CHAPTER XIII.
THE LAST BLUE FLOWER.
Eric, meanwhile, had entered the sick-chamber.
"Are you here at last?" cried Clodwig. His voice was faint; and thesmall childlike hand which the sick man extended toward him appearedmore delicate than ever.
"Sit down," said he; "don't be so broken down: you are young andstrong, and have a good conscience. Let me take your hand. It is ahappiness to die in the full possession of my senses: I have oftendesired to die a sudden death. Better as it is. Tell me, how is yourmother? Are you really betrothed to the daughter of that terrible man."
Eric could not yet utter a word: he only nodded without speaking, andClodwig continued,--
"That is fine, an instance of the grand truth of compensation in theworld. Once, you were to become my son--my son! It is better as it is.I am to have no son. But tell me, how is Roland? Did he not want tocome with you? I see him, the splendid youth! he is present all thetime. You have done well, Eric, entirely well. You will stay with theyoung man. If we could only know what will become of the father!"
Before Eric could answer, the invalid lay back upon the pillow. Heseemed to have fallen asleep. Nothing was heard but the ticking of theclock; and now a carriage drove into the court-yard, the wheels cuttinginto the gravel.
Clodwig awoke.
"That is the Doctor," he said aloud. He requested the attendant to sayto the physician that he would like to be left with Eric alone for atime. The nurse gave the commission to the servant, and remained in theanteroom. Sitting upright, Clodwig said,--
"Shut the door: I want to speak to you in private."
Eric sat by the bedside, and Clodwig began,--
"This Sonnenkamp, so audacious, and yet--hypocrisy, it is everywhere; ajumble of grimaces, of masks who do not know one another. A sentenceupon Sonnenkamp? I have let him off entirely. His path is zigzag, hisgoal horrible. Who shall judge? I say it here to you, my brain receiveda fatal lesion when the fearful thought entered into it. When I lookover my own life, what is it? I have filled out a uniform: we arewalking, empty sentry-boxes, painted with the national color. If adischarge comes, we think it something very mysterious; we whisper--alla farce. The life of most persons is hypocrisy, and so is mine, solong, so honorable! We have no courage, we do not confess what we are.We are encumbered with forms, compliances, courtesies, conformities;and all is false inside. We never tell each other what we are as weacknowledge it to ourselves. Don't be afraid. I have no crime, notransgression, now, to acknowledge and to feel remorse for. I have beenall my life pure as thousands, as millions, by my side; but I have notbeen the person that I really am. Do you know that grand word which Godspake when he revealed himself in the desert to the holy Shepherd? Itis this. This is God. 'I am that I am.' This is the truth,truthfulness, the divine in every man; and men deny it. Who can say Iam that I am? I never could, and millions by my side could not. We areall glossed over outside, all and everywhere over-refined--no, not all,but most of us: were all so, the sun would never again rise upon theearth. But the time will come, and you are one of those awaiting itscoming, you will share in its life,--the time will come, when men shalldissemble no more, shall lie no more, shall pass themselves off for nomore than they are, and shall be what they profess to be. Do youcomprehend me?"
"Perfectly, perfectly."
"Know, then, I tell you that I have not done what I ought to have done.I have not gone from hour to hour into the presence of those in power,and said, 'Thus am I, and thus must you be.' I have lulled myself witha false philosophy; I have persuaded myself that all would bespontaneously unfolded of itself; that we are in the direct line of thedeveloping tendencies, and we have nothing to do in furtherancethereof. Ha, ha! unfold of itself! Yes, death comes of itself, deathcomes, and takes away the life that was no real life, no candidrevealment, no genuine self. I once knew a great actor. To an actor,death will always be the hardest, not only because he has so oftencounterfeited death, but because he knows that he leaves behind him hisparts, his masks, his paints, his wilted wreaths, his rounds ofapplause, and he can never be called out again. My son, wediplomatists, we die the death of the actor. I have led an unprofitablelife. I had no fatherland to give me other than diplomatic farces toperform. My life has been a busy inactivity: I have spent the greatestpart of my life in the livery and the defence of a cause which I didnot respect, scarcely had any regard for. Here is this slave-trader.Fie! the whole world calls out in horror: and yet, in circles held inhigh estimation, there are far worse than slave-traders. Others, again,are not in the house of correction, because they were under nonecessity of stealing, and because they were bought off by money frombeing positively immoral. There, give me now, I beg, a cooling draught,my mouth is parched."
Eric gave Clodwig a draught; but they were both so awkward, that it wasalmost all spilled.
"No matter, no matter," said Clodwig, smiling, "that's the way in thisworld: only the smaller part is really drunk, the larger part getsspilled, wasted. There, now go, and let the Doctor come, but come backagain afterwards."
Eric went and called the physician. Bella asked what Clodwig had beentalking about. He could only answer in general terms, and begged to beallowed to go into the open air for refreshment.
Eric went into the garden. The November wind was raging, and the raindriving fiercely. Eric wrapped himself in his cloak, and went into thewood: it did him good to walk in the midst of the uproar of theelements. He went through the park and the wood, by the game path whichhe had followed on the morning after telling the story of his life tohis newly-won friend Clodwig. Now he could not stride on in exultantmood, as if borne onward by an external force; now he must battle withthe storm which roared over him through the tree-tops. Now, as then, hestood under the covered pavilion; but in the wide landscape he couldsee nothing but clouds of driving rain. Close to the wall of thebuilding there was still one beautiful blue-bell: unconsciously hebroke it off, and, as he returned to the house, it occurred to him tocarry the flower to the invalid. He entered the sick-chamber, andClodwig cried,--
"Ah, the blue flower! You gather it and bring it to me. We have dreamedof them often in my youth. Youth, youth!" repeated the sick man often.
He seized the flower, then leaned far out of bed, and smelled of Eric'sclothes, saying,--
"Ah I my son, why do the Bible pictures come up before me now? Thepatriarch Isaac said to his son as he came to his sickbed, 'The smellof my son is as the smell of a field which the Lord hath blessed.' Yes,Eric, you bring all the free air of the fields into my sick-room. WhenI am no more, remember that you have done me good."
Eric wept.
"Yes, weep, it is well, it will do you no harm that I make your heartheavy. You will be happy and active on the earth whose clods will soonrest on me. Only, I pray you, stay by me when I die; and when I amdead, and they prepare me for the grave, take something from my heartwhich must stay there till it has stopped beating. Stay with me, Eric,I will not think of petty, individual interests. I will not leave theworld in hatred and anger--no, not in hatred and anger against any man.Help me to attain to the universal, the grand: in those I will live anddie."
He lay back on his pillows; and, as Eric leaned over him, his breathcame quietly, and on his face was a gentle smile. What thoughts mightnow be stirring this soul?
Eric wanted to send a messenger to Villa Eden, to say that he mustremain where he was. Lootz, who had been sent by Herr Sonnenkamp toinquire for the Count, carried the message back.
Das landhaus am Rhein. English Page 194