Villa Eden: The Country-House on the Rhine

by Berthold Auerbach

CHAPTER XV.

THE MARRIAGE PROCESSION TURNED TO STONE.

The day of the fête had arrived. Roland rode on in front with Pranken, Sonnenkamp walked with the Banker, and Eric with Clodwig. The day was clear and sunny, without being too warm. A brilliant company left their carriages upon the hill, and strolled down; the wood-path to the valley below.

Eric tried to lead the conversation to Sonnenkamp's receiving a title of nobility, but Clodwig at once interrupted him, and, with a tone of almost parental authority, warned him against mixing himself up in any way with that matter. For the first time, there was something in Clodwig's look that Eric could not fathom. They went down the path in silence. A struggle was going on in Eric's mind, and in Clodwig also was a conflict of feeling concerning his young friend.

As soon as they reached the valley, Sonnenkamp drew Eric aside, and asked what opinion Clodwig had expressed. Eric replied that he declined speaking at all upon the subject.

"Thank you—thank you very much," ejaculated Sonnenkamp, with no apparent reason.

By the side of the brook in Heilingthal Joseph had already spread the table, and Sonnenkamp had only the addition of a few trifles to suggest. The company assembled was most select, and all expressed surprise and pleasure at the arrangements that had been made. The long lieutenant was particularly eloquent, and called up a singular expression in Sonnenkamp's face by always, although he was no Austrian, addressing him as Herr von Sonnenkamp. A band of music, stationed in the forest, played sweet and lively airs. A great point of interest was the group of rocks above where the company were seated, which, the story ran, had been the living figures of a marriage procession turned into stone by spirits from the lower world.

"What can have been the origin of this tradition?" asked Bella, turning to Eric.

All gave polite attention, as Eric explained that this was one of the many variations of the Tannhauser tradition, and that nations in the dawn of civilization gave themselves up to a belief in the old traditions, which have their root in the ever haunting mystery of the origin of the earth.

Suddenly a forester's horn was heard, and rocks and valley became the theatre of a strange spectacle. A band of gipsy musicians, fantastically dressed, came suddenly to view, playing wild melodies,—one young fellow in particular, with raven hair, leaping and dancing as he played upon his fiddle. Great praises were bestowed upon Sonnenkamp for his ingenuity in always devising some new entertainment, and his protestations that this was a surprise even to himself, were taken by some for truth, and by others as modesty. A rapid glance, exchanged between himself and Lootz, would have proved to any one who had seen it his sincerity in disclaiming all knowledge of the exhibition.

Bella encouraged the gipsies to wilder and wilder music, and, on learning that their camp was pitched in the neighborhood, she went to visit it, accompanied by Roland and some of the ladies. The absence of Professor Einsiedel she greatly lamented; as he had told her that the language of the gipsies bore some connection with the Sanscrit. Eric was much surprised at being able to say a few words to these strange people in their own tongue. Bella asked if there was no one in the company who could draw, and insisted on the long lieutenant beginning a sketch at once of the gipsy camp, the wretched horse eating a wisp of hay, the wagon, and the old women sitting about an open fire. A wild, impudent looking girl, who wore a large crinoline, and smoked a short pipe in a free and easy fashion, soon became her especial favorite. One old hag, pointing her skinny hand at Roland, cried out:—

"He shall be our king."

"Can you not tell fortunes?" asked Bella, extending her hand to the old woman.

"Not yours," said the gipsy. "But I want that one next you to show me her hand." With great reluctance, Manna consented. The old woman gave a wild cry, and exclaimed:—

"You have a lover by your side, but you must go across the water to get him, and water must flow from your handsome black eyes. But then three sons and two daughters shall you have-—-"

Here Manna tore her hand away; and walked on apart from the rest of the party. Much as she despised this criminal sport, and little as the whole company believed in it, it yet strangely affected her. Could Pranken have been the originator of it? It almost seemed so, and yet he was innocent of the whole thing.

"I should like to pronounce a ban," cried Bella.

"What sort of one?" asked all present.

"That for the next fifty years the gipsies should be under its power; that no poet should dare to sing of them."

Manna went on with the others, but she and all around her seemed as in a dream. In her heart she felt that all this had happened, in order that the thought of it might one day serve to recall the world to her mind, when she had left it forever. It already seemed distant; among the things of the past. She stood in the life about her as not a part of it, and she was not of it, for the one thought was ever present to her of renouncing it altogether. This year in the world was her trial year, and she rejoiced to think that several months of it were already gone.

Bella, who prided herself upon her skill in reading character, often shook her head, and confessed to her brother that she could make nothing out of Manna; in vain she tried to win her confidence; there was something at bottom which she could not fathom. Manna never spoke to Bella of her desire to return to the convent. Bella now put her arm about Manna's waist, and teased her about the three sons and two daughters, but the girl only smiled as if the words had been addressed to some other person.

