The Doctor kept close watch upon the behavior of the girls, and listened to their conversation. Manna expressed her thanks for her friend's kind attention, but preserved all the while in her manner a certain reserve, an indescribable something, the result of that life in the convent which to Lina had been productive of nothing but an acquaintance with foreign languages.
The Doctor afterwards expressed to the Professorin, as they were walking back and forth together in the garden, great curiosity to know whether worldly wisdom would succeed in triumphing over the influence of the Church, and also his regret that she herself was not a Catholic, as in that case her task would be much easier. But the lady remained firm in her decision to exert no influence whatever on Manna; she was not only not required by her duty to do so, but would actually have no right, Manna being betrothed to Pranken.
"Who knows?" replied the Doctor, "who knows? The Huguenots not only went into exile themselves; their example made others emigrate: and often our influence is greatest when it is quite unintentional."
Sonnenkamp wished Lina to spend some of these Spring weeks with his daughter, and Manna had no alternative but to second the invitation. Lina accepted, on condition of obtaining her parents' consent, and returned with the Doctor to be sent for the next day.
Pranken, who remained through the evening, was rejoiced at Manna's confiding to him that she had already painfully experienced the world's temptation to want of truthfulness; for that, to speak with perfect candor, she did not desire a visit from Lina, and yet she had been obliged to request it; that she thought was the great sin of the world, that it makes us false to ourselves.
Pranken hoped that Lina's visit would have an enlivening effect upon Manna; to begin with, however, he wanted to find out how she liked the Professorin. In approaching the subject he so carefully worded his remarks that if Manna should speak with enthusiasm he could fall in with it, and the same if she expressed dislike.
Manna repressed the confession that rose to her lips, that she felt herself already bewildered by the confusion that prevailed in the house, and longed for the well-ordered quiet of the convent, and merely complained of feeling so unlike herself in the world. But, when Pranken thanked her for this confidence, she recoiled and said, scarce above her breath, that the world made people talkative even when they wished to be reserved.
"I am glad to hear you speak of reserve," resumed Pranken, after a pause; "for our Archbishop enjoined it upon me lately in those very words. 'Be reserved,' he said; 'persons who speak much and readily are at bottom nothing but dilettanti.'"
He thought Manna would perceive at once that he was referring to Eric, but, as she gave no sign of applying the charge of dilettantism to him, Pranken spoke more openly and said:—
"Do you not perceive something of the dilettante in the very talkative Herr Eric?"
Manna answered shortly:—
"The man talks much, but-—-"
Here she made a long pause, and Pranken was in great suspense, wondering how she would finish her sentence.
"He talks much," she said, "but he thinks much too."
Pranken cast about for some turn he could give the conversation, which, with a skilful aim, could not fail to hit the mark. He might have spared himself his great pains, for a man whose activities extended over so much ground as Eric's offered many points of attack.
Pranken began by declaring Eric to be a kind of Don Quixote, a man who was always adventuring after great ideas, as in the case of the exaggerated sentiment of his toast. Disguising the cutting nature of his remarks under cover of gentle words, he attempted to turn Eric into ridicule. He thought it presumption in him, in the first place, to lay claim to any inward consecration as a cloak for his profanities, and finally went so far as to accuse him of passing off counterfeit coin, in the hope of deceiving a childlike, confiding mind. He looked keenly at Manna as he spoke, but she kept silence.
"Be on your guard," he added, "he plays the model man everywhere."
The expression seemed to please Pranken so well, that he ventured to repeat it.
"This playing the model man is very cunning, but we can see through it. You have no idea how much trouble this pattern of pedagogues, this Herr Dournay, has given us. You must be on your guard; his every word is stamped with the conviction, that he unites in his own person all possible examples of virtue."
Encouraged by a smile on Manna's face, which she tried in vain to suppress, Pranken continued:—
"After all, his eloquence is only that of the hairdresser, who talks of all kinds of things while he is curling your hair, only without setting up for so much scientific and religious aplomb. Observe how often he uses the word humanity; I counted it fourteen times, once, in a single hour. He affects great modesty, but his conceit actually exceeds all bounds."
Pranken laughed, knowing how easy it is to throw ridicule upon a man in the full tide of enthusiastic action; and with pleasure he perceived that his words were not without influence on Manna. If you can once set a man in a ridiculous light, there is no salvation for him. This, Pranken knew and hoped to accomplish in the present case; he, however, went on to say:—
"Our Roland has learned a great deal under this honorable gentleman, but he has had enough of him now; it is time he entered upon a wider sphere."
