CHAPTER VIII.
A WALK IN THE OPEN AIR
The rider approached, and was soon by the side of Knopf, who, unable to utter a word, looked in surprise at the noble figure. Eric said, however, —
"Have I the honor of seeing my colleague, Herr Knopf?"
"Yes, I am he."
Eric swung himself quickly from the saddle, and held out his hand.
"I thank you," he said; and at every word which he spoke, at every tone of his voice, Knopf's face brightened; more and more knots and seams showed themselves all over it, as Eric continued, —
"It was my intention to visit you very soon; but I did not want to do so, until I had made my own independent observations on all sides."
"Very right," answered Knopf, "every judgment received from others is a prejudice." With constantly increasing admiration, Knopf looked at Eric, saying, – and the words sounded like a confession of love, —
"I am glad that you are really a handsome man. Ah, you may smile and shake your head, but that counts a great deal in this family, and especially with Roland. The Spartans had the wise law, – horrible indeed, but embodying a deep principle – that no deformed child should be allowed to live. All men ought properly to be handsome."
Eric placed his hand on Knopf's shoulder, unable to answer a word; admiration and a desire to laugh contended within him, but admiration conquered. A man of such an appearance must have overcome much in himself to be able to express himself in this way. He went with Knopf to the village, telling him that he ought to have come to see him at the villa, and that he would have found him quite alone, if he wished to avoid the family, for they had gone with Herr von Pranken to the convent, to bring Manna home.
"Ah, poor girl!" said Knopf, pityingly. "I can venture to say, that I have already had more than fifty lovely noble maidens as pupils, and not one-half, no, not one-quarter of them have married as I should have wished. Ah, Herr Colleague, you see I have never in my life repeated in one house what happened in another, and you can understand that it has been a difficult duty. Mothers always want to find out what goes on here and there, but I have refrained, on principle, from telling anything. Whoever gossips to me will gossip about me, my mother always said. I have taken heed of that, and so have got on very well."
Eric was delighted with the true-hearted man, and he quickly drove away the thought that Pranken was going to bring the rich bride for himself from the convent. What was the maiden to him?
He left his horse at the village inn, and Knopf conducted him to a spot under the lindens on the hill-top, and there explained his views about Roland.
"I must, like a child," he began, "tell you of my last observation, and my last trouble. You are not in a hurry? I must honestly confess to you, that nothing in our time vexes me so much, as to find people always in a hurry."
Eric set his mind at rest, by telling him that he had the whole day at his disposal, concluding, —
"Now, go on."
"Then for my last trouble. As I walked hither over the mountain, past the forest-chapel yonder, all was fresh with dew, the birds were singing undisturbed, heedless of the ringing of the matin bell in the chapel above, and of the railroad bell below. What did self-sufficing nature, in this season of early spring love, care for these sounds? But that isn't exactly what I meant to say to you," he interrupted himself, placing his hand upon his tablets, which undoubtedly contained a poem in this strain. "Only this – as I was walking along the wood-path, I heard children's voices, clear and merry, and a mild and gentle one seemed to have control over them. There came up the mountain a beautiful maiden – no, I beg your pardon, I did not see that she was beautiful till afterwards – I was just taking it comfortably, and had removed my spectacles in the green forest; now I put them on again, and saw first some beautiful, plump, white hands. The girl saw me, and I don't know what she may have thought, but she seemed frightened, and took the hand of her oldest brother, a boy of thirteen; two younger boys were following her. I passed them with a greeting; the maiden made only a slight acknowledgment, but the boys said 'good-morning,' aloud. We went our different ways, and I looked long after them.
"I turned back to the chapel. The quiet and order reigning there, where no human beings dwell, everything ready for their devotion, those holy vessels, the pictures, the candles, and the good priest. I don't believe a man who so bows down, kneels, and raises his hands in prayer, can be wholly a hypocrite; the lowest criminal in the jail would be an angel compared with him. The sermon itself was only a milk-and-water affair. But would you believe it? my real reason for going back had been a wish to see the maiden again, but I felt ashamed of having entered the church from such a motive, and I slipped out on tip-toe. And then all personal feeling dropped from me, and the great trouble came over me."
"What do you mean?"
