Part 5

Sibylla was the only one who could perform this miracle. So beautiful an objector, and one with so keen an intellect, was rarely found among women. These qualities, added to a long acquaintance, enabled her to comprehend this hard and yet weak heart. But her pride towered high over the domination which Uhlhart at times endeavored to exert, and she had an especial delight in showing him that she was free from his influence. She realized her power over him and his dependence upon her--weaknesses which no true woman will suffer; and she inwardly detested the man whom she could twine around her finger, and who trembled before her. But she enjoyed Wulf's fresh personality. It amused her to see with what undisguised pleasure he enjoyed things which had grown wearisome and insipid to her; and Wulf not only delighted in her lively conversation, but every thing he experienced was heightened in attractiveness and interest by her assistance, she seemed to have such a true, clear view of people and their surroundings.

But to return to our company. Dr. Uhlhart had made the unwelcome discovery that Sibylla was not troubling herself about his dark, disapproving glances. He therefore decided to begin an interesting conversation with his little neighbor, Olga Von Steinfels. He was confident he could talk well; but what was the trouble? She is quite taciturn now, and he can not fail to observe that she only turns to him occasionally, while heart and ear are fixed upon Wulf, who, having once addressed her, is rewarded with a blush and sustained attention. Dr. Uhlhart bites his lips. What does he care for such an upstart? But he will not permit any one to detect his discomfiture.

Herr Bolton is now conversing animatedly with Sibylla upon sheep's-wool. He seems to think that war and peace, Winter and Summer, exist solely for his wool. "I and my wool," "My wool and I," are the two poles around which the earth revolves. Sibylla is politely attentive, although she is scarcely aware of what he is saying. But he is interesting to her as an example of the race of genuine Philistines, who, in every thing that happens, find only material for the aggrandizement of their own little selves, and in this instance whose highest interest culminates in the rocking risks of a wool-dealer's cradle.

Wulf listens to the conversation devoutly for some time, until it becomes apparent that Sibylla is only carrying on a lively banter with the self-important wool-merchant, and he can scarcely refrain from laughter.

Arnold Von Kahring has been sitting at the extreme end of the table. The cloth having been removed, he hastens to Sibylla. Wulf is somewhat surprised to find that the young baron does not appear to observe him.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself very much, Fraulein Sibylla."

"Why should I not?" she replies.

"There is such a charming simpleton here, and therefore, as usual, plenty of laughter," interjects Dr. Uhlhart sarcastically.

"And would you condescend to observe such a one?" retorts Sibylla pertly.

At this juncture the clock is observed, and the discovery made that it is high time for the company to disperse--a fact that had been ignored too long on account of the agreeable intercourse. The host and hostess beg every one to remain; but, difficult as it may be to separate, this is impossible; so they exchange compliments and depart, as they came, strangers to one another. They sought nothing, and found it.

But has no one lost any thing?

Host and hostess have made their final courtesies at the door. The latter sinks exhausted into an arm-chair, while the former draws a profound breath of relief and exclaims:

"Thank God, the drudgery is over. I thought they would stay forever!"

"Wurtzel, I entreat you," whispers the wife, shuddering, "do be still. They will hear you; they are not out of the hall yet."

With a gesture of horror Herr Wurtzel checks himself.

Let us accompany to their homes some of the well-known guests.

Wulf has not been able to recover himself altogether in his small apartment. He is still in the glittering salon, and finds it difficult to rid himself of its gay impressions. But when his solitary life at the beach recurs to him, he can not refrain from instituting a comparison between his mother's humble cottage and this elegant mansion. What a contrast! The one so poor, the other so rich! How happy he is to have learned to know all these great people. It is true he had not witnessed their deeds; but had he not heard their conversation, their plans and resolutions, which inspired him with enthusiasm? Wulf reflects upon all this, and then rejoices that Sibylla has been invited on the morrow to the Kahrings. No one else has interested him so much.

