Villa Eden: The Country-House on the Rhine

Every day, whenever Frau Ceres saw Roland, she would say: —

"Why, Roland, how pale you look! Does he not look very pale?" Here she invariably appealed to Eric, and upon his answering in the negative seemed reassured.

But one day when the Mother exclaimed in terror: —

"Why, Roland, you do look so pale!" Eric could not deny it.

"I don't know what is the matter with me," he complained as Eric took him to his chamber.

"Everything seems to be turning round me," he said as he looked about the room.

"What does it mean? Oh! Oh!"

He sank down on a chair and burst into a sudden fit of weeping.

Eric stood amazed.

The boy seemed to lose consciousness, and, with his eyes wide open, stared at Eric as if he did not see him.

"Roland, what is the matter?" asked Eric.

Roland did not answer; his head was like ice.

Eric gave a pull at the bell, and then bent over the boy again.

Sonnenkamp entered, to know why they did not come to dinner. Eric pointed to Roland.

The father threw himself upon the lifeless form, and a piercing cry was wrung from his breast.

Joseph was sent in haste for a physician, and by the use of strong salts Roland was restored to consciousness. His father and Eric undressed him and put him to bed, the poor boy moaning all the while, and his teeth chattering with the chill that followed the first attack of fever.

Sonnenkamp looked in terror at the anxiety depicted on the physician's face when he saw his patient.

"It is a very violent attack; I don't know what the result may be. Has he often such?" asked the doctor.

"Never before! never before!" cried Sonnenkamp.

After the application of various restoratives Roland was able again to speak, and his first words were: —

"I thank you, Eric."

The doctor left, after giving strict orders that the patient should be kept quiet, so that if possible he might sleep. After an hour of anxiety, during which Eric and Sonnenkamp scarcely ventured to speak to one another, he returned; and having examined Roland again, he pronounced that the nervous system had been overstrained, and that he was threatened with nervous fever.

"Misfortunes never come singly," said Sonnenkamp. They were the only words he spoke that night, during the whole of which he watched in the adjoining room, occasionally stealing on tip-toe to the sick boy's bed to listen to his breathing.

When Frau Ceres sent to know why they did not return to the drawing-room, they sent an evasive answer and begged her to go to bed. Having understood, however, that Roland was slightly unwell, she came softly to his bedside during the night, and seeing him quietly sleeping returned to her own room.

"Misfortunes never come singly," Sonnenkamp repeated when the next morning at dawn the physician pronounced the fever to have declared itself. He ordered the most careful nursing, and wanted to send for a sister of charity, but Eric said that his mother would be the best nurse Roland could have.

"Do you think she will come?"

"Certainly."

A telegram was at once despatched to the green house, and in an hour the answer came that mother and aunt were on their way.

The news of the beautiful boy's severe illness spread rapidly through the city. Servants in all manner of liveries, and even the first ladies and gentlemen, came to inquire after him.

The noisy music of the noon parade startled Roland as it passed the house, and he screamed: —

"The savages are coming! the savages are coming! the red skins, the savages are coming! Hiawatha! Laughing-water! – The money belongs to the boy; he didn't steal it. – Hats off before the baron, do you hear? fly! – The blacks! – Ah! Franklin!"

Eric offered to request the Commandant for an order to have the band pass through another street, or at least stop playing when passing the hotel.

A sudden thaw having carried away the snow, it was found necessary to spread straw before the whole front of the Hotel Victoria, to deaden the sound of the wheels.

Eric's mother received a most cordial greeting from Sonnenkamp, and did her best to soothe Frau Ceres, who complained that it was horrible to have Roland ill, and that she had to suffer for it, as she was ill herself. At the Mother's suggestion, which Sonnenkamp at once adopted, being only too happy to have anything to do, any new means to try, Dr. Richard, who was familiar with Roland's constitution, was also telegraphed for. He arrived at a late hour of the night, and approved of all that had been done for Roland. He laid his chief injunctions upon Eric and his mother, impressing on them the necessity of guarding themselves as much as possible from the nervous excitement attendant on a life in a sickroom, of taking plenty of rest and amusement, going out often and refreshing their minds with new images. He would not leave them till both had given a promise to this effect.

