It was difficult to hunt up Pranken, for he had lost himself when he left Villa Eden. No man ever walked with a firmer and a prouder step, while at the same time he was inwardly crushed, than Pranken. It was something more than external assumption, it was an habitual assurance that sustained him.
Pranken would have taken it hard if Manna had rejected him in order to become a nun. But to reject him on account of preference for another, reject him,—Otto von Pranken!—He was touched to the quick. Otto von Pranken had been refused; and he was very deeply in love. Can Otto von Pranken offer love, and not have it reciprocated? If the girl had taken the veil, and renounced the world, she would have renounced him with the rest, for he was a part of the world; but to be refused in this way, and dismissed on account of another man!—. Otto von Pranken loves, and his suit is not accepted!
"Unprecedented!" He ground his teeth with rage. He never thought of what he had been guilty of in his life: he only felt his dignity insulted, his pride mortified, and his love scorned; for he loved Manna, and wanted to be united to her, and naturally, also, to her money; then he would be all right, and indulge his passion for handsome horses.
What should now become of him? For the first time in his life, Pranken felt a pity for himself: it seemed to him that he was misunderstood, misappreciated virtue, but, more than all, as if nobleness of bearing had been insulted, and fidelity rewarded with ingratitude. How great sacrifices he had made for this family! And now? It appeared to him as if there were a black funeral-procession passing along in his thoughts: you cannot crowd through it, you must wait until it has all gone by.
He rode away as if he had been thrust out of the world. Where shall he turn? To whom shall he complain?
Is Otto von Pranken to complain to a man, to appear in a helpless condition before any one?
He laughed outright as he now called to mind that he had contracted large debts, in anticipation of the millions which would certainly be his. What next?
Involuntarily he turned round once more, and looked back at Villa Eden.
There was only a single line needed, only a brief interview: yes, he had but to ride back, and represent this to Sonnenkamp, in order to come away with hundreds of thousands. But no, it must not be done.
"Fie!" said he to himself, "how could you ever have such a thought as that?"
He rode on, and came to the country-house of Herr von Endlich. There was a young widow here: should he now go in? He knew that his proposal would not be rejected here. No, not yet. But he reined in and dismounted. He asked after the gracious lady, and was told that she was travelling in Italy with her brother.
Sneering contemptuously at himself, he again mounted his horse.
He would tell Bella and Clodwig,—no, not even that. He had not taken them into his counsel: in opposition to the rest of the world, he had connected himself with Sonnenkamp, and was he now to be pitied by Clodwig, and stuffed with wise saws?
He turned his horse, and, riding up along the river, he came to Villa Eden again, and the horse wanted to turn in at the gate; but with whip and spur he urged him on.
He rode to the Priest's, and sent for Fräulein Perini, who came.
First he asked her if she wished to remain any longer in the family.
Fräulein Perini, looking him full in the face, declared that she hoped she had not mistaken him in supposing that he would not abandon every thing to the Huguenots. She asserted that she was the daughter of a man who had fallen in a duel caused by a less provocation.
The Priest here said,—
"My noble young friend! Not that, no, not that: what does it signify, this petty duel in a corner of the wood, and you killing one man even, according to the code of honor? You sons of the nobility must wage, under the banner of the Pope, the great contest with the revolution. Also for your own sake. On that field will be fought the great duel between faith and irreligion, between eternal law and frivolous self-deification, and the victory is yours."
Pranken smiled to himself; but he did not express how odd it seemed to him, when the Priest went on to state, that, before it was known how Sonnenkamp's money had been acquired, they might have applied a part of it to holy ends; but now it could not be done.
Pranken looked at the Priest, and smiled. Did not the Priest know the origin of the money before this?
He had it on his lips to say, "It is very amiable and prudent in you now, when nothing can be got, to act as if you had declined it." But it was not necessary; and why should he imbitter against him the only parties who remained his friends? Yes, he was here still an honored personage, not the solitary, abandoned one, who rode outside there on the road, up and down, not knowing which way to turn. He would now be prudent, he would play with men. He said he had separated from Sonnenkamp, because the latter would not give up to him, and devote a large sum for a pious purpose. He had the right to say this, he thought, for he had desired that it should be done. This was what he would now maintain; Manna's refusal was by this means put out of sight, and his obstinate adherence to Sonnenkamp had in it a sort of religious consecration.
