WHERE ART THOU, ROLAND?
"Where is Roland?"
Sonnenkamp asks Joseph, Joseph asks Bertram, Bertram asks Lootz, Lootz asks the head-gardener, the head-gardener asks the Little-squirrel, the Little-squirrel asks the laborers, the laborers ask the children, the children ask the air, Fräulein Perini asks the Chevalier, the Chevalier asks the dogs, and Frau Ceres must find out nothing from any of them.
Sonnenkamp rides at full speed to the Major, the Major asks Fräulein Milch, but she, who knows everything, this time knows nothing. The Major rides to the castle; Roland's name is called out in all the excavations and dungeons, but there is no answer.
Sonnenkamp sends the groom to the huntsman, but he is off to the field, and not to be found.
Sonnenkamp rides to the railroad station, taking with him Puck, Roland's pony, and often looking at the empty saddle. He asks at the station, in an indifferent tone, if Roland had not arrived, as if he were expecting his return from a journey. No one had seen him. Sonnenkamp rides back to the villa, and asks hurriedly if he has not come, and when they say no, he rides to the next station up the river. He asks here also, but less cautiously, and here nothing is known. The servants rush hither and thither as if bewildered.
Sonnenkamp returns to the villa; the Major is there; Fräulein Milch has sent him, as perhaps he can render some assistance. She thinks that Roland has certainly gone to the convent. The Major and Sonnenkamp drive to the telegraph-office, and send a message to the convent; they are extremely impatient, for there is no direct telegraphic communication, and so it will be two hours before an answer can be returned. Sonnenkamp desires to wait here, and sends the Major to the town, where he was to see the doctor, and make inquiries everywhere, but not so as to excite any observation.
Sonnenkamp goes up and down at the station, and places his hot brow against the cool stone pillars; all is quiet and empty. He went into the passengers' room; he found that the seats at the station were not made for comfortable rest; it was horribly inhuman. In America it is different, or it isn't—no matter.
He went out; he saw the men loading a freight-car,—they did it so leisurely; he looked at a stone-cutter who was using a pick and a hammer: he looked fixedly at him as if he himself wanted to learn the trade. People everywhere were working so quietly; they might well do so, they had not lost a son. He observed the telegraph-wires, he had an impulse to cry throughout the whole world, even where it would be of no possible avail,—
"Where is my son?"