After a consultation with the attending physician he prepared to depart, but when shaking hands at parting stopped to say: —

"I must warn you against the Countess von Wolfsgarten."

Eric was startled.

"She has remedies for every possible disease; and you must politely but resolutely decline whatever she, in her dictatorial way, may press upon you."

"He is not going to die, is he?" asked Sonnenkamp of the physician, as he stood upon the steps.

The physician replied, that in extreme cases the powers of nature were all we could rely upon.

Sonnenkamp fairly shook with rage, rage against the whole world. With all his wealth he could do nothing, command nothing; but must fall back upon the powers of nature, in which Roland had no advantage over the son of a beggar!

Frau Ceres lay upon the sofa in the balcony room among the flowers and birds, staring vacantly at them, scarcely speaking, and eating and drinking almost nothing. She did not venture to go to Roland's bed, but required to be informed every hour how he was.

The entire want of union among the members of the household became now apparent. Each one lived for himself, and thought every one else was there only for the purpose of adding to his or her comfort.

At noon a great event occurred, nothing less than the reigning Princess sending her own court physician. Sonnenkamp was full of gratitude for this distinction, which unhappily he had to receive under such melancholy circumstances.

Day and night, Eric, his mother, and aunt sat, now by turns, and now together, by the sick boy's bed. He knew no one, but lay the greater part of the time in a half sleep; sometimes, however, in an access of fever, he would start up with a glowing face and cry: —

"Papa is dancing upon the black people's heads! Give me back my blue ribbon! Ah, ah!" Then as if in an ecstacy he would exclaim, "Ah! that is the German forest! quiet, Devil! There, take the may-flowers – blue ribbon – the boy has stolen the ring – the laughing sprite – respect to the young baron – back, Griffin!"

The touch of Eric's hand upon his forehead always soothed him. Once when his father was present, Roland sang a negro song, but so unintelligibly that they could hardly make out the words. Suddenly, however, he cried out: —

"Away with those great books! take away the great books! they are written with blood!"

Sonnenkamp inquired if Roland had ever sung the song when he was well; and if Eric knew from whom he had learned it. Eric had never heard it. Sonnenkamp's manner towards Eric and his mother was full of humble respect. He gratefully confessed that this illness, which threatened his very existence, had yet given him that which otherwise he might never have obtained. He had never believed in human goodness and unselfish devotion; but he saw them now displayed before him in unceasing activity. He would gladly kneel before the Mother and worship her, he added with an expression that came from his heart, for she had refused to come for pleasure, but was ready at once when called to night-watching and the exercise of sorely tried patience; he should never, never forget it.

The Mother felt that there was another patient here needing her care, besides the fevered boy who lay there with closed eyes. Her intercourse with Sonnenkamp became more intimate; he complained to her of his never-resting grief, and again and again would come the thought: What I desire, I desire only for this son. If he die, I shall kill myself. I am worse than killed now, and no one must know it. Here is a being who has no past, must have no past; and now his future is to be taken from him!

"Am I to have no son because I was no son?" he cried once, but quickly controlling himself he added: "Do not heed me, dear lady; I am speaking myself like a man in fever."

The Mother begged him to compose himself, for she was sure that by the mysterious laws of sympathy, any excitement in those about him would react upon the patient.

In the stillness of the night the Mother sat by the boy's sick-bed, listening to the chimes that rang out the hours from the church tower; and these bells, heard in the night by the sick-bed of the poor rich boy, brought up her own life before her.

Eric often reproached himself for his too great indulgence, in having allowed Roland to be drawn into that whirl of excitement which was now perhaps killing him; and he remembered that day in the cold gallery before the Niobe, when the fever first showed itself. He was another whom the Mother had to soothe. She alone preserved a firm balance, and offered a support on which all others could lean. She handed Eric the letter she had received from Professor Einsiedel on New Year's day, and asked about the scientific work which she had not before heard of. Eric explained how it had all come about. His mother perceived that he had yet learned nothing of Sonnenkamp's past life, and took care to tell him nothing, thinking he ought not to have the additional burden of such knowledge at this time of anxiety for the sick boy, and of increased difficulties in the way of his training.