The Priest reminded Pranken that to-day was the time for the church conference, and he was expected to be there.
Pranken took leave.
Fräulein Perini returned to the Villa, wearing a proud smile. Odd people, these Germans! She would at any rate stay until she had got enough for herself; she did not want to leave empty-handed.
Pranken rode off. He passed the villa which had belonged to the Cabinetsrath. Ah! they were prudent, they had secured their part of the booty before the decision. Why were you so simple, so considerate, and so trustful?
He put up his horse at the station, and rode in the cars to the city where the Bishop lived. He was expected there; but how was he to present himself to the company? He came, luckily, just as the meeting had broken up. He was received with marked consideration at the palace of the Bishop; and he was glad to feel that there was still honor for him in the world: and here he came to a hurried resolve.
Here, also, Bella's messenger overtook him.
He set out, and reached Wolfsgarten. The first person he met was the Banker, who told him, with great emotion, that Clodwig was very ill. Pranken looked haughtily at the man; but he had good breeding enough to address him civilly.
He came to Bella. After she had told him of Clodwig's illness, she lauded Pranken as the only true freeman in remaining true to Sonnenkamp.
Pranken pressed his lips together, but made no reply. It was not the time now to make known what had happened, and the conclusion he had formed. And, when Bella asked him why he seemed so disturbed, he could give no answer.
"Why were you not at the trial? Have you come from Villa Eden? How are they there?" asked Bella.
"I don't know," Pranken finally replied.
Yes, how are they at Villa Eden!
Sonnenkamp sat alone. He seemed to hear in his solitude a crackling, a low, almost inaudible gnawing, like a tongue of flame lapping the beams and joists, devouring more and more, and increasing as it devoured its prey. Such a low crackling, and such a lapping, he believed that he heard in his solitude.
He was mistaken, and yet he was well aware that there was a spark kindled, and it was burning noiselessly; it ran along the floor of the room, it reached the walls; the chairs, the closets, the books, are all on fire; the painted faces on the canvas are grotesquely distorted, and blaze up; and the flames spread on and on, creeping through all the apartments, enveloping at last the roof and the whole house, and flaring up into the sky.
Suppose that one should burn it all up, and every thing in it? No, there is another, a better means of deliverance, an energetic deed, a splendid, grand—here came a knock. It must be Bella coming to explain why she was not there when he returned from the trial to the seed-room. He opened the door quickly, and Weidmann, not Bella, entered.
"Have you any thing to ask me in private?" asked Sonnenkamp angrily.
"I have only a favor to beg of you."
"A favor? you?"
"Yes. Give me your son"—
"My son?" cried Sonnenkamp in astonishment.
"Will you be so good as to let me finish my sentence. Let your son come into my family for days, weeks, months, as long as you please; only let it be long enough for him to get a new hold in a different sphere. He needs an energetic and free activity. When your son passed a short time with me before this thing happened, I perceived with satisfaction that he had very little personal vanity with all his beauty. He takes pleasure in looking at others rather than at himself. This would be of help; and I would like to aid him still further. As your son will not become a soldier, perhaps it will be well for him to be instructed in husbandry."
"Is this a plan which you have agreed upon with Herr Dournay?"
"Yes, it is his wish; and it seems to me a very good plan."
"Indeed?" said Sonnenkamp. "Perhaps Roland has already been informed of this wish, and of how well it suits?"
"I cannot blame you for this bitter feeling, I can very well understand it; for it is no trifling matter to be placed in a situation where others undertake to dispose of us and ours."
"I thank you, I thank you very kindly.'"
"If you decline, then no one knows any thing about it, except Herr Dournay and myself."
"Have I said that I was going to decline? You will yet receive one proof how much confidence I place in you: I have made you one of my executors."
"I am much older than you." Sonnenkamp made no reply to this remark, and Weidmann continued,—
"What conclusion have you come to about my request concerning your son?"
