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CHAPTER IV.
THE BLUE RIBBON

Every evening was spent now at the theatre, or at some great entertainment. The morning did not begin till noon. In accordance with Bella's advice, Eric had made the requisite visits, and was generally included in the invitations.

He beheld this society life with fresh eyes, like one coming from another world. What lay behind these smiling, gaily-dressed exteriors, and the friendly greetings they exchanged with one another? He shuddered as he looked at the white-cravatted crowd. In the smoking-room each man vied with another in telling lewd tales, and then returned to the married ladies and young girls in the dancing-hall, and put on his most courtly manners.

Eric for the most part kept modestly in the background, but Bella was exceedingly friendly and confiding in her manner towards him. She floated gaily down the stream of intoxicating pleasures, pleased to be one of the first, if not the supreme.

The Russian prince also was very gracious to Eric, and talked to him a great deal of Knopf and of a wonderful American child at Mattenheim.

Pranken saluted him in silence, hardly ever exchanging a word with him.

By the first dignitaries of the State and the Court, Eric was kindly received, and heard from various quarters of the praise bestowed upon him by the Countess von Wolfsgarten and her husband.

Eric's acquaintance with Weidmann had reached that point where both regretted that they could see so little of each other, and yet with the best intentions could come no nearer together. Only once did they succeed in getting a deeper insight into one another, and here too, strangely enough, it was when the conversation was personal. They were speaking of Clodwig, for whom both expressed equal respect, but Weidmann could not help saying: —

"I admire this power, but I could never exercise it. Our friend has the faculty of entering heartily into the sphere in which he lives; I mean by that, he can put on and off his moods of mind as he does his dress-coat. His own tastes lead him to live among entirely different interests, interests directly antagonistic to all this whirl and confusion; but the moment he enters this sphere no trace of any antagonism appears in him; he seems perfectly in harmony with the life about him."

Eric took his meaning, and said he could now understood a reproach that he had been tormenting himself with. Weidmann's eye rested thoughtfully upon him as he spoke.

"People say, at one time, that we should try to sift every experience, should take fire at this thing or that; and again, they require us to pass over things indifferently, and let them go without a protest. I cannot do that, and therefore am not suited for society."

Weidmann appeared to take a different view of the matter that disturbed Eric, for he replied that he ought to be perfectly satisfied with having succeeded in fostering noble thoughts in a boy of Roland's character and position.

Often, whole evenings passed without Eric's seeing Roland, so constantly was he surrounded by the young dancers of both sexes, who praised and petted him like some favorite plaything. Every night he came home with his breast covered with favors in the German, and the day found him weary and absent. Eric noticed that perfumed notes were sometimes handed him by the porter. Any regular course of study was out of the question. Roland went about through the day, humming the music of the night before, which was still running through his head. He preserved with great secrecy in his writing-desk the cards engraved with the order of the dances, and many other souvenirs besides; and his face began to wear an expression of reserve.

Pranken was delighted to see his family, as he called the Sonnenkamps, thus admitted into society. It was now arranged that Roland should take part with the others in the French comedy. The young Countess Ottersweier, who was to take the part of a page at the court of Louis Fourteenth, was ill with the measles, and her part was assigned to Roland. A beautiful dress was ordered for him, and all his thoughts were now turned to the play and the rehearsals that were to precede it.

When the first dress-rehearsal took place, and Roland showed himself to his parents in his becoming costume of close-fitting white silk tights, they were full of admiration; his mother in especial could not restrain her expressions of rapture. Roland glanced at Eric, who for some time had been looking gloomily on the ground. He wanted to ask him why he was so pedantic, for that was what his fellow-actors called him; but he checked himself, and only said: —

"I promise you I will learn again, by and by, all the lessons you give me, only let us be merry now."

