In the Carp Inn was a noisy hubbub. The Cooper, as young host, was merrily pouring the wine, and both fathers, the Screamer and the Sevenpiper, looked on delightedly, often clinking their ribbed glasses.
It was known throughout the whole region that the Cooper was a confidant of Roland and Eric. Now came the young men from all sides, wishing to be enrolled for the American war; there was even a deputation appeared from Weidmann's cement factory, begging for the passage-money for thirty-two men.
The Cooper had given information of what was going forward to Roland, who was highly excited by the news.
Now has come a use for his wealth. He would raise a regiment with which he would go to America. They would land, and the columns would march at once.
Eric, too, felt a great interest the carrying out of this plan, but Weidmann opposed it stoutly, affirming that we had no right to withdraw from Germany the strength needed for her development.
This objection was of no avail; but another remonstrance was decisive. He told Roland that President Lincoln would be absolutely obliged to take a step further,—he must arm the negroes. Then it might be Roland's part to give pecuniary assistance, and it would be far grander that the negroes themselves should fight for their own liberation and for that of their brethren.
Roland had been before the court, where he had been declared of age; he now came into the Carp Inn, where all were full of astonishment when the young man informed them that he should only take with him three young physicians—the Banker had undertaken the expenses of one of the three—that he should engage no one else, as the negroes themselves must fight for their liberty.
He went back to Villa Eden, accompanied by Claus. There lived the Major.
He also made a wedding-tour, with the Frau Majorin. They stopped awhile in that part of the garden called Nice.
They went through the park and ascended the hill, where there was a view down the Rhine. The Major said in a tone of supreme satisfaction:—
"Now, Frau Majorin, here we are, on the highest mountain in Switzerland."
And at the lake he said:—
"Frau Majorin, will you have the goodness to admire the Lago Maggiore?"
They went through the conservatories, and the Major declared that the world had collected here its most beautiful show of flowers, in order to spare them the great annoyance of travelling. He besought his wife to excuse him if he did not show her the devotion of a newly married husband during the following days. So much had yet to be provided before the departure of the new knights of the Brotherhood.
There were, indeed, so many things to be settled, that Eric was at last obliged to entrust much that was essential to Weidmann and the Justice. Before he could start, he must obtain his discharge, as he was in the reserve corps. The reply to his application was, that the Prince desired a personal interview. He was obliged to go to the city, and was not a little surprised by the gracious and complimentary expressions of the Prince. He said that he was not willing to give such a man his discharge, but he would grant him leave of absence for an indefinite time.
Eric's pride, however, was very soon humbled, for the Prince hinted that Eric, now made the possessor of so much wealth, had better remain in the country.
During his stay in the city, officers also came to Eric, offering either to accompany or to follow him to America.
Eric positively declined all such offers.
Joseph the valet came with his betrothed. Means had been given him to set up an inn of his own in the capital, but he conducted himself like a servant of the house.
Fassbender's son, who had been working in the Banker's office, was going to the New World, wishing to engage in the occupation of his brother, who was an influential building-contractor. In compliance with the urgent request of Claus, he took with him a great quantity of birds, by which means he was to establish a regular bird-trade with the Old World.
The deaf-mute from the cement factory, to whom Roland had given a knife, came on the eve of their departure, bringing him a mug, on which was marked in very clumsy letters: "Comeback."
Roland made permanent provision for the care of the forsaken youth.
It was very hard for Roland to take leave of the horses and dogs. He had wished to take Griffin with him, but gave up the idea when the difficulties of so doing were represented to him. Laying his hand on the dog's head, he said:—
"My old friend, I can't take you with me; I must leave much more than you behind me. I don't myself know how it will end. Just stay quietly here, and wait till I come back."
The dog looked up sadly at his master.
On the morrow there was a great pilgrimage from the Villa to the steamboat-landing.
They sent the carriages on before. Weidmann walked with Eric, holding his hand, the Major with Roland, and Knopf with the negro. Manna walked between the Professorin and the Major's wife. The Aunt and Professor Einsiedel had remained behind at the Villa. Roland wept; and Manna, weeping also, leaned on the arms of those who led her. Looking up at the churchyard, she said:—
"On the bank of this river we are at home: here rests our mother in the earth. I remember an old saying, but where it came from I do not know:—
"'The nomadic races wander and wander; but where they have dug a grave for one of their number, there they must finally remain.'"
Her voice failed her. After a time she went on:—
"There stand the trees which father planted."
Tears choked all further utterance.
Arrived at the landing, they found a great assemblage of people. Claus kept laughing and nodding, having made a merry night of it at the Carp, wishing to have one more good time before he went forth into the wide world.
