CHAPTER III.
THE HAND OF RECONCILIATION IS NOT GRASPED
Before Eric started, Manna came to him, saying that she must immediately go to the convent; that she thought it her duty, above all, to confess the truth there, and that she did not wish to postpone any thing so difficult, but to undertake it at once.
Eric was perplexed. Why should Manna wish to re-enter the convent? He soon recognized in this desire, however, the impulse to do something, not to remain in inactivity; and, moreover, the manner in which she sought to sever the old ties in peace was thoroughly noble: so he merely said, —
"Only do not forget that you are no longer justified in imposing castigations and mortifications upon yourself, or in allowing them to be enjoined upon you by others; for you no longer belong to yourself, Manna, you are mine: you must neither torture my Manna, nor allow others to torture her."
Manna looked at him with beaming eyes, and from out of all her tribulation sounded a serene voice, as she said, —
"It was through you, Eric, that I came to this resolution."
"Through me?"
"Yes. You told me how much good it did you, when one of your comrades, after you had taken leave of him, came to you and said, 'Do not think hardly of me if I ignore you. You could not do otherwise; and I neither can nor dare do otherwise.' I am going to imitate you and your comrade. The souls of those in the convent shall not be burdened with my desertion, which they must consider as apostasy."
Manna wished that Aunt Claudine should accompany her; but Eric thought it more fitting that she should travel with Roland. The brother and sister would thus be alone together, out in the world; and Roland would have to protect his sister, to render her services which would lift him out of his state of dead dejection, out of his heavy, monotonous sorrow.
"You can scarcely imagine how happy it makes me to let you command me," said Manna, as Eric arranged every thing.
Roland agreed at once.
"But you must ask your parents' leave," was the next order; and the children felt painfully that this was but a form: every thing was torn asunder and rent to shreds; all obedience and all dependence.
"Manna, now is the time," said Roland, in great agitation.
"For what?"
"You ask father; perhaps he will tell you whether we have no blood-relations in Europe. Whoever they may be, they ought to come to us now. It is hard enough that we have never troubled ourselves about them."
Manna looked imploringly up to Eric, who, rightly discerning in the youth the instinctive longing for family ties, begged them to abstain from urging the matter for the present, saying that the time for it would come by and by.
Manna went to her father, and said that she wished to go to the convent.
Sonnenkamp was alarmed, but quickly regained his composure on Manna's adding that she went thither for the last time, in order to bid farewell forever, as she had decided never to become a nun.
In spite of all its distortion, a gleam of triumphant satisfaction lighted up Sonnenkamp's face.
"Do you see at last? They knew – I now have certain evidence that they knew – what money, and in what manner earned, you brought them. Did they ever say a word to you about being unable to accept it?"
Manna avoided this view of the question. She would gladly have confessed all to her father at once, but had not yet the courage. Moreover, she had promised Eric to follow his guidance implicitly.
The weather was foggy and cold, as the brother and sister, and Fräulein Perini, went down the river: yet the journey refreshed them, for Roland said after a short time, —
"Ah! There is a world outside after all!"
Towards noon, the sun pierced through the mist, which melted away, and every thing became suddenly bright. The vessel steamed down the stream, shooting rapidly along over the clear water, between the sun-illumined mountains, on which, here and there, harvests were still being gathered.
The passengers stood or walked on deck, enjoying the wide prospect; but below in the cabin, lay Manna, with closed eyes, not heeding Fräulein Perini's injunction to come up and refresh herself with the view and the free air, only begging to be left alone. And so she lay and thought, half dreaming, half awake, of all that had happened to her and hers. How utterly different it was when she went up the river, with Roland, last spring! Eric's warning came into her mind, how wealth, and the ease with which it enables one to make disposition of external means and of those who serve, seduce us into healing ourselves with amusements and outward remedies.
This reproach did not now trouble her: she only wished to part peacefully from a Past, under obligations contracted in her soul to the friendly souls there, which she wished to fulfil, even though outwardly separating herself from them. Her soul lay bound by obligations to the women yonder: she wanted to take care to be truly comprehended, even though she was outwardly cutting herself off from them.
The difference of faith between Eric and herself again arose before her. But what course remained to her? To become untrue there to the pious sisters, or here to Eric; but no, that was no longer possible. She hoped that the great soul of the Superior would give her calmness; and thus she lay, sunk in a half-slumber during the whole trip.
