,—
"Do you know how you seem to me? You are my grand-teacher; for Herr Eric is my teacher, and you are his teacher, and so you are my grand-teacher; and if you want a dog, I will send a dog to you."
Professor Einsiedel quoted some Greek words out of Plato to Eric, which expressed the joy one feels in a beautiful animated youth; then he patted the boy on the shoulder, thanked him for the offer of the dog, and said that as he did not like to bid goodbye in the rush, he would now bid them farewell before the train arrived. He considered that those who were waiting at the station had already started on their journey, and taking Eric aside, he said in a voice trembling with emotion,—
"You are well enough off, and you must also marry, for the apostle Paul says, 'Whoever careth for the things that are of the world ought to marry.'" He requested him to write more particularly concerning Clodwig's antiquities, then shook him by the hand. Roland also extended his hand to the professor.
Eric looked after the little man going away, who was in his eyes a walking temple of the spirit of wisdom; and the good little man rubbed his tender hand on his coat, for Roland had pressed it a little too hard.
The train came thundering in. The leave-taking was hurried. Roland kissed repeatedly the mother and aunt, and Sonnenkamp kissed the mother's hand.
His mother said in a low tone to Eric on taking leave,—
"You are forsaking me. I am at rest, I know you are not forsaking yourself, and so you are still with me. Go, then; hold thyself within thyself, and me in thee, and it will be well with thee, and well with me."
In the railway-car the Major bent towards Eric and whispered,—
"I have learned something about your father."
"What is it?"
"Something good for you and for me. Your father, who has gone to the eternal home, belonged to our brotherhood. It is your right to claim assistance, and my duty to give it. I only beg that you will never thank me; we are not allowed to thank one another."
At the first station the Major took Eric aside, and asked him whether he had made a positive agreement as to salary, indemnification at dismissal, and pension after the completion of the tutorship. Eric treated the subject with indifference, and the Major gave him to understand that he had full power to grant all his demands. He advised Eric to strike now while the iron was hot. But Eric not seeming at all disposed to take up with the advice, the Major desisted, murmuring to himself,—
"Here now, Fräulein Milch is always saying that I am not practical; and here now is a man who is so learned, and can turn himself round and face about seven times before I can get up on my feet, and he is ever so much less practical than I am." The Major was almost delighted that Eric was so unpractical; he could tell Fräulein Milch all about it.
On the way the diamond ring was redeemed, and Eric said to Roland,—
"Let your father take the ring; I would prefer that you would not wear a ring for the future."
Roland gave the ring to his father, and the Major said, humming to himself,—
"He has him! He has him by bit and curb."
It was evening when they drove by the small vine-covered house. Roland pointed out the house to Eric with glistening eyes, but uttered no word. They drove into the grounds of Villa Eden, where the air was laden with the fragrance of roses, for all the roses in Sonnenkamp's garden were in fresh bloom.
"We have it," cried the architect from the castle to the Major, as he was getting out.
"Have what?"
"We have found the castle-spring."
"And we havehim," cried the Major, pointing to Eric.
And from this day, the Major began many of his stories with the words,—
"At the time I rode with Herr Sonnenkamp in the extra train."