The Cooper, now landlord of the Carp, and the Sevenpiper presented, in behalf of a large number of donors, a keg of virgin wine, crowned with fresh garlands.
Now the Screamer became animated, and speedily reckoned up what would be the daily portion of each of the travellers until their arrival in New York. It would be at least two bottles apiece; and he instantly tendered his services in despatching the virgin wine, as probably Eric would not drink his whole share, and perhaps Roland too would fall short.
The Gauger told in doleful fashion how the voyagers would to-day have the good luck of travelling with a young married couple, for the steamboat which was coming was called the "Beethoven," and the steward of the "Beethoven" had married the "Lorelei."
Eric and Manna sat by their mother, holding her hand; and she said to them consolingly:—
"Eric, spare your life; but should you fall in the great cause, I shall mourn, but I will not bewail your loss."
"Mother, I am confident of returning home alive out of this struggle; and yet, if I should fall, mother, be steadfast: I have lived the highest life, through you, through my father's, and through my Manna's, love."
The Mother silently pressed his hand.
Now came the Doctor and the Justice with their wives, and Lina with her husband. The Doctor put the finishing touch by imparting the intelligence, agitating to all, that Pranken had entered the Papal army.
Weidmann was much moved by this news; he exhorted Eric to keep uppermost in his thoughts, even above the grief of parting, the wonderful way in which all this had come to pass: Pranken there and he here. He expatiated on this with emphasis, and succeeded in his intention of dispelling personal sorrow by the consideration of universal views. That which this man and this youth had done in accordance with their own choice and the leadings of destiny,thatwas no longer at the disposal of their own individual free will, but was absorbed into, and had become a part of the great whole.
And now the real mirthfulness of Rhenish life began to display itself. The glee-club made its appearance with a band of music, and clear songs rang out from the pretty and graceful steamer which now came down the stream. The cannon were fired; the boat stopped; and hurried partings were made. Eric, Manna, and Roland kissed the Mother, who cried:—
"Be faithful to the end."
They were soon on board.
The steamer had pushed off, when a cry was heard. The dog Griffin had broken loose from the Cooper's hold upon his collar, sprung into the Rhine, and was swimming after the boat. She stopped once more; the dog was hoisted out of the water and taken along with them.
The party on shore waved their farewell signals, and were answered from the boat, as long as they could see each other; but for a long time after this, the gaze of the departing ones lingered on the Villa.
What will become of the house? What shall they be when they return? What kind of life will there be established?
As Manna stood leaning on Eric, something came softly up to them.
The dogs, Rose and Thistle, had forced their way aboard. Roland, who had likewise been standing lost in thought, suddenly brightened up, for Griffin was also with them.
And now they had a fresh surprise. No one had noticed that the Major had not been among those who had bid them goodbye. He now emerged from the cabin with his wife. He was now making his wedding tour, and accompanied the wanderers as far as the Lower Rhine. It seemed as if they had with them a goodly portion of the home.
There was music on board, and the Major soon brought up the steward and stewardess, to whom he introduced himself and his wife, and Eric and Manna, as newly-married couples.
"Yes," said he to Eric, "you know I have been a drummer. I'll tell you the story some time or other. Yes, when you come back you shall have it."
At the station before the Island, the Major and wife disembarked. Here they had dwelt in the first days of their union, and here they wished to be again for a day, and to show themselves as married people to those who had then been friendly toward them. The Major still waved his hand from the row-boat, and strove to show a cheerful countenance, but the tears ran down his cheeks, and as he bent over the side of the skiff, they flowed into the Rhine.
Silently they glided on, and, as they passed the Cloister Island, a flock of white doves were winging their way over it. The nightingales were singing so loud as to be heard, in spite of the continual plash of the paddle-wheels. The children of the Island were walking along the shore, two by two, and singing.
Manna sighed deeply, and wafted a greeting over to them.
No one imagined, who was passing by, away, away to the New World.
When, at evening, the vessel stopped for the night, Eric remembered a sheet of paper which Weidmann had given him. He read it. It contained words from the close of Humboldt's Cosmos:—
"There are some races more civilized, more highly ennobled by culture than others, but there are no races nobler by nature. All are equally destined for freedom."
[Eric to his Mother.]
On board the BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
Our ship bears the name which my father always uttered with peculiar fervor.
My mother!
I am transformed into a life full of novel excitement. I have seen the sea for the first time. Now I am living upon it, and I seem to be writing to you from another world.
A joyful event ushered us out of the Fatherland.
