The fireworks were still crackling and snapping in their ears, the dazzling lights still gleaming in their eyes, and the music of the band still sounding in their recollection, when they were obliged to make ready for appearance at court, as witnesses in the affair of the burglary.
Pranken remained with the guests at the Villa, having undertaken to show them the recently purchased country-house.
Sonnenkamp, Roland, and Eric, and also the porter, the coachman, Bertram, the head-gardener, the little "Squirrel," and two gardeners repaired to the county town to attend the trial. They went by the house of the Wine-count, now styled Baron von Endlich, where the remnants of fireworks were still visible, scattered here and there; the house was yet shut up, the family still sleeping their first sleep as members of the nobility.
Eric spoke of the beautiful and genuinely pious conduct of the priest towards the prisoners. He was a living example of the grand doctrine that religion required one to interest himself in the stumbling and the unfortunate, whether they were guilty or innocent. The Doctor, on the other hand, maintained in a very droll fashion that it was an extremely beneficial thing for the Ranger to pass, once in his life, several weeks within walls and under a roof.
There was little else said; they reached the county town in good season.
Sonnenkamp went to the telegraph office, in order to send some messages, one of which was directed to the University-town for the widow of the Professor.
"At that time—does it not seem to you as if it were ten years ago?—at that time it was very different from to-day. Don't you think that there were villains also among the singers, perhaps worse ones than those in prison yonder?"
It pained Eric grievously that Roland must be initiated so early into the bitterness and the dissensions of life. They went together to the court-house.
The president and the judges occupied a raised platform; on the right sat the jury, and on the left, the accused and their counsel; the room was full of spectators, for there was a general curiosity to hear the mysterious Herr Sonnenkamp speak in public, and no one knew what might be picked up in the way of information.
The dwarf, the groom, and the huntsman sat on the criminals' seat. The dwarf took snuff very zealously, the groom looked around imploringly, and Claus held his hands before his eyes.
The dwarf looked as if he had had good keeping, and thriven under it; he gazed around the ball with an almost satisfied bearing, as if he felt flattered that so many people concerned themselves about him. The groom, whose hair had been very nicely dressed, regarded the crowd with a contemptuous glance.
Claus seemed to have pined away considerably, and when the dwarf wanted to whisper something to him, as he sat there at a little distance from his fellow defendants, he turned away displeased. He looked up to the space occupied by the spectators, and saw among them his wife, two of his sons, and his daughter; but the cooper was not present. The children appeared to have grown since he had last seen them, and they were dressed in their Sunday-clothes, in order to witness the disgrace—no, it must simply be the honor of their father.
The huntsman moved restlessly on the seat, and spoke to his wife with his lips, uttering no sound. He meant to tell her to be undisturbed, as in a couple of hours they would go home together.
Sonnenkamp, Eric, and Roland were in the witnesses' seat.
Roland sat between his father and Eric, to whom he clung as if he were afraid. Knopf sat next to Eric, and nodded to Roland.
"Before the law the testimony of all men is equal," said Roland in a low voice to Eric, who knew what was passing in Roland's mind.
His pride was a little touched that the testimony of the porter would be of as much account as that of his father, but he had quickly overcome the feeling.
The indictments were read. It had been found, on further investigation, that one compartment of the closet built into the wall, separate from the great safe, had been opened with a key and then closed again; a considerable sum of money had been taken from it, the greater part of which was found in the groom's possession.
At his own request, Sonnenkamp was summoned first, to identify the stolen property.
Roland straightened himself up, when he heard his father give his testimony in so plain and gentle a manner.
Sonnenkamp expressed regret that people should meet with misfortune, but justice must have its course.
He was dismissed. He had already made his bow, and was about to leave the courtroom, when the counsel of the accused groom asked the President whether he intended to let Herr Sonnenkamp off from testifying as to the amount of gold and valuable papers in the closet; if Herr Sonnenkamp did not know this, he could not tell exactly how much had been stolen from him in the part that had been broken into.
The whole assembly was breathless. Now it would be seen what was the amount of Sonnenkamp's wealth, reputed so immeasurable. A perfect silence prevailed for a time; it was broken by Sonnenkamp's asking whether the court could oblige him to testify on his conscience as to the sum, or whether he could reply, or not, as he saw fit. The President said, that he must express the opinion, that the amount of what was stolen was certainly of great importance in reference to the sentence to be imposed upon the accused.