In obedience to Dr. Richard's strict directions, the Mother often went out to visit her old friends, among them the wife of the Minister of War, and was greatly comforted at learning that Eric could have a professorship in the school of cadets, when Roland entered the academy. She always returned home greatly cheered from these visits.

Eric, too, made calls, spending many hours with Clodwig. Bella he seldom saw, and then but for a short time; she evidently avoided now any interview with him alone.

Pranken took great offence at Eric's mother having been sent for without his advice; these Dournays seemed to him to be weaving a net about the Sonnenkamp family. He came sometimes to inquire for Roland, but spent most of his time at Herr von Endlich's, in the society of the young widow lately returned from Madeira.

Much as Eric had desired to become better acquainted with Weidmann, the whirl of society had hitherto prevented, and now that the Parliament was no longer in session, Weidmann had left the capital without any closer relation having been formed between them.

Weeks passed away in trembling suspense. The sick boy's wandering fancies took a wholly new direction. He imagined himself with Manna, and was constantly talking to her, caressing her, jesting with her, and teasing her about the picture of Saint Anthony. Manna had not been told of her brother's illness; it seemed useless to burden her with anxiety, when she could do nothing to help.

Sonnenkamp continued to be greatly vexed that there was nothing to be done but to wait for the forces of nature. He sent considerable sums of money to the poor of the capital and to all the charitable institutions; he reminded Eric of what he had told him of the teachers' union, and handed him a handsome sum for the furthering of the objects of the association.

One day he asked the Professorin if it were not possible that prayer might help the sick. She replied that she knew no positive answer to such a question, that Sonnenkamp must compose himself, and be glad if he could cherish such a beautiful faith. He looked sadly at her.

Roland talked so constantly with his sister, that Sonnenkamp asked the physician if Manna had not better be sent for, and was delighted at receiving an affirmative answer.

It was a comfort to him in the midst of his duties, to think that now he could force his child from the convent, and never let her leave him more. His heart rejoiced in the prospect of being able to have both his children with him, when Roland was well again. He walked up and down the room, rapidly opening and shutting his hands, as if he were leading his children by his side.

The careful Lootz was despatched to the convent with an urgent letter enclosing the doctor's directions, to which he would gladly have added a few words of the Professorin; but she was resolved to interfere in no possible way of Manna's plan of life, even in a case of extreme necessity, and refused to write.

CHAPTER VIII.

A SISTER OUTSIDE THE FAMILY

Snow lay upon the roof of the convent, and upon the trees, meadows, and roads of the island; but within the great house was an animated twofold life, for the whole sacred narrative was here rehearsed afresh in the minds and before the eyes of the children. Every day were recalled those mighty events, so touching and blessed, that took place in Canaan nearly two thousand years ago. Manna lived so entirely in these representations, that she often had to stop and force herself to think where she was. She was seized with a longing to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, to kiss the soil of the Holy Land, and there atone for all the evil done by those who were near to her, and those who were strangers to her.

Her eyes beamed as with a fire from above, while with wonderful power she repeated the sacred history to little Heimchen, who was again sick in bed. But the little girl made her smile to-day by asking: —

"Is there snow in Jerusalem too, then?"

Manna had scarcely considered what season of the year it was, so entirely was she absorbed in the life she was describing. As she turned to look at the melting snow, a lay-sister entered and handed her a letter.

"Where is the messenger?" she asked.

"He is waiting in the reception-room."

"I will give him an answer," returned Manna, and began to read her letter a second time.

She paced the cell backwards and forwards; at one moment she wanted to seek the Lady Superior and ask what she should do, but the next, her heart shrank at the thought. Why ask advice of another human being? She looked at her hand, which had been pressed upon her eyes. You cannot weep, said a voice within her; you must not weep for aught in this world.