As we drew near the shore, on the first evening, I espied a broad, benevolent, comfortable-looking man, at the window of the corner-house at the landing. He bowed to me, I returned the salutation, but did not recognize him. But when we were on board, he came up to us; it was Master Ferdinand, whom I had helped out at the musical festival.
I quickly told him our story, and he, with a despatch which could only have been inspired by disinterested kindness, collected his fellow artists, together with some cultivated amateurs of the town, and we sang and played far into the night.
With music in our souls we left the Rhine,—we left Germany.
Manna and Roland will write to you themselves; they are now on deck, reading the Odyssey: it is the only thing one ought to read here. All movement on the highways on shore, all household interests and surroundings, seem far removed.
Such a ship is a world in itself.
Herr Knopf, too, has had a wonderful meeting. He is writing to the Major: get him to show you the letter. One thing more I must tell you about.
We reached Liverpool at evening, and intended to rest there a day. On the next morning I was standing alone, looking at the harbor, and thinking how Liverpool was the first English port in which slave-ships were fitted out, when I was roused from my reverie over the changing events of history, by seeing an outward-bound vessel weighing anchor. On the deck stood a man, who, I cannot doubt, was Sonnenkamp. He now wears a full beard; but I recognized him in spite of it. He has either been in Europe all the time, or else has returned here. He seemed to recognize me, took off his broad-brimmed hat, beckoned to some one, and a figure appeared which I could not recognize with certainty, but I think it was Bella.
I learned from the brother-masons, to whom Weidmann had given me a letter of introduction, that a man quite answering to the description of Sonnenkamp, was sending a shipload of arms and ammunition to some Southern port.
I dare not think how terrible, at this juncture, a meeting would have been.
Strangely enough, as I was walking with Manna at noon, through the city, she said to me: "I feel as if I must meet father here. I keep thinking he will come round some corner, on one side or the other!" I do not think I have done wrong in not telling her of what I saw.
Most agonizing is the thought that, perhaps, father and son may fight against each other in opposing armies. My consolation is, that Sonnenkamp, being an old sailor, will probably enter the navy.
Roland is the darling of the whole ship. He is indefatigably zealous to learn about the arrangement of the vessel, and about all the duties of the crew. He is busy with them first in one place, then in another, and I am glad to see that, by this means, all his hard thinking and speculation are driven away.
We have favoring winds.
Very merry, too, is the chirping and singing of the birds that Claus has brought with him. The blackbird strikes an attitude on her perch, like that of a renowned singer on the stage, looks coquettishly round on the bystanders, and sings her "Rejoice in your life." You know she never gets beyond that: but we like to have it said and sung to us: "Rejoice in your life."
On the second evening out.
Now it is night. Manna is alone on deck, looking at the stars. What a wondrous world! Overhead the innumerable stars, and around us the boundless sea. I feel as if I must, on this voyage, let all hard thinking, reflection, and speculation take wings and fly away, in order that I may tread the soil of the New World as simply a man of resolute action. There has always been a vein of romance running through my life and nature. What is it that leads me thither, to stake my whole being in a great crisis of human history? No longer to be a mere spectator, but to act, to live, and, perhaps—no, mother, an inward assurance tells me I shall come home alive from this conflict.
Home! Home! Oh, mother, my soul wings its way across to it, over the boundless billows of life: we are with you, and Villa Eden makes true its name. And yet, if Fate has otherwise decreed, be firm: your son has been perfectly happy; he has enjoyed all the fulness of life. I have had you, father, Manna, knowledge, pure aspirations, action. All has been mine.
Here I sit, and the billows bear me on. We rise and fall with the waves, and well for him who feels, as I now do, that the goal at which he aims is a good one.
It seems as if your hand were on my brow: I am well and free. And, oddly enough, I see myself in my mind's eye, transported to the University town again. Now it is evening; in the parlor at the "Post," the regular guests are seated, who meet there every evening, though, in truth, they cannot endure each other. They sit round a table covered with black oil-cloth, with their glasses before them, discussing the affairs of the world, telling anecdotes, and hoaxing one another, and then the talk turns upon that unsteady adventurer, Doctor Dournay. I am a fruitful theme for them. Tall Professor Whitehead lights a match, and says with satisfaction, "I always knew he would desert Science," and then the everlasting "Extraordinary" says—Enough! I was once on another planet, and believed myself at home there.
* * * * * *
I have not written for five days, and now, mother, the man who is writing to you has been, with his nearest and dearest, in the jaws of death.
We have lived through a storm such as our captain, a seaman of three-and-twenty years experience, has never seen before.
