He came to the parade-ground, listened to the music, saw the officers standing in a group, and – who can calculate the sinuous course of thought? – he thought that the watchword was now being given out to the officers; and he had a watchword too, which no one else was to know, given to him by the man behind the cathedral, who had dashed him down as if he would break every one of his bones. A smile went over Pranken's features.
"Thou hast played well, but thou hast only played," he said, recalling to mind the Dean. "You shall see that I can play well too; I know my part, and I will yet show you a little of my skill in playing."
Pride again rose within him, and he could not comprehend that he, Otto von Pranken, had been such a mortified piece of humility. But it is very well to have been so once.
He came to the Hotel Victoria in a half-humble, half-conceited mood, and he now felt a real training-day hunger. Such mental emotions have this advantage, that they make one hungry.
Pranken anticipated with a feeling of satisfaction his dinner with the Baron, his father-in-law.
As he stood at Sonnenkamp's door and was about to ring, he heard some one inside saying in a loud tone: —
"But Where's Herr von Pranken?"
"Here!" cried he, as he went in.
CHAPTER VI.
HONOR LIES BLEEDING
Sonnenkamp's decoration was lying at Pranken's feet as he entered, and the first thing he did was to stoop down and pick it up. Joseph left the room. Pranken balanced the decoration as if it were a heavy weight. Sonnenkamp seemed to be waiting for Pranken to speak first, and when the latter said, "I congratulate you," broke in: —
"No, no – do not. I thank you for coming to me again. I thank you sincerely – very sincerely. You meant well by me."
"What's this? Meant well? I don't comprehend."
Sonnenkamp stared at him; the whole city, the coachmen on the streets knew it, and can this man be ignorant? Does he want to gull him?
"Have you read the Journal?" inquired Sonnenkamp.
"The Journal! No; what's in that?"
Sonnenkamp reached him the paper.
"Here – my diploma of nobility," he said, turning round and looking out of the window while Pranken was reading. He did not want to look at the man's countenance.
There was a long-continued silence in the room, and then Sonnenkamp felt a hand upon his shoulder. He turned round quickly. What's the meaning of this? will the haughty young nobleman have a personal struggle with him?
"Herr Sonnenkamp," said Pranken, "I am a nobleman-"
"I know – I know. Take your hand off of me, you'll soil it."
"And I am your friend," proceeded Pranken calmly. "I cannot approve of what you have done to provoke such a publication."
"Be brief, I've already heard sermonizing enough to-day."
"Herr Sonnenkamp, I always go counter to the public sentiment; I respect you, notwithstanding, and I love your daughter. I am almost glad that I can show you by a sacrifice how my intention-"
"Herr von Pranken, you do not know what you are doing. Your friends, your family-"
"I know the whole. Pooh! the virtuous people may let the stones alone which they would willingly throw at us. Whoever merely winks with the eye shall receive my challenge."
"I admire your courage, but I cannot take advantage of it."
"Not take advantage of it! You have no right to decline it. I am your son as well as Roland; I stand by you, and now it shall be shown who has genuine nobility and bravery. I admire you – but we'll drop this now. Has Roland got back yet?"
"No."
"Then he has gone with the Ensign to the dinner. I will go for him."
Sonnenkamp looked at him in amazement as he drove off; he could not comprehend it. He was now alone again. He mentally accompanied the messengers he had sent round the city, and out to the pleasure-grounds. His thought went out in search of Roland, but did not find him, any more than the messengers did. Roland had gone with the Cabinetsrath's son, as Pranken had conjectured, to the military club-house, where a number of the garrison officers, after the laborious review of the forenoon, had ordered a dinner. There was a great deal of merriment and drinking, and they drank the young American's health. Roland was one of the liveliest among them. There came in a straggling guest, and cried, out in the midst of the uproar, —
"Have you heard? The slave-trader has been caught with a paper lasso."
"What's to pay?" was, called out.
The new-comer read out of the paper: —
"A proposal, with all due deference, for a coat of arms and a device for the ennobled slave-trader and slave-murderer, James Henry Sonnenkamp, alias Banfield, of Louisiana.