Manna preserved her thoughtful silence, and soon after walked away, occasionally, as she went towards the villa, nodding to herself as if assenting to what she had heard. Pranken looked after her in perplexity.
On the steps she met Eric, and both stopped. Eric felt obliged to say something, and therefore began,—
"I can imagine its being hard for you to have your first day at home a fête day; it will, perhaps, make the days that follow seem dull."
"How should you know what is passing in my thoughts?" replied Manna, as she went on up the steps.
She was indignant with the man for forgetting his position in the house, and taking upon himself to tell what was passing in her mind. What right had he to put into words what she did not choose to express? As she went up the steps, she pressed together in anger the lips which had spoken such cruel words; she was angry with herself too. But the words had been said, and could not be unsaid.
She spent the whole evening in her room. At a late hour Roland knocked at the door, and insisted on being admitted.
"Ah, sister," he said, as he sat down beside her, "of all I have been through to-day, one thing haunts me. Everybody to whom I gave a present said he would pray for me. How is that possible, and what good would it do? What good would it do to have another person pray for me, and say of me and wish for me before God all sorts of good things? Of what use would it be, if I were not in my own soul good and noble? No man can pray for another."
"Roland, what are you saying? What are you thinking of?" cried Manna, seizing him by both arms and shaking him; then, leaving the boy standing in amazement, she hurried into her chamber and threw herself upon her knees.
On this first day at home the ruin of her house was revealed to her. She prayed for Roland, that his mind might be enlightened and delivered from bondage, and even while she prayed, a feeling of strangeness stole over her. She wrung her hands, she groaned, she wept. Is it true that no one can stand in the place of another, can sacrifice himself for another? No, it is not,—it cannot be. She felt herself burdened, as by an actual weight from heaven, at the stirring of this great question, this great anxiety within her. Can a human being, then, do more harm than good to another? Is it so? Must it be so? There was a violent struggle in her soul; at last she smiled; a great conflict is appointed for me, she thought, and it is already beginning. She was to save the soul of her brother, and this, she told herself, could not be done by violence, but only by gentleness and humility.
She rose, and returning to the room where she had left Roland, held out her hand to him.
"I see," she said, "you are my grown-up brother; we must help one another to become better. We have much to give and to take from each other; that will come of itself."
She sat down quietly beside him, and held his hand tightly clasped in hers.
"How pleasant it must seem to you to be at home again!" exclaimed Roland. "The convent is no home for any one."
"For that very reason it is the best," returned Manna. "Every day, every hour reminds us that we have no home in this world; that our whole life is but a pilgrimage. If this world were our home, we should both have, you and I—no. You too tempt me to say, what I should not."
"Eric is right," said Roland. "He says you are truly pious; what millions speak only with their lips, you utter from your heart."
"Did Eric say that?"
"Yes, and much more."
"But, Roland," interrupted Manna, "you should, never tell what one person says of another."
"Not if it is good?"
"Not even then. We cannot tell on that very account—no," she interrupted herself; "are you not very happy in having so true a friend in Eric?"
"Indeed I am; and do you not like him better than Pranken?"
A smile rose to Manna's lips, but she repressed it and said,—
"Your teacher should also teach you never to make comparisons. But now, dear brother, remember that I have come from a convent, and need to be much alone. Good-night!" she added, kissing him.
"Remember," he called back to her as he departed, "that you must take your two dogs with you when you go to walk."
Manna was even yet not allowed to be alone. In the convent she had had no one to wait upon her, but here her father insisted on her having a maid to undress her.
The woman praised her beautiful black hair as she let it down.
"Ah, my Fräulein, you have what is so rare in these days, good, healthy hair. Would you believe, Fräulein, that almost all the hair we see on ladies' heads is false or padded? they wear a hat hidden under their hair."
And yet, thought Manna, this hair will fall. A sudden terror shot through her, as the maid passed her fingers through the loosened hair; she fancied that she already heard the clipping of the scissors.
At last Manna was alone. After devoting herself for some time to meditation and prayer, she began a letter to the Superior.
"We have celebrated to-day my birthday and my return to my parents' house; but I long for my own birthday, which shall be my entrance into the home of my Eternal Father—"
The legend tells of that child-giant who took the ploughman, with plough and horse, to be a plaything, gathered them up in his apron, and carried them off.
