Villa Eden: The Country-House on the Rhine

But he himself was put in a state of unwonted excitement before the evening was over.

He had noticed Bella talking very earnestly with the Minister of War, formerly colonel of his regiment, who presently approached him, and, after saluting, and talking of indifferent matters, finally asked if he would not like a professorship in the school of cadets when his pupil entered.

Eric expressed his cordial thanks for the great kindness, but could give no decided answer. He was startled at the next question, whether he had made any definite plan for himself, after the completion of the young American's education; he had made none. Still more was he startled, when his questioner further asked if he should not then return to his literary and scientific pursuits, as he had heard the highest hopes expressed of him by those who had known him in the university.

Eric was perplexed; all such pursuits he had sacrificed. What was to become of him? To make matters worse, he had drawn his mother also into these relations.

After the Minister had gone, he caught Bella's fiery glance fixed upon him, and he seized the first opportunity that offered, to thank her for having so kindly recommended him to the Minister of War.

"All jealousy – all jealousy; I want to get you out of the house before that fascinating Manna returns." Bella was in great good humor.

The next day, while Roland was with his companions at the photographer's, decorated with a new blue ribbon which he had secretly fastened on his dress, and while servants were distributing cards of invitation to the great Sonnenkamp ball, Sonnenkamp himself, accompanied only by Lootz, drove to Villa Eden.

CHAPTER V.

A STRONG HAND IS POWERLESS

The Frau Professorin was sitting at the window of the warm and comfortable sitting-room. Carpets and cushions within, and moss without, shut out every draught. The sewing-machine at which she sat moved so easily, that scarce a sound was heard from it. From the river came the noise of the grating and crashing of the great masses of ice, as they struck against one another, changed their shapes, and floated on again.

She often looked out across the river and into the country, and saw the smoke rising from the houses in the different hamlets; she was familiar with the life there now.

Accompanied sometimes by Fräulein Milch, sometimes by the huntsman, but generally by Sevenpiper, whose cheerfulness she took great delight in, she had made her way everywhere, ordering and helping with word and deed. There was a constant passing of visitors back and forth, some coming with thanks, and some with new petitions. She thought herself highly favored in being allowed an activity so abundant, and so immediately fruitful in results.

But the Frau Professorin was not without higher pursuits, for she read over again her husband's favorite books, and studied his comments written on almost every page, drawing thence a strength which enabled her to live in silent communion with the departed. Her husband's words she generally read aloud; it did her good to move her lips, and hear a voice speaking his opinions. Often also she had to read aloud, in order to drive away the thoughts which crowded upon her at all times, thoughts about Sonnenkamp, his life and character, and what he had been in the past, but especially about Manna, and the feelings that were working in her. She thought she understood now the meaning of Manna's words to Roland when she was leaving her parents' home: "I too am an Iphigenia." She repeated to herself, as she sat at work, the song of the Fates, in Goethe's drama, and her heart was burdened by this mystery of the children's having to suffer for the sins of the parents.

In the midst of these sonorous and powerful lines, she heard the sound of wheels stopping before the house. Perhaps it was the Doctor coming to sit an hour with her, as he often did; she knew he liked to have her stay quietly in her place. But it was another step that approached, another knock at the door, and Herr Sonnenkamp entered.

"Are you quite alone?"

"Quite alone."

The Frau Professorin was greatly embarrassed; this was the first time she had seen Sonnenkamp since hearing that about him which she could never tell him; it required all her self-control to enable her to offer him her hand. He drew off his fur glove and grasped her hand in his. For the first time she felt the steel ring on his thumb like a cold snake. With terror she saw her hand in his. This hand of Sonnenkamp's, so thick and hard, with the fingers bent back and the flesh growing over the nails, was the hand of the Pharisee in Titian's picture of the tribute money. So between the thumb and forefinger does the Pharisee hold the piece of money, and there is an evil, violent, and hypocritical look, if we may so express ourselves, about the hand. She remembered standing one day, during her wedding journey, in the picture gallery at Dresden, when her husband covered for a moment the face of Christ and that of the Pharisee, and drew her attention to the wonderful drawing of the two hands, which in themselves revealed the opposite characters of the men. With the speed of lightning did those thoughts and images pass through the lady's mind.