Again there was a pause. Sonnenkamp unbuttoned his coat, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and taking out a little memorandum-book, he approached the judge's seat, and offered it to him, saying:—
"Here is an exact inventory of the notes payable to bearer, of those payable to my order, and of the sum in specie."
When half way up the steps of the platform where the president and the judges sat, Sonnenkamp stopped, for the defendant's counsel now cried:—
"We have an open court, entirely open, and there is nothing which the Herr President is to know, and we to be ignorant of."
"Well then," said Sonnenkamp, turning round, "it shall be told openly: Twelve millions of paper payable to the bearer, three millions to my order, and only two hundred thousand in gold coin. Is that satisfactory?"
A bravo was uttered by the spectators, and the President was obliged to threaten them with clearing the hall, if it were repeated.
Sonnenkamp descended; he had desired to leave the court-room at once, but now he seemed otherwise determined, for he took a seat again on the witnesses' bench. Roland cast down his eyes, and tremblingly seized hold of Eric's hand, which he held firmly. There was a low talking among the crowd, a movement this way and that, so that the President was obliged to command quiet by violently ringing his bell; and Sonnenkamp left the hall.
The head-gardener gave his testimony, which was scarcely listened to. When Eric was summoned, there was again silent attention.
Eric narrated the whole story, and the huntsman's uniform expressions of bitterness at the difference between the rich and the poor, but protested that he regarded the man as incapable of committing any crime against society.
A strange whispering pervaded the whole assembly when Eric narrated the inquiry of Claus: What would you do, if you were the possessor of millions? The question had now, in a manner, gone forth to the whole world.
Knopf was summoned. He offered first a written testimony of the old Herr Weidmann, with whom the huntsman had lived several years as a servant, who testified to his uprightness, his incapability of any deceit, much less any positive crime. Then Knopf added from his own knowledge, how the huntsman was always racking his brains over many matters which he could not master.
Roland was summoned, and advanced with an erect attitude to the witness-stand; Claus nodded to him.
Roland could not be sworn, as he was a minor; but it made a good impression when he said in an unembarrassed voice, that he considered his word as good as an oath.
He identified the articles that had been stolen from him; he asserted that his father's rooms had been locked, but he should not be willing to swear to that, as he had not been near those rooms for several days before the burglary. And now, without being asked, he expressed his conviction that Claus could have had no participation in the crime.
The huntsman got up at these words, and the forester, who sat behind him, obliged him to sit down again, putting his hand upon his shoulder.
The evidence against Claus seemed to be only as the receiver of stolen goods. The two others could make no defence, and each sought to lay upon the other the guilt of the burglary.
Eric was recalled, in order to testify more in detail concerning the huntsman's request to be shown all over the house, a few days before the robbery. When Eric had sat down, Roland got up and asked:—
"Herr President, may I be permitted to say one word more?"
"Speak," replied the President encouragingly; "say all that you wish to."
Roland stepped forward quickly, with head erect, and said, in a voice that had now a full, manly tone,—
"I here raise my hand in testimony, that my poor brother here is as innocent as he is poor. It is true he has often complained that one man should starve while another gormandizes; but before God and man I declare that he has often said to me: The hand must wither that grasps unjust possessions. Can a man do that, and then go away by night and break into another's house, and rob? I beseech you, I conjure you earnestly, to declare that this man is as innocent as all of you are; as innocent as I am!" He ceased, standing as if he were rooted to the spot, and for a while there was a breathless stillness in the assembly.
"Have you any thing more to say?" asked the President. Roland seemed now to wake up, and said,—
"No, nothing more. I thank you." He returned to Eric, who grasped his hand; it was cold as ice, and he warmed it in his own. On the other side, Knopf also tried to grasp the hand of his former pupil, but he could not, for he was obliged to take off his spectacles, which had become wet from the great tears rolling from his eyes.
The proceedings were brief. The Headmaster was one of the jury, who now withdrew into their room for consultation. After a short absence they returned, and the head-master, who had been chosen foreman, laying his hand upon his heart, announced the unanimous verdict:—
The dwarf and the groom, guilty; the huntsman, not guilty.