This was the case with Manna. Her thoughts, by day and by night, had been so far removed from the world, so elevated, and so victorious over it, that all its doings seemed to her like children's plays. What is it all for? To pass away the time? Children succeed in that; they unconsciously persuade themselves that their dolls are alive; while children of a larger growth play with their dolls, but look upon them as shams.
Life is all idle play to them, and death alone is something serious.
It was with some such thought that Manna stood at the window, early on the morning after Roland's birthday; she saw nothing of the world, and yet she saw the whole world, far, far away.
So deeply impressed upon her memory were the tones of the convent-bell which had awakened the pupils at the first blush of dawn, that they had aroused her, this morning also, from her slumbers. She seemed to hear it ringing as she slept. It was some time before she realized where she was.
Thou art at home—where is thy home? who has built a house out of these stones, has made this bed?
In the villa all were still sleeping. Manna alone was awake, and with her the innumerable choirs of birds in the garden; and as the birds outside mingled together their twittering songs, so a thousand thoughts flitted through her mind.
She went into the park, and stood for a long time before the new gate that opened upon the path to the little green cottage. A voice within her seemed to say: Through this gate, and in this pathway, thou wilt have much to experience, much to struggle with, and much to overcome.
She wanted to find out, to image to herself what would enter there, but she succeeded no better than did Eric, as he gazed at the convent steps, in calling up before his mind's eye the various destinies of those who had passed in and out over that threshold.
Who would have been able to tell her that Eric had once gazed with the same feelings!
Manna had a feeling of unrest, as if she knew that an eye was watching her. Eric was now in fact standing at the window, and his glance rested upon her; but he took care to keep out of her sight. His soul too was moved, but by wholly different thoughts. While he was asleep, there was with him the abiding feeling that now he was possessed of ample means and was his own master; and this consciousness finally waked him. In the earliest dawn, he had again counted over the money which Sonnenkamp had handed him on the previous day. It was enough to support himself and his mother. He was so unaccustomed to money, that he felt impelled to count it several times over, and finally even to write down the amount. Then he smiled, saying to himself:—
It's well, and I am glad to be put to the test whether I can perform my duty in life with the same earnestness, poor or rich.
He opened the window and perceived Manna. He drew back softly, and wondered what were the feelings and thoughts of the child, who had come from the seclusion of the cloister into the luxurious parental home.
Sounds were now heard from the neighboring village, from all quarters, from both shores of the river, up and down the stream.
Manna left the park and turned back to the house in order to get her prayer-book. Fräulein Perini was waiting for her in the hall.
Manna heard Fräulein Perini give directions to the servants to make ready a room for the Justice's daughter, and she had it upon her lips to reproach herself to her former governess, for having been insincere in permitting Lina to be invited. She dreaded her visit; the superficial and childish character, as she had seen it the day before, seemed something new and strange. She had resolved to gain the victory by herself alone, and had come to the conclusion to ask Lina plainly not to make the visit at this time; she owed it to herself to remain alone, and to admit no distracting influence.
As she was going down the steps with Fräulein Perini, a letter was handed her, brought by a messenger, who was waiting for an answer. Lina wrote how much she regretted that she was not permitted to accept the hospitable invitation to Villa Eden. She besought Manna to send back a single word, containing the assurance that she was not angry with her.
Manna was glad that she could now reply without wounding the feelings of Lina, whose parents, she wrote, were in the right. On reading over again her friend's letter, it seemed strange to Manna that no sort of excuse was assigned. Do all the neighbors still hold aloof from her parents' house?
Perhaps so! Another parental home, yonder, extends its invitation.
The church bell again rang, and Manna went with Fräulein Perini to church.
Fräulein Perini was elated and happy. Others might attempt to win Manna with every variety of influence; she alone could go with her to church.
"Do you still prefer to be silent in the morning?" asked Fräulein Perini quietly, extending her hand.
Manna nodded without speaking. Not another word was interchanged.
When the mass was over, and they had left the church together, Fräulein Perini said that she would like to introduce Manna to the Priest, who had been stationed here during her absence.
Manna begged to go alone. She lingered a while, without moving from the spot, and then went to the Priest's house. She seemed to be expected, for the Priest came out on the steps to meet her, and welcomed her with a benediction. He led her by the hand into his room, hastily removing his breakfast from the table, on which there was an open book.
Manna was directed to take a seat on the sofa. She began:—
"Fräulein Perini wished to introduce me to you, Reverend Sir. That might be necessary with a man; a stranger, but you are not a man, a stranger, you are a servant of our holy Church."