"It would give us peculiar satisfaction to run a parallel between the young nobility in the two hemispheres; to live on the labor of others is their motto; 'thou art born to do nothing,' say the young nobility of the Old as well as of the New World. The Americans have also a superstitious belief that there is some peculiar honor in being ennobled. Not because we share in this belief, but rather in order to do something towards removing it, we have written to America for information about a certain Herr Sonnenkamp. We have hitherto been silent, and we should have been silent longer and forever, out of regard for the children of this outcast, for they do not deserve to bear the load of guilt. We are no friends of the nobility: we regard this institution as of the past and as dead; but the nobles are our German fellow-citizens, also, and a part of our nation. As citizens, merely, we have no power to thrust out a man from our community, and we should have felt obliged to let this man alone; but now, we are ready to furnish the evidence that the man who calls himself Sonnenkamp, and lives at Villa Eden, has been one of the most merciless slave-traders and slave-murderers. Then proceed, O German nobles, and ennoble him, – give him a coat-of-arms. The heralds of our editorial office recommend as a device-"
"Stop!" screamed out the Ensign, for Roland had fallen senseless from his chair.
He was carried out of the room, and restored to consciousness. Fortunately, a carriage now drove up, from which Pranken got out. Roland was lifted into it, and they drove to the hotel.
Shaking with a fever fit, and wrapped up in a soldier's cloak, Roland sat in one corner of the carriage. He would occasionally open his eyes, and then close them again.
Pranken told him that he ought to despise the world, but Roland was silent; once only he heaved a deep sigh and exclaimed, —
"O Eric!" They reached the hotel. Joseph was waiting before the door. The first word that Roland spoke was a request to be left alone. He went up the steps with Joseph.
"You are to go to your father," said Joseph.
Roland nodded, but when he had gone up-stairs he hastened to his room and locked the door.
Joseph went to Sonnenkamp and told him that Roland had returned.
"He is to come to me," he said.
"He has locked himself in."
"Has he his pistols with him?"
"No, I have them with me."
Sonnenkamp went to Roland's room and knocked; but there was no answer. He begged and entreated Roland to answer him, but Roland made no sound.
"If you do not open immediately, I will shoot myself before your door!" cried Sonnenkamp.
Pranken, who was with him, said: —
"Roland! Roland! will you be guilty of the death of your father?"
"Open! open!" moaned Sonnenkamp before the door.
The bolt was drawn back, and Roland stood rigid, looking at his father, who stretched out his arms toward him; but Roland remained motionless, with lips pressed together, and eyes glaring like one insane.
"My son!" cried Sonnenkamp. "My only son! my beloved son! my child! forgive me! forgive me!"
Roland rushed toward his father, grasped his hand, and wept over it.
"Oh, my child, your tears on my hand! Look, – this wound, this scar, – look, the tears of my child heal it, the tears of my child alone!"
Throwing himself upon Roland's breast, he exclaimed: —
"You, my son, you will not despise your father!"
While he spoke, his heart throbbed violently, and, for the first time in his life, Roland saw his father weep. He embraced him and wept with him.
Father and son then sat opposite each other speechless and motionless, until at last Roland said: —
"Father, there is one way of salvation – only one way of salvation!"
"I am ready, speak, my son."
"I know it, father – I know it! That sublimest One said to the youth, 'Go and give away all that thou hast, and follow me.' And Parker has said that this disgrace must be wiped out; and Benjamin Franklin would say: 'Thou art free, be not a slave to thyself!' Cast all away from you, father, let us be poor – poor! Will you?"
"I thank you, my son," replied Sonnenkamp; he was easier when he saw that Roland had relieved his feelings. "You have a stout heart, a bold spirit, you have noble courage; Herr Eric has taught you well – grand – brave – I thank him – I thank you – that is fine – that is right – the best!"
"Then you agree to it, father?"
"My son, I do not wish to make any pledges – not any; but I promise you, that you shall be satisfied with what I shall do; just in this moment I cannot determine anything."
"No, now; this very moment! it is the grandest, the only moment! It must be done now! After this moment is death, night, damnation, distraction, misery! Oh, father, you must be strong! I will work for you, for my mother, for Manna, for myself! And Eric will be with us! I know not what can be done, but it will-do cast everything away from you!"