Eric smiled; he felt that his pupil was having destroyed in him what could never be repaired; but what could he do? The question indeed passed through his mind whether he should not leave, now that all he had so carefully planted and nurtured was taken and trampled under foot; and only the thought that nothing would then stand between Roland and destruction kept him at his difficult post. Still he considered it his duty to communicate his anxiety to Sonnenkamp, who comforted him by saying that American youths were ripe in years, and masters of their own lives, when Germans would be still sitting on a bench at school, and grieving under a master's criticism.

"I fear," said Eric, "that Roland is losing the best possession that man can win."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He should learn above all things to find his best pleasures in himself."

"So you would like to make a scholar of him, a man who can boil his own coffee?"

"You understand me very well, and I understand your joke. You know that what I mean to say is this, that the man who can find no pleasure within himself will find none in the world. On that point we in a manner agree with the church people, only we understand it somewhat differently. Whoever will be happy must enter into the kingdom of heaven that is open in every human soul; who does not that, is always dependent on voluntary or purchased service and respect."

Sonnenkamp listened to Eric's quiet enthusiasm with a nod of assent. He agreed with his ideas, but thought them strangely mixed with an ecclesiastical asceticism which he merely interpreted into the language of the world.

While Roland was at the rehearsals of the French play, Eric would often spend his time at the teachers' club, and was pained to find here also an aristocracy. The teachers of the higher schools were separated from those of the primary. Eric was received by many as an old acquaintance, and found himself followed by the fame he had won at the musical festival, for the teachers are the chief supporters of vocal music. They had a private singing club here, and Eric sang with his comrades more beautifully than ever.

He often stole away from this noisy company and joined the meetings of the humbler school-teachers, where he seemed to be transplanted to another planet.

Here sat the serious, earnest men, most of them worn with work, discussing questions pertaining to their calling, as how best to influence and guide a child's soul; and out in the world, a soul trained to the best of human ability was squandering the teacher's whole long and painful work in a single evening.

If we knew what was to be the result of our labors, we could not live; the best part of our own ideality is our ignorance of the future, and our belief in a full completion of our plans.

Eric could not resist telling Herr Sonnenkamp of his evenings in the school-masters' club, and Sonnenkamp was much interested in his account. He thought it very fine to have other men cultivate the ideal.

"They are happier than we," he said, as he drank his heavy Burgundy.

On the evening preceding the performance of the French play, Roland, at his father's bidding, invited all his fellow-actors to a party at the hotel. The gentlemen came, but none of the ladies except Bella. She took Sonnenkamp aside, and told him confidentially that he would never succeed in drawing ladies to his parties, till he had in his house the Frau Professorin née von Burgholz. She only half acknowledged to herself that she should feel a little ashamed to meet, on her return to the country, a person with whom she had so often discussed the emptiness and worthlessness of the amusements of society, and was therefore anxious to have all brought into the vortex, that none need have to fear the reproachful glances of another; but besides this, it was perfectly true that Sonnenkamp without the von Burgholz would never accomplish what with her aid would be an easy matter.

Bella was malicious enough to tell Sonnenkamp that the Cabinetsräthin fleeced him, while in society she disowned him, and described their connection as one purely of necessity and neighborhood.

Sonnenkamp was doubly incensed, but had to look unconcerned.

The play came off. Roland's beauty and ready grace were the theme of general admiration. Even Bella, whose versatility was admirably displayed by the numerous changes of costume and character that her part had demanded, was quite thrown into the shade by the enthusiasm he excited.

The Queen summoned Roland to her side and conversed for some time with him; both were observed to smile as they talked together. The King came himself to Sonnenkamp and his wife, and congratulated them upon their brilliant son, at the same time asking when he was to enter the school of cadets.

"When a name shall have been graciously bestowed upon him," replied Sonnenkamp calmly.

The King frowned, bowed, and passed on.

Sonnenkamp drew a long breath. He had evidently made a mistake to introduce the matter at such a time and in such a way; but it could not be helped now, and forward was the word. He cast angry glances around, as if he would like to have doubled the whole glittering assembly up in his fists, and kneaded it into what shape he pleased.

His temper was not improved by Pranken coming up, and asking what he could have said to the King that had so ruffled him. Sonnenkamp did not consider it necessary to acknowledge his mistake.