Outside, in front of the court-house, as his wife and children,—the cooper among them now,—crowded round Claus, Roland pressed up to him and seized his hand.
The huntsman turned from them all, saying that he must speak to young Weidmann, who had been one of the jury; the young man came up just then, and Claus cried out to him, with a great flow of words, that he must tell his father that all his troubles were wiped out, since every one had heard what Herr Weidmann thought of him.
Young Weidmann went to Eric and congratulated him on having formed such a pupil; others came also to offer congratulations and shake hands. Eric begged young Weidmann to remember him to his father, and say that he should soon pay the promised visit to Mattenheim.
Knopf stood in the midst of a group of people, begging them not to spoil the boy with their praises; and, in his effort to keep others back, he refrained from going himself to shake hands with Roland.
Sonnenkamp appeared, and all took off their hats to him respectfully. Here was the man possessed of such incredible wealth, and he wore a coat like other people, and had to stand on his own feet. Sonnenkamp seemed a prodigy to them all. How was it possible for a man to possess such wealth? But there were some knowing scoffers who declared that Herr Sonnenkamp had overstated his property, and others, still more knowing, who were willing to swear that he was even richer than he had said, but they were hardly noticed. Sonnenkamp, greeting all around in a most friendly manner, went to Claus to congratulate him, and then called Roland aside. Roland stood before his father for the first since he had learned his great wealth; his eyes fell; looking up to him seemed like looking up to a high mountain, but Sonnenkamp laid his hand kindly on his shoulder, and told him that he might drive home alone with Eric, as he was himself obliged to remain in town to wait for a telegram.
Roland begged Claus and his family most pressingly to ride home with him; the huntsman refused, but Roland urged it so warmly that he at last yielded, and entered the carriage with his wife, leaving the children to walk. Roland took the released prisoner in triumph through the town and villages; the wife was embarrassed at riding in such state, but Claus himself looked round without constraint, only saying several times:—
"All has gone on very well without me, and will do very well, when I am across the ocean."
To Eric he expressed his determination of emigrating to America with his family.
The same sun that shone at Wolfsgarten, where Bella was maintaining a severe internal struggle, and that shone through the lowered green shades in the court-room upon the bench of the accused, glimmered also through the closed Venetian blinds in the quiet sitting-room of the Professor's widow in the University-town. Eric's mother sat by the window filled with flowers, in the piano recess, at her silent work, thinking of her son; it was a subject of constant thought with her, why he had to enter upon a mode of life so out of the ordinary course.
She often looked up sadly to the portrait of her husband, which seemed to say to her: My child, both of us entered upon a path in life out of the ordinary course, thou even more than I: and that is transmitted as an inheritance from generation to generation; we ought to rest content, as thereby we keep a firmer hold upon the spirit of our son, and though he may be thrown down to the ground by fortune, he can never be held there permanently.
So did the mother console herself; and Eric's letters were also a source of consolation. He had made a faithful report to her, then he excused himself for the irregularity and haste of his letters, on the ground that he must forget, for a time, himself and everybody else who belonged to him, as only in this way could he hope to gain possession of another soul. At first he mentioned Clodwig and Bella frequently,—his home feeling with these friends, and the happy realization of a state of tranquillity; then, for a while, there was nothing said of Bella, except sometimes a brief greeting from her at her request. The mother had not noticed this, but aunt Claudine, who seldom said any thing unless her opinion was asked, and then had something to say very much to the purpose, did not hesitate to remark unreservedly, after Clodwig's and Bella's visit, on being asked what impression it had left, that she had noticed a certain restlessness in Bella's look, and she feared from the manner in which she had looked at a likeness of Eric, taken when he was young, that there was here a more than common interest. The mother was forced to assent to this, for she had also noticed how deeply interested Bella had been in making inquiries concerning Eric's youthful years. But she said further to her sister-in-law that Bella was an artist, at least was more than a common dilettante, and had observed with the eye of an artist the picture, that was exceedingly well painted; a considerable sum had already been offered for it in order to be put into an art-collection.