The Priest partially closed his eyes, brought together the ends of the fingers of his handsome hands, then drew them apart, and said in a quiet and clear tone:—
"The right way! You are in the right way, my child, keep in it. So it is! Worldlings come into a place, they are strangers, strangers as if they were among savages, and they are ignorant whether there is a single person who cherishes the same thoughts with them; and there are no two people who have the same thoughts, even when the words are the same, and they have no bond of unity; they are like the mote dancing here in the sunbeam. But you, if you should enter the remotest village, you would be at home.Thereis a house, and within it is a man who welcomes you as a spiritual brother, as a father. He is not there of himself, but has been placed there by another; and you have not come of yourself, but have been led by another. You are doubly welcome, my child, for perceiving and realizing this immediately. You knock at my door, and it is open to you; and it will be open whenever you may come. You knock at my heart, and that is open to you, be sure of that. I have no house of my own; my house belongs to him who shall come after me, and not to him either, and my heart is His who has made it beat."
The Priest stopped speaking, and fixed his regard upon Manna, who had closed her eyes, as if she could not bear the sunlight, could not gaze at the countenance on which the Spirit was now descending. The Priest could see how deeply she was moved; he placed his hand in a friendly way upon her head, saying:—
"Look up at me. I repeat to you, that you have come alone, and you know why you have come alone; this spares us the necessity of coming to an understanding, as worldlings term it. Coming to an understanding!"
The Priest laughed.
"Coming to an understanding! and they never do understand each other, they, the cultivated, as they call themselves, or the self-cultivating, as they ought to call themselves, for they believe that they can make themselves into anything they please. They need a recommendation from someone, who must say who they are and what they are; but we, we need no introduction, no recommendation. You are recommended and introduced, inasmuch as you are a child of our holy Church. Hold fast to this, my child, and speak to me about whatever you wish to, of what is sacred and what is profane, of what is great and what is small; you will always find with me a home. If they disgust you in the world, and make you feel homeless, remember, here is rest and here is home. Look out of doors! Your father has, above there, a hot-house for foreign plants which, are not at home in our climate; this room is your hot-house for the plant of holy faith which, is not at home yonder. My child, I cast no stone at any one, but I tell you, and you know already, this plant is not of this world, and is, in this world, in a foreign climate; it has been brought to us from heaven."
The Priest stood looking out of the window, and Manna sat on the sofa.
For some time not a word was spoken. Manna was deeply affected by this elevated strain of cordial sympathy. There was no need of any hesitating preliminaries; she was at once conducted into the inmost sanctuary.
She asked at last in a timid way, how she ought to conduct herself towards all the persons who were received as friends in the house of her parents, and who plumed themselves upon their culture.
"You question well, you question definitely, and that is the mark of a mature mind," replied the Priest. "Know then, that you are to smile at all the boastful things you will be obliged to listen to; they pretend to be so great, and they are so very little. These learned ones believe that the world is without understanding, and that it is ruled with no more wisdom than their understanding and their wisdom attribute to it; they put God in one scale, and their own brain in the other. Pah!"
The Priest spoke now in a wholly different tone; he was violent and bitter, so that Manna shrank together with affright. The Priest, who noticed this, composed himself again, saying:—
"You see that I am still weak, and allow myself to be carried away by excitement. My child, there are two things which conquer the world: their names are God and the Devil, or, when transferred into the domain of our own interior being, Piety and Frivolity. Piety sees everything as holy; appearances are only a veil, while Frivolity sees nothing as holy. Piety is the law of God; Frivolity has released herself from the law of God, and sports with the world of appearances according to her own pleasure. Between piety and frivolity there is a half-and-half state, and that is the worst of all. Frivolity reaches its extreme point and is capable of being converted, to which we have some glorious witnesses; but the heroes of reason, so-called, or, more properly speaking, the weaklings of reason,theyare not capable of being converted, for they are wholly destitute of that disposition which tends to humility."
The Priest thought that Manna would understand him to be pointing out Eric and Pranken; he did not want to be any more personal at first, but the ground was to be broken. Now he turned round, smiling, and seating himself said:—
"But, my child, let us not to-day lose ourselves in such general considerations. What have you to say?"
Manna complained of finding it so hard to complete another year of probation, moving about in the world in order to be released from it.