Sonnenkamp observed this emotion, so unlike her usual calm self-possession, but naturally attributing it to surprise, said with ready tact: —

"I have often noticed that intellectual persons who live much in themselves, and especially noble women of superior cultivation, are not fond of surprises; I must therefore beg your forgiveness for this one."

The Frau Professorin looked at him in amazement. How was it possible that a man, whose life in the past had been what this man's had, could understand such subtle emotions and express them so delicately? She confessed that he had rightly interpreted her emotion, and asked whether his visit was to herself, or one of inspection to his establishment. The question was an awkward one, she knew, but she could think of no other at the moment.

"My visit concerns no one but yourself," said Sonnenkamp; "and I almost regret my purpose of disturbing this beautiful repose. I come from a life of such confusion as makes it hard to believe that repose like yours can exist upon the same planet. We live in a perpetual whirl; the only comfort is that we have still the power of sleeping."

"I am familiar with this excitement of carnival time," said the lady smiling. "How we long for quiet, and yet are ever pursued by the music and laughter of the evening before."

Sonnenkamp now openly declared the object of his visit; and with great humility begged the Frau Professorin to confer upon his house the grace and dignity which she only could give it.

The lady regretted she must decline; she was no longer fitted for gaiety.

"I should not have thought your views of life would be gloomy, but rather free and cheerful."

"I believe they are. I do not consider our life as a dismal charitable institution, from which all cheerfulness is banished. It is right that youth should dance, and not think of the people who are shivering with the cold, and of the grief and misery everywhere, at the very moment they are moving so gaily. I love cheerfulness; we have no strength without it."

"Give us your help then; all the more will we devote ourselves afterward to our poor brothers and sisters of the great human family."

The Professorin had to struggle against a feeling of indignation, that would rise within her, at the idea of the man trifling thus with words like these. She looked at his hands as if there was blood upon them, and these blood-stained hands were offering her festive wine.

She could say no more, she only shook her head, repeating, —

"I cannot; believe me, I cannot."

"Then," began Sonnenkamp, "I shall proceed at once to tell you the secret of my life."

The Professorin had to put both hands on her table to steady herself. What was the man going to say! She silently inclined her head, and Sonnenkamp told how it was his unwavering desire, and a matter of necessity for his wife, Roland and Manna, that he should be raised to the ranks of the nobility.

The Professorin shuddered. What? Did this man dare to propose such a thing? The von Burgholz spirit was roused within her. How could a man with such a past as his have such presumption?

Sonnenkamp watched her eagerly. Something was going on in the mind of this woman which he could not fathom. She kept silence, making no response to the confidence he had honored her with.

"Why do you not answer?" he asked at last.

The lady controlled herself and said, as she inclined her head somewhat backwards:

"Shall you not find it hard to bear another name?"

Sonnenkamp looked keenly at her.

"I found it hard as a wife," she continued, "to bear another name."

"Excuse me, my dear lady," replied Sonnenkamp courteously; "you had to take a citizen's name; it is much easier to assume a noble one."

He exhorted her, urged his request upon her more earnestly, enforcing it by the warmly expressed wish of the countess Bella.

The Professorin insisted that no one, even though admitted to the closest friendship, could decide upon the life she should lead; she was resolved never to return to society.

Sonnenkamp was driven to extremity. He believed that the Professorin's only objection was to appearing as a dependant, and that she would no longer refuse, if a free and independent position were assured her. In a manner, therefore, at once unassuming and emphatic, he told her that he should here, and now, put into her hands a sum of money sufficient to maintain her in an establishment of her own for the rest of her life. He put his hand in his breast-pocket as he spoke, and drew out his pocketbook.