There was stillness in the abode of the two ladies, who lived almost as quietly as the flowers which throve so well under their watchfulness and care. The postman, brought a letter in Clodwig's neat handwriting, in every word of which the man himself could be discerned, so neat and regular were the letters, with no stroke hastily made, and none too elaborately precise; the whole had an appearance of uniformity, and the lines were straight and at an equal distance apart, though the paper was unruled. A feeling of pleasure was awakened by the mere sight of the letter, and the contents were such as to strengthen this quiet satisfaction. He said that the Professor's widow would lay him under an obligation of gratitude by accepting an invitation to make a visit of several weeks. He appealed to the friendly relations with her deceased husband, and the beautiful renewal of them in his intercourse with Eric, who gave to him a youthful friendship such as he had scarcely dreamed of. Lastly, he appealed to their mutual personal acquaintance, and there was a written smile when he added, that, during his whole life, he had never made a demand upon the heart which had not met with a response, and he prayed her now not to shame him in his old age. He closed by saying that he entreated the mother of his friend Eric to permit him to call himself "her friend Clodwig." There was no formal politeness in the letter, and yet it was full of a delicate friendliness.
Bella had hastily scratched underneath, in a coarse hand, a request that the mother and aunt would honor her with a visit; she said that she wrote only a few words, as she felt sure that she should be favored with the intimate intercourse of the respected mother and the amiable aunt. In a postscript she besought them to bring with them Eric's music.
In the letter there was enclosed a second one from the Doctor, who claimed to have been a scholar of the old Professor. He offered good-humoredly his professional services, and there was only one brief sentence in which he suggested that it would be a protection and a safeguard to his young friend Eric, to be again under the eye of his mother.
This awakened in her many thoughts, and she resolved to accept the invitation. Sonnenkamp's telegram was delivered.
Just as she had finished reading this, there was another knock, and the Major entered.
When the mother saw him, at first she was frightened, not recognizing him, as she looked at the red face, the short, white hair, and the decoration on his breast. For a moment it seemed to her that he was some messenger of justice, who had come to execute some commission or other, she knew not what, that endangered Eric's welfare.
The Major did not mend matters at all, when he said,—
"Frau Professorin, I come to execute a warrant of ejection; but I am not indeed to drive you out of Paradise, but to shut you up in the Garden of Eden."
He had been making up this pretty speech during the whole journey, and he had said it over inaudibly to himself certainly a hundred times: and now it came out so clumsily, that the good lady trembled so that she could not rise.
The Major cried:—
"Don't get up; everybody knows that there's no ceremony at all to be made with me. I don't desire to incommode any one; I greatly prefer that people would sit when I enter. Isn't it the same with you? One feels sure in this case that he doesn't make any disturbance."
"Have you come from my son?"
"Yes, from him too. Observe, I'm not one of the best people in the world, neither am I one of the worst; but there's one thing I can say to my credit, that I have never in all my life envied anybody but you, and you I did envy when you said, 'my son;' that I did envy you for. Why can't I say this too? If I only had such a son as you have!"
Now there was tranquillity at last. The Major delivered a letter from Sonnenkamp and the Cabinetsräthin, and desired that the letters should be read immediately, as they would render it unnecessary for him to say anything.
The Professorin read, and the Major watched her countenance while she was reading, with peculiar marks of quiet satisfaction.
The Professorin bade him welcome, and called her sister-in-law, who came in.
The blinds were opened, and the instreaming light shone upon cheerful faces.
"What shall we decide upon doing?" asked Aunt Claudine.
"There is no longer any question of deciding; we accept the hearty invitation."
"Which?"
"Of course Herr Sonnenkamp's."
"That's right," said the Major with a broad smile. "Will you allow me to light a cigar? Did your husband, now gone to his eternal home, smoke too?"
"Yes, indeed."
Aunt Claudine had quickly lighted a match, and held it up to the Major with her delicate fingers.
"That's fair! that's fair!" cried the Major. "You've given me fire, and I promise to go through fire for you."
He was very happy over this turn, and he puffed away yet happier.
There were, of course, a great many things to be got ready, before they could set out. The Major promised that Joseph should come and bring everything away after they had departed; not one thread should be left behind. He then withdrew for a few hours, in order to pay a visit to some brother free-masons.
At midday, the Major was riding with the two ladies in a first-class railroad car towards the Rhine, and he was as proud and as happy as if he had carried off the army-chest of the enemy.
Claus and his wife were in the same carriage with Eric and Roland. When Claus reached the line where his beat began, he asked them to stop, and got out.
