Kitabı oku: «Villa Eden: The Country-House on the Rhine», sayfa 49

CHAPTER V.
NIGHT AND MORNING AT THE CONVENT

Until it was quite late, Manna walked up and down the broad pathway on the island, holding the Superior and the Professorin by the hand. It seemed to her, that two loving potencies, each of which had its own valid claim, were contending to get possession of her.

It would be difficult to say how they came upon the topic, but the two ladies were discussing the subject of dogmatic belief. The Professorin maintained that salvability consisted in a willingness to perceive and acknowledge a wrong impulse, an error, or a transgression. The Superior agreed with this, but showed that one was always liable to return to a false view in the highest things, if a fixed and unalterable revealed doctrine, continually published anew through some infallible medium, did not provide a remedy against error; otherwise, one never knew whether he had not fallen into it afresh, and can never be freed from the pain of choosing.

The Superior had always a positive belief to fall back upon, while the Professorin was obliged to find some new basis and reason for every question that came up, which made her appear unsettled and doubtful. And this apparent indecision was increased by the feeling she had of not being justified in contending against a faith so firm and so beneficent in its influence. An unrest, like that of a spy, who, from the highest patriotic motives, inspects an enemy's camp, characterized her whole manner, and she blamed herself for having undertaken the commission. But she was now at the post, and must defend her views. Wishing to find some impregnable position, she represented to Manna that her father wanted to organize a general plan of systematic charity, and that it would be a noble vocation for her to take part in it. The Superior waited for Manna to reply, and she now said: —

"My father's donations do not fall into the right hands; we can do nothing but restore the property to him who alone has the right to determine what use shall be made of it."

There was more in Manna's reply than appeared on the surface.

The Professorin remarked that every poor man was a messenger of mercy, and every one who needed help made a demand for sacrifices; that it was not enough to bestow gifts, but one must personally devote himself to the distressed. The alms was not the important thing, but the pains which one must take on the supplicant's account. How often a man, as he goes along the street in winter, well wrapped up in his furs, bestows an alms upon a poor, freezing beggar! For him to unbutton his coat, and to look for something to give, is of more account than the gift itself, at least to the giver.

Manna answered that women could not do such a work by themselves. The Superior joined in, saying that she had advised decidedly against Manna's taking the veil, for it was to be feared that she had no true vocation for it. Then she added in a sharp tone to the Professorin: – "We are wholly indifferent to the accusation of having tried to get possession of the child's property; we do not despise the wealth, we can do a great deal of good with it; but it is the child's soul that we value, and we do not stop to inquire whether worldlings believe it or not."

The Professorin was glad to find herself at last in the cell where she was to sleep. She had never slept at a convent, and she had again the disagreeable feeling of being a traitress and a spy. She said to herself with a smile: —

"I am rejoiced now that I forgot Parker's book; it would be a fresh treachery to have and to read his words and his thoughts here in this house."

She gave up the purpose of exerting an influence over Manna, for here were prior experiences which were beyond her control, and relations that were involved in obscurity. A deep sorrow preyed upon the child, which could only be revealed at the confessional, and which perhaps there only could find relief.

The Professorin was deeply disturbed, and had troubled dreams. She seemed to be in the midst of Wallenstein's camp, and in fetters as a spy; she was being interrogated by the sergeant of the guard, when, all of a sudden, he was changed into Professor Einsiedel, who said to her: —

"Be not afraid, I have influence on every one here, I will set you at liberty."

Then she was standing in the midst of the court-circle, and all were laughing at the vivandière– years ago when she was a young, frolicsome girl, she had once taken that part – and now, as she met the glance of her son; she felt ashamed of her appearance.

These dreams whirled through her brain in strange confusion. She was rejoiced, on waking, to find that it was all a dream.

The hour for rising at the convent was a very early one, but long before the matin bell of the church rang, the Professorin had dressed, and stood watching from her cell the breaking day. The impressions of her troubled dreams faded like the mists on the river, which were now struggling with the dawning light. She dwelt in imagination upon the hundreds of young souls who now lay asleep, preparing to meet a peaceful future. She thought upon the nuns who had renounced life, to whom the day brought no event of personal interest, nothing but the uniform round of duty.

She shuddered as she thought of venturing to disturb such a life.