But Arnold Von Kahring is wondering how he can give Wulf a sleep-potion, to render him unfit for society during the coming twenty-four hours. There was a time when he preferred him to all others, but to-day Wulf is not only intolerable, but very much in his way.

Herr Bolton, the merchant, is soon fast asleep, resting as sweetly on his downy bed as if he lay upon his darling wool-sacks. He dreams of the latter, and then the sack is transformed into a head, which bears the resemblance of Fraulein Sibylla Von Herbig.

Olga Von Steinfels can not find rest. She sits by an open window, thinking of all the romances of princes, cavaliers and heroes that she has read. The best and handsomest to her mind is Herr Ericksen. How pleasantly he had spoken to her, more pleasantly than any one else--or had any one else spoken to her at all?

Lady Von Kahring is considering the preparations for her entertainment on the morrow. So many bottles of champagne must be ordered, and so much fire-wood for the open hearth. When she reckons the number of guests and the amount of gas to be consumed, both of these orders must be increased. With such thoughts she falls asleep, and in her dreams the wood has been ignited, and her house can not be saved with the precious bottles of champagne.

Dr. Uhlhart is still sitting in a drinking-saloon. He seldoms returns home before morning. He can not sleep until then. He is angry with all the world--O no! he is too _blasé_ for that; he despises it. The voice of his soul echoes his favorite blasphemous verse:

"In the ocean of my life, Rocks and whirlpools I defy; My own _self's_ the guiding star; My own _self's_ the God on high."

And Sibylla? Well, she is just Sibylla.

VII.

"Better to be a little wise than in knowledge to abound; Better to teach a child than toil to fill perfection's round; Better to sit at a master's feet than thrill in a listening state; Better suspect that thou art proud than be sure that thou art great."--GEORGE MACDONALD.

To-morrow the college will close. The Summer vacation lay before Wulf like a blank, unwritten page. An enjoyable Winter and a delightful Summer lay behind him. Parties and balls, picnics and concerts in their turn--the Summer had been somewhat more quiet than the Winter; and this was fortunate, as Wulf could not neglect his severe studies; and he had recently worked so diligently to keep his grade that he felt quite satisfied with his progress.

Something else, therefore, is the cause of contracting wrinkles in his forehead. His rent had been reckoned with other expenses, and while he counted the balance of ready money, he discovered, to his annoyance, that he had expended far too much. He might have economized more, he must confess, for even in the society life in which he moved there was not a very great pecuniary drain upon young men; but it brought with it, naturally, some gift obligations, and these Wulf had dispensed with greater liberality than his circumstances permitted. What was to be done? It could not continue any longer, but it would be difficult to forsake the beaten track and walk in a private path. Wulf looked out of the window, and saw some of his happy comrades pass along the street. Diplomas in hand, they are going out into the wide world. How beautiful it will be in the Tyrol, in Switzerland, in Italy! But he must deny himself the pleasure of travel for want of sufficient means to defray expenses; and then in the light of a reproving conscience, he asks himself honestly: "Do I deserve this recreation after my year's work?" Seldom and brief have been the letters to his mother. How little he has thought of those nearest to him! And yet a home is there still, and friends who love and think of the distant one. Here at Berlin every body is going away, and no one inquires about his going or remaining; but----

Among the crowd of people hurrying by, Wulf sees no more of them. His eye skirts the distance, and reflects the blue sea, with the gulls flying over its billows. Yonder stands the lowly cottage, with its brown thatched roof; at the window the form of his mother, waiting patiently for her son. Wulf throws himself upon a couch and buries his face in his hands.

Upon another day he is hastening home. The last stretch of the way lies behind him. Evening approaches as he nears the end of his journey. The surroundings become more and more familiar; old recollections are awakened; every thing rises up before his footsteps as a sunken world. There is the beach, the home-beach, the very one on which he formerly spent his turbulent desires. On the strand lie boats--even his own is there. And now the windows of the little cottage where he once dwelt glisten in the sun's departing rays; the simple garden, with its hollyhocks and four-o'-clocks, is just the same; every thing unchanged but himself.