On deck, Fräulein Perini was glad, on the whole, that Manna had remained unseen; for here and there among the passengers Sonnenkamp was mentioned, and the report was, that the Prince's negro had lifted him up with both hands, and had carried him, struggling, down the staircase, until he was set at liberty by the servants, who brought him to the carriage. An agent, whom Fräulein Perini knew, was already wondering who would buy the Villa, for it was absolutely certain that the man would not remain there.
In the forward cabin, where Lootz had ensconced himself, he was obliged to hear the fruiterers who were carrying to the Lower. Rhine the fruit which they had brought from Sonnenkamp's head-gardener, saying one to another, that they would not be willing to take a mouthful of fruit cultivated by this man. They granted him the merit, however, of having done much toward the introduction of a species of apples which grew easily and bore well.
At the last stopping-place but one before the Island Cloister, two black-robed nuns came on board. Fräulein Perini, who knew one of them, went down with them into the cabin where Manna was sleeping. Both nuns placed themselves opposite to her, took out their prayer-books, and prayed for the poor soul lying there in the sleep of sorrow.
Manna opened her eyes and gazed around in astonishment. She knew not where she was. One of the nuns – it was the shy one, who always kept in the background – welcomed her in the French language, and bade her comfortingly, resign herself to all that she must endure.
Manna sat up. So, then, the news had already reached even their ears! She went on deck with Roland and the three ladies. The Island cloister came into view. Every thing was so clear and bright, that she felt as though she had now suddenly returned to earth. There was every thing, just as it used to be, seeming to look at her with the question, "Where hast thou been this long time?"
They got into the boat, and were rowed toward the island. Every tree, every bench, every shrub, greeted her like a long-vanished Past. She cast a melancholy glance at the beautiful round seat on the landing-place, where she had so often sat with Heimchen. Now wet leaves lay upon the bench.
They reached the convent.
Manna sent her name at once to the Superior, but received the answer that she must first remain an hour in the church, and then come to her.
Manna understood what this meant; but did the Superior, then, already know of her defection? She went towards the church, but remained standing at the door, without entering. She feared the picture within, knowing that she could not do otherwise than raise her eyes towards it, and yet that must not be. She turned round again, and went out towards the park. She heard the children in the house playing together; she heard singing in another class; she knew how all were sitting; she knew every bench; approaching the fir-tree where she had so often sat, she saw that the seat was no longer there. On the kneeling-stool where Heimchen used to sit, lay withered leaves. "To Heimchen," said a voice within her. Turning back, it seemed to her, in passing the convent, as though she were guilty of rebellion and sin in not having obeyed the Superior's command. She came into the churchyard. On Heimchen's grave stood a cross with this inscription in golden letters: —
"The child is not dead, but sleepeth." – Mark v. 39.
"How?" cried Manna. "Why these words here? They are spoken in Scripture of that child who was re-awakened on its death-bed, but not of a buried one."
She sank down upon the grave, and her thoughts grew confused: she lost all consciousness of the passage of time. At last, composing herself, she turned back toward the convent. Admitted into the reception-room, she was still obliged to wait alone; the pictures on the wall seeming to withdraw into the distance if she looked up at them.
At last came the Superior. Manna, hastening toward her, would have thrown herself upon her neck; but she stood rigid, winding both ends of her hempen girdle around the forefingers of her right and left hand, so that the rope cut into the flesh.
Manna sank down at her feet.
"Rise," said the Superior severely. "We suffer no vehemence here. It is to be hoped you yet remember this. Have you been in the church?"
"No," said Manna, rising.
It was long ere the Superior spoke. She probably-expected Manna to acknowledge her transgression; but Manna could not utter a sound. Every thing that she had experienced, and that was now within her, seemed to crowd upon her at once.
"I came hither," she began at last, "in order to leave no sorrow in your heart, Reverend mother, at my ingratitude. Your treatment of me has been most noble: you have" —
"No praise. Nothing about me. Speak of yourself."
"My memory must not be a grief to you. I came to beseech you" —
"Why do you hesitate so long? Speak out! What do you wish?"
"Nothing save your faith in the honorable struggle through which I have passed. I could not do otherwise. I am betrothed to Eric Dournay."
"How, to whom? Did I rightly understand you? Is Herr von Pranken dead? You are – But no. Speak!"
Faithfully and openly did Manna acquaint her with all that had happened, standing erect, and speaking in a firm voice. When she had ended, the Superior said, —
"So you have not come to do penance?"
"No."
"For what, then?"