The Priest reassured her with the words:—
"You wish to take the veil; you have taken it already; it is drawn over you, and over the world, though invisible to every body else. Things in the world do not affect your real self at all; there is a veil between you and the world, which will be wholly dropped only when death gives us deliverance."
The Priest proceeded to exhort her to subject herself to what was the hardest of all experiences to youth and ardent zeal,—she was not to consider it as her vocation to change the opinions of others, but she was to labor for her own perfection.
He went more cautiously to work than Pranken did; he avoided a direct attack upon Eric, as this might awaken an interest in Manna towards him. He even praised him; but it was done in that tone of condescension and pity, which comes so natural to him who upholds a dogmatic faith. He inculcated upon her the fact, that she would soon understand how trifling an affair it would be to annihilate this liberal culture, as it was termed,—that it was in its very nature exceedingly fragile. This could be plainly seen from each one of these so-called liberally cultivated people wanting to be something entirely different from his neighbor. Each one of Roland's teachers, for instance, had a different method, a different course of instruction, different principles, and a different end in view.
When Manna asked why the Priest had not used his influence to keep Eric from being received into the family, he replied that he was glad to find her so zealous, but a person was obliged to let some things take their course in this world; and besides, from the outset, all resistance to her father would have been to no purpose, for Roland had insisted upon having his own way. And notwithstanding Eric was a complete heretic, he recognized the holy, to a certain extent, although there was much pride mingled with this recognition.
He feared to make Eric of too much importance, and so he added, almost with timidity, that these apparently mild and enthusiastic idealists were just the most dangerous.
Then he went on to advise Manna to consider the world around as alien to herself.
The interview seemed now to have become rather painful. The Priest suddenly and abruptly said that it was time for Manna to return home, as they would be expecting her there. She was not to conceal that she had been with him, but he would excuse her now in advance, if she should often suffer a considerable time to intervene between her calls upon him; he should remain unshaken in the conviction that her inmost soul continued devoted to the holy faith.
"Now go, my child," he said in conclusion, "and be assured that I shall pray for you."
Manna had risen; she looked at him earnestly. The inquiry seemed to be awakened in her own soul: Can, then, one human being pray for another?
The inquiry which Roland had proposed presented itself afresh, and grew to be the riddle of her life. She desired to sacrifice herself for another, her whole existence should be only a prayer for another.
How is this possible?
She wanted to ask if it were true, and if true, why it was, that one human being could do more harm than good to another; that one could lay a burden upon another soul, but no one could remove that burden. She wanted to say this to the Priest, and receive some help from him, but he repeated,—"Now go, my child!" She turned away her inquiring eyes and went.
On her way home, she stood near a field, watching a laborer who was busy ploughing, and the thought occurred to her: Yes, one can sacrifice himself for another, for the souls of men are nothing by themselves; all that breathe are nothing but a breath of God; all movement in the earth and in the great world is nothing but the movement of a single Being.
Everything seemed to swim before her eyes; she saw the peasant ploughing, she saw the vessels floating upon the Rhine, and the birds flying in the air. All is one, all is little, the whole is only a giant's toy.
Manna walked dreamily along, but became roused to full consciousness when the dogs Rose and Thistle sprang up to her, rejoiced to have their mistress with them again.
"So our wild doe has got home?" cried a voice from a distance; it was that of the field-guard, Claus, who had the dogs with him. "I mustn't speak to you now as I used to," he exclaimed. "Hi! how tall you are! But what are you so sad for? Cheer up! Just see, Fräulein, all round, as far down as the rocks there, your father has bought it all."
"Can one buy the earth?" asked Manna, as if waking from a dream.
Claus replied:—
"What do you say? I don't understand you."
"It was of no consequence," answered Manna. Can one buy then the immovable ground? From whom? Who has a right to it? This question presented itself to Manna as an enigma; she gazed intently into the empty air, and hardly heard the huntsman's narrative of his recent experiences. When he said:—"Yes, Fräulein, I've been a simpleton, and am very sorry for it," she asked him:—
"What have you been doing?"
"Zounds! I repeat that I've been doing nothing; that all my life I've been a simple, honest fellow, and not a bad one at all. The bigger rascal one is, so much the better off. What now does the world give me? People can make you bad, but good—who can make you that? The only comfort grows there on the hillside—there's where the drop of comfort comes from, but I can get only a beggar's sup. I should just like to know whether Herr Dournay is a true man; I think there's no true men going now except Herr Weidmann. You've been in the convent, and is't a fact that you want to be a nun?"
