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.