There may be many incidental and casual irregularities here, she thought, but a holy will has authority over these spirits; and at this early morning hour, a saying of her husband's recurred to her: —

"You can oppose an established positive religion only by having more religion than is embodied in it. The idea of the pure is persecuted, hunted down, obscured, in the world; and the hand must be sure of its high consecration, which ventures to attack a sanctuary of that idea."

The morning sun had become lord over the mist, shining brightly over river and mountains. The convent bell rang, and the great house was all astir.

The Professorin went down, and knelt behind a pillar; the sisters and the children assembled together.

She remained until the morning service had ended, and then going into the dining-hall, she begged Manna and the Superior to permit her to take leave. They accompanied her to the shore.

The Professorin exhorted Manna to stay at the convent, and devote herself to reflection and pure thought. She spoke with such earnestness that the Superior, taking her by the hand, uttered in a low tone what was evidently a prayer.

The Professorin perceived that her old friend was praying in her behalf. And why should there not be just as good grounds for this form, as for an inward thought and wish for another, on whom one would invoke every blessing, unexpressed in words? With a light heart, she was set over to the main-land.

Sonnenkamp was surprised that she did not have Manna with her; but she said, in explanation, that she would not interfere any farther in this matter. She went back with Sonnenkamp to the villa. On board the boat, she sketched out in full the plan of an organized system of charity, which must be so arranged that Manna could go from one sanctuary into another.

Sonnenkamp listened in silence, but in no pleasant humor. The whole world seemed to have entered into a conspiracy against him, to make of him a sanctified hypocrite.

Yesterday, Pranken had made the same demand upon him, and he had said in reply, that it was a contemptible thing for the very nobility to be desirous of playing the hypocrite; but Pranken had insisted principally upon the religious obligation.

Sonnenkamp had shrugged his shoulders, for the man kept his mask on even when he was alone with him. He only consented after Pranken had added, that, by this means, the Court would not only be justified in conferring the title of nobility, but would feel bound to do it. Here now was Frau Dournay making a similar demand; and this was so far good, that her intentions were most likely honest.

The journey home was not very animated, for they were returning from a bootless errand. Sonnenkamp was disturbed because he was called upon to do this and that, and no object had yet been accomplished.

CHAPTER VI.
THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT IN EDEN

A strange spirit, meanwhile, made its appearance at Villa Eden. It was kept in concealment, and yet had nothing spectral; it was bright and luminous, and yet produced a great hurly-burly.

The morning after the departure of Eric's mother, Roland had gone to the vine-covered cottage, to get a book out of the library for Eric. With the simple desire of seeing how it looked now the Mother was away, he had entered the open door of her room. An open book was lying upon the table, and on the fly-leaf there was written in English: To my friend Dournay – Theodore Parker.

Roland was startled. This is the man, then, whom the Mother had spoken of as a saint a few days ago, and whom he was to get acquainted with by and by. He took the book and secreted it.

At noon, he asked permission to go and see Claus, and it was given. Eric remained at home, for he wanted to finish a letter to Professor Einsiedel that he had begun some time ago. But Roland did not go to see Claus; he sat down under the lofty willows by the river-bank, steadily reading, with occasional glances at the stream.

What does this mean? Here is a champion, an inspired one, a God-revering champion, fighting for civilization and against slavery. He read of a man, whose name was John Brown, who was hanged on the gallows at Harper's Ferry for his attempts to abolish slavery. He read and learned how Parker had prophesied a mighty struggle; and these words fell into the youth's soul like a spark of fire: "All the great charters of humanity are written in blood."

He read on and on, until he could see no longer for the darkness. And now it occurred to him that he had meant to call upon Claus, and he hurried towards the village.

Eric met him as he was going, and was very angry at being deceived.

"Where have you been?" asked Eric.

"With this man;" handing Eric the book.

Roland had eaten forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge, and Eric was surprised to see how deep an impression had been made upon the youth. A new and difficult task was before him, to keep the youth from saying anything in his father's presence.

"Who is Brown?" inquired Roland. "Can you tell me about him?" Eric told him. He narrated the martyr's history, and dwelt with emphasis on the fact, that even in our day life is offered as a sacrifice, and that a pure self-surrender raises to the sublime even the man wearing a captain's gay uniform of the present day. He wanted to show, incidentally, that the costume of every age and every condition in life could be the symbolic expression of the highest greatness; but Roland did not go along with him, and he had the apparently difficult task of justifying, or, at least, of explaining the position of Sonnenkamp, who had incontrovertibly taken the opposite side.