"My son, whatever I have of unrighteous possessions, so called, those I will put away. I consider you, my son, no longer in your minority, you are more, you are my brother, you are a man, you are judge of my actions, you are to give your directions – everything with you, through you, out of your pure, your blessed heart, out of your unbroken – yes, your friend Eric, our friend Eric, shall also determine – but let us not come to the final determination at this moment."
And again father and son sat opposite to each other in silence, until Roland began: —
"Father, let us go home to-day."
"No, not to-day. We must both, first of all, get some strength."
Pranken had withdrawn into the adjoining room; he now sent Joseph to say that it was time for dinner. Roland was shocked at the idea of eating anything now; but Sonnenkamp swore that he would not put a morsel into his mouth, although he was almost famishing, if Roland did not sit with them at table, and eat at least a few mouthfuls. Roland yielded.
The Cabinetsrath's place was empty, showing what henceforth would be wanting to their table-enjoyment. Pranken beckoned to Joseph, who understood what he meant and quickly removed the plate.
Sonnenkamp now said that he expected the Cabinetsrath would probably give up the Villa he had received; and Roland now learned how bribery had been employed, and how corrupt and selfish men were. Sonnenkamp took particular notice what an impression this made upon Roland, and a triumphant expression passed over his countenance. It's well so! Roland is to become acquainted with the whole baseness of human beings, to find out that all people are more or less abject, and then what his father has done will gradually seem to him of less account, and be painted in fainter colors.
A choice table was set, but the three ate as if they were at a funeral repast, with the corpse lying in the next room – the mortal remains of worldly honor. Neither gave expression to the feeling which each of them had; they ate and drank, for the body must have nourishment, in order to bear up under this new heart-ache.
Father and son slept in the same chamber, but neither spoke, for neither of them wanted to keep the other from sleep, which would alone wrap them in oblivion.
"Don't give up!" said Sonnenkamp at last, as he fell asleep. Roland slept also, but after an hour he awoke and tossed about restlessly. The darkness seemed to stand like a black wall before him, and he sat up as if in delirium.
To lose one's senses, one's reason – yes, to lose them! they are suddenly gone, you know not when, you know not where; you only know they are not here, and they are no longer in your power. But if you could only find them! Your thoughts are no longer under your own control; they come and go, they combine and disperse according to their own pleasure; and yet you inwardly feel that this will not last, it cannot last; that the time must come when you will once more have the mastery.
"If it were not night! if it were only not night!" groaned Roland to himself, as he awakened in a wandering mood from a short hour's sleep. For the first time in his life, he awoke in the night distressed and sad at heart, with the whole world dark and impenetrable before him.
"Oh, if it were not night! if it only were not night!" he said to himself again. He thought of what Eric's mother had once said: "In the night-time everything is more terrible; day comes, and with the daylight all sufferings, both of the body as well as those of the mind, are less formidable; the eye then looks upon the things of the world, and the sunlight illumines and enlivens everything."
"It will be day again!" he comforted himself at last, and sank away into sleep out of all his brooding fancies.
Early in the morning they started with Pranken for the Villa.
CHAPTER VII.
SICK AT HEART
The morning air was fresh and cool. Bertram was not on the box of the carriage, but a hired coachman sat next to Lootz. Roland knew the horses, and wanted to take the stranger's place, but Sonnenkamp said in a hoarse voice: —
"No, my child, don't leave me. Sit with me. Stay with me."
Roland obeyed, and took a seat in the close carriage, with his father and Pranken. They drove in silence through the city, each thinking: When, and under what circumstances, will you ever come here again? Roland looked out as they were passing the pleasure-grounds, where in the summer they had excited so much attention at the officers' entertainment. Withered leaves were lying on the tables, and everything was bare and desolate. Sighing and shutting his eyes, Roland leaned back in the corner of the carriage. The bloom of youth had faded out of his countenance over night, and everything was wilted like a flower touched by the frost.
