Villa Eden: The Country-House on the Rhine

Eric was far from saying anything to Roland of the cruelty shown, especially in the net-hunting, and the manner in which the dogs bit at the eyes of the poor creatures, and never let go till all struggling ceased; he was enough of a hunter to overlook this. Claus knew how to smother pity by inveighing against the confounded rabbits, which gnawed at the young vines and spoiled them and all that was best in the fields; he imitated one of the peasants who always struck at a rabbit with his stick, crying, —

"Have I got you at last, you damned – "

After they had gone farther on, Rose went into a hole; and they heard her barking deep down under ground. She had found a fox. The hunter's excitement awoke in Eric, and they all stood quietly on the watch. Thistle was also sent into the hole, and his bark was heard far below, but the fox did not come out. Soon Rose appeared with her nose torn and bleeding; she looked up at the hunters and went back into the hole; whining and barking were heard, and at last the dogs came back, streaming with blood, but no fox appeared; they waited long, but in vain.

"They have killed him," said the huntsman in triumph; "we shall never get him."

Roland was full of "tender compassion for the dogs, but Claus consoled him with the assurance that they would soon get over their hurts. Roland said he could not understand how dogs could bite a fox to death, when a fox had such sharp teeth; the huntsman shrugged his shoulders, but Eric answered: —

"The fox bites sharply, but does not hold on."

Roland looked at Eric in surprise, feeling that he was a man from whom everything could be learned; all Eric's knowledge had hardly made so much impression as this single remark.

Again they sent the ferrets into a fresh burrow; only one came out; they waited long and left the huntsman on the spot, but the second ferret was not to be seen. Roland was inconsolable for the loss of the fine little creature, so bright and tame. When Eric said that the animal would die of hunger in the woods, with its mouth so firmly muzzled, Roland walked on for some time in silence. Suddenly he put his hand into the basket, took out the other ferret and let it loose, then took aim and shot it down; he left the dead creature lying undisturbed in the wood, and walked home with Eric without a word. He looked long at his gun; Eric knew that it would be many days before its report would be heard again, and so it was.

From the time of this last hunt, a coldness and ill-humor, reluctance and listlessness, appeared in Roland; he was not exactly rebellious, but did everything without interest, and often looked strangely at Eric.

Eric did not know what to do; for several days he was much disquieted, feeling that he was no longer a novelty to Roland, and that the sense of satiety which torments the rich, who never can long enjoy the same thing, increased as it was in Roland by his wandering life, was producing apathy and discontent in him; he must be taught to greet with pleasure the day which brought no new thing, but only a repetition of the day before.

The huntsman came to Eric, took him aside, and said: —

"I've found the ferret that ran away from us."

"Where?"

"In the wood yonder, there it lies with its muzzle on, starved to death, and eaten up by the ants."

"We will say nothing of it to Roland."

"Certainly not. Do you know what the ferret's name was?"

"No."

"It was Knopf. He only called it 'master,' because you were present. It always vexed me; Herr Knopf is certainly superstitious, dreadfully superstitious, but one of the best men in the world. Roland has told me in confidence, that, on the journey which he made to force you to come back, a spirit appeared to him in the wood one morning, a fairy-princess, as stupid, superstitious men would say, – a wonderful child with light curling hair, but she spoke English, – only think, spirits speak English too now, – she came to him early in the morning in the forest. That's the sort of stuff Herr Knopf has put into his head. I don't want to say anything against Herr Knopf; he's a good man, he taught poor children for nothing, and did good, much good, but belief in spirits and such nonsense ought to be put an end to. Don't you notice how bad Roland looks now? I think the belief in spirits is to blame for this. Drive it out of his mind right sharply."

Eric doubted whether this was what produced Roland's continued ill-humor, but he was struck by his having told the huntsman something which he had never confided to him. But he would not force his confidence and disturb the boy's mind; he would wait quietly till the cloud passed over.

CHAPTER XIII.