I must confess, I was not among the brave. And, in the midst of the tempest,—such is the double-action of the soul,—I could not help often thinking of the everlasting "Extraordinary," at the long table in the Post, speaking of my death, and lamenting his having abandoned poetical composition: our end would have made a fine subject. The coolest in the midst of the storm were Roland and Knopf. The latter, however, was not with us, but on the forward deck with his betrothed. Manna held me clasped in her arms. We wished to die together.
Oh, why should I recount our dangers? They are past. Now that we are safe, we talk of them no more.
On the next morning, when the sky was so clear, and the sea so calm, we celebrated a betrothal on board. It was friend Knopf who was betrothed; he will write you a more detailed account of it all. The cask of virgin wine, which had been given to us, was shared among the crew on that day. The Rhine poured joy into the veins of us all.
There was singing, dancing, jubilation. All the flags were hoisted, and at table friend Knopf made an address no less amusing than touching. I believe he is going to send Fräulein Milch his speech. We had music, too; Knopf played the flute, and persuaded Manna to bring her harp on deck. All the passengers and the sailors stood around her with suspended breath, and, when she had ended, shouted and huzzaed.
In three days we shall each land; I do not know whether I shall write again till then; my first step on the soil of the New World will be to send you this letter, unless we should meet, on the way, some vessel which will take it to Europe.
To Europe!
I feel raised so high above the world, that it seems as if I could play with whole continents.
Be joyful in thinking of your happy son,
Eric.
[Knopf to the Major and Fräulein Milch.]
Dear Brother and Sister,
Oh, how delightful it is that I, who have never been able to call any one by these names, can now apply them to you!
In the red blank-book which you, dear sister, gave me, are many notes of travel, which I hope to be able, some time, to write out: now I cannot. Out with the best thing: I am betrothed!!! It occurs to me, while making these three exclamation marks, that their form has a meaning. They seem to me like the image of a comet. Do ask Professor Einsiedel if I have not made a great scientific discovery.
Do you remember, dear sister, my telling you of my meeting a girl with two boys in the forest, that time when I was coming to find our friend Herr Dournay? That girl is my betrothed. Her name is Rosalie, like yours. She looks enough like you to be your sister. Yes, she is your sister. She has brown eyes, like you.
"But who is she, then?" I hear you ask, laying aside your sewing and looking at me with both eyes—I had almost said, with both hands.
Well, just let me tell you quietly.
Now, then, the maiden whom I met in the green-wood, my wood-maiden, is the daughter of a teacher, and—I beg you to hear this respectfully—she has passed her own examination as a teacher, and her brothers are splendid fellows. I did not venture to approach the girl, although I recognized her at the first glance. I tried to ingratiate myself with the brothers and said one day to the smaller one, who took to me at once—"Tell your sister I met her in the forest, last May, on her way to chapel with you; she had on a brown dress."
"Why don't you tell her so yourself?" asked the little fellow.
I had no time to answer him; for just then my wood-maiden came along, and began reproving her brother for annoying the strange gentleman, when the little one shouted, "Why, it's the gentleman you imitate, when you show how he looked over his spectacles at you."
Now it was out. She had made fun of me? She too? I took off my glasses, and must confess, I should have liked to throw them into the sea, and myself after them.
"What did she say?" you ask.
She spoke kindly and heartily: she said she had not ridiculed me—Oh, I don't remember the rest—she gave me her hand, and-—-
I cannot write it; you shall hear all about it sometime, and, even if I don't describe it, you know just the same: I, Emil Knopf, girls' tutor through so many generations, am engaged to an angel. That is a hackneyed phrase. Who knows whether angels could stand the teachers' examination?
I say with Herr Weidmann: I should just like to know how men can manage not to believe in God. Could only human understanding devise such a story as this? I had not the slightest idea where she came from, or who she was; and now she is put aboard the same ship for me, or you may say, I am put on board, and now the war breaks out, and she has an uncle in America—It is a fine thing that there is an uncle in America. I think I have met my father-in-law. And do you know what is the best thing?
To have a beloved one to live through a storm.
In the midst of the storm, and it was no ordinary one, I thought, How would it have been, if you had been obliged to sink into the sea alone, and had never known what it is to kiss a maiden's lips, and how it feels to have a soft hand stroke your face, and even to be told, "You are handsome,"—just think of it! I, Emil Knopf, famous as the least dangerous of men, I am handsome! Oh, how blind were all mothers and daughters in the blessed land of Uniformingen! Rosalie has a little mirror, and when I look into it, I am really handsome—I am pleased with myself. But do not think I have gone mad; I am in full possession of my mental powers. Herr Major, I pledge myself to explain to you the law of the centre of gravity and of the line of gravitation. I retain my understanding intact.