On the brow of the hill, under the shade of the pine-trees, carpet's had been spread for the ladies, where they rested, while the gentlemen still sat at table, and, at the suggestion of the long lieutenant, who had finished his sketch, passed round the wine.

"Why are you not of the nobility?" asked the long lieutenant of Sonnenkamp.

"Because Herr Sonnenkamp is a citizen," replied Clodwig.

"Citizens can be made nobles when they have millions-—-"

At an angry sign from Pranken the young man was here brought to a sudden pause. The Cabinetsrath, however, thought it his duty to add, in consideration of Clodwig's being an influential member of the Committee on Orders, whose good opinion was therefore important:—

"Truly, if nobleness of mind, great powers, beneficence, and worth of character raise one to the ranks of nobility, our Herr Sonnenkamp is—will certainly become a nobleman."

The long lieutenant considered himself a great wit, and wits are not easily suppressed, even when they have not been drinking champagne; he therefore exclaimed:—

"Excellent—delicious! Count von Wolfsgarten, you are the wisest of us all; are you also of opinion that a million must have a title? I mean, of course, not the million, but the man who has the million?"

"It is most amiable of you," replied Clodwig, "to exercise in my favor your sovereign right to point out the wisest of us all."

"Thanks," cried the long lieutenant, "that blow told. But I pray you let me have your opinion."

"I think," said a stout retired court-marshal who boasted of having already lost sixteen pounds at the Baths, "I think that our noble host has the right to require that this discussion should not be continued at this time and in this place. Does not your Excellency agree with me?" he added, turning to Clodwig.

Before the Count had time to answer, Sonnenkamp broke in:—

"On the contrary, I should be most happy if my honored guests would so far favor me as to continue the discussion, and allow me to be a listener; I should take it as a proof that they did not regard me as stranger."

Clodwig, who had broken through his usual strict rule of temperance, and allowed himself to be persuaded to drink two glasses of champagne, suddenly assumed a knowing look and said:—

"In that case, Herr Sonnenkamp, let us hear your own opinion upon the subject."

"Yes, yes," cried the long lieutenant; "the man who has earned millions, and has got up such a fairy entertainment as this, must-—-"

"Pray, let Herr Sonnenkamp speak," interrupted Clodwig.

"My honored guests," began Sonnenkamp, "I have visited every part of the inhabited globe, and have learned that there is and must be everywhere an aristocracy, one class distinguished above the rest."

"It is so among horses and dogs," broke in the long lieutenant. "Countess Dingsda of Russia, has two grayhounds descended from the Empress Katherine-—- I mean from the Empress Katherine's dogs."

The Court-marshal who had lost the sixteen pounds of flesh admonished the long lieutenant in a whisper to hold his tongue, for he was exposing himself and putting out the whole company. The long lieutenant, passed his hand over his brow, and softly promised to obey.

"Let us hear you further," urged Clodwig, and Sonnenkamp continued,—

"It is fortunate also for barbarous races, when they possess certain families who present them, in historical continuation, the various decisive points in their career, and when new families become distinguished by courage or wisdom, and form, as it were, a new dynasty."

Clodwig observed that the sweat stood in great drops on Sonnenkamp's forehead, and said, with great friendliness,—

"It might be said that the distinctive prerogative of the nobility was to unite culture and courage; one should never be separated from the other. I hope you will understand me aright when I say that the titles of nobility perpetuate the remembrance of the gifts, the acquisitions of transcendent genius in a former time, and they have now become an inherited right, or rather involve an inherited duty. The nobleman is the free human being, uniting in himself the gifts of nature and fortune, and preserving a certain chain of connection through the ever changing generations of men. Nobility is a kind of public office to which a man is born. The nobleman should act out his own nature, but is bound at the same time by the conditions of history."

"May the wine freeze in my body, if I understand a word of what he is saying," said the long lieutenant to the Court Marshal, who was trying hard to fight off the sleep which, contrary to all the rules of the treatment, was stealing over him. He suddenly woke up and said,—

"Yes, yes; you are perfectly right; but do keep quiet."

"You yourself," said the Marshal, "must reverence an honest pride in the virtues and bravery of our ancestors. The man who walks through a gallery, from whose walls the pictures of a long line of progenitors look down upon and watch his steps, receives a life-long impression; through his whole life he is followed by the watchful eye of his ancestors."

"True, true!" cried many voices.

"And what follows from that?" asked Clodwig. "Let us return to our original question."

"Just what I am doing. Why should not these historical conditions be constantly reversed?"