Manna had not time to answer, for Claus continued, laughing:—
"I've many a time thought that I'd like to go into a convent, too. Everybody ought to be able to go into a convent when he's sixty years old; nothing to do there but drink and drink, until death claps his warrant upon you. But I don't want to make death's acquaintance yet awhile; I say, like the constable of Mattenheim: Lord, take your own time, I'm in no hurry."
Although so early in the morning, the field-guard was a little excited and talked a little thick. Manna was afraid of him, but now gave him her hand and went off with the dogs.
"I'd like to ask one favor of you!" he called after her.
She stopped.
He came up, and stated to her that the gauger had given him a ticket in the Cathedral lottery, and he had sold it to Sevenpiper, and if the number drew the first prize, he should tear all the hair out of his head, and never have a minute's comfort with his children the rest of his life. If Manna would give him a dollar, he could buy the ticket back again.
As Manna hesitated, he added:—
"It's a pious matter, and just suits you."
Manna did not comprehend what he meant, and she learned now, for the first time, that a lottery had been set up to raise money for the completion of the Cathedral. She gave the dollar, and walked quickly away.
She went along the Rhine. The smooth surface was broken only by the circling ripples, and the fishes could be seen sporting beneath; the willows on the banks quivered in the morning breeze, and were mirrored in the stream. Manna entered the park. The fragrance of flowers was wafted on the fresh, sparkling air, and a divine peace was diffused everywhere around. The flowers glistened with a lustrous brightness, and each color was heightened and glorified by the other; the white added to the splendor of the blue, and the red was softened in its burning glow, making a holy, peaceful harmony.
Each flower, each tree in blossom, helps to make fragrant the air which the daughter of the house inhales; and around her is a human atmosphere whose elements are hard to analyze. The father, harsh, and violent, wanted to force his will upon his child either by kindness or severity; the mother, wrapped up in her own feelings, wholly taken up with herself and her ardent longings for worldly show.
The Professorin thought much of Manna, and would willingly have given her rest; would have helped her over the first days and imparted what she could, but she knew very well that it was not best to offer anything before it was asked for.
The Aunt's look and manner seemed always to be saying: I am all ready, if there is anything you want of me. There was no particular thing that she desired to proffer Manna, but she would have held back nothing.
Eric was very deeply interested; he smiled to himself as the comparison occurred to him: This child out of the convent must feel as you did, when you left the regiment and doffed your uniform; formerly kept under strict discipline, she must now be under self-discipline altogether, and must feel the want of commands, of comrades.
Manna took the single seat under the weeping ash, that had been put in order for her again, and now she wondered why she had been so rude yesterday to Eric.
She wanted to say the first time she saw him: Do not believe that I presumed in this way because you are dependent and in service.
And at this same moment Eric was walking alone in the park, and proposing to say when he should meet with Manna: I would not have our intercourse begin with ill-humor or a misunderstanding.
Manna, hearing approaching footsteps, now looked up and saw Eric coming along the path. She remained seated. As he came nearer, he greeted her, but neither of them uttered the contemplated speech.
Eric began:—
"I should like to give you a proof that I hold sacred the interior sanctuary of your thought—and if yesterday I—it was a day of great excitement. I beg you would also remember that my employment tends to make me interest myself even in the thoughts of those with whom I have no concern."
His tone was subdued. Manna was at a loss what to reply. Both were silent, and there was nothing heard but the singing of the birds. At last Manna said:—
"Tell me about Roland. What is his character?"
"My father used to say, dear Fräulein, that no one could describe to another the characteristics of his fellow; that each one sees the traits in an entirely different light."
"You are evading my question."
"No. I wanted to say to you that I do not consider it feasible to characterize any person justly. If I praise Roland, it seems to me as if I were praising a portion of myself; and if I point out his deficiencies, then perhaps I am too severe, because I feel as if they were my own. One thing, however, a human being may be allowed to say in his own commendation; and so I may be allowed to say of Roland, that he has industry, perseverance, and truthfulness; this is the solid rock on which the moral superstructure can be erected."
Manna involuntarily held up her prayer-book with both hands, as if it were a shield.
Eric, thinking he understood the meaning of this motion, said:—
"It has been, and is, a leading object with me, that Roland should gain an eye of his own, and trust to his own eye."
"An eye of his own?" Manna asked in wonderment.
"Yes, you will readily perceive what I mean by that. And now I have one favor to ask for myself."
"For yourself?"