FRESH WINE, FRESH SONG, AND FRESH FAME

The Doctor had called, in the meanwhile, but only for a brief quarter of an hour at a time; he commended Eric for so taking upon himself the entire direction of Roland, and devoting himself to him so exclusively; he desired that no intervention of his should interrupt the inflowing of the moral and spiritual influence.

Eric now detained him, speaking of Roland's paleness, which he thought an indication of sickness.

"Indeed?" cried the Doctor. "Has it taken so soon? I am glad that it has made its appearance on the surface so early and so decidedly."

"What is it? What is it, then?"

"It's all right and normal; symptoms all good. My dear young friend, I call it usually the May-cold. Just consider a moment! Roland was born for a huntsman, and I was afraid you would turn him into a pebble-gatherer or a beetle-sticker. I see very plainly, that you would like to give him a deeper apprehension of life, but there lies the danger that he will take it too seriously; now the best prescription for life is, to take life easily."

Eric chimed in with this, acknowledging that he was far from desiring to make Roland a pattern youth, perfect in every particular. The Doctor continued: —

"As I said before, our lad is troubled with the May-cold. Whenever there is a change in the relations of life, as change of occupation, or marriage, where the previous independence is given up, after the first weeks of bloom, notwithstanding all the happiness enjoyed, comes in the May-cold, just as we see in nature. They say that it comes from the Alps, from the melting of the icebergs there; perhaps icebergs of egotism melt within, and at any rate, it is like a renewed struggle of winter with summer, like a struggle of solitariness with sociality. Don't be despairing! Let the days of chilly convalescence pass over the lad, and all will be well. Don't press him hard in these days; he is already beginning to feel as if he had come under a yoke. Moreover, I will give him some medicine, so that he shall think he is not well; this will be an advantage to him, and to you too, for you can then give way to him, as an invalid is expected to be perverse, and to be humored, as a matter of course."

The Doctor now came more frequently. He proposed to Eric to make a longer visit at Mattenheim, in accordance with Weidmann's invitation, as the contemplation of a life full of a many-sided activity would refresh both teacher and pupil. Eric replied that he did not consider it right to leave, for any length of time, the house that had been entrusted to his care. The Doctor assented, thinking it better that Roland should first become thoroughly familiar with the Rhine-home.

Eric and Roland now often accompanied the Doctor some distance on his rounds, and both acquired together a deeper acquaintance with the life of the Rhineland. The Doctor explained that he had an object in this, holding that it was a very important thing in a man's life to make a point of getting the best wines that could be had, and carrying out his point. Roland could and should do that. It was no less important to procure the good wine of the world, than its beautiful works of art. And if a sense of his dependence upon the Rhineland were instilled into Roland, much that was noble would result, especially if he could be brought into connection with the family of Weidmann.

The Doctor was the best of directories, knowing every house and its inmates very intimately, and speaking of everybody with discriminating justice, showing the dark as well as the bright side with equal impartiality. House after house furnished them with a refreshing sketch of life, and cellar after cellar with a refreshing draught.

"They talk about the deterioration of the race," said the Doctor edifyingly, "and there seems to be a chronic ailment, but it is not dangerous. People use themselves as filters and pour in wine; so it has always been; and so it will be. If the sun shines very hot, they think they are entitled to drink; and if the weather is disagreeable and wet, they must strengthen themselves with a good draught."

They alighted at a house, which had in front a statue of the Holy Mother with a lantern in her hand.

"Up-stairs here," said the Doctor, "pure genuine wine is sold; the man here supplies the church and the church dignitaries with the communion wine, which must be unadulterated. This man's father is a famous embroiderer of church-cloths, and his brother an illustrious painter of saints; and when people can turn their religion to any profit, they it hold it in sacred earnest. The main point is, not to impugn the uprightness of believers, and then they are inclined not to question the uprightness of us unbelievers."