"No, sir, I beg of you," answered the Professorin, coloring deeply and fixing her eyes upon his fingers, – just so did the Pharisee hold the piece of money. "It's not that, I assure you. I am ashamed of no position, since I have the true honor within myself; neither do I fear, as you possibly imagine, being too deeply moved by contact with any of the relations of society. I have voluntarily resigned all connection with it. I have made no outward vow, but I beg you to respect my decision as the vow of a nun, as you would if it were the decision of your daughter. I regret that I must beg you to urge me no further, as no inducements could have any influence upon me."

It was hard for Sonnenkamp to control his anger, and restore the pocket-book to its place.

He rose and went to the window.

For some time he gazed fixedly out, then turning round with a smile, he said, —

"There in the river are floating the blocks of ice; a soft breath bursts the icy covering; why might not also, my honored friend – you will allow me so to call you – every one has in his life a something – I know not how to call it, an action, a purpose – you understand what I mean – that ought not to fetter all our future."

"Allow me to say," returned the Professorin, "that in my case this would be a breach of faith. I have nothing left in the world but fidelity to myself."

"You fill me with admiration," said Sonnenkamp, hoping to gain his point by expressions of admiring respect.

He was obliged to assume a gracious and smiling exterior while inwardly chafing, for the Professorin was immovable. There was an imploring manner about him; as if he would say: I know no way of help but through you; yet he found himself unable to put it into words.

The Professorin felt that she must do something kind to the poor rich man, must give him something to restore his cheerfulness and courage, and with hearty sincerity she said, —

"Let me express to you the thanks of the hundreds whom you have fed and comforted. You have made me very happy by employing me as the medium of your benefactions, and I desire that you should feel yourself the source of happiness to others."

With great animation she described the excellent order into which the neighborhood had been brought, and how her help had not waited for sickness, either physical or moral, but had helped forward those who were sound. She told so many beautiful and touching incidents, that Sonnenkamp could only stammer out as he gazed at her:

"It is all well – very well – I thank you."

He once more gave her his hand and left the room. At the front door he encountered Fräulein Milch, but hurried by almost without looking at her.

Fräulein Milch found the Professorin washing her hands with all her might, as if she feared she should never wash them clean from the man's touch.

"Did he tell you he was to be raised to the ranks of the nobility?" asked the Fräulein.

The Professorin looked at her in amazement. How came this simple housekeeper in her seclusion to know everything?

The butcher from the capital, Fräulein Milch said, who had been buying a pair of fat oxen from her neighbor, had spread the report.

Secrets creep out through strange channels.

CHAPTER VI.

GOLD GIVES FAME

A stranger is inspecting the house, the garden, the park, the hot-houses, the stables. Who owns them all? An American, about whose past life there is a mystery.

Sonnenkamp returned to his old home-life as in a dream; he looked back upon a time long past; it was no longer himself, but a stranger who was examining the place; he who had built, and planted it all was dead. Sonnenkamp smote his forehead with his hand, to banish the spell which was overmastering him. What power was weaving it over him, and depriving him of his own personality? Nothing but this woman's poor pride in her own virtue.

"I still am, I still will, and all of them shall serve me," he said aloud to himself.

He examined the trees in the garden; a pure tender covering of hoar frost upon the branches kept them motionless, and threw over all around an aspect of such stillness, yet so shining and glorified, that the spectator involuntary held his breath. Here and there trees and shrubs had been cut down by his direction, as was necessary in order that the artistic effects that were aimed at in the laying out of the park should be preserved; and Sonnenkamp never allowed the growth of the trees to exceed the conception he had in his mind when planning his grounds.

Two fine Newfoundland dogs, which had always been his close companions, he ordered to be let loose, and smiled as the creatures leaped upon him full of delight at greeting their master. There was something that could give him a joyous greeting and be glad in his presence; dogs after all were the best creatures in the world. He made the entire circuit of the place with the dogs, and when he reached the fruit orchard looked about him with a pleased smile; the carefully trained branches, with their mantle of snowy rime, were like the most delicate works of art. He only wished that he could transplant them just as they were into the capital, and set them up before the astonished eyes of his guests.