They drove along, for a time, without speaking. Roland, however, soon heard his father making himself merry over the unadulterated rascality of mankind, and one and another person who were generally spoken of with respect and held in high estimation were spoken of as hardly fit to associate with galley-slaves. A beginning was made with the Cabinetsrath, who had allowed himself to be bribed in such a way, and yet could act as if there had never been anything of the kind. And so, in succession, the good name of everybody was torn into shreds.
Pranken let Sonnenkamp expend his violence and rage, not saying a word even when Clodwig was attacked. What was the use! It is the delight of one suffering under mortification, above all one who is suffering through his own fault, to bring down others to his own level. Roland was deeply, troubled, and his heart grew cold at the thought of being able to hold his own position only by being made thoroughly acquainted with, and keeping constantly before his eyes, the darker side of all human beings.
Tenderly and cautiously, Pranken began to bring into notice the idea that a firm religious belief was the only adequate support, and he openly inveighed against those who would withdraw this support, the only real one, and the highest, from one who relied upon it. Roland knew that Eric was intended, but he did not let it be seen. Pranken went farther, and said that Eric's father, whom mother and son decked out as a demi-god, was a man who at the university had no scholars, and at whom all the learned men had shrugged their shoulders.
Gloomy thoughts, like cloudy forms, thronging in succession, overcast the soul of the youth. One thought prevailed over all others, and allowed him no rest: – Yesterday, honor was everything; to-day, it has no existence. What is honor? It is the seasoning in each particle of life's food, and without it existence is tasteless. This thought startled Roland as if he had seen some terrific vision. He saw the clouds actually before him, in the shape of dense volumes of smoke from Sonnenkamp's cigar. A voice cried out, in mock-merriment, from the midst of the cloud: The people in the whole region round ought to give him a special vote of thanks, for now they were, in comparison with him, snow-white angels, and all that they needed was a pair of wings. All the little men and little woman could say: Lord, I thank thee that I am not like this Sonnenkamp here. "I am truly a godsend to you; thank me, O world!"
This humor pleased Pranken, and he said, laughing, that no one, a year hence, after one had become accustomed to it, would think anything of the present troubles; and he would urgently entreat that not a word should be said about selling the villa and moving away.
Sonnenkamp gave Pranken a nudge, but he had no idea that this communication, although it gave Roland anew the feeling of homelessness, affected him far less than the jeering outburst of his father concerning the thanks due him from the world.
A disintegration of the thoughts and feelings of the youth had taken place, and it was impossible to anticipate what changes might be brought about in these different elements through the introduction of a new agency. A feeling had been awakened within him, that he must bear an indelible stain for his whole lifetime.
The mists dissolved, the day was bright, the sun shone warmly, but Sonnenkamp was chilly, and wrapped himself in his cloak. He sat in the carriage, staring out upon the road, but he saw nothing except the shadow of one of the horses, and this shadow was moving its legs to and fro. Is everything only a shadow in like manner? Is what moves you and draws you onward just such a shadow as this?
A vehicle coming towards them raised a cloud of dust, at which Sonnenkamp stared. Whenever you look at this dust, you feel as if you must be smothered by it; but when you are in the midst of it, turn your face away, and it is not so bad after all. Perhaps what has now happened is just such a whirling cloud of dust. Turn your face away.
He saw the shepherds with their sheep upon the stubble-field, and asked himself: Is that a better life? He wanted to sleep; he threw away his cigar and shut his eyes. It seemed to him as if the carriage were all the time going down hill. But when he opened his eyes, they were on the level road.
Again he shut his eyes, for this was the only way he could be alone.
And now he really went to sleep. Roland gazed in silence out into the bright sunshine. Ah, the sight of nature is helpful only to the joyous, or to one who is beginning to rally from sorrow; she brings no consolation to the heavy laden and the deeply saddened spirit; her changelessness, her unsympathizing and steadfast life, seem almost insulting.
Up to this time, Roland had lived in that twilight realm which separates youth from manhood, and now the period of youth was closed. His pride had been turned to shame, but he was mature enough to forget himself soon, and to direct his regards to his father, who is doubly unhappy; unhappy on his own account, and on account of having brought harm upon others – upon those nearest to him.