"Quite right; that is the proper way to state the question," replied Clodwig. "Is this an age which can concede any special duties, and with them any special privileges, to the nobility? This is the day of equal rights; there are no more members of a privileged class. There are but two classes of men, men of renown and men without renown. The nobility which claims to rest upon hereditary honor is effete; it is incontestably a dying institution. Of what use are coats of arms? Of none but to be embroidered on fire-screens, sofa cushions, and travelling-bags. The equal, universal duty of bearing arms furnishes the reasonable claim to nobility. Science, art, business, are the factors of our time, which the whole people without distinction is equally bound to take part in. We stand in opposition to history. The nobleman was of importance so long as landed property was the foundation of the nation's power. That time is passed, since those high chimneys have reared themselves into the air; since the power of movable property, ideal possessions—for all state securities are but ideal possessions—has surpassed that of landed estates, those days have been no more. One advantage of this personal property is, that it cannot be clutched by the dead hand; the hand of inheritance is a dead hand. I am not opposed to having the nobleman of the present day give his name to business transactions; there are better things than titles and orders by which not only money, but influence, can be gained. I thank the noble Jacob Grimm for exposing, as he does in his essay on Schiller, the folly of supposing that Goethe and Schiller can be ennobled. The nobility of to-day means nothing but a name, a desolation; we go so far as to bestow it even upon the Jews."

"But you, certainly," interrupted the Banker, "would not deny the equal rights of the different religions, the moment this equality of rights knocks at the emblazoned door of nobility?"

"Equal rights!" exclaimed Clodwig. "Quite right, my friend descended from an ancient race. But is it not an absurd perversion to use equal rights for the abolishment of equal rights? If anybody can become a noble, without the necessity of having been born so, of course the Jews can; but they ought not to desire it, they ought to see the disloyalty of it. So far as I see, the Jews—I am speaking now with no reference to their religion—are a living lesson to us not to judge of men by what they believe, but by their progress in virtue and culture. The Jews are, according to our way of regarding them, a race made up of nobles—for who has a longer and purer pedigree?—or they are a people in a certain degree proud of being descended from slaves. I am indebted to an old rabbi, whom I once met at the Baths, for a noble thought."

"What was it?" asked the Banker.

"He said to me—we were in Ostend at the time, walking on the sea-shore and talking of the negro, discussing his capability for freedom and culture, and this rabbi made a very beautiful remark-—-"

Clodwig paused for a time as if trying to recall something, then, laying the finger of his left hand upon the bridge of his nose, he said,—

"The rabbi declared that the looking back to a past time of slavery was a great spur to ambition, and that many things which at first sight appear strange in the Jews, may be accounted for by the important fact of their tracing their history back to a period of slavery. They have had implanted in them, by their bondage in Egypt, a pride and a humility, a steady resistance to oppression, a quick perception of injustice and of every injury inflicted on others, and hence a sympathy, which is unparalleled in history."

"Certainly."

"A Jew with a coat of arms," continued Clodwig, "with helmet and shield and all the gewgaws—the very sight of them should be an offence to him, for at the time when men wore helmets and shields, his ancestors, the Jews, were servants of the emperor, and almost outside the protection of the laws. A Jew may become Christian from conviction, because, apart from the dogma, he perceives the advance in civilization and culture which the religion of Jesus has accomplished. Many change their faith from want of deep principle, not having the courage, or not feeling it to be their duty, to inflict upon themselves and on their children a life-long martyrdom. But a Jew with a title is the most ridiculous anachronism that can be imagined. To become a citizen, to enter that class which is ever increasing in numbers and importance, is the right and the duty of a Jew. But shall there be a union of Jewish noble families, who, like others, shall marry only among themselves? The more we think of the matter, the more absurd the contradictions that arise. However, I did not mean to speak of the Jews, and pray the company to pardon me for having thus strayed from our main point."

"Had we not better put an end to the discussion altogether?" suggested Pranken.

"I have done; only one word more. A piece of music always leaves a painful impression if we have not heard the final cadence, and, therefore, let me say, in a few words, that I consider the raising of a citizen to the ranks of the nobility a historical absurdity, to use no harsher term. The man who leaves the ranks of the citizens is a deserter, an apostate, I will not say a traitor and a fool also, for forsaking the conquering banner of the people. I understand the temptation; they want to secure their possessions to their family, to establish the right of entail; the sons want to be knights; but it is a stinted race after all, a mongrel stock, from which no good tree can grow."

Clodwig had several objects in view in speaking thus; he wanted to make a direct appeal to his companions in rank, and he wanted, once for all, to divert from their purpose Sonnenkamp and the Banker, who he knew had also been induced to aspire to a title.