"What is the matter?" cried Heimchen from the bed. "What makes you look so cross?"

"I am not cross, I am not cross; do you think I am?"

"No; now you look pleasant again. Stay with me, Manna – stay with me; don't go away – stay with me, Manna. Manna, shall die."

Manna bent over the child and soothed her. This is the first trial, she thought, and it is a hard one. Now I must show whether love of mankind, of the Saviour, is stronger in me than family affection. I ought, I must! She committed Heimchen to the care of a lay-sister, and, promising soon to return, descended to the church. At sight of the picture, which made her think involuntarily of the man who was with Roland, she covered her face with her hands, threw herself in deep contrition upon her knees, and prayed fervently. Thus she lay long, her face buried in her hands. At length her decision was made, and she rose. I ought and must, and I can! I must have strength for it! I am resolved to live only for the service of the Eternal. Roland has good care taken of him; he recognizes no one; if I go to him it will be to remove my own distress, not his. Here, on the other hand, is Heimchen sick and needing me. There is no question as to my duty; I will stay at the post where not my will, but that of the Highest, has placed me.

She remembered the Lady Superior telling her how her father and mother had died, and she could not leave her convent to go to them. Manna resolved to do the same thing voluntarily, under the compulsion of no vow. She trembled as she thought that it might be better for Roland if he could die now before he fell into sin, and perhaps had to hear the dreadful secret. The idea was almost more than she could bear, but she held her resolution fast.

Manna returned to her cell, meaning to write and tell all that was in her soul, but she could not. She descended to the reception-room, told Lootz simply that she could not go back with him; and then, returning again to her cell, looked out upon the landscape. Life seemed frozen within her, but as the melting snow dripped from the roof, so her tears broke forth at last, and she wept bitterly; yet her decision remained unshaken. The whole night was spent in watching and prayer, and the next morning she told her story to the Lady Superior, who made no answer besides a silent inclination of the head.

Again in her cell, Manna read the letter, and was made aware for the first time that Eric's mother was nursing Roland. The paper trembled in her hand, as she read of Roland's constant talking with her in his fevered ravings. Why did her father write nothing of Pranken? Where was he? she asked herself; then, indignant that her thoughts should still cling to the world, with a sudden resolve she flung the letter into the open grate, and watched it break into momentary flame, and then float in light flakes up the chimney. So had it been in her heart, so ought it to be; nothing more from the outer world should reach her.

CHAPTER IX.

GROWTH DURING ILLNESS

"He is saved!" said the doctor, and "He is saved," was repeated by voice after voice through the whole city.

The doctor enjoined double care in guarding Roland from the least excitement of any kind, and when the boy complained of the horrible tedium of his sick-room, both Eric and the doctor laughingly reminded him that he had his good time in the first place, and that ennui was the first sure step towards recovery. Roland complained also of being kept hungry, and then added, his face seeming to grow fuller and fairer as he spoke: —

"Hiawatha voluntarily suffered hunger, and do you remember, Eric, my thinking then that man was the only creature that could voluntarily hunger? Now I must practice what I preached."

Roland showed himself particularly full of affection toward Eric's mother. He maintained that she was the only person he had recognized during his delirium, and that it had caused him the greatest distress not to be able to say so at the time, but the wrong words would keep coming from his mouth. Even the Mother did not stay with him long at a time.

He rejoiced to see lilies of the valley in his room, and remembered that he had dreamed of them.

"Was not Manna with me too? I was always seeing her black eyes."

Heimchen's illness, they told him, prevented her leaving the convent.

He wanted to see the photograph taken of him in his page's dress, and said to Eric:

"You were right, it will be a pleasant recollection to me by and by. Indeed the by and by is already here; it seems to me two years ago. Do give me a glass, for I must know how I look."

"Not now," returned Eric; "not for a week yet."

Roland was as obedient as a little child, and as grateful as an appreciative man. The second day, he begged Eric to let him relieve his mind by speaking out what was in it.

"If you will speak calmly I will hear you."