One thing, however, is hard for me. I find that I am no poet. If I were, I should now, of necessity, compose such poems that the whole world would hear of nothing else. The sailors could not refrain from singing them, nor the soldiers, coming away from the parade ground, nor the white-handed young lady at the piano, nor the journeyman by the roadside, when he takes off his oil-cloth hat and lays his head on his pack. Oh, I feel as if I must have something which should appease the hunger of the whole world, crying to all men, "Do you not see how beautiful the world is?"
But now I beg for a wedding gift. You and Fräulein Milch must have your photographs taken, for my sake. Oh, excuse my writing Fräulein Milch—I mean the Majorin. I see that I have kept writing Fräulein Milch throughout the whole letter. Do not be vexed if I do not alter it.
In the New World I shall write again; but now not another word. I have written enough, my whole life long, and now I wish to do nothing but frolic and kiss. Oh! that beautiful air from Don Giovanni occurs to me.
I will say but this one thing more: Manna behaves sweetly and kindly to my Rosalie, and so do Adams and our three doctors and young Fassbender. Every one rejoices in our happiness, and my young brothers-in-law are jolly fellows. We are all practising English, but we mean to remain true Germans.
In sight of land.
In three days we shall be in New York.
I don't know what I may have to encounter there. Rosalie, says too that I must write now: she is sitting beside me. But I really cannot write my inmost thoughts, when any one is in the same room with me, and especially when such dear eyes are looking at me. I will try, though: Rosalie thinks I have spoken so beautifully that it ought not to be lost. She makes me vain, she thinks so much of everything I say.
You know that we had a frightful storm, and that we were formally betrothed the« day after. It was only a little betrothal feast; but in spirit we invited the best people to it, and I summoned and addressed you all; you first, dear Major—or, rather, pardon me, dear brother, and then you, dear sister. Your cap with the blue ribbon was a good centre for my thoughts.
I spoke as follows:—
Oh, you good people, I cannot. They all say, I spoke as if I had received the gift of tongues. It may be so, but write it I cannot. I must give my Rosalie a kiss. Major, give yours to the Majorin.
There, that's enough.
P. S. I have given Rosalie what I have written to read. She is taking notes of a severe criticism for me. Yes, that is the way with teachers that have passed their examination.
New York.
To put into a letter what one has experienced in New York in three days, nay, in one, would be like holding fast in our hands the changeful images in the clouds. I have given up writing in my diary; there is too much to say.
When we landed, the Uncle was waiting for us, but did not accept me as a nephew very willingly. I wish I had you here, dear Brother Major, to explain to him who I really am, and how circumstanced. Now I must wait till he finds it out for himself; perhaps that will never happen. I don't blame the Uncle, he had already picked out a husband for Rosalie. When I introduced Captain Dournay to him, he said:—
"Dournay—Dournay?" but nothing more. He must have had to do with one of the family, some time or other.
The Uncle is very reserved; but great as his reticence is the openness of every one in Dr. Fritz's house. Ah, dear brother and sister, now I know what Herr Weidmann's home must have been when he was young, only Herr Weidmann has more sons, and here there are daughters. And what splendid creatures they are! And such a wife! I can only say, when she looks at you with her great eyes you are satisfied.
Oh, what glorious people we Germans are! Wherever we are transplanted, here in the air of freedom especially, we shoot up, and show, for the first time, what we really are.
I stood by when Roland and Lilian met; they must have some secret sign of recognition, for their first word was "Pebble." Yes, in love affairs some secret understanding is always formed. They merely held each other by the hand, and then went out together. Children live here in great independence.
Things go on beautifully at Dr. Fritz's, only nobody has any time.
I now understand the American saying, 'Time is money.' There is an extraordinary restlessness everywhere.
Here is war—war! Most people think it will soon be over, but Dr. Fritz says that the obstinacy of the Southern States is great, and that they are the better armed.
What is to become of me? you ask. Dr. Fritz thinks it strange that I still wish, in earnest, to become a teacher of negroes, especially as I do not yet speak the language with ease. He gives me hope, however, of being able to carry out my plan, by-and-by. And my thoughts go even further. A Normal School must be founded for negro youths; I shall keep this in view. Meantime I am giving music lessons here, and it seems so strange, when I come out of a house where we have been practising, to hear in the street the noisy roll of the drum.
Adams is in despair; the President will not yet permit any blacks to enlist. Adams has been told to work on the fortifications, but this he will not do.