Perceiving a peculiar expression in the countenance of his old friend, he turned to him, and said:—

"I see you have something on your mind you would like to say."

"Nothing of any consequence," replied the Banker, with a shrug of his shoulders, offering his gold snuff-box to Clodwig and Sonnenkamp. "Our host is a perfect example of what is called in America 'a self-made man,' a term of great distinction. There is no term in our language which exactly expresses it. To have inherited nothing, but to have won everything by his own effort, is the greatest pride of an American. 'Self made man' is, so to speak, the motto upon his shield. Their president elect, Abraham Lincoln, is the best example of this class, who, from being a rail-splitter and a boatman, has attained the highest honor. Are you personally acquainted with Lincoln?"

"I have not the honor," replied Sonnenkamp.

Roland here approached the gentlemen, and requested them to join the rest of the company, as the plan was to have the band play, while all walked together to the place where they had left the carriages. All arose from table. The nobles from the various German principalities stared at one another in amazement, and if any magical change could have come over them, would certainly have been turned into stone, as the bridal procession had been. The long lieutenant and the sleepy Court-marshal would have made most grotesque figures. How was it that a nobleman, a Count von Wolfsgarten, could use such language? The man must be drunk!

They joined the ladies. Clodwig and Eric lingered a little behind. Eric had not spoken a word during the discussion, and Clodwig expressed his vexation at having inconsiderately opened his whole mind to persons, who did not want to listen to serious words.

"I am grateful to you for it," replied Eric.

"I will try to think," said Clodwig in conclusion, "that I have been talking only to you."

The two went together into the woods, where the ladies had now risen from their carpeted resting-place, and, seating themselves on the ground, watched the young people dancing on the meadow below.

Sonnenkamp stood leaning against a tall pine-tree, as if turned into stone, and almost wishing that the whole company might be actually petrified like the marriage procession. A butterfly, which flew over Clodwig's head, and fluttered back and forth in the valley before Sonnenkamp's eyes, might have told him what Clodwig was saying to Eric on the hill.

"You asked me this morning my opinion on this matter; I think you know it now. I have declared distinctly, that I shall decidedly oppose all conferring of titles upon new men. I do not mind telling you, however, my young friend, that Herr Sonnenkamp's chances are very good, for my voice is not decisive."

Eric was strangely tempted to go down to where Sonnenkamp was standing and tell him this. He had witnessed the man's disappointment to-day, and would have been glad to encourage him, feeling sympathy for one who desired all things for his son's sake.

He restrained himself, however, being resolved to keep himself aloof from the whole matter. He told Clodwig how Roland had wished, on the evening of the ball, to confide to him the secret of their being about to receive a title, but that it was his intention not to mention the subject to the boy, although his father had opened the way for him to do so. Roland had thus far been keeping the matter quietly in his own mind, and it seemed better now to ignore it altogether, than to have the son conceive any disapprobation of his father's proceedings. Clodwig agreed perfectly with his young friend, and repeatedly expressed his present contentment at Eric's having rejected his proposal to live with him, for there was a wider and richer field of usefulness open to him where he was.

Both were refreshed by their quiet intercourse.

The long lieutenant now broke in upon Sonnenkamp's solitary musings. The butterfly flew up again, and might have told those on the hill what was passing in the valley below.

"Herr von Sonnenkamp," began the long lieutenant, "have the negroes any musical talent?"

"The negroes are very fond of a kind of music of their own, which is nothing but noise," replied Sonnenkamp; "and many wise men consider that conversation which—" he paused for a word, but seemed to find none sharp enough, and at the same time sufficiently polite. At last he said—"which perhaps might pass for such in the little capital."

He joined the gay company, and, while the band played, they all walked to the place where the carriages were waiting.

It so happened, neither knew how, that Manna and Eric walked together through the woods. They went on, side by side, in silence, though each had so much to say to the other.

"I hear," Manna began at last, "that Count Clodwig expressed himself warmly against rank; did he think that distinction of birth was in any way opposed to religion?"

"He said nothing of the kind."

Again they went on in silence.

"I wonder where our friend, Professor Einsiedel, has been to-day," began Manna again; "I am a pupil of his, too, now."

"It is a great privilege," answered Eric, "to know such a liberal, devout mind."

They said no more, but both felt that there was a sort of sympathy established between them by their reverence for the same man. Not only was their faculty of reverence now the same, but there was a common object of their reverence.

"Eric! Manna!" suddenly cried a voice, which was repeated by all the echoes of the forest. They stood startled at hearing their names thus coupled together, and sent back again, and again, by the stone figures of the bridal procession.

Roland came back to find them, and, giving his right hand to Manna and his left to Eric, led them thus to the carriage, in which all took their seats.