Manna, grasping her brow, said, —
"Have I then not clearly confessed that I do not feel myself culpable? I came in order to offer you thanks, heartfelt thanks, for the good which you did me in time of need, and my memory must not be a sorrow to you. You yourself once told me that the battle which I must fight with life would be a hard one. I have not sustained it, or rather – only, I implore you, be not wounded. Grant me a peaceful resting-place in your memory."
"Do you wish that, even now? Yes, that is the way with the children of this world. Even the suicides demand a consecrated grave. You are dead, and can have no grave in our holy ground. You stretch out your hand for reconciliation, but of what sort? Your hand is not clasped."
A lay sister entered, bearing a request from Fräulein Perini to be admitted into the presence of the Superior and Manna.
She entered.
"Have you any thing to say?" asked the Superior, turning towards Fräulein Perini.
"Yes. Here stands Fräulein Manna. I remind her before you, worthy mother, of a sacred promise which Fräulein Manna obtained from me."
"A promise? From you?
"Yes. You, Fräulein Manna, extorted from me a promise to hold you fast with all manner of punishments and of bonds, if the spirit of apostasy should ever gain a foothold in your soul. Did you not. Manna?"
"I did."
"And now?" asked the Superior.
"Now I belong to myself no longer. I no longer call any thing my own: no possession, not even myself. I cannot give in expiation what is not mine."
The three women stood long in silence. Finally the Superior said, —
"Have you confessed to the Priest?"
"No."
The Superior had turned away, and spoke with averted face: —
"We force you not. We bind you not. We could; but we do not wish to. Go, go! I will see your face no more! Go! Alas, what a hell you bear within you! The trace of your footsteps here shall disappear. No, I will hear nothing more. Go! Has she gone? Do not answer me. Dear Perini, tell me – is she gone?"
"She is going," replied Fräulein Perini.
"Where is my sister?" they suddenly heard Roland's loud voice saying.
The door was thrown violently open. Roland, quickly perceiving what had been going on, cried, —
"You have humiliated yourself sufficiently: come with me." He seized Manna by the hand, and left the convent with her.
When they were in the open air, Roland said he had been unable to endure the suspense any longer. He had feared lest Manna would allow herself to be maltreated, enduring unkindness as a penance.
"And that you must not do, even if you could bear it yourself, for Eric's sake. You must not allow Eric's betrothed to be insulted and abused."
How Manna's eyes shone as she gazed into Roland's glowing countenance!
"It is over," she said. "A whole world is swallowed up behind me. It is well that it is over."
Fräulein Perini remained some time longer with the Superior, then followed Manna. Sitting beside her in the boat, she said in a peculiar low whisper, —
"I was obliged to say that. I could not do otherwise."
Manna held out her hand, saying, —
"You only did your duty. I am not angry with you. Forgive me."
Manna knew not how she had left the convent. Only when she embraced Roland did her tears begin to fall. On their homeward journey she did not go below, but sat on the deck beside Roland, looking at the landscape with her great black eyes wide open.
CHAPTER IV.
TRANQUILLITY ON THE ROAD, AND UNREST AT HOME
On his way to Mattenheim, Eric met the Major. He felt cheerful enough to tell him that he was scouring the country as if enlisting a corps of firemen; and, when he explained this meaning of his words, the Major needed no urging to agree to his part. He looked on the affair in the light of a court of honor, from which no one should shrink.
"Poor man! Poor man!" he repeated, over and over again, "He was not open with me; but then, neither was she. I do not take it ill of him. She was not so either: it was the first time in her life. She" – this was of course, Fräulein Milch – "knew that I could not endure it. I can do much, comrade: you would not believe how much I can do. But there is one thing of which I am incapable; and that is hypocrisy. I cannot have friendly intercourse with a man whom I neither love nor esteem. I knew that the man had been a slaveholder; and I have always said that no one who associates with poodles can keep off the fleas: and who would believe that the man could utter so many kindly words? And with you, comrade, he talked like a sage, like a saint. I, with my dull brains, cannot make out, and even Herr Weidmann could not help me, why the good children must suffer all this. But now I will explain it to you. Now I know the reason. It came into my head on the road. This is how it is. I have not learned much. I used to be a drummer: I'll tell you my story some time."
"Yes; but what have you discovered?"