They went on farther to another house, and the Doctor said: —

"Here dwelt a merry rogue, who has actually made the house haunted; he was an old screech-owl, a mason by trade. It's known that he had a little chest made by a carpenter, with a lock by a lock-smith; and this chest he walled into the cellar, which he built alone by himself. It is now believed that there must have been a considerable sum of money concealed therein; and yet he may have been rogue enough to hide there an empty box, in order to play a joke upon those who should come after him. And now the people are undecided whether to pull down the house or not, in order to find the box. It's possible they may find an empty one, and have a demolished house for their pains."

The Doctor gave such a turn to his information about men and things, that Roland could derive advantage from it.

The Doctor greeted in a very friendly way an old man with a crafty countenance, who was sitting in front of his house. The man asked the physician if he would not take another drop of "the black cat," and they went with Eric and Roland into the cellar, where they drank a fiery wine from a cask on which, in fact, a black cat was sitting, though it was an artificial one with shining glass eyes. The old man was excessively merry; and clinking glasses with Roland, he said: —

"Yes, yes, we are all bunglers compared with your father."

Then, with great gusto, he praised the shrewdness and craft of Sonnenkamp, and Eric looked timidly at Roland, who appeared to be but little affected by what was said; when they went away the Doctor said: —

"This is the genuine peasant, for the genuine peasant is really the greatest egotist, thinking only of his own profit, though the whole world beside should fall to pieces. This is the old burgomaster who lent money to people needing it, and when a bad season came, he made an immediate demand for it, with unrelenting harshness, so that their vineyards were sold at public auction; and now he possesses a large landed property, yielding the best wines. Yes; he is a cunning rascal."

This narrative produced a wholly different impression upon Eric from what it did upon Roland, for the latter considered that the rascality was a matter of course. Eric looked askance at the Doctor, for he could not conceive how he could be on such friendly terms with the burgomaster; and when he further asked whether the man was respected, he received an emphatic response in the affirmative, inasmuch as property secured respect in the country.

They also stopped at the gauger's, the good-humored brother of the whole country around, and were led by him through the wine-vaults, and supplied with many a good drop to drink. The gauger always liked to tell stories that were not always fit for a boy to hear, but the Doctor soon led him to a different subject.

The gauger always carried with him some flour bread, which he called his "little sponge." "With straw," he said, "they tie up the wines, and with this little piece of bread, that has been grown from the straw, I fasten in the wine." They had calculated that the gauger had drunk, during his life-time, seventy butts of wine; but he asserted that they had been very tender to him, for he had drunk a great deal more than that.

It was a merry, exhilarating life into which Eric and Roland were inducted, and when they returned to their strict method of study, there was a deep realization of the fact that they were living in the midst of a merry region, where existence can be easily wasted in play.

It was midsummer, and there came cold, windy, disagreeable days, when it seemed that summer had departed, and yet it could not be, it must become hot again. The nightingale was voiceless; it had not ceased to sing all at once, but seemed to utter occasionally single notes from memory, while there were heard more frequently the thin voices of the linnets, or the full, short call of the blackbirds. The summer shoots on the leafy trees showed that the summer had reached its height, and was declining; the forest-trees had attained their season's growth, and the song of birds had ceased, except that the unwearied black-cap still twittered, and the magpies chattered among the branches.

Eric and Roland often, sailed upon the Rhine, and Eric sang; he was rejoiced to hear Roland say: —

"Yes, it is so. A person can sing at all seasons of the year, if he has a mind to."

Eric nodded, feeling that the consciousness of art and of a free humanity had been awakened in Roland; and he now said that they would absent themselves for a few days from the house, and proposed to Roland two plans: either they would go to Herr Weidmann's, of whom there had been so much said, or to the great musical festival that was to take place at the Fortress. Boats ornamented with parti-colored streamers, having singers on board, went up the river and were greeted at all the landings with the firing of cannon. Roland requested to go to the festival, and he wanted to walk a part of the way, desiring to see again, and this time in company with Eric, the road over which he had wandered by night.

They set out in good spirits, and Roland was very talkative, relating to Eric all his adventures. They came to the wood, and Roland gave an account of his falling asleep, and of his wonderful dream. He blushed while telling it, and Eric did not ask what his dream was. Roland went silently into the wood.