"Listen to me then, and warn me when I speak too excitedly. I was on the sea, and dolphins were playing about the ship, when suddenly there was nothing to be seen but black men's heads, and in the midst of them a pulpit swimming, in which stood Theodore Parker preaching with a mighty voice, louder than the roaring of the sea; and the pulpit kept swimming on and on with the ship-"

"You are speaking excitedly already," interposed Eric. Roland went on more quietly, in a low tone, but every word perfectly distinct: —

"Now comes the most beautiful part of all. I told you how as I lay in the forest that time when I was journeying after you – nearly a year ago now – there came a child with long, bright, wavy hair, and said, 'This is the German forest;' and I gave her mayflowers, and she was taken up in a carriage and disappeared; you remember it all, don't you? But in my dream it was even more bright and beautiful. 'This is the German forest,' was sung by hundreds and hundreds of voices, just as it was at the musical festival, oh, so beautifully, so beautifully!"

"That will do," interrupted Eric; "you have told enough, and must be left alone awhile."

Eric told his mother of the strange fairy story, which that decisive journey had given rise to in Eric's mind – he had heard of it before from Claus – and mentioned as a singular circumstance, that this second revolution in the boy's nature resulting in his illness, should have recalled to him this story.

The Mother was of opinion that something similar to the story must actually have happened, but warned Eric not to refer to the subject again, for every recollection of past events retarded recovery and a return to a natural state of mind.

The first time Roland could stand up, they were all surprised to see how much he had grown during his illness. The down too, on his lip and chin, to his great delight, had increased perceptibly. When he saw, for the first time, the straw spread before the house, he said, —

"So the whole city has known of my illness, and I have every one to thank. That is the best of all. How many I owe gratitude to! Whoever shall come to me now, for the rest of my life will have a claim upon me."

Eric and his mother exchanged glances as Roland spoke, and then cast their eyes to the ground. Wonderful was the awakening to life displayed before them in this young soul.

"Did Eric tell you that I had seen Pranken? asked Roland.

"Yes. Now lie down to sleep."

"No," he cried; "one thing more!"

He called for his pocket-book, in which he had written the name of the groom whom he had suspected of robbing him on his night journey. Reproaching himself for having hitherto neglected to inquire about him, he charged Eric to find the man, who was now a soldier in his regiment here, and bring him to his room.

The soldier came, and received from Roland a sum of money very nearly as large as that in the purse at the time. Eric had no need to have given such strict injunctions to the man not to excite Roland by much talking, and vehement expressions of gratitude, for the soldier had no power to speak a word. He felt as if he were in fairy land, at being thus summoned into a great hotel, before a beautiful sick boy, and presented with such a sum of money; it was like being transported into another world.

Contented and happy, Roland lay in bed again. He begged his father, when next he came to his bedside, to give away all his clothes, for he would wear none of them again.

"Do you want to put on your uniform at once?" asked Sonnenkamp.

"No, not now; but I want to go home soon, as soon as we can, back to the villa; home, home!"

Sonnenkamp promised all should be as he desired.

The Professorin soon fell in with some young people whom Roland's clothes just fitted, and he exclaimed with delight when, he heard it. —

"That is good; now my clothes will go about the streets until I am there again myself; I shall be represented sevenfold."

He desired his father to express his thanks to all the persons who had so kindly shown an interest in him, a duty which Sonnenkamp would readily have performed without this admonition. It afforded the best possible way, better than the most brilliant entertainment, of coming in contact with the aristocracy.

With his handsomest carriage and horses, Sonnenkamp drove through the whole city. His wife had refused all his entreaties that she would accompany him; but he succeeded in inducing the Professorin to be his companion. She, also, refused at first, but yielded to Roland's persuasions. It was the first request, as he said, that he had asked of her since his return to life, and she should and must gratify him by going with his father.

In proportion to the pain it cost the noble lady to make her reappearance before the world in such companionship, was the ease with which all doors flew open, as if by magic, wherever Lootz showed the cards of the Professorin and Sonnenkamp.