"If he will go with you, he has my consent. Allow me one question. Is this the expiation you would exact of me, or a part of it?"
Weidmann said it was not.
The carriage in which the Professorin, Roland, and Manna returned, now entered the court-yard. Weidmann welcomed the Professorin very cordially, having known her a long time ago. He saw now for the first time, as a matron, the once blooming beauty. The three brought from Mattenheim a fresh strength for all that lay before them.
As they were sitting together in the green cottage, a messenger on horseback came from Clodwig to summon Eric to his side.
Weidmann now renewed the proposal for Roland to go with him to Mattenheim. Roland was advised by them all to go. Declaring that he needed no inducement, he readily assented, and drove away with Weidmann, Prince Valerian, and Knopf. He was protected and sheltered by such a number of good men.
Mattenheim was situated on the other bank of the Rhine; and, while the carriage was being ferried across, Roland stood at the stern of the boat, and gazed in silence for a long time at the parental home. Tears came into his eyes; but he restrained them.
A tornado swept through the park, eddying around the house; and the fires just kindled in it were extinguished. The many fire-places were of no avail, the whole house was full of smoke; and a whirling gust of wind seemed to tear all the inmates of Villa Eden away from each other. Roland was gone, Pranken was seen there no more, Manna lived with the Professorin in the green cottage, and Eric had ridden away. Only Sonnenkamp and Frau Ceres were there. Fräulein Perini came, and informed Sonnenkamp that his wife desired to speak with him instantly: she was in a state wholly beyond her control.
Sonnenkamp hurried to Frau Ceres' apartment; but she was not there. The maid said that as soon as Fräulein Perini had left the room, she had hurried through the house into the park. They went after her immediately, calling her by name. They found her, at last, sitting on the river bank, in the midst of the storm, splendidly dressed, with a coronet on her head, thick rows of pearls on her bare neck, heavy bracelets on her arms, and a girdle of glittering emeralds around her waist. She looked at Sonnenkamp with a strange smile, and then said,—
"You have given me rich and beautiful ornaments."
She seemed to grow taller: she threw back her black hair.
"Look, here is the dagger! I wanted to kill myself with it; but I hurl it away from me."
The hilt of precious stones and pearls sparkled through the air, plunged into the water, and sank.
"What are you doing? What does this mean?"
"Come back with me!" she cried, "or, look, I will throw myself into the river, and take with me these ornaments, the half of your riches."
"You are a deluded child," said Sonnenkamp contemptuously. "You think, do you, that these are genuine stones? I have never given into your keeping, you simple child, any but imitation jewels: the genuine ones, in a like setting and case, I have fast enough in my own possession, in the burglar-proof safe."
"So! You are shrewd," replied Frau Ceres.
"And you, my wild child, you are not crazy."
"No, I am not, if I'm not made so. I shall remain with you, and never leave you for a single instant. Oh! I know you—Oh! I know you, you will forsake me."
Sonnenkamp shuddered.
What does this mean? How does it come to pass that this simple-minded creature has called out his slumbering thoughts, and brought them up from the depths of his soul? He addressed the kindest words to Frau Ceres, and, bringing her back to the house, kissed her. She became quieter; but the determination was fixed in him to become free. There was only one thing to be won, and then away into the wide, wide world! But first of all, he must go to the capital, and shoot down Professor Crutius. He struggled and wrestled with the thought, and at last he was obliged to give it up. But the other thing must be. In confirmation of this hidden impression of his soul, there came a messenger from Eric, with the tidings that he could not leave Wolfsgarten, for Count Clodwig was at the point of death.
Eric rode to Wolfsgarten. He met on the way the Major and Fräulein Milch, who were walking close together under one large umbrella.
Eric told them that Clodwig was dangerously sick, and the Major said,—
"Don't let him have any other nurse. Fräulein Milch will come and take care of him. Herr Captain, one ought to be sick for once, so as to have Fräulein Milch nurse him."
Fräulein Milch declared herself ready to come to Clodwig, if she were called upon.