Young Fassbender will have nothing to do with the bird-trade which Claus wanted to draw him into with his brother; he has undertaken to furnish supplies for the army. I hope he will behave honorably, for, sad to say, I hear that a great deal of cheating and embezzlement is carried on even in this Republic.
[Knopf to Fassbender.]
.... and tell me, did I ever meet at your house a teacher by the name of Runzler? It is very important to me to know, this, for he was my father-in-law.
I think he was at your house, and took snuff out of a large box.
Yes, it is so. I have just, asked my Rosalie. Her father used to take snuff from a big beech-wood box. So my idea was correct. Memory is a whimsical thing. We ought, professionally, to take it into consideration far more than we do. I remember actually nothing but the beech-wood snuff-box; but I beg you to tell me what we talked about at that time. You recollect, or rather I remind you, that I was at that time much saddened by the childish prank which Roland had played off upon me. I was so troubled, that I cannot remember any thing that passed. So write me all about it, and you will be doing me a great favor. You will soon receive a card inscribed thus:
Rosalie Knopf,néeRunzler,
Married.
I tell you the world is full of romances; the whole of life is but a romance.
The philosopher Schelling is right; poetry, art, government, religion, everything, had their origin in myths.
My good Roland has described to me his visit to Abraham Lincoln, and I have a good poem about it in my head. Unfortunately I have as yet only the title; but it is a beautiful one, for the piece is to be called: 'In Abraham's bosom.' Think how much can be included under such a heading!
Your son is an extremely practical man, you will have much satisfaction in him.
If your under-master chooses to come here, I can procure him much employment in piano lessons. We have teachers enough in Germany to export some.
[Roland to the Professorin.]
Pardon me if I no longer venture to call you mother. It seems to me like an injustice to my dead mother that I ever did so. I entreat you to have her grave carefully attended to, and to keep it strewn with her favorite flowers, ericas and pinks.
Now that is off my mind, I will write of other things.
When I think of the green cottage, it always seems to me as if it were floating on the sea, and must come hither to us.
Eric and Manna have, of course, described our voyage to you. While at sea, I learned tolerably well how the ship was managed, and I should have liked best to enlist in the navy; but Eric would not hear of it.
It is probable that my father is fighting against us by sea, so it is better for me to be in the army.
I have seen Lilian again. I can say to you alone that we are engaged. Do not say that I am but seventeen, and she but fourteen years old. Events have made us older. Why, Franklin wanted to marry Miss Read, when he was only eighteen. We have vowed to belong to one another when the war is over.
Please let these lines be seen by no eyes but yours.
We have been at Washington; I have seen the Acropolis of the New World. I wished first to make a pilgrimage to Franklin's grave, but it was better for me that I could first see one of his greatest successors, Abraham Lincoln.
I have seen, for the first time, a man of immortal glory. Face to face with him, I have uttered the name which will be handed down to posterity. Those lips, whose words now resound throughout the world of to-day, and shall be reëchoed by future ages, have pronounced my name. I have looked on greatness, and how simple it is!
It was at Carlsbad, in the course of that memorable conversation,—I do not remember much of it, but this struck me,—that some one, the Cabinetsrath, I think, said: "He who has walked through a portrait gallery of his ancestors, traverses the whole of life accompanied, as it were, by those eyes." Oh, from Lincoln's eyes the spirit of Socrates and Aristides, the spirit of Moses, of Washington, of Franklin, gazed upon me. And then I felt those to be the forefathers whom every one can earn for himself by honorable labor, by loyalty and self-sacrifice. I have the loftiest ancestry, and I will be worthy of it.
I enclose a photograph of Lincoln. He resembles Weidmann, not in appearance, but in the impression he makes on one. I told him about Adams, and how unhappy the negro was that he could not enter the army, but could only be employed on fortifications. Lincoln told me to trust mature discretion, and not to forget, in the exuberance of youth, that we must use all means in our power to bring about an understanding, in order to be justified before our own conscience and before God, if obliged to go further, saying that this was a fraternal strife, a war, not of annihilation, but of reconciliation.
I should like to enter a negro regiment, and told him so. He was silent, and only laid his broad, powerful hand on my head. Manna remains at Dr. Fritz's. Eric has probably already told you of his entering the army with the rank of Major. I have a comrade, Hermann; Lilian's brother, who bears a strong resemblance to Rudolph Weidmann, and is of the same age, but much older in character. Here, one is much older at eighteen than with us. He talks very little; but what he says, is so sensible and decided! Ah, he has had a beautiful youth!—but I will say no more of that. I left Griffin behind, in Lilian's care. We are in the cavalry. If we only had our Villa Eden horses here! Tell the Major to write me word who has bought them. My heart aches if I think of Villa Eden.