Sonnenkamp slept; but in his dreamy state between wakefulness and sleep, the rattling carriage-wheels seemed to him the clanking chains of fettered slaves.
He woke suddenly, and stared as if bewildered. Where was he? What had happened? He wrapped himself in his cloak again, and hid his face.
Pranken bent toward Roland, whispering to him: —
"I know how you are inwardly shattered, but there is one cure for you, a grand act, the most sublime deed."
"What is it?"
"Speak lower, don't wake up your father. The one thing for you to do, – it is grand, – the great and noble thing for you is to enter the Papal army; this is the only thing to be done. This is the last, the highest tower to be defended now, and if that falls, the atheists and communists have won the day. I would do it myself, if-"
"Yes," interrupted Roland, "that would be the thing! We give away all our property to the Holy Father, and he issues a bull in favor of the abolition of slavery."
Sonnenkamp could not keep asleep any longer.
"That's right, my young fellow," he cried. "That's right! the Pope ought to do it. But do you believe that he will do now for money – even were it ten times as much – what he has not done of himself? The idea is a grand one, Herr von Pranken, very grand and very – very shrewd."
There was a little raillery in this commendation, for he thought: You want to get the whole inheritance, and hand over my son to the knife.
"But my dear, noble, high-aspiring young friend," was what he said aloud, "honestly, do you believe that the Pope will do what our Roland expects?"
"No."
They drove on in silence. They saw the Villa in the distance, and on the tower the banner of the American Union was flying, together with the green and yellow flag of the country.
When they came to the green cottage, Roland asked to got out of the carriage, and permission was given.
Roland went into the garden, where a bright voice called to him: —
"Mutual congratulations! we congratulate you, and you should congratulate us, too; we are betrothed."
Lina and the Architect were coming, holding each other's hand, through the meadow from the Villa. Lina left her lover and came up to Roland, saying: —
"We didn't want to wait until the dedication of the castle, we have our celebration by ourselves. Oh, Roland, how beautiful and how happy everything is in the world! But why don't you speak? Why do you make up such a melancholy face?"
Roland could only wave her off, and hurried into the house. The betrothed remained standing in the garden, sorely puzzled, when Lina said: —
"Oh, Albert, there's no good in being here. Nobody welcomed us at the Villa, Manna was not to be seen, Herr Dournay isn't there, and Roland runs away. Come, we'll quit the whole premises. Forgive me for having brought you here before going anywhere else. I thought these were the people to whom I should make known my happiness in the very first place. Come, we'll go to your castle, and spend the whole day for once; you shall be a solitary knight, and I'll be a castle-maiden. Come, I thought there was to be a betrothal here to-day, too; but it doesn't look like it at all, and there's something frightful the matter."
Lina and her betrothed went together to the castle, up through the vineyard, but they were detained at the Major's, who was standing utterly helpless by the garden-hedge.
Such a thing had never happened as took place to-day.
Fräulein Milch had locked herself in her room; she must have met with something very extraordinary.
The Major was perfectly delighted to hear of the betrothal, but he only said: —
"Ah, there might be one down therein the Villa, too; but I'm afraid – I'm afraid we'll hear some bad news from there."
The Major insisted upon the betrothed couple taking a seat in his arbor, saying that Fräulein Milch would soon be down.
The Fräulein was sitting in her chamber alone, for the first time in a sore struggle. The world had been a matter of indifference to her, and only of account so far as some thing could be obtained from it agreeable to the Major. She found the neighborhood very friendly, and she was grateful to the soil, for the Major had a good digestion, and elsewhere he suffered from dyspepsia. She was also grateful to the Rhine, which occasionally furnished a nice fish, and she would nod to the mountains, as if she would say: That's right! just produce good wine; the Major likes to drink it when new, but he mustn't drink too mach of it. Thus was the Fräulein kindly disposed towards man and beast, towards water and plants; it was a matter of indifference that nobody troubled himself about her. She had strenuously declined every intimate connection, and now, through the Professorin, she had been drawn more among people, and had to-day been so deeply mortified. She had known Bella for a long time, although very distantly, and she had disliked her for a long time, although very distantly; but what she had experienced to-day was something wholly novel, and it grieved her sorely.