Eric rode on, and now sought to put in a right point of view all that he had experienced, so that he might gain the strength necessary to bear up under coming events. How much had happened to him and to others since he rode out from Wolfsgarten to Villa Eden? Every thing passed through his soul, and he breathed deep in silent satisfaction as he thought what would have been his condition now, if he had not exerted all his strength to bring himself into right relations with Bella. How different would it be, were he riding now with a soul torn by conflicting feelings, unable to help wishing for Clodwig's death in order that he might get possession of Bella, and obliged to stand like the most abject hypocrite by the bedside of the dying one. No poet yet has ventured to depict the mental state of two people who expect to base their happiness on the news of another's death; and these, no criminals but cultivated, and intelligent.
Eric looked upon himself as one rescued from destruction. Never was a man possessed by more pious emotions than Eric was now, as, stopping, he said to himself,—
"I thank thee, thou Eternal and Ineffable Spirit; for it is not I who have, through my education and inherited tendencies, become what I am. I am now pure; I will not be unworthy of it, but keep myself pure and innocent."
Wanting to get rid, finally, of his thoughts and speculations, he spoke to the messenger, an old confidential servant of the Wolfsgarten family. The messenger related how Clodwig had come home from Villa Eden in company with the Banker, and how they had thought he would have died at that time.
The servant turned round, and, pointing with his whip to Villa Eden, said, "There's no queerer state of things anywhere than in this world." In the midst of his deep distress, Eric could not help laughing aloud at this odd remark.
"Is any one of the relatives at Wolfsgarten?"
"No: the Jew is the only one there. But he is a friend of our master."
Eric regretted that he had entered into conversation with the servant, for he could not restrain him from talking about what he thought would be done, if the gracious master should die.
At the last hill, Eric dismounted, and walked over the wooded height. It was all still. The hornbeam tree, which first leaves out, was now the first to let fall its yellow leaves: there was a rustling and a low crackling in the wood, and only the hawk screeched above on the height.
Eric came in front of the manor-house, and entered the courtyard. He went to Bella, who looked pale and as if suffering severely. He entered just at the moment that Bella was asking her brother of the news at Villa Eden.
Eric was startled to meet Pranken here. Both had to use the strongest self-control in order to stand up under the interview.
Bella thanked Eric for being the first one to come to her.
"He is now asleep," said she: "he talks constantly of you. Be composed: you will hardly know him; give in to him in every thing, he is very excitable."
Bella's voice was hoarse; and, covering her eyes with a white handkerchief, she asked,—
"Were you present when your father died?"
Eric said that he was.
Bella went to inform Clodwig of Eric's arrival. Pranken and Eric were by themselves. For a long time neither spoke: at last, Pranken began,—
"I never thought that I should speak again to Herr Dournay; but we are now at a sick-bed, and for the sake of the invalid"—
"I thank you."
"I beg you to give me no thanks, and to speak to me just as little as possible,—just enough to excite no remark and nothing more."
He turned round and was about to go.
"Just one word," Eric requested. "We shall soon see an eye closed in death that has always beamed with gentle and noble feeling; let all bitterness toward me disappear, or, for a time, be suspended. Let us not, at such an hour as this, stand in hostility to each other."
"You can talk well: I know that."
"And I want to say what it is well for you to listen to. It troubles me that I appear to you ungrateful; but now, in this mysterious presence which awaits us all, I repeat"—
Bella returned and said,—
"He is still asleep. O Herr Dournay! Clodwig loves you more than he loves any other person in the world."
She gave Eric her hand, and it was cold as ice. The three were speechless for some time, until Eric asked,—
"Is there no hope?"
"No. The Doctor says that he has probably only a few hours to live. Do you hear any thing? The Doctor has promised to come,—to return immediately. Oh, if I could only induce Clodwig to call in another physician! Do urge him to do it: I have no confidence in Doctor Richard."
Eric made no reply.
"Ah, my God!" lamented Bella, "how forsaken we are in our need. You will remain with us, will you not? You will not abandon us?"
Eric promised to remain.
It had a strange sound, a reminiscence out of the past, with its forms of courtesy, as Bella now asked pardon for not having inquired after Eric's mother, Frau Ceres, and Manna; and, with a peculiar jerking out of the words, she asked,—
"How is Herr Sonnenkamp?"
