CHAPTER X.
THE LOST ORGAN-TONES.
Mattenheim was the seat of a hearty Rhenish hospitality. There were almost always visitors in the house. The Banker came, and was rejoiced to find Roland so busy and cheerful. Professor Crutius came, and made friendly overtures to Roland; but the latter said,—
"You cannot want my friendship."
The information brought by Crutius concerning the state of affairs in the New World gave rise to many an animated discussion on the great, decisive, protracted struggle between freedom and slavery apparently impending there. Crutius could corroborate from his own observation the statement, that the Southern States were abundantly provided with disciplined officers; for in the military school at West Point, where he had formerly been a teacher, there were many more Southern than Northern students. If the Union succumbed, if, as was very possible, the slaveholders should conquer, the cause of freedom was wounded to the core. Not only would men lose their faith, but the cause itself would be injured; who knew how deeply or for how long a time?
Soon after Professor Crutius departure, a kind of dulness and dejection was observable in Roland. He did what was required of him; but he wore, for hours together, a fixed and hard expression. Neither to Weidmann nor to Eric did he reveal what was passing in his mind. To Knopf alone he confessed his anxieties, making the latter promise that he would tell no one else.
Roland had learned that Dr. Fritz was his father's bitterest foe; he had also accidentally heard Crutius tell Weidmann, that he had no doubt Sonnenkamp was one of the most zealous of the Southern leaders, and would take an active part in the war.
Like a smothered fire which suddenly sends up countless tongues of flame, so did all Roland's anguish revive. Anguish for his father's deeds, for his flight and the elopement of Bella while his mother yet lived, for his mother's death and his own inheritance of sorrow—all these several pains were blended confusedly within him, and his one hope of deliverance seemed annihilated. Lilian is the child of one of his father's most determined enemies, and, if forced to decide, can he take the field against his father?
Roland became desperate. Is there any thing like a righteous moral order in the affairs of this world? No: all is chaos and barbarism.
Knopf knew not how to comfort him, and found it hard to keep his own promise of secrecy.
One day, a bright, cold, bracing winter day, Weidmann crossed the river to close a contract for the supply of railway sleepers, and took Roland with him.
On their return, they found the Rhine full of floating ice. The bells were ringing in the valley and on the hills; the sunset-glow in the heavens, spread in strange waves of light over a background of pale green sky. Griffin stood in the prow of the boat, looking out upon the landscape; and as they made their way, the boatmen pushing aside the blocks of ice, Roland said suddenly,—
"It was just such a day, just such an evening, when Washington crossed the Delaware."
He said no more. Weidmann divined that Roland was wondering why Washington had not abolished slavery immediately on the close of the war; but he turned the subject aside, saying that he thought it one of the finest traits in the great Washington's character, that he was so ready to be convinced of an error.
Roland was startled. What might that mean?
Weidmann continued, "I have left you to yourself, Roland; but now I will tell you the state of your mind. You are involved in doubt and despair; but you are no strong man unless you rise above them."
The young man's eyes dilated, and Weidmann continued,—
"Two things are to be noted. In the first place, you have ceased to believe that the world is under the dominion of moral law, you have lost your faith in that Supreme Being whom we, as well as the Priests, call God; and, secondly, you believe (and this is worse still),—you believe that you must take upon yourself the expiation of sins which you never committed. You dread the inevitable consequences entailed by every earthly event, and are confused by your fears."
Roland gazed wonderingly at the man who thus calmly and deliberately spoke out his own inmost thought.
Weidmann continued,—
"On the one hand, you deny the operation of eternal laws; on the other, you fear it. Now look at these masses of ice in the river. Do you care to learn something of that immeasurable and all-pervading wisdom which interrupts the laws of Nature when their strict, logical consequences would involve the destruction of the world?"
"Oh, if that were so! If I might but learn it!"
"Well, then, stop there. Do you know what changes regularly take place in bodies as they become warmer or colder?"
"Heat expands, and renders them lighter. Cold contracts, and makes them heavier."
"Is it the same with water?"
"I think so."