His guests! Would they really come? Would not this entertainment so pompously announced end in humiliation? The branches of fruit-trees can be trained and beat at will; why are men so obstinate? Suddenly his face broke into a smile. He had heard a great deal said of a famous singer who was enchanting all Paris; she must come, cost what it would, and she must pledge herself to give no public concert, but to sing only in his drawing-room, and perhaps at court. He would offer the contemptible beau-monde of the capital what no one else could.

He had the dogs shut up again, and heard them whining and barking. That was all right; the only kind of creatures to have were those that could be sent for when you wanted them, and shut up when you were tired of them.

Sonnenkamp had the horses harnessed at once and drove to the telegraph station, whence he sent a message to his agent in Paris, stating exactly his plan, and ordering the answer to be returned to him at the Capital. Animated with fresh courage, full of contempt for the whole world and of pride in his own fertile invention, he drove back to the hotel. That same evening he received the intelligence that the singer would come. Pranken was with him when the message was received.

Sonnenkamp was anxious to have the world at once informed of this extraordinary entertainment which he was able to offer them; it should be announced in the court journal. But Pranken was opposed to any such public announcement, and advised that one and another of the guests should be confidentially informed of the pleasure in store for them; and then every one would be flattered by the confidence, and would duly spread the news abroad. Pranken himself undertook to communicate the extraordinary intelligence to some of his favorite companions at the military club.

The singer came, and exercised a greater force of attraction than the Frau Professorin could have done.

Bella appeared early on the evening of the ball, and congratulated Sonnenkamp on his great success; and in fact nothing was wanting to the brilliancy of the entertainment. The popular Prince appeared with his wife, and the rooms were filled with the cream of the society of the capital; the American Consul-general, with his wife and two daughters, was present also; everywhere were heard expressions of admiration of the host, and thanks for his generosity. Frau Ceres alone was somewhat out of temper at having her own splendor eclipsed by the wonderful talent of the singer, who drew the whole company about her. The Prince talked with her a full half hour, while with Frau Ceres he spoke but a few minutes.

Sonnenkamp moved among his guests with a feeling of triumph in his heart. Outwardly he affected great modesty, but inwardly he despised them all, saying to himself, —

A handful of gold can work wonders; honor, distinction in society, everything, can be had for gold.

Two topics engrossed the conversation of the capital the next day: Herr Sonnenkamp's ball, the like of which the city had never seen, and the death of the young husband of Fräulein von Endlich, news of which had been received the evening before, but had been kept back in order not to deprive the family and numerous connections of the Court Marshal from enjoying Sonnenkamp's ball.

The next evening, the paper edited by Professor Crutius contained a witty article upon the two events, sarcastically blending the news of the death with the Sonnenkamp ball. The splendor of the occasion was thus partially dimmed, and Sonnenkamp discussed with Pranken the possibility of gaining over this poor devil of an editor also with a handful of gold.

Pranken opposed the plan, on the ground that no communication of any kind should be held with these communists, as he called all those who were not in sympathy with the government; and this man, who scorned no means that could further the plan of being admitted to the nobility, was amazed that Sonnenkamp should not be ashamed of employing bribery here.

Sonnenkamp appeared convinced, but appealed to Eric, who before had been the medium of conveying relief to the man, and desired him to put himself again in communication with him, and let him know that Sonnenkamp was ready to assist him if he were in need.

Eric emphatically excused himself.

The singer was not summoned to Court, it being contrary to etiquette that she should sing there after appearing in the house of a private citizen. She left the capital, and Sonnenkamp, ball, and music were soon forgotten.