Eric looked with melancholy upon the scene around him; near the pillar against which he was leaning, a beautiful palm languidly drooped its fan-shaped leaves. It perishes in the sultry air under this bright flood of gas-light, he thought, as he gazed at the plant; if it be restored to a favorable atmosphere, it still pines and perhaps perishes utterly. Will it be so with Roland too? How expect him to strive after the ideal, after a higher activity, when all this splendor and homage have been offered him?

Eric found himself, he could hardly tell why, imagining Professor Einsiedel here; and the thought called a smile to his face, for just such a Professor Einsiedel was he. What then are we who live only in the region of thought? Spectators; nothing but spectators, while there is the world with its driving and snatching after enjoyment, every one plundering and appropriating whatever he can seize. Why will you stand aside? Why not hurry and scuffle with the rest? His breath came quick and short, his cheeks glowed. He was in this mood, when Roland came to him and said: —

"If you are not satisfied with me, I care nothing for the rest."

Eric gave him his hand, and Roland continued: —

"The Queen wants me to be photographed in this dress, and so do all the ladies. The other actors will do the same. Is it not fine?"

"Certainly, it will be a pleasant memento for you by and by."

"Ah, by and by! by and by! it is pleasant now, I don't want to know anything of by and by. Oh, if we only did not have to sleep, and undress, and to-morrow be different again! If we could only live on like this for a hundred years without stopping!"

Eric perceived how completely Roland's head was turned by all the adulation he had received; it was no time now to try to turn the current.

But he himself was put in a state of unwonted excitement before the evening was over.

He had noticed Bella talking very earnestly with the Minister of War, formerly colonel of his regiment, who presently approached him, and, after saluting, and talking of indifferent matters, finally asked if he would not like a professorship in the school of cadets when his pupil entered.

Eric expressed his cordial thanks for the great kindness, but could give no decided answer. He was startled at the next question, whether he had made any definite plan for himself, after the completion of the young American's education; he had made none. Still more was he startled, when his questioner further asked if he should not then return to his literary and scientific pursuits, as he had heard the highest hopes expressed of him by those who had known him in the university.

Eric was perplexed; all such pursuits he had sacrificed. What was to become of him? To make matters worse, he had drawn his mother also into these relations.

After the Minister had gone, he caught Bella's fiery glance fixed upon him, and he seized the first opportunity that offered, to thank her for having so kindly recommended him to the Minister of War.

"All jealousy – all jealousy; I want to get you out of the house before that fascinating Manna returns." Bella was in great good humor.

The next day, while Roland was with his companions at the photographer's, decorated with a new blue ribbon which he had secretly fastened on his dress, and while servants were distributing cards of invitation to the great Sonnenkamp ball, Sonnenkamp himself, accompanied only by Lootz, drove to Villa Eden.

CHAPTER V.
A STRONG HAND IS POWERLESS

The Frau Professorin was sitting at the window of the warm and comfortable sitting-room. Carpets and cushions within, and moss without, shut out every draught. The sewing-machine at which she sat moved so easily, that scarce a sound was heard from it. From the river came the noise of the grating and crashing of the great masses of ice, as they struck against one another, changed their shapes, and floated on again.

She often looked out across the river and into the country, and saw the smoke rising from the houses in the different hamlets; she was familiar with the life there now.

Accompanied sometimes by Fräulein Milch, sometimes by the huntsman, but generally by Sevenpiper, whose cheerfulness she took great delight in, she had made her way everywhere, ordering and helping with word and deed. There was a constant passing of visitors back and forth, some coming with thanks, and some with new petitions. She thought herself highly favored in being allowed an activity so abundant, and so immediately fruitful in results.