"No, I go in no carriage here," he said. "And look here at my hands; my hands have been hand-cuffed. What now are they to do? Are they to avenge themselves? On whom? And if I should know on whom, what then?"
He took up a clod of earth, raised it up towards heaven, and cried:—
"By thee I swear that I will emigrate. The New World must give me some land of my own; I have long enough looked after the land of other people in the old."
Eric and Roland also got out, and went with the couple into their house. Then a sudden call was heard from the vineyard, and Sevenpiper came from it with the halberd which Claus had always carried as the badge of his office as field-guard. He handed it over to Claus, saying,—
"Take this now again; I have kept it faithfully for you."
He joined the escort of the couple to their home. The dogs barked in the yard, and the birds flitted here and there, and twittered all together, for their master had come back. But the black-bird sang louder than all, caroling, Rejoice in your life; but she stuck fast at the second bar. The field-guard gazed round upon all, as if he had just waked up. At last there was a calm, and the whole family sat round the table, and ate the first new potatoes which a neighbor had boiled for them. Never had Roland eaten any food which had such a relish, and all laughed when he said,—
"Claus, these potatoes originated there where you are going and where I came from; they were born in America, and we have immigrated hither."
They had a pleasant time together, and Roland presented the stolen watch which had been restored to him to Claus, as a lasting token of remembrance. He was not willing to take it, not even when Eric and Sevenpiper joined in the request.
"Just take it, father," finally said the cooper, and Claus yielded.
Sevenpiper led the talk to-day. He made fun of the field-guard for being a great deal too uneasy; and for continually worrying how people got to be so rich, which was wholly needless. A man might, indeed, be empty, but one couldn't eat more than his fill, or do more than quench his thirst; and the rich man couldn't get any more out of sleep than to sleep sound, and sleeping sound didn't depend upon the bed in which one slept, but it was just sleeping sound; and to ride in one's coach was pure nonsense; it was much better to go upon one's own good walking-sticks.
There was also some mention made of the dwarf, and Sevenpiper said,—
"Yes; if any one wants to visit the grave of this mannikin, he will have to carry a ladder along with him."
"What for?" asked Roland.
"Because he will be hanged."
Claus did not like to have them talk of bad people.
Sevenpiper was a good representative of "blessed be nothing." He had sent a child to his house, and just as some bottles of wine arrived which Fräulein Milch had sent, there was heard singing at the entrance of the house. The whole organ was there with all its stops, and soon Eric and Sevenpiper were singing too.
At last Eric insisted that they must be on their way home; and as they were turning from the village path into the road, a carriage drove up, from which signals were made, and the powerful voice of the Major cried:—
"Battalion, halt!"
They halted; in the carriage with the Major were the mother and the aunt.
"This is the only thing which I had yet to wish for," said Roland. "Herr Major, Claus has been released; he is innocent."
The mother embraced her son after she had first embraced Roland. They got out, and Eric walked to the villa arm-in-arm with his mother, who held Roland by the hand on the other side. The Major politely offered his arm to the aunt, but she declined, excusing herself by saying that it was a peculiarity of hers never to take any one's arm.
"That's really the better way; Fräulein Milch thinks so too. You'll get acquainted with her; you'll be good friends with one another, you may rely upon that. She knew every thing—every single thing. It's incomprehensible how she picked it all up. She knew that Count Clodwig had sent you an invitation. But we know a stratagem or two; we've been beforehand with him. 'He whom fortune favors leads home the bride,' as the saying is."
Music was heard in the distance, and the Major informed them that it was a part of the wedding celebration at Herr von Endlich's.
"O mother, if I am ever again desponding and low-spirited, I will call to mind this hour, and be again happy!" The mother could not speak; her heart was too full.
There was a very friendly welcome at the villa. The Cabinetsräthin embraced and kissed the Professorin; Frau Ceres sent an excuse for not appearing. Sonnenkamp came after nightfall.
The moon shone brightly when Eric and Roland escorted the mother and the aunt to the vine-embowered dwelling. And as she stood here upon the balcony, Eric's mother took his hand again, quietly, and said,—
"If thy father could see thee, he would rejoice in thee; thou hast still thy pure and good glance; yes, all is well, thou hast the old pure glance."
"My mother is here!"