"Yes Simply believe that I hold in high respect your ideal of life, because I regard it as sincere in you; and the favor I have to ask is, that you will do the same with me."
"I was not aware—" Manna answered, blushing deeply.
A sort of pain darted through her soul; on her face there was an expression of perplexity and conflict, for she was haunted by what Pranken had said. Is this demand of Eric's what Pranken had called setting up as a pattern of honesty, and did Eric, who might know of that view, exhort her to judge impartially, whilst he laid a special emphasis on having an eye of one's own? She could not complete her sentence, for Roland came up, saying,—
"Indeed! Have you found each other out so soon?"
Manna rose hastily, and went to the villa, holding Roland by the hand.
Pranken came out with Sonnenkamp to meet them, and immediately said that he had been to church too; but he considered it a duty not to distract Manna by speaking to her in the morning.
Manna expressed her thanks.
At breakfast, Pranken had many anecdotes to relate, and he did it well, of the royal hunting-lodge, and particularly of events at Court. And he succeeded in giving a new and humorous setting out to many worn-out garrison stories, that were fresh to this circle.
"Dear child," Sonnenkamp broke in, "you have not congratulated Herr von Pranken on his appointment as chamberlain."
Manna bowed in congratulation, and Pranken referred in a cheerful way to the contrast there would be between his summer life as a husbandman, and his winter as chamberlain. He said, further, that the happiest day of his life had been the one he had spent on the island ploughing; and a single rose was the only thing that he envied, upon which glances fell that he would have liked to turn towards himself.
Manna blushed.
Pranken went on to say that the Prince would drink the waters, this summer, at Carlsbad.
Sonnenkamp immediately added, that Doctor Richard some time ago had prescribed these waters to him as better suited to his case than those of Vichy.
All the links seemed supplied for a complete chain when Pranken narrated, in continuation, that his brother-in-law Clodwig, and his sister Bella, would visit Carlsbad this summer.
"And you must accompany us," Sonnenkamp said, nodding to Pranken.
Before she was fairly settled at home. Manna saw herself withdrawn from thence into the whirlpool of a watering-place life. Mention was made of Lina's non-acceptance of the invitation, and Pranken spoke very cleverly of the pleasant impression that her half-childlike, half-matronly appearance made upon him. He wanted to obviate any ill effects from Manna's hearing that he had for a while paid court to her friend. He then declared that he would take the snow-white pony to Wolfsgarten with him, in order to have it perfectly trained for Manna. Her remark, that she now took no pleasure on horseback, was set aside in an almost authoritative way by her father, who said the physician had directed only the day before, that Manna should keep as much as possible in the open air, and take a great deal of exercise.
Manna must now give a name to the snow-white little horse. Pranken wanted to have this done in due form, but Manna declined. When they rose from breakfast, she went to the stable, and gave to the snow-white pony three lumps of sugar.
"Now for the name—the name!" cried Sonnenkamp.
"She has given him his name," replied Pranken laughing; "she has given it to him bodily. Sugar is the pony's name, is it not?"
A smile passed over Manna's countenance for the first time, as she replied,—
"No, we will call him 'Snowdrop.'"
Pranken bade her good-bye with much feeling, and rode away in a smart trot down the road, making the sparks fly under his horse's hoofs. Manna saw the groom leading behind him the snow-white pony by the halter; she would not be perverse, but be moderate in all things. It seemed to her emblematic, to ride on horseback again, before she renounced all worldly trifles, and lived wholly in herself and for eternal realities.
Manna accompanied her father through the park and garden, and through the conservatories, and thanked him heartily for promising to send to the convent beautiful flowers, which could thrive well there in the enclosed courtyard. Sonnenkamp had it in his mind to confide to her the expected elevation to the rank of the nobility, but he wanted to wait for a suitable opportunity. The child must not be too suddenly introduced into the distracting whirl. He observed with satisfaction the large southern trees and plants, which were soon to be brought out into the open air. At first they only opened the doors in order to let in the outside air, and then the plants were brought out into sheltered situations out-of-doors. So would he do with his child.
Manna had soon made a fixed arrangement for the day's occupations, which she adhered to as an established rule; and this methodical strictness soon exerted an influence over the whole family. She found it difficult to deal with her mother, and chiefly in the matter of dress; for Frau Ceres, who changed her dress several times a day, wished Manna to do the same. But she was in the habit of putting on in the morning the dress which she was to wear all day, and was even reluctant to accept any service from her own dressing-maid. She kept on the morning dress, and it seemed to her as the only suitable thing, and alone worthy of the higher human life, that the nuns never varied their dress. By this means all distraction and waste of thought on outward appearance were saved.