A servant came, and announced that the Herr Count had waked up, and had asked immediately, if Herr Captain Dournay had not yet come.
"Go to him," said Bella, laying her hand upon Eric's shoulder. "Go to him, I beg you; but let it come as if from you, and not from me, that another physician should be called in."
Eric went; and, as soon as he had gone, "Bella said hurriedly to Pranken,—
"Otto, get rid of the Jew as politely as you can. What does he want here?"
Pranken went to the Banker.
Bella was alone, and could not control her feeling of unrest. She had already arranged in thought the announcement of the decease, and had even written the words,—
"To relatives and friends I make the painful announcement, that my beloved husband, Count von Wolfsgarten of Wolfsgarten, formerly ambassador of his royal Highness at Rome, Knight of the first rank, has died after a short illness, at the age of sixty-five. I beg their silent sympathy.
"BELLA COUNTESS VON WOLFSGARTEN (née, Von Pranken)."
A demon continually whispered to her this announcement: she saw it before her eyes with a black border, even while Clodwig was still living. Why is this? What suggests these words, and brings them so clearly before her eyes? She could not get away from them. She took up the sheet of paper, tore it up, and threw the pieces out of the window into the rain.
Eric, meanwhile, had entered the sick-chamber.
"Are you here at last?" cried Clodwig. His voice was faint; and the small childlike hand which the sick man extended toward him appeared more delicate than ever.
"Sit down," said he; "don't be so broken down: you are young and strong, and have a good conscience. Let me take your hand. It is a happiness to die in the full possession of my senses: I have often desired to die a sudden death. Better as it is. Tell me, how is your mother? Are you really betrothed to the daughter of that terrible man."
Eric could not yet utter a word: he only nodded without speaking, and Clodwig continued,—
"That is fine, an instance of the grand truth of compensation in the world. Once, you were to become my son—my son! It is better as it is. I am to have no son. But tell me, how is Roland? Did he not want to come with you? I see him, the splendid youth! he is present all the time. You have done well, Eric, entirely well. You will stay with the young man. If we could only know what will become of the father!"
Before Eric could answer, the invalid lay back upon the pillow. He seemed to have fallen asleep. Nothing was heard but the ticking of the clock; and now a carriage drove into the court-yard, the wheels cutting into the gravel.
Clodwig awoke.
"That is the Doctor," he said aloud. He requested the attendant to say to the physician that he would like to be left with Eric alone for a time. The nurse gave the commission to the servant, and remained in the anteroom. Sitting upright, Clodwig said,—
"Shut the door: I want to speak to you in private."
Eric sat by the bedside, and Clodwig began,—
"This Sonnenkamp, so audacious, and yet—hypocrisy, it is everywhere; a jumble of grimaces, of masks who do not know one another. A sentence upon Sonnenkamp? I have let him off entirely. His path is zigzag, his goal horrible. Who shall judge? I say it here to you, my brain received a fatal lesion when the fearful thought entered into it. When I look over my own life, what is it? I have filled out a uniform: we are walking, empty sentry-boxes, painted with the national color. If a discharge comes, we think it something very mysterious; we whisper—all a farce. The life of most persons is hypocrisy, and so is mine, so long, so honorable! We have no courage, we do not confess what we are. We are encumbered with forms, compliances, courtesies, conformities; and all is false inside. We never tell each other what we are as we acknowledge it to ourselves. Don't be afraid. I have no crime, no transgression, now, to acknowledge and to feel remorse for. I have been all my life pure as thousands, as millions, by my side; but I have not been the person that I really am. Do you know that grand word which God spake when he revealed himself in the desert to the holy Shepherd? It is this. This is God. 'I am that I am.' This is the truth, truthfulness, the divine in every man; and men deny it. Who can say I am that I am? I never could, and millions by my side could not. We are all glossed over outside, all and everywhere over-refined—no, not all, but most of us: were all so, the sun would never again rise upon the earth. But the time will come, and you are one of those awaiting its coming, you will share in its life,—the time will come, when men shall dissemble no more, shall lie no more, shall pass themselves off for no more than they are, and shall be what they profess to be. Do you comprehend me?"