Just now, having written that word, I was obliged to stop. Have patience with me: you shall see that your great goodness to me has not been thrown away. You shall hear of manly behaviour on the part of
Your
Roland Dournay.
I have taken the name of Dournay here. You will understand why.
[Manna to the Professorin.]
.... I long to throw myself upon your breast, and there to say, "Mother!" and nothing more. The pen trembles in my hand, but I hear you say, "Be strong." I will. I dare not think how it will be when we are again with you. You are our home. We must wait, who knows how long? Who knows with what sacrifices? I dare, not think that Eric may be taken from me—from us.
It seemed like a dream to me, when we trod the soil of this continent—of my native land. I would gladly have floated on with the ship forever. I am living in the house of Dr. Fritz. Eric and Roland have to-day gone to Washington to see Lincoln. I do not realize that Eric is not with me, and yet I must soon let him go, how differently! We will not be afraid, will we, mother? A wonderful destiny has brought us together and preserved us together; it will remain true to us.
I should like to tell you much of the home where I dwell, and of all the good, intellectually wide-awake people, and often, when I hear the wife and children talking and see them acting, I want to say, "That you get from Eric's mother, from my mother." There exists, over the whole earth, a common fund of noble thought, as every one finds who bears a portion of it within himself. This is, to me, the meaning of the words, "Seek and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you." You have given me the power of seeking, of knocking, and I find that it is opened unto me. Oh, mother! Why must it be by means of such tremendous events, poised so narrowly between life and death, that the greatness and goodness, the readiness for martyrdom of the human heart, must be developed? Why not in peace, in love, in quiet cares?
That will be the millennium, you have often said, when the best qualities will no longer unfold in struggle, but in beauty and peacefulness. You, my mother, are a messenger and a witness from the paradise-world beyond the strife. Rejoice, as we rejoice, that you are this messenger, this witness. I will become like you, I am and will be your daughter, and will grow ever more truly so.
It is well that I was interrupted in this. Lilian has a fresh voice, and our friend Knopf's betrothed sings beautifully. We have practised pieces in which I accompany Lilian's singing on the harp. Oh, if we could send some of those tones over the sea! In the midst of the uproar of life around us, here we sit and sing by the hour together. Now I understand anew that saying, that art is a redeemer;—that saying of father's.
Why is the word father so harrowing to my soul? How happy it was for my mother to be snatched away as she was! When I fall into this train of thought, I always feel as if entering a desert, far, far away; nowhere anything cheering to the eye or refreshing to the soul. We must bear it.
I see with sorrow that I am writing confusedly; but you know and believe me, when I say that I am really calm, and, above all, you are to know that I never burden our Eric with these heavy thoughts. It is less from intention than—no, as soon as he comes, all dread and grief vanish; everything is light, sunshine, day.
Three days later.
Eric has returned with Roland from Washington. They have much to tell, and Roland is in a state of enthusiasm which you can easily picture to yourself.
Have I already told you that our friend Knopf has found a charming little wife? She is full of intelligence, modesty, and energy. She, too, has had religious conflicts to undergo, as I have, not so severe; but then she has had a hard fight with herself. Lilian, too, young as she is, is far riper than her years, on account of her zeal for making converts.
She was sent to Germany, and our friend Knopf there accomplished a good work. Lillian has become a sister to me, and we talk much of how she shall go with us to the Rhine. She thinks, however, that Eric and I will remain here; but that will never be. Our home is there. You are our home. I kiss your eyes, cheeks, mouth, hands. Ah, let me kiss you once more, once more! You are my—ah! you do not know at all what you are; but you know that I am
Your daughter,
Manna Dournay.
P.S. Dear Aunt Claudine, send me a great deal more good music, some soprano songs with harp accompaniment, and send them soon. At every tone I will think of you, and my naughty little finger, which you took so much trouble to train, is now perfectly obedient.
[Eric to Weidmann.]
When I stood before Abraham Lincoln, I thought of you, my revered friend. And because I have known, in my short life, what purely noble men breathe the same air with me, I was unembarrassed and at my ease. My lot is an exalted one: I can look in the faces of the best men of my age. And if wiseacres ever again tell me, condescendingly, that I am an idealist, I can reply to them, "I must be one, for I have met some of the noblest of men on my life-road; I not only believe in the elevation of pure humanity—I know it."
I will only give one incident of our interview.