"Yes, yes," exclaimed Roland; "now I remember you said, when we were with the Russian at Wolfsgarten, 'You could not imagine that a white boy and a negro boy could be comrades.' Are you, too, a friend of slavery?"

Eric tried to explain his meaning; and, while striving to reconcile the difference, he was pleased to notice how open the youth's soul was to every impression, and how tenaciously it clung to things spoken of only in a cursory and incidental way.

Eric sat with Roland until it was very late; he was obliged to satisfy his ingenuous mind, and this was almost the hardest task that had ever been laid upon him. The youth was to be made to perceive that there was another way of considering the question, one that regarded slavery as justifiable and a righteous necessity; he was never to let his father know that he considered him in the wrong, and that he had happened to become acquainted, through the Professorin, with a spirit that ought not to have been conjured up in this house. Eric called to mind his mother, who had admonished him, with reason, that he was to adopt that course of instruction for Roland which was necessary, and not that which the youth himself preferred. Circumstances now rendered it necessary to follow only that track which the youth had entered upon for himself. It was a matter of rejoicing that he had of himself struck out the path; it was just what all education proposed: and now was he to turn aside from this track, and to shatter in pieces the abiding fundamental principle. Thou shalt, and thou shalt not?

"It seems to me like a dream," Roland went on to say; "a great negro once held me in his arms; I remember distinctly all about him; I remember his woolly hair, and how I pulled him by it; his face was smooth, without any beard at all."

"The negroes have no growth of beard," added Eric, and the youth continued, dreamily: —

"I have been carried by negroes – by negroes."

He continued to repeat the word in a lower and lower tone, and then became silent. Suddenly he passed his hand over his brow, and asked, —

"Are the people who are slaves fond of their children? Do you know any song they sing?"

Eric had very little to say in reply. Roland wanted to know how all the ancient nations regarded slavery. Eric could give him only a superficial statement; he proceeded to open his letter to Professor Einsiedel, and requested that he would tell him what books treated upon the subject of slavery among the Jews, Greeks, Romans, and especially the ancient Germans.

When Roland was at last ready to go to bed, he produced Thomas à Kempis, and placed it beside Theodore Parker.

"I would like to imagine," he said, "how they would regard one another, if they stood side by side. I fancy Thomas à Kempis to be an extremely devout, refined monk; and when I imagine Theodore Parker, I think of him as a grandson or great grandson of Benjamin Franklin."

Eric was more and more amazed, for he saw how deeply Roland had thought about them both.

Thomas à Kempis makes men recluses, leads them continually into themselves, and then above the human world; Parker also leads men into themselves, but afterwards out of themselves and into the world around them.

When Roland and Eric went, the next day, to post the letter to Professor Einsiedel, they saw the boat coming up the river, on which were the Mother and Sonnenkamp. They made a signal, and repaired to the landing. Roland was astonished that Manna had not come with them, for his father had promised to bring her. Sonnenkamp went on in advance with Eric, and asked after the household. He seemed in a very bad humor.

Roland detained the Mother, and when the others were out of hearing, he asked her: —

"Did Manna tell you too that she was an Iphigenia?"

"No. What did she mean by that?"

"I don't know."

The Mother pressed her lips together; she had some idea of what she meant; she understood her lamentation, and her thankfulness to God, for having called her to endure the extreme of woe. She inquired about the connection in which the expression had been used, but Roland interrupted her by telling her that he had read the book which she had forgotten.

The Mother was startled, but felt more at ease when Roland related to her that Eric had set him right in the matter, and that he himself would be sure to keep the secret.

Nevertheless, she was deeply troubled, on reaching the villa, at having brought hither a spirit which could not dwell under the roof. The freedom of her soul was taken away, for that which she had kept in concealment had now begun to exert an influence openly. It was no longer subject to her control, and it might suddenly appear in a frightful and perplexing form.

Frau Ceres was sick again. Fräulein Perini could not be spared a moment, and sent her thanks for the kindly greeting of the Professorin and Sonnenkamp.