"Just so she always reminds me when I wander off from what I was saying. This is it. You see, man, as it says in Scripture, is born in pain, trouble; and the human soul is also born in pain, want, and misery. We poor fellows know that; and that is why rich and distinguished people are not fairly in the world. I mean – you know – and now our Roland is born anew, into true nobility, for the first time. The Prince can ennoble the name, but not the soul, you understand; so it is. And our Roland is now the real nobleman. To endure evil and do good, that is the motto which he has now received; and that is a device which has yet been engraved upon no knightly shield: but you see it stands written within, and there it will remain."
The Major pointed to his heart with a trembling hand. Eric listened in astonishment, as this timid man, so slow of speech, uttered all this, with many interruptions, it is true, but with great fervor; and now the Major reminded him how they had tormented themselves with the problem of what Roland should do with so much money, and said that it was now decided, once for all, he must do nothing but good with it.
When, at last, Eric was about to separate from the Major, the latter held him fast once again, saying, —
"Listen only to this one thing more. I was a drummer: I'll tell you the story some day. I became an officer; and my comrades did not dream how they honored me, when they used secretly, thinking I did not hear it, to call me Capt. Drumsticks, or, for shortness, even Sticks. Yes: they did honor to the Capt. Sticks; for, from that time forward, it became clear to me. I was unable to explain it so to myself, but she made me understand: she knows every thing. Yes: so it is. He is only half alive whom Fortune has made into something. Misfortune is the Holy Spirit, saying to mankind, 'Arise and walk.' You understand me?"
"Yes," said Eric earnestly, pressing the old man's valiant hand and riding on.
Looking back, he saw the veteran still standing on the same spot. He nodded to the horseman, as though he would have said to him, in the distance. Yes: to you I have given good baggage, – my best. You will not lose it; and now, if I die, it is in the possession of one who will keep it, and not give it away. He thanked the Builder of all the worlds, that he had caused him to pass through so much that was hard, and yet always to come out of it unharmed.
Meanwhile, Eric was riding cheerfully towards Mattenheim. On the way, however, he turned round. It seemed to him that he was bound in honor to summon Clodwig first. That in forming this resolution he was also influenced by an impulse of curiosity as to how Bella was now behaving, he frankly acknowledged to himself: nevertheless, he rode first to Wolfsgarten.
The parrot shrieked from the open window, as though wishing to inform all the inhabitants of the arrival of so unusual a guest; for it was long since Eric had been there. He thought he had discerned the form of Bella in the room adjoining that at whose open window the parrot hung; but she did not show herself again.
Entering Clodwig's room, he found him, for the first time, in a state of despondency. He must also have had some bodily ailment; since he did not rise, as had always been his wont, greeting his young friend with as much formality as heartiness.
"I knew that you would come to me," said Clodwig, breathing hard, but speaking in a mild voice.
"If one spirit can influence another at a distance, you and your mother must have felt most clearly that I was with you at this time. And now, if you please, let us talk very quietly, as I am somewhat indisposed. Let us forget, first of all, that we are starved by intercourse with that man. I think we ought, in this case, to think of him, and not of ourselves. See," – taking up a phial, – "look at this. I take a childish delight in this new chemical stuff, which looks exactly like clear water, and yet serves to efface a written word without scratching the paper at all; and now I am thinking, ought we not to be able to find some moral agency similar to this?"
Eric, seeing the matter which he had in hand immediately referred to, laid the plan of the jury before Clodwig, and called upon him to bear his part in it. Clodwig declined, with the remark that Herr Sonnenkamp, or whatever his name was, must have a court of his peers, – men of similar rank, or, rather, of a similar profession with himself. He, for his part, was no peer of Herr Sonnenkamp, or whatever he called himself.
Eric reminded his friend, with great caution, of his having dwelt on the equality of privileges at Heilingthal; but Clodwig seemed to give no heed to these words.
There must have been a great weight on the soul of this man, usually so attentive; for, without noticing Eric's reminder, he related how much he had exerted himself in these latter days for the American, some hot heads at court having wished to summon him before a tribunal on a charge of high treason. This idea had been very repulsive to the Prince, who had written Clodwig a letter with his own hand, thanking him for having given his counsel against any elevation to the ranks of the nobility. Clodwig had thereupon advised the Prince to desist from any further proceedings against the man, who, he said, had been allured and seduced into things with which he should have nothing to do.
Again Eric expressed his wish that Clodwig would assist at the trial.
He merely replied, —
"I will inform the Court that the man summons a tribunal of his own accord. It will have a good effect there; and to oblige you" – here he sat upright, and his expression of languor changed to one of resolution. He passed his hand over his whole face, as though feeling that he must wipe away its look of distress – "yes, on your account, in the belief that your connection with that house may be, by this means, severed, or that light may be thrown upon it, I do not shrink from the appeal."