We heard the opinion expressed, among those who surrounded Lincoln, that the negroes ought not to be set free, because they would do no work unless forced.
Roland said to me in a low voice:—
"Do the slaveholders work without being forced?"
Lincoln noticed that the boy was saying something to me, and encouraged him to speak without reserve. Roland repeated his question quietly but earnestly. You, who have helped me to awaken this young spirit, will sympathize in my pleasure.
And now I will tell you about your nephew.
Oh, our blessed German life! In old times travellers took with them into foreign countries the images of their saints. We Germans carry our poets, our philosophers and musicians over the face of the whole globe; and your nephew's pleasant, comfortable, free home is the abode of true culture. Here, in the midst of the tumult of political and private life, reign immortal spirits, who bring a devotion, a serenity, a holy quiet, of a peculiar sort.
Your nephew has done well in always telling me not to believe, with most people here, that this war will be over in a few months. I now think not of the end, but only of the next day.
And, in the midst of this growth and change of historic movement, I feel that the individual is like the single cell in a tree, or else that we are like boys on the school-bench. We do not know the entire educational plan. We do not know the end to which all this leads. We must learn our lessons; and cell is built upon cell, knowledge is added to knowledge, until—who knows the end?
In the first great struggle, in the New World's war of independence, there were Germans sold by German princes, to fight for the English against the Americans, and but few of our countrymen, towering up among them like Steuben and Kalb, did battle for the Republic. At that period the French—Lafayette's name rings out clear among them—stood foremost among the New World's champions of freedom. To-day the Union army contains thousands of Germans, witnesses who have emigrated or been exiled. Why are there no Frenchmen? I know the reason, and so do you.
I see the poet of the future draw near. The great drama of our epoch, the strife between Cæsarism and self-government, is presented to his gaze in dimensions such as no past age could know; he will compress the struggle within narrow limits.
The Republic of the United States has not yet existed a century. Oh, how different is the aspect of things here from what we had pictured to ourselves! I have found many who doubt the continuance of the Union; cultivated clergymen even told me that there was certainly more power of endurance in the monarchical form of government. That is the feeling of dejection and despair: but it is, I believe, only to be met with in single instances.
How often I am obliged to hear myself called a philosophical idealist! And they tell me I shall soon be converted. Your nephew, whose comprehensive glance sees all sides of a subject, has solved this enigma for me. The people here have lived so long for their own ease alone, feeling their claims of the State only occasionally, as voters. They must now pass through the school of military discipline, of staking their lives for the life of the nation—only as an education, of course, to be free again afterwards.
The so-called slavery question is not so nearly decided, by a great deal, as we supposed.
Your nephew thinks the complete abolition of slavery will become a necessary war measure of vital importance to the continued existence of the nation; that patriotism must be wedded to humanity—that the pure ideal must give place to utilitarianism and necessity—that the logic of events will bring about a decision not to be effected by the logic of thought. There is still a strong party here in the North who do not wish to proceed to the one extreme measure, as they call the absolute abolition of slavery; but hope to subdue the South by war instead.
We hope they will not succeed. The words "necessity of State," so often misused by tyrants, will now, we trust lead to Liberty.
How much one is obliged to hear against the negroes in this country!
That the four million slaves represent twenty hundred million dollars, is, of course, the point first mentioned; then that the blacks have many vices, as though a perfect model of virtue were to be expected from a down-trodden race. Any nation, so long held in bondage, tortured, martyred, condemned to ignorance, would have been just what they are. Moreover, tyranny has, in all ages, proclaimed the oppressed to be low beings, ignoring, of course, the fact that if they have some base tendencies, it is the oppression that has prepared the soil and implanted them.
I have made the acquaintance here of a distinguished negro, whose oration on the present situation and the future of his race I had heard. There was a touch of Demosthenes in it. He was a slave twenty-two years, and has acquired a complete scientific education.
Sometimes there is in his voice a quivering tone of lament, as of one drooping under a weight of sorrow, and I admire him for suppressing an avengeful anger. If a single man can do much for his race, this man, or one like him, might become an historic character.
But the heroic age is past, entirely and forever; now we must depend on community of action.
We are transported into the midst of an historical or logical unfolding of events. The attempts at peaceful reconciliation have been of no avail. In spite of the cry "No coërcion!" an army had to be raised, and now the cry is, "No confiscation of property!" That means, no abolition of slavery, and yet this must be the second result, since it could not be the first.
The moral debt, neither noted down nor paid interest on, nor cancelled on change, is now becoming a great national debt of the Union, which the country will be obliged to liquidate with money and blood.