She took no part in the beneficent activity of the Professorin. She had briefly given as a reason, that she had still too much to do for herself, and was not prepared to do for others.
She had, moreover, a decided antipathy to the assistant, Fräulein Milch.
She did not express this in words, but in her whole conduct; she avoided speaking with Fräulein Milch; and never gave her hand to her.
This was the effect of Fräulein Perini's teachings, who had withdrawn her from all connection with Fräulein Milch before Manna had entered the convent, as if the modest housekeeper had been a witch who could do her harm. She used to say to the child:
"The whole life and character of this person are an impropriety."
Manna took regular lessons of the Aunt in harp-playing, and Aunt Claudine was the only one who seemed to possess her confidence. She showed her copy-books to her, and particularly the astronomical ones with the alternate blue leaves and the golden pictures of the stars.
During the clear evenings, she spent several hours with the Aunt upon the flat roof of the villa, looking at the stars through a telescope. It was evident that Manna had been thoroughly taught; for the convent-school made a special point of surpassing the worldly schools in scientific instruction. Of course, all science was confined within the bounds which faith prescribes.
With all the dignified loftiness of her demeanor, there was something charmingly attractive in Aunt Claudine; she seemed to have lost or renounced something in life, and so there was a gentleness which more completely won Manna's affection.
In the Professorin, with all her friendliness, there was something commanding; she was self-contained, and gave without ever receiving.
Aunt Claudine, on the other hand, in spite of the difference of years, could be a young person's friend, and Manna felt the tranquillizing effect of this friendship.
Manna's maturity of thought often excited more surprise than even her actual knowledge. Her emotional nature had been widely developed; her religious earnestness and her settled religious convictions gave her serene composure and elevation, which might be mistaken for pride. She always felt as if she were placed on an invisible height, far above those who had no living faith. But this was not a boastful feeling of superiority; it was a sense of being supported, every moment, by all the great influences and views through whose aid so many holy men and women had won the battle of life.
Manna took especial delight in the lessons upon the harp; she said to the Aunt, that it seemed to her as if she had never heard herself before.
The Aunt explained that this was the first step of progress; that improvement really begins when one hears and sees himself.
Manna's eyes beamed softly, and she asked Aunt Claudine if this standing up alone by one's self in the world had not often been very hard for her.
"Certainly, my child. When one in youth makes a decision that affects the whole life, he does not know the real meaning of it."
Manna grasped convulsively the cross upon her bosom, and the Aunt continued:—
"Yes, my child, it requires courage and energy to be an old maid; at the time this resolution is taken, one is not fully conscious of how much it will require. Now, when I am alone, I am contented and peaceful; but in society and the world, I seem to myself often so superfluous, and as if only tolerated out of pity. Yes, my child, and one must take care not to be compassionate and sentimental towards one's self, or bitter; for the pitying of one's self often leads to bitterness and resentfulness."
"I can comprehend that," returned Manna. "Did you never have a longing to be able to enter a convent?"
"My child, I would not like to mislead and disturb you."
"No, say what you please, I can hear it all."
"Well, then, there are some institutions productive of so much harm, that they have forfeited the right of being perpetuated, at least, as we regard it. And, dear child, I could not, myself, live without art, without secular music, without the sight of what the plastic arts have produced and are still producing; herein I agree fully with my brother."
Manna looked in amazement at the Aunt; and she had the impression that a new view of life was unfolded to her, that was like the religious, and yet wholly peculiar in itself.
Towards Eric's mother. Manna was respectful but reserved. She treated her brother's teacher as a member of the family, but as a piece of property, an object, of utility, to which one could have recourse whenever there was need. There were hours and days when she had no more to do with him than if he had been a chair or a table. She often put a question to him directly and naturally, if she wanted any particular thing elucidated; and as soon as Eric began to expatiate beyond the special topic under consideration, she would say with great decision:—
"I did not want to know about that. I thank you for the information you have given."
She never received any instruction for which she did not immediately thank him, just as she would a servant for anything handed to her.
The whole family had the feeling that here was a strength adequate to attain its own end.
Manna did not visit in the neighborhood; she insisted upon it that she had come only to be with her parents and her brother, and no one else.
Sonnenkamp was alarmed at this determined and uncompliant bearing.