A dewy atmosphere of inexhaustible freshness encompassed Eric; he heard the voice of a child awakening from a dream, and yet it was he himself who had spoken. He closed his eyes, and went back in thought to the days of childhood; all that had since excited and oppressed his spirit was torn into fragments, and had sunk out of sight.
"My mother is here!"
This was now a call of duty. Eric stood by Roland's bedside; it was never necessary for him to speak in order to waken him, for as soon as he looked directly upon him, Roland waked up. Now he opened his eyes, and his first words were:—
"Thy mother is here!"
Eric heard these same words, now spoken by another, which he had heard in his own dreamy reverie, and, placing his hand upon the brow of the youth, he regarded him with a mingled feeling of joy and sorrow. Why has this poor rich boy not the blessedness of a mother's love?
The new day received its consecration, for Eric and Roland began it by going to give a greeting to the mother.
As they were walking along the river, Roland shouted across it:—
"Father Rhine! Eric's mother is here!"
Eric smiled; the youth's face was all a-glow.
They went to the mother as to a temple, and they came away from her as from a temple, for this gentle, peaceful spirit conveyed a benediction in every word, in every movement of the hand, in every glance of the eye; and she it was who appealed to the sanctity of established rule, and the persistent continuance in duty, for she said to them that she should regard it as the most perfect proof of love and loyal attachment, if they would go on with their work to-day just as they did yesterday; in every situation in life, whether in tribulation or in gladness, the appointed duty must be performed.
They were again seated at their work, and they read together, to-day, the return of Ulysses to Ithaca. Eric was somewhat absent, for everything took the hue of the feeling that he was with his mother; he overcame this,—he would be wholly engaged in what was before him, but he caught himself unexpectedly drawn away in this direction as he looked at Roland. "Ah! why can you not have the same feeling? The best refreshment and blessing for a human being is the mother's love. Every other love must be sued for, be obtained by conquest, be earned, be struggled for through obstacles; a mother's love alone one has always unsought and undeserved."
Now Bella came again into his mind. Eric hoped to have annihilated everything in himself that was false to human nature and to purity, and summoning up a greater, strength than ever, a strength obtained by hard wrestling, he devoted himself to the work of instruction, and succeeded in projecting himself and the youth into the life of another, so that they forgot everything immediately around them.
At noon, the realization of the mother's presence came to them as a fresh gift. They were in the garden together; Frau Ceres was not visible, and she begged, through Fräulein Perini, to be excused. Sonnenkamp smiled, for he knew that it had never occurred to Frau Ceres to send an excuse, and that Fräulein Perini had done it of her own accord; and it was well for her to do so, he thought, for the refractory disposition of his wife led her to turn away from the guests intruding upon her privacy and her strong point was in declining; she allowed nothing to approach her. Fräulein Perini manifestly took very great pains to render herself as agreeable as possible to the Professor's widow, and was grateful as a child when she was shown how to execute a new piece of handiwork.
The Cabinetsräthin served as a very excellent means of bringing them together. There was something exceedingly captivating in the way in which she so very modestly placed herself as the inferior of the Professorin, giving to her the position of honor which she might perhaps have attained as a right, but which was now conceded to her by sovereign grace; for the Cabinetsräthin repeatedly said, that the Professorin had been the first lady at the court in her day, and that even now, if the court circle wanted to specify any exalted excellence, they pointed to her. She found herself, at first, put under some degree of constraint by being placed upon such an elevated pinnacle, but she was grateful to the illustrious lady for her evident endeavor to convert her condition of dependence and poverty into one which was regarded with respectful homage.
Fräulein Perini herself was subdued by this character so calmly dignified, this countenance so placid and open, so beaming with youthful brightness, so benignantly radiant that nothing unworthy or impure could approach; and in this countenance the heart manifested itself, always young, full of the inspiration that had been awakened by the ideal life of her husband, and that was now called forth by the presence of her son. She said the simplest things with such charming grace, that they appeared to be of great importance, and with such freshness, that it seemed as if this were the first time they had ever been known.
While they were together at noon, a letter came from Bella. She sent a welcome to the Professor's widow, and appointed the next day for a visit.