"Perfectly, perfectly."
"Know, then, I tell you that I have not done what I ought to have done. I have not gone from hour to hour into the presence of those in power, and said, 'Thus am I, and thus must you be.' I have lulled myself with a false philosophy; I have persuaded myself that all would be spontaneously unfolded of itself; that we are in the direct line of the developing tendencies, and we have nothing to do in furtherance thereof. Ha, ha! unfold of itself! Yes, death comes of itself, death comes, and takes away the life that was no real life, no candid revealment, no genuine self. I once knew a great actor. To an actor, death will always be the hardest, not only because he has so often counterfeited death, but because he knows that he leaves behind him his parts, his masks, his paints, his wilted wreaths, his rounds of applause, and he can never be called out again. My son, we diplomatists, we die the death of the actor. I have led an unprofitable life. I had no fatherland to give me other than diplomatic farces to perform. My life has been a busy inactivity: I have spent the greatest part of my life in the livery and the defence of a cause which I did not respect, scarcely had any regard for. Here is this slave-trader. Fie! the whole world calls out in horror: and yet, in circles held in high estimation, there are far worse than slave-traders. Others, again, are not in the house of correction, because they were under no necessity of stealing, and because they were bought off by money from being positively immoral. There, give me now, I beg, a cooling draught, my mouth is parched."
Eric gave Clodwig a draught; but they were both so awkward, that it was almost all spilled.
"No matter, no matter," said Clodwig, smiling, "that's the way in this world: only the smaller part is really drunk, the larger part gets spilled, wasted. There, now go, and let the Doctor come, but come back again afterwards."
Eric went and called the physician. Bella asked what Clodwig had been talking about. He could only answer in general terms, and begged to be allowed to go into the open air for refreshment.
Eric went into the garden. The November wind was raging, and the rain driving fiercely. Eric wrapped himself in his cloak, and went into the wood: it did him good to walk in the midst of the uproar of the elements. He went through the park and the wood, by the game path which he had followed on the morning after telling the story of his life to his newly-won friend Clodwig. Now he could not stride on in exultant mood, as if borne onward by an external force; now he must battle with the storm which roared over him through the tree-tops. Now, as then, he stood under the covered pavilion; but in the wide landscape he could see nothing but clouds of driving rain. Close to the wall of the building there was still one beautiful blue-bell: unconsciously he broke it off, and, as he returned to the house, it occurred to him to carry the flower to the invalid. He entered the sick-chamber, and Clodwig cried,—
"Ah, the blue flower! You gather it and bring it to me. We have dreamed of them often in my youth. Youth, youth!" repeated the sick man often.
He seized the flower, then leaned far out of bed, and smelled of Eric's clothes, saying,—
"Ah I my son, why do the Bible pictures come up before me now? The patriarch Isaac said to his son as he came to his sickbed, 'The smell of my son is as the smell of a field which the Lord hath blessed.' Yes, Eric, you bring all the free air of the fields into my sick-room. When I am no more, remember that you have done me good."
Eric wept.
"Yes, weep, it is well, it will do you no harm that I make your heart heavy. You will be happy and active on the earth whose clods will soon rest on me. Only, I pray you, stay by me when I die; and when I am dead, and they prepare me for the grave, take something from my heart which must stay there till it has stopped beating. Stay with me, Eric, I will not think of petty, individual interests. I will not leave the world in hatred and anger—no, not in hatred and anger against any man. Help me to attain to the universal, the grand: in those I will live and die."
He lay back on his pillows; and, as Eric leaned over him, his breath came quietly, and on his face was a gentle smile. What thoughts might now be stirring this soul?
Eric wanted to send a messenger to Villa Eden, to say that he must remain where he was. Lootz, who had been sent by Herr Sonnenkamp to inquire for the Count, carried the message back.
Clodwig slept several hours, while Eric sat with the Banker, and drew refreshment from his self-forgetting sympathy. The Banker failed in many of the ordinary forms of society; but he possessed a nature full of tact, and, in the midst of his deep emotion, Eric thought that only unselfishness has genuine tact. Want of tact is at bottom selfishness; for the man who is without it thinks and acts only for himself.