Like a child who is always bright and cheerful, always living in the present moment, disturbed by no confusion, and no subtleties of thought, – so appeared the Major, and every one took delight in his steadfast and natural equability. He thought it was well that Manna had not returned now; when the castle was completed, it would be just the nicest thing: out of the convent into the castle. He should be glad when they were all together again; he couldn't stand this everlasting starting off and bursting away from each other like a bomb-shell; there wasn't a better and finer place than right here in the country, and they couldn't get anywhere more than sky, and water, and mountains, and trees.

The Major cheered up the company, who were sitting at the tea-table in a strangely absent mood. The Professorin afterwards accompanied him home. She sat talking with Fräulein Milch until it was quite late, and appointed her as first assistant in the charitable organization. She seemed exactly fitted for it, as she knew everybody and everybody's circumstances. She desired that, for the first thing, a dozen sewing machines should be distributed in the surrounding villages; she would herself teach the women and girls how to use them.

The Major and Fräulein Milch accompanied the Mother back to the villa by starlight. She was refreshed and strengthened. Her soul was peaceful, and a saying of Goethe's seemed to be sounding within her: – "Thou canst not perceive what thou art by reflection, but only by seeking to perform thy duty."

She had a work before her that would uplift her and the whole neighborhood.

CHAPTER VII.
A NEW DOOR IN THE WALL

The Professor's widow accompanied the Doctor for several days in his professional rounds. She obtained in this way, by direct observation, an insight into the country life.

She laid before Sonnenkamp a plan matured by herself and Fräulein Milch, which he very readily assented to, especially that part relating to the furnishing of sewing machines. Besides being an American "institution," this would create a good deal of talk. He made a trip to the capital himself, and bought the machines.

He took great pleasure in hearing the widow speak of the satisfaction she derived from having the ability to do so much good, formerly through the Princess, and now through Herr Sonnenkamp.

"How does it happen," he inquired of her, "that the poor, or the comparatively poor, are united together so much more closely than the rich?"

"I have never reflected upon the matter," she replied with an embarrassed smile, "but if I should now express an opinion upon it, I should say, that the rich man clings to his property, and is obliged to think of himself; he can't do otherwise. He is not permitted to survey the lot of others; his soul, his eye, if I may use the expression, does not have, the beseeching glance of him who sits forlorn by the wayside. But the poor man is hoping, waiting; he has nothing but a bundle in his hands, or probably nothing but his empty hands; he is independent of others, and dependent on them too."

Sonnenkamp was very eloquent in praise of this considerate, indulgent view, as he termed it; and the Professorin was delighted with the polite manner and the delicacy of this man, apparently so bad and selfish.

"Perhaps," she continued, blushing deeply, "perhaps we might take an illustration from the animal world."

"In what way?"

She was silent, and only replied after Sonnenkamp had repeated the question: —

"I will give you my thought, crude as it is. I was thinking of the beasts of prey who live singly; and wolves only herd together when there is some common booty to be got, the rest of the time, each living by himself. The herbivorous animals, on the contrary, live together in herds, and afford a common protection."

She interrupted herself smiling, and then continued: —

"My wisdom is of yesterday, and it is not worth very much. The field-guard, Claus, told me that, in autumn, the birds which feed upon grain assemble in flocks, but those which live upon insects do not."

Sonnenkamp was very amiable. The Professorin added in continuation: —

"But yet the granivorous birds are no more virtuous than the insectivorous; each kind lives in accordance with its own law."

Sonnenkamp became more and more charmed with the Professorin; she spread his table with viands which could not be imported from abroad, and which the garden did not supply.

The journals, day after day, now published Herr Sonnenkamp's praiseworthy endeavors to ameliorate the condition of the people. The Cabinetsräthin came, and congratulated him upon the excellent result, adding that, according to a report from her husband, this noble deed of Herr Sonnenkamp had been noticed in the highest quarter.

Sonnenkamp was now exceedingly zealous. He was anxious that there should be no intermission in the public notices, and that something should be said about him every day. Pranken, however, who had returned from his farming escapade, showed that it would be better to hold up a little, and then to come down upon the public with a fresh sensation. He had evidently heard of the good impression which the Professorin had made at the convent, and of the earnest exhortation to Manna; and when Sonnenkamp unfolded to him his plan of having the Professorin reside there permanently, he immediately assented to it.

A path was laid out from the villa to the vine-covered house, through the beautiful meadows and along the river-bank. Sonnenkamp invited the Professorin, on a certain day, to accompany him into the garden, and all the family must go with them.