Sonnenkamp was even obliged to submit to the humiliation of not being invited himself to Court. He was openly given to understand that the Sovereign had been much displeased with his having, at the French play, so awkwardly introduced a matter which needed to be handled with the greatest delicacy. Pranken told him this in a tone of malicious pleasure mixed with regret; Sonnenkamp should always keep in mind that he was to be indebted to him for his patent of nobility.

The evening of the court ball, which was the one subject of conversation throughout the capital, and which was attended by two noble families from the Hotel Victoria who had come from the country for the purpose, was a most trying time to Sonnenkamp; yet he had to hide his rage and exert himself to comfort Frau Ceres, who kept insisting on leaving the capital at once, since this was the one thing she had been aiming at, and now it was all over.

Even the Cabinetsräthin absented herself this evening, being obliged, to her great regret, as she said, to appear at Court. Thus the family sat by themselves; and this evening, for the first time, Eric managed to acquire again a firmer hold upon Roland's mind, for Roland, too, was full of indignation. He listened in silence, but with dilating eye, as Eric described the emptiness of all worldly honors if we have not a consciousness of self-respect within us; for they make us dependent upon others, and such dependence was the most abject slavery.

At the word slavery, Roland rose and asked Eric if he had forgotten his promise of telling him how different nations dealt with slavery. Eric was amazed that the subject should have dwelt in the boy's mind through all the excitement he had undergone, and promised to give him the history of the whole matter, as far as he was able, when they should return to Villa Eden.

Sonnenkamp had great difficulty in concealing his sense of injury, yet he must not give additional weight to the slight that had been put upon him by allowing his feelings to appear. The family of the Cabinetsräthin he took especial pains to load with friendly attentions. They must be made to keep to their bargain; they had had their pay, and were not to be allowed to cheat him. He made the young cadet a spy upon his son, giving him money for taking Roland to the gaming-table, tempting him to high play, and then making an exact report of his behavior. He was not a little surprised at the cadet's reporting that Roland utterly refused to play, because he had promised Eric never to gamble, even for an apparently trifling stake.

Sonnenkamp would have liked to thank Eric for this great influence over his son, but judged it best to feign ignorance of the whole matter. He begged Bella, when she came for Eric to fulfil his promise and take her to the cabinet of antique casts, not to disturb his wife's present tranquillity by referring to the court-ball.

Eric took Roland with them to the museum, and though Bella said nothing, she understood his motive for doing so. On their way thither they met the Russian prince, and Bella ordered the carriage to stop and invited him to accompany them, thinking that thus the party could divide into two groups, the Russian walking sometimes with Roland, and she with Eric; but she could not manage it so; Eric did not once let go of Roland's hand.

They stood long before the group of Niobe and her children, Bella jokingly protesting that the teacher, who seeks to protect the boy from the arrow of the god, was of the Russian type. Eric might explain as often as he would that the head was a modern addition and represented a Scythian, that the teacher was a slave who attended the boy to school or wherever he went, as one of our lackeys might, she still insisted that he was a Russian. As Eric called attention to the fact, that the maiden in the centre of the group clings to her mother Niobe and hides her face in terror, while the boy by the side of his attendant voluntarily turns toward the danger, and with outstretched hand strives to avert it, Roland gazed fixedly upon him, and turned almost as white as the plaster itself; his eye sparkled, and the soft dark hair just beginning to show on lip and chin seemed to tremble. On the way home he drew close to Eric, and trembling as if with cold said: —

"Do you remember when that letter with the great seal came to your parent's house?"

"Certainly – certainly."

"Then you should have been director, and is it not strange, here stand these figures day and night, summer and winter, waiting for us, and keeping still, and looking on while we are dancing and dying."

"What are you talking of?" asked Eric, alarmed by Roland's strange tone and manner.

"Oh, nothing – nothing. I don't know myself what I am saying. I seem to be only hearing the words, and yet am really saying them. I don't know what is the matter with me."

Eric hurried the feverish boy home.

CHAPTER VII.

THE SCHOOLMASTER AND NIOBE'S SON