Eric now saw the Banker in a new light. In Carlsbad he had made rather an effort to display his intelligence; but now his gentle and sensible character showed itself naturally. Eric remembered the Banker's once having said to him at Carlsbad, "The Jews are the children of compassion: they understand how to bear and to relieve sorrow much better than to create joy; the remembrance of past oppression gives them sympathy with all suffering."
The Banker was ready to lend help at any moment, but allowed himself to be put in the background again immediately.
Bella treated him with manifest neglect, but he took it good-humoredly, showing without words that he was not offended. She acted like her mother's own child; and moreover, he thought, she was not his friend. Clodwig was his friend, and he regarded it as a duty to bear something for his sake. He sat in the library, ready to answer any call, and retiring again as soon as he believed himself in the way. Towards midnight, Eric was suddenly summoned; Clodwig had waked, and asked for him.
"Ah! I have slept so well," said Clodwig; "and it's strange, I constantly dream now of my cousin Hatty, whom I am to marry. I like her, and she likes me; but she has learned, and will learn nothing at all, and she has such a shrill laugh, and says, 'Come, Clodwig, you're so sad, come, marry me, we'll be merry.' And then I say, 'Child, I'm so old already! see, I've no teeth left, and what will Bella say to it?' 'Ah, what' she says, 'nonsensical things! Come, we'll dance.' And then we dance down to the chapel; and there stands the priest beckoning to us, and we dance on, past the priest; and she's a splendid child with beautiful eyes, and loves me dearly; and so we dance on and on, and I can keep it up very well till I wake, without being tired."
"Is your cousin Hatty still living?"
"Oh, no! she died long ago. A few weeks since a grandson of hers was here with me. But isn't it strange that my first youthful love—I was hardly ten years old—should have awakened in me? And she had an apple in her hand, and bit into it, and then said, 'Take a bite too;' but, when I wanted to take the apple, she wouldn't let me, and said, 'Don't bite too much.' And, when I awoke, the taste of the apple seemed still in my mouth. Now it just comes back to me that we were once painted together. The painter declared that it would please us very much some time or other. He did it secretly, and, of course, the picture was bought of him; I believe it is still in existence; but I don't know where. Don't you like her name of Hatty? She is a half-grown girl in a pink calico dress and white apron, and that's the way she was always dressed, and she had a broad Florence straw hat, whose brim drooped down upon her shoulders." So Clodwig went on, and said with a repressed sigh, "Bella has never cared to hear about my youth;" but then, as if not wishing to speak of her, he quickly added in a trembling voice, stretching out both hands, "Now attend, and I can tell you my story. I have had a very different life from that Herr Sonnenkamp. My father was Prime-Minister, and I was born in the ministerial residence, the son of a late marriage, an only son, like Herr Sonnenkamp; but my life was different. My father became representative of the Confederacy to the German Diet, and then I often lived here in summer on our estate. The society of the representatives of the Confederacy,—who knows whether it is not passing away without any one's having pictured it truly,—I might have done it; even when I was still a student, it was plain to me that it was a society which exists only to stand in the way of every improvement. Come a little nearer and I will tell you what the German Diet is,—it is the evil conscience of the Princes. I thought so very early, and I was soon sure of it, and yet I stayed in the midst of it; and the farther I advanced, the more plainly I saw that it was true. All progress has built itself up apart from the Diet; and there is something like it in the Church. Progress is made without her, aside from her; she has not done away with capital punishment, nor torture, nor the confinement of prisoners in irons: none of these has she abolished. And now are coming the two great works of emancipation,—the emancipation of the slaves and of the serfs, and what is bringing them about? Humanity alone in its freedom of action. You see, this Herr Sonnenkamp lived in quite another world than mine, and yet my life,—Ah, wait a minute, wait, I cannot say more now."
After a while, Clodwig began again,—
"This Sonnenkamp is another proof to me, our civilization has the same defects as religion; it also gives no definite moral laws; it is not a complete, not the true civilization."