The first greetings are over. The joy of reunion was great--so great that few words are spoken. Wulf sees his mother gazing lovingly upon him. Yes; she has grown older. Is it excessive care that has whitened her locks so much? And the mother would read in Wulf's face whether he is still her honest, unstained son.

"Wulf, you look pale. Have you studied too hard?"

"No, mother; but naturally one is more within doors at Berlin than here. I still look dark there, compared with others."

Karen has observed her brother from all sides, and asks:

"But what do you have such fine linen for? and such a fine hat?"

Wulf blushes.

"Yes, Karen; one must dress differently there. But that is nothing."

The mother announces supper.

"We have only oatmeal," she says. "I did not know you were coming."

"Mother, I am so glad; it is so long since I have eaten any porridge."

Soon the humble repast was served, and Wulf did full justice to it; but yet it was not agreeable for him to see how Karen held her spoon and how old Peter ate.

The supper ended, all sat by the door, and the neighbors came to greet Wulf heartily. He is very happy, and relates stories of Berlin, to which all listen with open mouths. Even his mother feels a certain additional respect for him to hear that he has really seen the king several times, although it seems rather incredible that he has not seen his golden crown. A king without a crown! No; she knows better. Wulf talks well. Even old Peter lays aside his nets and listens to the marvelous tales. At times he shakes his head doubtfully; and even for days after refuses to believe wholly, without some token more visible to his senses.

A few days afterward Wulf called upon Captain Nielsen and his daughter, who had been visiting their pastor. Alas! Ingeborg had only grown paler and more feeble; but her deep blue eyes had gained, if possible, in expression. She knows much of Wulf's life and efforts; for the Kahrings had but recently left the beach, and she had been a great deal with them.

Once more the days pass as of old in Frau Ericksen's cottage; but there is sunshine within, now that her son has returned. Yes; he is a good boy, and has begged his mother's forgiveness for having written so seldom. He desires to help her every way, but she declines with: "There is so little to do, and you must study, and not spoil your hands."

He tries to work, but there are many lonely, unoccupied hours. During these times he takes Ingeborg out on the water. It is a pleasure for the sturdy fellow to test his strength with the oars, to battle with the winds and waves, and master them.

On Sundays, all rest by attending Church.

"You go to Church every Sunday at Berlin?" inquires the mother by the way.

This question has been dreaded for some time. It might afford her joy to hear him say, "Yes;" but Wulf, true to his nature, frankly says: "Only occasionally."

"Occasionally? Why not always?" is the astonished reply. "What, then, do you do on Sundays?"

"I study--or else do not much of any thing."

"I have thought," continued the mother, somewhat constrainedly, "it might be well for you to study your catechism again."

"Mother, you don't understand," replied Wulf finally. "One learns to consider many other things if one is clever. Prayer, for example----"

"O, never mind," interrupts Karen. "You are too clever for us."

Wulf would continue the controversy; but Ingeborg's gentle voice adds:

"Wulf wants to prove every thing; but yet, after all, isn't it lovelier to attend Church on Sunday mornings in this way?"

They had now reached the little, unpretentious house of God. The bell was ringing through the clear air, and from all directions people in neat attire were entering.

It was a beautiful sight, and Wulf nodded assent to Ingeborg's question, and said: "You are right." In the evening he read willingly a selection from a volume of sermons; but his thoughts were far away, and he was heartily glad when the "Amen" was reached.

Wulf rarely went out with his mother and sister. After the first pleasure of seeing them again was over, he could not conceal the fact that they had remained unchanged. It had been so different in his own case that, involuntarily, he had expected progress among those at home. But a kind of petrifaction seemed to lie over this corner of the earth. The few Summer guests, with their gay attire, were like the day-flowers which sprang up between the rocks; they did not take root here, and were soon gone. But beneath the rocks rushed living springs, of which Wulf had no knowledge, and therefore were undiscovered. He was always dissatisfied here, and time went on crutches. His life-work, which mightily stirred him, was absent. He was no longer congenial to his old acquaintances, and they had become as narrow to him as a garment outgrown. And while he could regard his mother's employment with genuine respect, and recognize the superiority of her simple, homely faith, he could not share her life and opinions.