But the Frau Professorin was not without higher pursuits, for she read over again her husband's favorite books, and studied his comments written on almost every page, drawing thence a strength which enabled her to live in silent communion with the departed. Her husband's words she generally read aloud; it did her good to move her lips, and hear a voice speaking his opinions. Often also she had to read aloud, in order to drive away the thoughts which crowded upon her at all times, thoughts about Sonnenkamp, his life and character, and what he had been in the past, but especially about Manna, and the feelings that were working in her. She thought she understood now the meaning of Manna's words to Roland when she was leaving her parents' home: "I too am an Iphigenia." She repeated to herself, as she sat at work, the song of the Fates, in Goethe's drama, and her heart was burdened by this mystery of the children's having to suffer for the sins of the parents.

In the midst of these sonorous and powerful lines, she heard the sound of wheels stopping before the house. Perhaps it was the Doctor coming to sit an hour with her, as he often did; she knew he liked to have her stay quietly in her place. But it was another step that approached, another knock at the door, and Herr Sonnenkamp entered.

"Are you quite alone?"

"Quite alone."

The Frau Professorin was greatly embarrassed; this was the first time she had seen Sonnenkamp since hearing that about him which she could never tell him; it required all her self-control to enable her to offer him her hand. He drew off his fur glove and grasped her hand in his. For the first time she felt the steel ring on his thumb like a cold snake. With terror she saw her hand in his. This hand of Sonnenkamp's, so thick and hard, with the fingers bent back and the flesh growing over the nails, was the hand of the Pharisee in Titian's picture of the tribute money. So between the thumb and forefinger does the Pharisee hold the piece of money, and there is an evil, violent, and hypocritical look, if we may so express ourselves, about the hand. She remembered standing one day, during her wedding journey, in the picture gallery at Dresden, when her husband covered for a moment the face of Christ and that of the Pharisee, and drew her attention to the wonderful drawing of the two hands, which in themselves revealed the opposite characters of the men. With the speed of lightning did those thoughts and images pass through the lady's mind.

Sonnenkamp observed this emotion, so unlike her usual calm self-possession, but naturally attributing it to surprise, said with ready tact: —

"I have often noticed that intellectual persons who live much in themselves, and especially noble women of superior cultivation, are not fond of surprises; I must therefore beg your forgiveness for this one."

The Frau Professorin looked at him in amazement. How was it possible that a man, whose life in the past had been what this man's had, could understand such subtle emotions and express them so delicately? She confessed that he had rightly interpreted her emotion, and asked whether his visit was to herself, or one of inspection to his establishment. The question was an awkward one, she knew, but she could think of no other at the moment.

"My visit concerns no one but yourself," said Sonnenkamp; "and I almost regret my purpose of disturbing this beautiful repose. I come from a life of such confusion as makes it hard to believe that repose like yours can exist upon the same planet. We live in a perpetual whirl; the only comfort is that we have still the power of sleeping."

"I am familiar with this excitement of carnival time," said the lady smiling. "How we long for quiet, and yet are ever pursued by the music and laughter of the evening before."

Sonnenkamp now openly declared the object of his visit; and with great humility begged the Frau Professorin to confer upon his house the grace and dignity which she only could give it.

The lady regretted she must decline; she was no longer fitted for gaiety.

"I should not have thought your views of life would be gloomy, but rather free and cheerful."

"I believe they are. I do not consider our life as a dismal charitable institution, from which all cheerfulness is banished. It is right that youth should dance, and not think of the people who are shivering with the cold, and of the grief and misery everywhere, at the very moment they are moving so gaily. I love cheerfulness; we have no strength without it."

"Give us your help then; all the more will we devote ourselves afterward to our poor brothers and sisters of the great human family."

The Professorin had to struggle against a feeling of indignation, that would rise within her, at the idea of the man trifling thus with words like these. She looked at his hands as if there was blood upon them, and these blood-stained hands were offering her festive wine.

She could say no more, she only shook her head, repeating, —

"I cannot; believe me, I cannot."

"Then," began Sonnenkamp, "I shall proceed at once to tell you the secret of my life."

The Professorin had to put both hands on her table to steady herself. What was the man going to say! She silently inclined her head, and Sonnenkamp told how it was his unwavering desire, and a matter of necessity for his wife, Roland and Manna, that he should be raised to the ranks of the nobility.

