The next morning two letters were found lying on his writing desk: one was addressed to Eberhard, the other to the Baroness. The latter contained nothing more than a few words of farewell. The former was more detailed. It expressed the Baron’s satisfaction at the fact that Eberhard, whom he welcomed as the head of the house, had returned, and plainly indicated that all the necessary legal steps would be taken in a very short while to give him complete authority as his heir and successor. The letter closed with this surprising sentence: “So far as I am personally concerned, I am planning to enter the Catholic Church, in order to spend the remainder of my misapplied life at Viterbo in the Dominican Convent of Della Guercia.”
There was no explanation, no unusual display of feeling, no confession, nothing but the naked fact.
The Baroness was neither surprised nor shocked. She fell into a mute, melancholy brooding, and then said: “He never was happy, never in his whole life. I never heard him laugh a really whole-souled laugh; and living with him has made me forget how to laugh myself. His heart has been from time immemorial a sort of convent, an abode of darkness, a place of sternness. He has found his way home at last, and is probably tired from the long journey on the way to his soul.”
“Nonsense, Clotilda!” cried Frau von Erfft. “What you say about his laughing may be true, and a man who cannot laugh is half animal. But do you mean to tell me that an intelligent man must resort to such means to find peace with himself and his God? A man who is under obligations to set an example for others? Is there not enough darkness in men’s heads already? Is it necessary to put out the torches of those who stand guard? My sense of pardon is not so elaborate. I prefer to be a child of the world and associate with those who are regarded as heathens, and who have given us works of light and illumination.”
At these words Eberhard entered. As she looked into his face, Frau von Erfft thought: “There is another who can’t laugh.”
The Baron’s change of religious views caused the greatest excitement throughout the entire country. The liberal newspapers published fulminatory articles; flaming protests were made in the clubs against the surreptitious propaganda of Rome. The ultramontane party leaders rejoiced and made capital out of the marvellous return of such a sceptic to the bosom of the Church which alone can save the souls of men: they used the case as a bait for fresh recruits and as a means to fill the old regulars with greater fire and enthusiasm. Through the homes blew a breath of a tyrannical priesthood and spiritual gagging.
Eberhard adapted himself to his changed condition quickly and with but little apparent effort: the chaos of opinions left him virtually unmoved. To become the master of so much and so many people, and to do it so suddenly, necessitated dignity, a clear eye, and a firm hand. His being was in no danger from an excess of zeal or up-start conceit, suffer though he might from too great seriousness and his preference for a place in the shadow. Strangely enough, the abundance of his responsibilities made him more cheerful. And where he was unable to take his part in the world of outward unrest, Sylvia’s influence interceded and made it possible for him to do what was expected of him.
In May he accompanied her and her mother to Erfft. There they took long walks together every day, and talked a great deal about Eleanore. At first he spoke with noticeable reserve. But when he felt that he had gained the confidence of his auditor, and she his, he spoke quite candidly, so candidly in truth that Sylvia came to look upon his action as one of inner liberation.
When he told of Eleanore’s marriage to Daniel Nothafft, Sylvia interrupted him, and asked a number of questions concerning Daniel. “Oh, yes, he was our guest once; he is the Kapellmeister,” she said. And then she told him all about Daniel’s visit at Erfft, and did it with a smile in which there were both indulgence and re-awakened astonishment.