Frau Dournay wished to send back an answer by the messenger, but he had been immediately sent off, no one knew why. It was Sonnenkamp who had given the order, and when she despatched her letter through a messenger attached to the house, it strayed first into Sonnenkamp's cabinet, who understood how to open it very dexterously, and who read with great satisfaction the reply which was no less decided than it was delicate in expression. Sonnenkamp smiled as he read where the lady laid stress upon the fact that she was the guest of the family, received as such in the kindest manner, and begged that the promised visit might be made to them, and to herself as their visitor.
Sonnenkamp smiled again and again, for he confidently expected that the Professor's widow would compel the whole neighborhood to accept himself, finally, as a member, in full standing, of their social body.
Sonnenkamp went from his cabinet to the room of Frau Ceres; she sent word to him in the ante-chamber by a maid, that she desired to see no one. Paying no attention to the message, he went in and found her lying on the sofa, with the curtains drawn, so that in the large room there was a dusky twilight. Frau Ceres looked at him with her large dark eyes, but spoke not a word, only extending to him her delicate, small hand with long finger-nails. He kissed the hand, and then seated himself by the side of his wife.
There was silence for sometime, and then he began to explain to her that a nearer approach was to be made to the accomplishment of his plan through the guest now in the house, for this lady's hand would open the folding-doors of the apartments of the princely palace.
At the mention of the palace, Frau Ceres raised herself a little; her restless look showed how she was stirred by hope; for, beyond the sea, and in all his devious wanderings, Sonnenkamp had always held before his wife this idea, like some bright fairy-tale, that she would be able to enter into the court-circle, and it seemed to her as if she were to be introduced into some heavenly sphere, where everything was resplendent and glorious, a perpetual round of godlike existence. Such was the idea Frau Ceres had entertained of court-life. She was aware now that this was an exaggerated notion, but, wherever she went, she heard of this good fortune, and saw that every one was striving towards the court-circle, and she was angry with her husband, that his promises made so often and so long ago had never been fulfilled. They came to Europe; they had retired into seclusion, where people said everything was so beautiful, but whence she was continually expecting to be summoned to Court.
Why is there so long delay? Why are people so distant? Even Bella, the only one who exhibited any friendliness, treated her like a parrot, like some strange bird whose bright plumage she was amused with, but with whom she had nothing more to do than from time to time to give it a lump of sugar, and address to it some casual, pretty word. Even the recollection of her having surpassed all others in splendor at the fête of Herr von Endlich was only half satisfactory to Frau Ceres.
In the midst of all her apparent listlessness and want of interest in external things, she was continually harping upon one thought, and this thought had been instilled into her by Sonnenkamp; but it had become stronger than he desired, taking exclusive possession of her being.
He understood how to represent in a very plausible way, that the Professorin—to whom the Cabinetsräthin herself looked up, because she had been the favorite and most influential lady of the Court, even the friend and confidante of the Princess-dowager—that this lady would give to the whole family a new splendor, and surely be the means of their attaining the desired end.
Sonnenkamp succeeded in impressing her so deeply with his sagacity, that Frau Ceres at last yielded, saying,—
"You are, in fact, very wise. I will speak to the tutor's mother."
He now proceeded to give some instructions, how she should bear herself towards her, but, like a spoiled child,—even almost like an irrational animal, Frau Ceres shrieked out, clapped her hands, stamped her feet, crying,—
"I won't have any instructions! not a word more! Bring the lady to me!"
Sonnenkamp went to the Widow, deeply moved and troubled; he wanted to give to her some directions in regard to her interview with his wife, but was afraid of every hint, and only said,—
"My dear little wife has been a little spoiled, and is very nervous."
Eric's mother visited Frau Ceres, and found her lying quietly upon the sofa; she had sense enough to know that the less demonstrative one is, the more effect does one produce upon others.
When the visitor on entering made a very graceful courtesy, Frau Ceres suddenly forgot everything, and before a word could be said, she cried,—
"You must teach me that! I would like to courtesy in that way. Is not that the way they do at Court?"
The visitor knew not what to reply. Is this something worse than a nervous person,—is she insane? She retained self-command enough, however, to say:—
"I can very well conceive that our forms must be rather strange to you, in your free Republic; I think that it is better at the first interview to shake hands."
She extended her hand, which Frau Ceres took, and rose as if forgetting herself.
"You are ill, I will not disturb you any longer," said the Professor's widow.
Frau Ceres considered it would be better to pass for a sick person, and said,—
"Ah, yes! I am always ill. But I beseech you, remain."