He loved to stroll on the beach alone. Was he happier now? Had he attained his desires? It could not be denied that he was richer in knowledge; but did the feeling never present itself that there was something wanting to his life? What was it? Something that his mother and those around her possessed in common. Was it their religious faith? Never; for that was only fit for close-sighted people. Was it the constant study attendant upon his profession? No; he enjoyed this labor. What was it, then? He could not tell. Was it, then, the stirrings within of conscience?

"Happiness, happiness," thought Wulf; "how shall I win it? Will it bow down graciously before me? or must I attain it by ardent endeavors over rough paths? Which form will it take?"

He threw himself on the sea-sands, closed his eyes, and meditated long; but the meditation was only dreaming, in which happiness appeared to him white and glistening, accompanied by charming melodies. She sat at his feet, and sang sweet songs of love and pleasure. "Sibylla," murmured the dreamer; and then the siren sang more confidently, laying her hand upon his arm while the tones grew stronger. Suddenly he awoke. What was that? The bands of the dream were broken; the reality appeared before his astonished gaze. He had lain down in a place which the flood-tide covered. Lightly the waters were rising and approaching him, intoxicating their victim with the spirit of music, in order the more surely to destroy him. He had awakened just at the critical moment. He felt the cold water rippling about his neck, and with one bound he was in a place of safety. Why did he look with such terror upon the clear water? Was it the sudden shock that held him spell-bound?--for it is no small matter to have death so near. Ah, no; Wulf was not thinking of death. Other and, to him, even graver thoughts moved him. Was this dream, then, a vision of his future? Should happiness approach him with ensnaring flatteries, only to destroy him? It was thoughts like these that stirred Wulf's soul as he slowly sauntered home some hours later.

At a fashionable bathing resort in the mountains we find Lady Obrist Von Herbig and her daughter Sibylla. The latter, with her burning thirst for freedom, evinces her enjoyment in her beaming face. She is like a bird set free from its cage. Now she is with nature, which is so beautiful no language can describe it, and which only persons of deep appreciation can perceive.

Was Sibylla happy? There was, indeed, not wanting to her that pure joyfulness which nature bestows as a heritage; but she did not live in an atmosphere that called the gift into full exercise. She was not wholly free; her mother is near, and any opposition to her wishes was unthought of. Just at this moment the latter, a stout little woman, is seated on the veranda of one of the bathing-houses. A school director from the provinces is beside her. His attenuated figure looks as if it had been hewn out of wood; his forest of white hair stands high and bristling, and his long arms gesticulate with solemn profundity. Report says he is an author. Conversation between the two is fashioned upon pedagogic questions.

"These are dangerous principles upon which the youth of the present are shaped," announces the school-man pathetically.

"O, the young girls!" exclaims Lady Von Herbig. "Only look at them! Where is nature? These artificial frizzes! These frivolous engagements! Instead of being like flowers, they dress like canary-birds."

"The emancipation of women," continues the pedagogue, heedlessly, "is the root of all evil; this false self-reliance, this independent judgment, this free-and-easy manner, while young girls should consider it rather their first duty to assiduously avoid every thing bizarre in their behavior."

"Where is poetry? Always to be found in a sensitive heart! Nature is banished!" Lady Von Herbig interjects, vainly endeavoring to keep her companion to the text. "Nature must be restored; æsthetic pictures, nowadays, present womanliness as more perfect than consecration to the reality."

Both agree, and rejoice over their mutual intellectuality. Be assured, on the next morning Lady Von Herbig will purchase a red gilt-edged book, the latest work of the school director.