The Professorin shuddered. What? Did this man dare to propose such a thing? The von Burgholz spirit was roused within her. How could a man with such a past as his have such presumption?

Sonnenkamp watched her eagerly. Something was going on in the mind of this woman which he could not fathom. She kept silence, making no response to the confidence he had honored her with.

"Why do you not answer?" he asked at last.

The lady controlled herself and said, as she inclined her head somewhat backwards:

"Shall you not find it hard to bear another name?"

Sonnenkamp looked keenly at her.

"I found it hard as a wife," she continued, "to bear another name."

"Excuse me, my dear lady," replied Sonnenkamp courteously; "you had to take a citizen's name; it is much easier to assume a noble one."

He exhorted her, urged his request upon her more earnestly, enforcing it by the warmly expressed wish of the countess Bella.

The Professorin insisted that no one, even though admitted to the closest friendship, could decide upon the life she should lead; she was resolved never to return to society.

Sonnenkamp was driven to extremity. He believed that the Professorin's only objection was to appearing as a dependant, and that she would no longer refuse, if a free and independent position were assured her. In a manner, therefore, at once unassuming and emphatic, he told her that he should here, and now, put into her hands a sum of money sufficient to maintain her in an establishment of her own for the rest of her life. He put his hand in his breast-pocket as he spoke, and drew out his pocketbook.

"No, sir, I beg of you," answered the Professorin, coloring deeply and fixing her eyes upon his fingers, – just so did the Pharisee hold the piece of money. "It's not that, I assure you. I am ashamed of no position, since I have the true honor within myself; neither do I fear, as you possibly imagine, being too deeply moved by contact with any of the relations of society. I have voluntarily resigned all connection with it. I have made no outward vow, but I beg you to respect my decision as the vow of a nun, as you would if it were the decision of your daughter. I regret that I must beg you to urge me no further, as no inducements could have any influence upon me."

It was hard for Sonnenkamp to control his anger, and restore the pocket-book to its place.

He rose and went to the window.

For some time he gazed fixedly out, then turning round with a smile, he said, —

"There in the river are floating the blocks of ice; a soft breath bursts the icy covering; why might not also, my honored friend – you will allow me so to call you – every one has in his life a something – I know not how to call it, an action, a purpose – you understand what I mean – that ought not to fetter all our future."

"Allow me to say," returned the Professorin, "that in my case this would be a breach of faith. I have nothing left in the world but fidelity to myself."

"You fill me with admiration," said Sonnenkamp, hoping to gain his point by expressions of admiring respect.

He was obliged to assume a gracious and smiling exterior while inwardly chafing, for the Professorin was immovable. There was an imploring manner about him; as if he would say: I know no way of help but through you; yet he found himself unable to put it into words.

The Professorin felt that she must do something kind to the poor rich man, must give him something to restore his cheerfulness and courage, and with hearty sincerity she said, —

"Let me express to you the thanks of the hundreds whom you have fed and comforted. You have made me very happy by employing me as the medium of your benefactions, and I desire that you should feel yourself the source of happiness to others."

With great animation she described the excellent order into which the neighborhood had been brought, and how her help had not waited for sickness, either physical or moral, but had helped forward those who were sound. She told so many beautiful and touching incidents, that Sonnenkamp could only stammer out as he gazed at her:

"It is all well – very well – I thank you."

He once more gave her his hand and left the room. At the front door he encountered Fräulein Milch, but hurried by almost without looking at her.

Fräulein Milch found the Professorin washing her hands with all her might, as if she feared she should never wash them clean from the man's touch.

"Did he tell you he was to be raised to the ranks of the nobility?" asked the Fräulein.

The Professorin looked at her in amazement. How came this simple housekeeper in her seclusion to know everything?

The butcher from the capital, Fräulein Milch said, who had been buying a pair of fat oxen from her neighbor, had spread the report.

Secrets creep out through strange channels.