"O," said she to herself, "O, Frau Countess, you are highly virtuous, virtuous in the extreme, most respectfully virtuous, and beautiful too, you are; but I was once young and beautiful, and no one has ever ventured to give me an uncivil word; I have gone through the streets unattended by a servant, I was my own attendant, my own protector, and my own support. O Frau Countess, you stand very far up on the list of rank, I don't know but that you ought to be addressed as Your Highness! O Frau Countess, take care, there is another list of nobility which the Major ought to give you a glimpse of; no, not he; it would mortify him to death; but Herr Dournay, he must do it. No – nobody – only myself."
And just as she had become composed, the Major again knocked, crying: —
"Fräulein Milch! dear good Rosa," he added in a whisper, "Rosie, Rosalie!"
"What do you want?" the Major heard laughingly asked.
"Oh heavens! it's all right now you are laughing again. There are two good people here, the Architect, and Lina the Justice's daughter; they are betrothed, and have come to receive our congratulations. Do come, join us in the garden, and bring right off a bottle and four glasses."
Fräulein Milch opened the door. The Major asked: —
"Mayn't I know what has been the matter with you?"
"You shall know, sure enough, but don't ask me any more now. So the young people are betrothed, and at the house? I must dress myself up a little, and I'll come down immediately."
"So do. That's nice."
Fräulein Milch was delivered from all her own trouble, when the duty was enjoined upon her of rejoicing with the joyful; and the betrothed couple forgot the castle, and remained for hours sitting with the Major and Fräulein Milch in the arbor.
Then the journal came, and the Major begged to be excused for reading it before his guests; he received the paper after the burgomaster, the school-master, and the barber had read it, and so he could keep it. As he had nothing more to do with the world, it made no difference whether he learned an hour or two sooner or later what had happened.
"Oh, here's a great black mark," exclaimed Lina.
"That's the burgomaster's mark," said the Major. "Fräulein Milch, would you read to me? There must be something very special."
The Fräulein took the paper, but she covered her face with her hand after she had looked into it.
"What's the matter? You read, dear Lina."
Lina read the bitter paragraph by Professor Crutius; she wanted to stop after the first few lines, but the Major begged:
"Read on; do read on."
She read on to the end.
"O Thou really good Builder of all the worlds, what queer material you've put into the construction of the world! Good heavens! there's something frightful about a newspaper; now everybody knows about this."
Fräulein Milch was just on the point of saying that this was no news to her, but she had the self-command, doubly difficult for a woman, to keep from telling what she knew. It was better to say nothing, as she would thus escape a long explanation to the Major why she had said nothing about it a long time ago. Not till the Major begged her to go to the Professorin, who would be greatly troubled by this communication, did she say: —
"The Professorin, as well as I, knew it a long time ago."
In his bewilderment, the Major did not ask how it happened that she knew; he only opened his eyes wider. He had said to her a great many good and kind things, but the best of all was when he observed: —
"Yes. You might belong to our Brotherhood, you can keep a secret."
After a while the Major continued: —
"Look, children, down below there is the wonderfully beautiful Villa with its parks, its gardens, and with its millions inside the house – ha! and Roland and Manna. Fräulein Milch, don't try to prevent me. I must go down there, for nobody knows what's going on there, and I must do something to help them. Don't say anything against it, Fräulein Milch, I entreat you."
"I haven't said anything to hinder you; on the contrary, I think you ought to go."
Before she had finished speaking, a messenger came from the Villa for the Major to go there.
Lina wanted to join him, thinking she might be of some assistance to Manna; but the Major said that the Professorin and Aunt Claudine were enough already, and Lina ought not to spoil now any of her happiness.
Just as the Major was about to set off, a voice cried: —
"Herr Major, just stop. I'm coming."
With flushed face, and out of breath, Knopf came up.
"Do you know it?" asked the Major.
"Yes, indeed, and that's the reason I've come. Perhaps I can do something at the Villa."
"Good! I'm going, so come with me. No, you stay here, stay with the Fräulein. I'll have you sent for if you're needed."
And so the Major walked down the mountain, and the four who remained followed him with affectionate looks.