Sibylla sits alone, with busy pencil. She has written the following in her journal: "How beautiful it is to lead a do-less, easy, enjoyable life! Mornings, paint a little; at noon, partake of a fine dinner, a nap; then reading, walking, or bathing, or a concert, etc.; a plate of strawberries with sour cream; reveling enough; then a comfortable bed. All earnest thoughts rest in the lumber-room of my brain. If I could only have my own way, and enjoy nature! The woods appear to be very beautiful; but my fondest desires go out to the fresh, sparkling, rushing mountain springs, for which I long every morning, and dream! There my life could have full play. Ah! the sunshine amid the leaves, and--the air! But I am in a rendezvous of the _beau monde_; a great decorated hall, where music is playing, ladies promenading in elegant toilettes and banged hair. Gentlemen sit reading newspapers, smoking, and playing at cards. There are amusing people, too,--one exceedingly handsome Hungarian with the physiognomy of a gypsy; a stout major is continually passing me with a conscious _élan_ of presence, his steps taken with dancing precision. That appears to be the highest attainment in life here. It is too comical to see all the gentlemen walking in this way, while their eyes are either centered upon the gaming-table or seeking a pair of more beautiful eyes among the ladies. In the morning it is dancing for a Church; yesterday they danced for relief to a city where there had been a conflagration. There is no calamity too great but they are ready to dance for it. O, and the people seem to regard music as something to be seen, not listened to; for it only affords opportunity for increased conversation. But the best folks here are the children: they are worth looking at. Near every little spring is found a group of little ones, so quaint and pretty, in their simple, national costumes. On the whole, I prefer this place to Berlin; and tiresome city people I need to see only at a distance. I wonder whether Solomon, after he obtained possession of his wise heart, ever found any thing that was particularly wearisome? I am reading a very intellectual English romance in three volumes, Herder's 'Ideas of Humanity,' and Rosencrans's 'Psychology of the Subjective;' and I am still able to enjoy what is good, whether I find it in a plate of strawberries or a beautiful fir. To think upon the good in every thing keeps one always fresh in spirit, and is best, I think."

The postman now approached Lady Von Herbig, and gave her letters. Sibylla was not curious, and remained quietly resting in her place. A vehement movement and a light cry, however, brought her quickly to her mother's side.

"No! is it possible one has lived to see such a thing?" exclaims Lady Von Herbig in great indignation. "It is revolting, atrocious!"

"What has happened?" asks Sibylla, calmly. A long experience enables her to know that these outbursts of her mother have never any real and sufficient foundation.

"What has happened? O, she was always a singular person; but her family never should have permitted this!"

"Has any one been betrothed against your will?" asks Sibylla.

"To be betrothed is the destination of young women, and every one who fails to make a man happy in domestic life fails in her calling," is the frigid reply.

Sibylla turns away. It is impossible for her to believe that marriage is the sole destination of a woman; but she would not controvert her voluble mother, and starts to go away.

"Sibylla, my sweet child, thank God it is something you would never do," cries Lady Von Herbig, impetuously; and fearful least her daughter should leave before she could tell her, she adds quickly: "Fraulein Theodora Von Kahring has gone to a cholera hospital, to nurse patients there. Of course she can have no communication whatever with her family, nor, indeed, with any one in the entire outer world. In a word, she might as well be in a convent. O, this exalted fanaticism!"

Sibylla received the news in astonishment; her lips were compressed in passionate agitation. What was passing through the mind of this proud young woman? After a slight pause she remarks:

"No, the charge of fanaticism can never be laid to Theodora; on the contrary, she is really calm and cold-hearted."

Lady Von Herbig continued to read her letter: "'The cholera rages at Berlin. All the best families have left the city. The Kahrings remain in a most incomprehensible manner.' How can they permit their daughter to sacrifice herself in this manner? I should never expose my daughter so; and we, too, must not remain here long. _My_ daughter would never compromise me in this way."