A new gateway had been made in the wall which surrounded the park. Sonnenkamp said that the Professorin should be the first one to pass through it. He gave her the key, and she opened the gate. She went through it and along the pathway, followed by the whole family, and Pranken among them.

They proceeded to the vine-covered cottage, and the Professorin was amazed to find here all her household furniture, and the library of her husband arranged in good order.

Aunt Claudine was here too; for Sonnenkamp had contrived that she should be released from Clodwig.

Sonnenkamp introduced, with a sort of pride, his valet Joseph, who had made all these arrangements, as a native son of the university.

The Professorin expressed her thanks to Joseph, and shook hands with him.

Pretty soon the Major came; and when the Professorin inquired after Fräulein Milch, he stammeringly made an apology in her behalf. It was plainly wrong in his view, that Fräulein Milch should so persistently refuse to go into society.

The Professorin had not recovered from her amazement and satisfaction when Clodwig and Bella arrived. Provision had been made for a cheerful repast in the garden, and Roland gave expression to the general feeling, when he said: —

"Now I have a grandmother and an aunt, safe in their nest."

In the evening, Eric received a large package of books and a letter from Professor Einsiedel, and also a large sheet of memoranda. He commended Eric's intention of writing a treatise upon the idea and nature of slavery, as it would prove a very fertile theme.

Eric put away the books, for he regarded it as a fortunate thing that Roland's thoughts were occupied neither upon slavery nor free labor, nor any kindred topic, but with something entirely different.

The son of the Cabinetsräthin, the cadet, was now at the newly acquired country-seat, on furlough, and he exhorted Roland to be diligent, so as to be able before long to enter the military school.

Roland was now wholly bent upon entering the highest class, at the earliest possible moment. He spoke of it daily to his father and Pranken. The father one day took him aside and said: —

"My child, it is well, and I am glad that you are so diligent in getting fitted, but you will not enter – take notice, I show my respect for you by this communication; I look upon you as a grown-up and mature man."

He stopped, and Roland asked, —

"When is it that I am to enter?"

"Come nearer, and I will whisper it to you; you are to enter when you are a noble."

"I a noble? and you too?"

"Yes, all of us; and for your sake I must become ennobled, as you will see by and by. Do you feel glad at being made a noble?"

"Do you know, father, when I first began to respect nobility?"

Sonnenkamp looked at him inquiringly, and Roland continued: —

"At the railroad station, where I saw a crazy, drunken man. Everybody showed respect for him, because he was a nobleman, a baron. It is a great thing to be a nobleman."

Roland now gave an account of the meeting on the morning after his flight, and Sonnenkamp was surprised at the astonishing effect produced upon him, and at the lasting impression everything made. He now said: —

"Give me your hand, as a pledge that you will say nothing about this to your master, Eric, until I shall tell him myself. On the word of an officer."

After some delay and deliberation, Roland gave his hand.

His father now proceeded to explain to him how disagreeable it would be to enter the military school under a citizen's name, and while there to be ennobled.

Roland inquired why he was not to say anything about it to Eric.

His father refused to tell him why, demanding unconditional obedience.

And so Roland had now a two-fold secret to keep, one from his father, and the other from Eric. The youth's soul was distressed, and it found an odd expression in the question he once put to Eric: —

"Do the negroes in their native land have nobles too?"

"There are no nobles in their own right," replied Eric; "individual men belong to the nobility only when, and only so long, as others regard them as such."

Eric had thought that Roland's zeal for the military school had excluded all his former notions and speculations; but he now saw that they were still active, and had become connected with odd associations, which he could not explain to himself satisfactorily. But he took heed to make no further inquiry.

During his furlough, the son of the Cabinetsräthin was very constant in attendance upon the lessons given to Roland, and Sonnenkamp, having her sanction, proposed that the young cadet should leave the school for a time, and be instructed in company with Roland.

Roland was highly pleased with this plan, but Eric objected; and when Sonnenkamp stated to him that he had formerly desired that Roland should have a comrade who should receive instruction with him, Eric found great difficulty in explaining to him that it was now inexpedient; that the course of instruction he had undertaken with Roland was adapted exclusively to him, and that now any comradeship, and any reference to another's condition and progress, would be only a disturbing element.

Eric, by this means, alienated not only Herr Sonnenkamp and the Cabinetsräthin, but also for a time his pupil himself, who was out of humor and refractory, after the cadet had returned to the capital.