He sat up in bed, saying,—
"Come, I want to say my last word to you. Two things I see looming up in the future; the one is imperialism, which is trying to establish itself in America; and the other, yet more terrible, is called a war for religion. One party gathers around Rome; the other, around no man, no idea, but around freedom. Two great standards are raised, and around these standards gather two armies. Invisibly on the one banner is inscribed, 'We cannot!' on the other, 'We will!'
"Hear yet more. A new faith, a new knowledge is to come, which will re-create the world. We wander continually in a grave-yard, our life is dead. Only a renewal through a great idea, through a new religion. Ah"—
He broke off abruptly as Bella entered the room.
She expressed her satisfaction at Clodwig's animation, and Clodwig still preserved a courtly politeness towards his wife. She wanted to hand him some medicine, and he said,—
"Oh, yes! give it to me, but do not say any thing against Doctor Richard; please do not."
Bella sat quietly by the bed for a while; then Clodwig begged her to go to rest, and she complied. When he was again alone with Eric, he said,—
"In many painless hours by day and night, I have fancied to myself how the human race of to-day will gather in countless hosts, and press, shoulder to shoulder, up some lofty height, to plant the banner under which they assemble. What watch-word can they inscribe upon it which shall unite them one and all? Then I saw you; you were carrying the banner, and on it was your motto, your words which you have spoken, the only motto, Free labor! That is it. Happy are you that you have said it, and I that I have heard and seen."
A glorious light rested on Clodwig's countenance, and beamed from his eyes, as he gazed into the empty air; then he laid back his head, and closed his eyes, but he felt for Eric's hand, and clasped it tight. After a while he raised himself again, saying,—
"Go into the room that you had when you first came here; take Robert with you, and bring the bust of the Victoria here to me."
Eric went with the servant to the balcony chamber, and had the head of the Victoria taken down; that of the Medusa lay upon the floor in fragments. He asked Robert who had broken it, but Robert knew nothing about it. He hesitated to ask Bella or Clodwig about the matter, but he learned that Clodwig had not been in this room since his return.
When Eric had placed the bust opposite the sick man's bed, and arranged the lights properly, Clodwig said,—
"Yes, it looks like her, your mother knew her too."
He said nothing more. After he had gazed at the bust for a long time in silence, he asked Eric to call the Banker, and, when he came, he said to him with a child-like smile,—
"It belongs to you too. There's a story about a little child, very young, I can see him now, dressed only in a little shirt, sitting on a cushion on the table, and my mother is holding me, and telling me—I think I can feel the warm breath of her words, as it comes against my breast, she had laid her head on my breast, and she said, 'There was once a child who went into the woods to look for flowers, and he found beautiful red flowers, and picked them; and then he found beautiful blue flowers, and he threw the pretty red flowers away, and gathered the blue ones; and then he found beautiful yellow ones, and threw away the beautiful blue flowers to gather those; and next he found beautiful white ones; and he threw the pretty yellow ones away, and picked the white; and then he came out of the wood, and there was a brook; and he threw the lovely white flowers into the brook, and had nothing left in his hands.' That is my story, and that is the other one. I understand it now. The nations all came upon the earth, and they held the revelations in their hands,—the red, the blue, the yellow, and the white flowers—and at last they stood with nothing but their empty hands. And then they said, 'It is well.' The empty hands speak, and say, 'Unforced labor shaft thou perform.' Isn't it true, Eric, that I understand what you said when you first came here? I see you now as you stood under the blossoming apple-tree, and your words came to me like my mother's warm breath on my little breast. And now may you sleep well. Good-night."
Eric sat by Clodwig's bed, with his hand clasped in his, till at last the grasp relaxed, and the sick man slept. Bella came again, and Pranken with her; he prayed with the Sister of Mercy for the dangerously sick man, doing it without shyness or display, with unembarrassed air.
Eric made a sign to Bella to be very quiet. She sat silent for a time, and then withdrew with Pranken.
Eric struggled with sleep and weariness. The morning dawned, and flooded the chamber with its ruddy light. Eric went to the Sister of Mercy, and told her that the long sleep of their patient made him uneasy: he had leaned over him, and could hear no breathing; but perhaps it was on account of his own exhaustion.
They went to Clodwig's bed-side, and bent over him—death had come to him in his sleep.