"The trouble caused by our freedom oppressed me. The girl, hardly out of school, walks, in the fresh morning, through the mountain wood with her three young brothers, and they wander to the forest chapel, whence the bell calls to them. Think, if these four young creatures had had no such goal for their morning walk, none so safe and beautiful, what would it have been? a walk in the open air, nothing more! In the open air – what is that? It is nothing and nowhere. But to enter a firmly founded temple, where the organ is sounding, and holy hymns are sung, this must give fresh life to the youthful souls, and they bring home from their morning walk, leading through the open air, to a fixed goal, a wholly different refreshment for their spirits. And up there a divine service goes on, whether men come to it or not; nothing depends on the special character of a congregation, nor on the particular degree of culture of a particular man. It holds its course, uncaring whether it is received or not, like eternal nature; whoever comes may take part in it; no one asks, no one need know, whence he comes. If I could be a believer, I would be a Catholic, or a Jew of the old faith. But what is our life? a walk in the open air, without limit, but also without a destination! You see that I cannot but be sad, for I cannot compel myself to anything different, to anything positive. And as it is with me, so is it with this age, and yet we must regain something different; our life ought not be simply a walk in the open air, but through the open air to a firm, safe, home-like destination about which human spirits may gather. Oh, if I could only define it, seize upon it, and the millions of thirsting, pining human souls with me! And do you know," Knopf concluded, "then I thought of you and Roland? Do you now understand me?"
"Not perfectly."
"Ah, I have been too vague again. Plainly, then, this has been and is now my thought, – whither can you lead Roland? Into the open air. But what is he to do there? What will he find? What will he have? What will restrain or draw him onward? That is the point, there lies the hard riddle. The religion, the moral fortress, whither we have to lead the rich youth, has no walls, no roof; it has no image, no music, no consecrated form of words – there's the trouble! Do I make it clear to you?"
"Yes, yes, I understand you perfectly," said Eric, seizing the hand of his companion. "You express my very deepest thoughts; I hope, though, that it may be granted us to give a human being something that he may hold to within himself, without leaning on any outside support. Have not we two, who now stand here, this inward hold?"
"I believe so, or rather, I am sure of it. I thank you, you make me quite content," cried Knopf, with animation. "Ah, world! here we sit, and look off into the distance, watching for some sign, some word, which may penetrate and renew all our being; it comes not from without, it comes only from within ourselves. And in Roland there lies a complete human being, a genuine, primitive nature, in spite of all that has been done to smother it; he has bold presumption and wonderful tenderness, at the same time. He has many fine feelings, but youth cannot explain its feelings; if it could, it would be no longer youth. All sorts of elements exist in Roland, but we grown people cannot understand a child's heart. Let us ask ourselves whether, in our childhood, our best friends understood us as we really were. You will accomplish this, you are called to it."
"I?"
"Yes, it is so. A great, inscrutable plan guides all existence and binds it together. A wonderful law in the world, which some men call Providence, others fate, decrees that a man like you must be led in far-off paths, through various callings, and armed for his work, till he stands ready in his noble beauty. Ah, do not shake your head, let me go on; it is a holy thought, that a mysterious power, which we must name God, has led you hither to train a beautiful human being, an Apollo-like creature, who is to have nothing to do in the world but to be noble and to feel nobly. I did not rightly manage Roland; I sowed before I knew whether the soil was prepared. Today, as I saw a man raking in the vineyards, I thought, there is Copernicus."
"Copernicus?" asked Eric, in perplexity.
"Understand me aright; the first man who dug up the ground with pointed stick, horn, bone, or stone, in order to plant seeds, he moved the earth, he was the father of our culture, as Copernicus at last discovered that the whole planet is in motion."
"What do you think, then, is now to be made of Roland?" said Eric, bringing him back to the subject.
"What is to be made of him? A noble man. Is it not a mistaken course to drive a human being to goodness, by the sight of all sorts of misery and weakness? That makes him morbid, sentimental, and weak. The Greeks had a different method, that of energy, cheerfulness, self-reliance, – that makes him strong. Our virtue is no longer 'virtus,' but only a feminine hospital-work. Ah," continued Knopf, "the genuinely noble man, or the genuine man, is the unexamined man, a species no longer to be found in Europe. We are all born to be examined. That was the greatness of the Greek, that they had no examination commissions. Plato took no degree, and do you know, that is the greatness which is bringing forward a new Greece in America, that there also, properly speaking, there are no examinations."
"Don't wander so far," interposed Eric.