And when the Mother now addressed her, the sound of her voice, its tones of deep feeling, made such an impression upon her excitable nature, that she closed her eyes, and when she opened them, great tear-drops stood upon her long lashes.
The Mother expressed her regret that she had made her shed tears, but Frau Ceres shook her head violently.
"No, no, I thank you. I have not been able to weep for years—these tears have lain here—here." She struck her bosom with violence. "I thank you."
The Mother wanted now to withdraw, but Frau Ceres rose up quickly, went up to her as she stood there struck with astonishment, and shrinking as if from a crazy person, fell on her knees before her, and kissed her hand, crying,—
"Protect me! Be a mother to me; I have never called any one mother; I have never known a mother."
The Mother raised her up, saying,—
"My child, I can be a mother to you—I can and will. I am happy that such fair tasks are assigned me here, tasks that I can lovingly fulfil. But now be composed."
She led Frau Ceres back to the sofa, carefully helped her to lie down, and covered her with a large shawl; it was an odd complication of soft cushions in which she always lay muffled, as if she were buried.
She held the Mother's hand fast, and sobbed without cessation.
The Mother now extolled their happiness in having each of them such a son, speaking less of Eric than of Roland; and as she went on to relate how in the twilight he had appeared like the transfigured form of her own dead child, Frau Ceres turned towards her and kissed her hand. She proceeded quietly to speak of herself as a person of many peculiarities, which rendered it no easy thing for any one to live with her; she had been in the habit of being too much alone, and she feared that she was not young enough and had not animal spirits sufficient to be the companion of a lady who had every claim to the brilliancy and joy of a stirring life.
Frau Ceres requested her to draw back the curtains a little, and as she saw her more plainly she smiled; but immediately her countenance, with the fine, half-opened mouth, assumed again the listless look which was its habitual expression; she took the fan and fanned herself.
At last she said,—
"Ah yes, to learn! You cannot think how stupid I am, and yet I would so like to be clever, and I would have learned so many things, but he never wanted me to, and has not let me learn anything, and always said: 'You are fairest and dearest to me just as you are.' Yes, it may be to him, but not to myself. If Madame Perini were not so kind, I don't know indeed what I should do. Do you play whist? Do you love nature? I am very simple, am I not?"
Perhaps Frau Ceres expected that the mother would contradict her, but she did not, only saying:—
"If there is anything that I can teach you, I'll do it cheerfully. I have known other ladies like yourself, and I could tell you why you are always ailing."
"Why! Do you know that? you?"
"Yes, but it is not flattering."
"Ah, no matter; tell me."
"My dear child, you are all the time ill, because you are all the time idle. If a person has nothing to do, then his health gives him something to do."
"Oh, you are wise, but I am weak," said Frau Ceres.
And there was in her an utter helplessness and weakness; she looked upon herself, and was looked upon by Sonnenkamp, as a fragile toy; and at the same time she was indolent, and the least effort was a burden to her. She did not know whether to hear or to see required the greater exertion; but she found the latter the greater bore, for while one was reading one must hold the book and hold one's self in a particular position, and therefore she always let Fräulein Perini read aloud to her; this had the advantage that one could go to sleep whenever there was the inclination.
This was the case now.
Whilst the Mother was speaking, Frau Ceres suddenly let go her hand, and it was soon evident that the reclining one had fallen asleep; Frau Dournay sat there in that chamber furnished splendidly and richly as if it were an apartment in some fairy tale. She held her breath, and did not know what course to take. What is the meaning of all this? Here are riddles in plenty. She did not dare to change her position, for she was afraid of waking the sleeper. The latter turned now and said,—
"Ah, go now, go now,—I will come down soon myself." She left the room.
Sonnenkamp was waiting for her outside.
"How did she seem?" he asked anxiously.
"Very gentle and quiet," replied the Mother. "But I have one request. I hope to cure the excitability or lassitude of your wife, but I beg you never to ask me what we have said to each other. If I am to gain her entire confidence, I must be able to say to her in good faith, that what she tells me is told to me alone; and that what she imparts to me will never pass my lips. Are you willing to promise that we ladies shall do as we like together?"
"Yes," answered Sonnenkamp. It seemed hard for him to consent, but he felt that he must.