It was hard to Eric that this consent should be given for his sake, and not with a view to serving the cause. He was on the point of announcing his intention of becoming the man's son, when approaching footsteps were heard. Clodwig rose hastily, and, seizing Eric's hand, said, in a low but decided voice, —
"Well, I yield. The man wishes a court of honor: he shall have one."
Clodwig had uttered these words quickly and precipitately, for at that moment Bella entered.
She greeted Eric with Latin words; and it was with a strange confusion of sensations that he perceived in her a sudden defiance, utterly out of keeping with the present state of things, and, above all, with Clodwig's dejected mood.
"Pray tell me," she asked, "did you ever pass through a phase in which you admired men of force, like Ezzelin von Romano? There is, after all, something great in such violent natures, especially when contrasted with men of petty interests and weak dilettanteism" – ,
Eric could not understand what this meant. It did not occur to him that Bella, screened by the presence of a stranger, was discharging arrows, none of which missed their mark.
Clodwig gently closed his eyes, nodded, and then opened them again.
"Oh, yes," she continued, more calmly, "I am glad that I remember a question which I wished to put to you. Tell me, what would Cicero or Socrates have said, on reading Lord Byron's 'Cain'?" Eric looked at her with a puzzled air. This question was so extravagantly odd, that he did not know whether it was intended as a sneer, or whether she was insane. Bella, however, went on: —
"Has Roland ever yet read Byron's 'Cain'?"
"I believe not."
"Give him the book now. It must have an effect upon him. He, too, is a son, who has a right to revolt at his father's banishment from Eden. It is wonderful, the correspondence between the two stories, – is it not? Do you know that we are all, strictly speaking, children of Cain? Abel was childless; yes, the pious Abel had no children: we are all descended from Cain. A grand pedigree! One more question, dear Herr Doctor, Have you never got out of the savants the form and color of the mark branded on Cain's brow by God the Father?"
"I do not understand you," Eric answered,
"Neither do I understand myself," laughed Bella, It was a dismal laugh.
She then continued: —
"I began to read Cicero, 'De Summo Bono,' with the help of a translation, of course; but I did not get far, and took up Byron's 'Cain,' instead: that is the finest thing the modern world has produced."
Eric still know not what to reply, and only gazed into the faces of Bella and Clodwig. "What is going on here?" he said to himself.
Bella began again, —
"Were not the female slaves who served the Roman ladies obliged to puff out their cheeks, when a noble matron wished to strike them in the face? A propos, how is Fräulein Sonnenkamp?"
"She has gone to the convent," replied Eric with downcast eyes.
It oppressed him to be obliged to answer Bella's questions with regard to Manna.
"That seems to me very sensible," was the rejoinder.
"Such a cloister is a shelter where the sensitive child will best find repose until the storm is past. What will Roland now do? What are your intentions, and those of your mother?"
These questions were put in a manner so superficial, so distant, and so conventional, that Eric was able to reply with a certain degree of cheerfulness, —
"In the interim, we have recourse to the great deed which is so universal."
"The great deed?"
"Yes: in the mean time, we are doing nothing."
In the midst of this conversation, Eric's thoughts were in the convent with Manna. There she, too, was now confronting people who had once been such near friends to her. How did they now appear in their new character of enemies and antagonists? Surely they had not assumed this cold, indifferent tone. He felt as though he must stretch out his hand protectingly over Manna, who was now bearing crushing reproaches, and, perhaps, even allowing a penance to be laid upon herself. He grieved that he had let her travel alone with Roland and Fräulein Perini. He felt that he ought not to have left her.
Such was his absorbing thought; and so he absently took leave, saying that he must go on to Weidmann's. Again he rode through the wood which he had traversed on Clodwig's horse the first time that he went to Villa Eden. How utterly different was the Villa to-day! And here at Wolfsgarten, – here he felt that there was some mystery which he could not unravel. How extremely happy had Bella and Clodwig then seemed to him! and now, what were they? Bella's strange, wandering talk, jumbling together Cicero and Byron's 'Cain,' showed that she must have passed hours in dragging herself restlessly through all sorts of things. Then Clodwig seemed overwhelmed by melancholy from which even his universal kindness could only temporarily rouse him.
Eric felt that he must forget all this, since he had in view an end which he must pursue for others and himself, – more than for himself, for Manna. Only he who is personally free from care can devote himself fully and freely to the service of others.