"Here it is; here it is!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Here is my porte-monnaie! God be praised and thanked, I have not been robbed. Come, let us go to the village, where the hostler lives whom I suspected, and I will give him all the money."

They proceeded to the village, but the hostler was not there, having been drafted into the military service.

Roland was very sorry at that, and wrote down the man's name in his memorandum-book.

The two went on through the country clothed in the green of summer, and when they reached the railroad, took the cars for the Fortress. All was here decked with flags, and the whole town appeared in holiday attire. Men and women streamed in from all quarters, some on boats and some in the cars, singing in clear tones, and were received with a hearty welcome. Eric was happy to be able to say to his pupil: —

"Remember that this belongs to us. Neither the Greeks nor the Romans had such celebrations, nor any other nation but us Germans."

They spent the night at the Fortress, and the next morning all assembled, the hundreds of male and female singers, and a great crowd of listeners, in the festival hall now properly ornamented, but at other times used as a fruit-market. A gloomy rumor was spread through the assembly; the singers shook their heads, and clapped together their hands, while among the audience there was a commotion and a rustling.

A man of fine voice, an experienced singer, had been suddenly taken ill.

"Look yonder," said Roland; "there sit nuns, and there are pupils, in the school-dress that they wear at Manna's convent. Ah, if Manna should be here too!"

Eric said to Roland: —

"Stay here; I will see if I can be of any assistance. I depend upon your not quitting this seat."

He went up to the singers on the platform, and spoke earnestly to the leader, by whose side he stood. Men came up to them while they were talking together, and went away again. Suddenly all eyes were turned towards Eric, and a whispering and a buzzing went through the assembly. Master Ferdinand, the conductor, tapped with his baton, and his look, which directed and inspired all, was smiling. There was silence, and in a tone that won all hearts he said: —

"Our baritone has unfortunately been taken ill, and this gentleman by my side, who does not wish his name to be mentioned, has kindly offered to undertake the solos for our absent friend. You, as well as we, will be grateful to him, and willingly extend to him the requested indulgence, as he has made no rehearsals with us."

A universal applause was the reply.

The choruses began, and their tones, like the voice of many waters, moved Roland's soul. Now Eric rose. All hearts were beating. But at the first tone he uttered, each one of the singers, and each one of the listeners, looked to his neighbor and nodded. It was a voice, so full, so deep, so penetrating the heart, that all held their breath as they listened. And when he had ended, a storm of applause broke forth which seemed almost to shake the hall.

Eric sat down, and the choruses and then other solo performers sang; again he rose, and yet again, and his voice seemed to grow still more powerful, and to penetrate more deeply into the hearts of all.

But how was it with Roland, one of the thousands who listened, and who were thrilled by the sound of this voice, in the depths of their souls?

The choruses rolled in like billows of the resounding sea, but when Eric sang, it was as if he stood upon the deck of a noble ship, and ruled over all; and this voice was so near to Roland in its friendliness, and yet so nobly exalted! The youth was possessed by that feeling of blissful, dreamy gladness which music awakes in us, transplanting it into the depths of our own life, and causing us to forget our own dreams, and merging our own individual self in the sad and blissful element of being.

Roland wept; Eric's voice seemed to waft him upwards into an invisible world, and then the choruses began again, and he seemed to be transported into a heavenly state of existence.

Roland wanted to tell his neighbor who the man was, for he heard on all sides questions and conjectures; but he said to himself: —

"No one else knows who he is, except me."

His eye now swept again over the collection of girls dressed in blue, and one of them nodded to him. Yes, it is she! it is Manna! He requested those sitting near him to let him pass through them; he wanted to go to his sister and to tell her who it was that had just brought such blessedness into the hearts of all. But he was repelled with vehemence, and his neighbors scolded about the saucy youth, who was so restless and out of humor, and wanted to create a disturbance.

Roland remained quiet, and by that means let slip the suitable opportunity of the intermission, for pressing through the crowd to Manna.

The Oratorio was ended, but the applause of the assembly, did not seem likely to end. There was a universal call for the stranger's name.