"No, it is not. If ice were heavier than water, it would sink, and the streams would freeze from the bottom upward. There suddenly we have a deviation, an exception to the so-called stern and implacable law of Nature. Water attains its utmost weight and density at a temperature of 38°.75 Fahrenheit. Beyond this point, it grows lighter, and expands. And I tell you I do not comprehend how a man knowing this can persist in denying God. For God is here. Here is no mere blind, self-regulative, natural law. Here is the free Genius of the Universal. Here is Wisdom. Observe, if solidified water went on increasing in weight, and streams froze from beneath upward, the river-beds would remain undisturbed until the spring-thaws. And do you understand what the consequences would be?"
"Certainly; the fish would all die."
"Even so. Here is the wisdom of God. Here is the Deity who modifies the law of Nature for the preservation of his creatures. Our God no longer towers aloft above the waters and their laws. He lives and works within the waters. The law of Nature is broken that Nature may be preserved. There are no more visible miracles; but all life, beyond a certain point, subsists by a miracle,—the miracle of Genius. The very surface of the earth, whereon we plant and build, is such a natural miracle. Our globe is molten fire inside, and the crust remains cool above it. Do you understand?"
"I believe I do."
"And now, my son, you have not to suffer and repent and make atonement under some iron law of Nature, because the man who was your father sinned. You are free. Least of all creatures, is man the helpless subject of natural law. He is lord of his fate. Look up! The world is very bright, and this whole, vast, beauteous world is full of God. Let the bell-ringers, yonder, understand and address him after their own fashion. It is not ours. The churches are but little chambers in the great temple of the universe. Let no man, in my presence, restrict the Highest to one revelation and one mode of worship. God, the great, the holy, is everywhere. It is impossible not to find him. We have him here, out under the broad arch of heaven, and we have him in our own hearts. He who thus feels the breath of the Infinite upon him—he lives a holy life. Come to my heart, my son! You have wrestled manfully! You are saved!"
Roland threw himself into the arms of this man, and kissed his garment, and wept in the fulness of his heart.
It was night when they disembarked; but within and around Roland all was ineffably bright. A new man stepped upon the shore.
Roland and Weidmann walked home in silence.
With a feeling of release, as if the evil spirit which possessed him had been exorcised by a spell, Roland entered the house with Weidmann. He stood at the window, gazing long into the starlit heaven, and then wrote a letter to Manna. Out of an overflowing heart, he told her that to-day he had found the Highest—a trust, a faith, a rest, such as he had never believed possible. But he could not finish the letter.
He sought Eric, and begged that he would go back with him to Villa Eden.
Eric understood him; and the next day they departed together.
It was a happy coming home, when Eric and Roland arrived at the Villa.
They found the ladies tranquil and happy. Manna beamed with a twofold rapture. Her brother and her lover had come; and both brought strength with them and substantial invigoration.
They had much to tell one another; yet, when the first greetings were over, they reverted to higher and more general themes. All were struck with surprise, that Manna should have a story so like Roland's to tell.
Professor Einsiedel had several exceptions to take to Roland's communication; but he stifled them. The youth might some time advance another step; still it was needful for him to have taken this.
To the story of Manna's experience he listened with satisfaction. He could reflect that he had helped to establish her self-dependence.
Sitting with her hand in Eric's, Manna told her tale.
"It was hard for me to forego the old sacred consolations. Whenever I went to church, I thought of you and of myself. The strong, tremulous swell of the organ speaks so directly to the heart. Those tones are lost to you and me. You have told me that your friends used to deride you as a sentimentalist, because you could not overcome the longing in your soul for those organ-tones; and now that same desire awoke within me when I thought of you. But 'tis vain! It must be enough for us that the realm of music and of feeling is still vast and wide, without the strains of the church-organ. I cling to those noble words, 'My temple are ye.' If the human soul has become the temple of the Holy Ghost, we need no visible temple."
A spirit of consecration hovered over them as they were now assembled in the vine-clad house. They felt that they were members of the communion which has no name.
When Eric visited the little town, he was informed by the cooper, now, mine host of the "Carp," that the comedy-writer had wanted to make a carnival play out of Sonnenkamp's story, and bring it out in the market-place; but that he himself had not favored it, and they were going to represent a nobility-mill instead. Commoners in front were to be thrust in above, and noblemen with weapons and shields were to come out below, on the back side.
He begged Eric to be present at the carnival performance next day; but Eric was not in the mood.