"Name! Name!" resounded from a thousand lips, with noisy demonstrations and shouts.

Then Master Ferdinand tapped with his baton again upon his desk, nodding in a friendly manner to Eric, who held back, and all cried: —

"Silence!"

Eric rose, saying in a composed voice, —

"My sincere thanks. That I have been able to take part here, has been to me a divine service, a service to divine art; and because I do not desire by any unfamiliar name to lessen the feeling of devotion awakened within you, and for this reason only, have I been reluctant to give you my name."

"Name! Name!" was again called out by the assembly.

"My name is Doctor Dournay."

"Huzza! Huzza!" burst out the whole assembly, and the orchestra played a threefold flourish, all shouting: —

"Huzza, Doctor Dournay."

Eric was almost crushed, and his shoulders ached with the congratulatory strokes upon them.

He saw himself surrounded by those who were already acquainted with him, and those who desired to make his acquaintance. The assembly dispersed.

Eric looked around for Roland, but he was nowhere to be seen. He walked about the square in front of the music-hall, and then returned to it; here he found everything in confusion, for they were rushing in every direction; setting the tables for the festival-dinner. He waited a long time, for he felt convinced that Roland had got lost in the crowd, and would come back here.

At last Roland came, with glowing cheeks.

"If was she!" he exclaimed. "I went with her and her schoolmates to the boat, and they have now set off.

"O Eric, how splendid it is, how splendid, that you sang, for the first time, to her! And she said you could not be so godless, for you sang so devoutly. She said that I was not to tell you this, but she is a rogue, she meant that I should tell you. O Eric! and the Justice's Lina, and the Architect; too, are among the singers; they are walking arm in arm, and they recognised you, but they did not betray you. O Eric, how you did sing! it seemed to me that you could fly too; I was every moment afraid that you would spread your wings and fly away."

The youth was in a state of feverish excitement.

An usher came to invite Eric and his brother – such he supposed Roland to be – to be present at the dinner and to sit near the director.

Others came who knew him, and strangers who wished to be introduced.

A photographer, who was one of the solo singers, besought Eric to allow him to take his photograph, while he was waiting for dinner, as hundreds and hundreds of the singers wanted to have a picture of him.

Eric declined, with thanks, these manifestations of friendliness, and took, with Roland the first boat to return to the villa.

Roland went into the cabin, and he was soon sound asleep; Eric sat alone upon the deck, and he was troubled with the thought of having been brought so prominently before the public. But he considered, on the other hand, that there are times when our powers do not belong to ourselves alone, and when we cannot ourselves determine what we will do: I did what I was obliged to do, he thought.

When they came to the stopping-place, Roland had to be waked up. He was almost dragged into the row-boat, and he was so confused and bewildered, that he did not seem to know what was going on around him.

After they had disembarked, he said: —

"Eric, your name is now repeated by thousands and thousands of people, and you are now very famous."

Roland, who had never sung before, now sang, the whole way home, a strain of the chorus.

They found at the villa letters from Eric's mother and from Herr Sonnenkamp. His mother wrote, that he must not mind it if he were reproached with having sold so cheaply, and so speedily his ideal views, for people were angry, and were partially right in being so, at his abrupt departure without saying good-bye.

Eric smiled, for he knew right well how they would have their fill of jesting about him around the so-called black table at the Club-house, where, year after year, the shining oil-cloth was spread over the untidy table-cloth. It appeared incomprehensible to him how he could ever have fancied spending there a day of his life, or a bright evening.

Sonnenkamp's letter made a wholly different impression; he authorized, Eric, in case he thought it worth while, to take the journey to Biarritz with Roland.

"My father will like it, too, that you have received so much honor; the nun, indeed, who accompanied Manna, said that he would not take it well, that you had made yourself so notorious."

Eric looked disturbed. The feeling of servitude and dependence came over him. He had pledged his whole personal being to Sonnenkamp's service, and in all his actions he must first ask himself the question, how they may perhaps be taken by his master.