"Yes," Knopf went on unheeding, "Roland is the unexamined human being; he need learn nothing in order to be questioned about it. Why must every modern man become something special? 'Civis Romanus sum,' that ought to be sufficient."
Again Eric drew him back from his digression, asking, —
"Can you suggest any vocation for Roland?"
"Vocation! vocation! The best that can be learned is not found in any plan of study, and costs no school-fees. The division of callings, on which we so much pride ourselves, is nothing but a Philistine tyranny, a compulsory virtue. Common natures return payment by what they do, noble ones by what they are. Thus it is, if a noble being exists, and freely acts out his nature, he adorns humanity and benefits it. I have tried to guard in Roland a simple unconsciousness of wealth; we are not placed here merely to train ourselves to be brothers of mercy. Not every one need serve; to perfect one's self is a noble calling. I respect Cicero's maxim: 'He who does nothing is the free man.' The free man is the idler."
Eric disputed this, and Knopf was no little surprised, that Eric had the exact passage from Cicero in his memory, and could prove that Cicero only made the assertion that no man was free who was not sometimes idle: non aliquando nihil agit. He said besides that the statement of the German poet, that there could be a noble life without activity, without labor, was still more an error. He tried, however, to put an end to these general considerations. What effect could their thoughts and discussions, as they sat there on the hill-side, bring about concerning the vocation of humanity?
Knopf remarked assentingly that he had wandered too far, and said, —
"You ought to take Roland away from here."
"It would certainly be best, but you must know that it cannot be brought about."
"Yes, yes. I have tormented myself much with the idea whether there is any possibility of making Roland imagine himself poor, but, if a negation is logically susceptible of the comparative degree, that is still more impossible. I have read Jean Jacques Rousseau's Emile, and have found much that is good in it; I have also studied the treatise on Riches which is ascribed to Plato; and in Aristophanes there is to be found deep insight into poverty and wealth. If you will sometime come to Mattenheim, I will show them all to you."
Eric made some slight inquiries as to the causes which had removed Knopf from the family, but Knopf did not tell him; he only gave him to understand that Roland had been led astray by the French valet Armand, who had since been dismissed from the house. With unusual haste, he then left the subject, and said that he had hesitated about coming to Eric, but Herr Weidmann had read the wish in his face, and had encouraged him in it.
Eric promised soon to go to Mattenheim. Knopf was very happy to hear of Roland's industry and obedience, and Eric told him how from the life of Franklin he was giving him not only a personal ideal, but also taking occasion to lead him, as they studied Franklin's course of education, to perceive, acknowledge, and supply his own deficiencies.
"Do you know," exclaimed Knopf, springing up, "what can make one happier than those great words of Archimedes, – I have found it! Still more blessed are the words. Thou hast found it! Yes, you have found it!" he cried, drawing up his trousers; he would have liked to embrace Eric, but he did not venture.
And when Eric told him that he had been drawn to this most simple method by some notes of his father's, Knopf exclaimed, looking up into the free air, —
"Blessings on thy father! Blessings on thee, eternal Spirit! O world, how great and noble thou art! Now we know what one becomes, when one walks in the open air; one grows into a free man, a Benjamin Franklin. Here are two people on a hilltop by the Rhine, and they send a greeting to thee in eternity. Ah, pardon me!" said he, "I am not generally, like this, you may depend upon it. But, Herr Captain, if you ever, desire anything great and difficult of me, remind me of this hour, and you shall see what I can do."
Eric changed the subject by asking Knopf to tell him about his present pupils.
"Yes," said Knopf, "there it is again. Her parents have sent the child to Germany, because there was danger that yonder, in the land of freedom, her spirit would be fettered, for Dr. Fritz and his wife hold liberal opinions in religion, and are patterns of nobility of mind. The child was in an English school, and after the first half year, she began to wish to convert her parents, and constantly declared her determination to become a Presbyterian. She wept and prayed, and said she could find no repose because her parents were so godless. Is not this a most noteworthy phenomenon? Now her parents have sent the child to Germany, and certainly to the best home that could be found."
Knopf took a letter from his pocket; it was from Dr. Fritz, who, as a representative of German manhood and philanthropy, was busily working in the New World for the eradication of that shame which still rests on the human race in the continuance of slavery. Dr. Fritz gave the teacher an exact sketch of his little girl's character, which showed great impartiality in a father. He also pointed out how the child ought to be guided. In the letter there was a photograph of Dr. Fritz, a substantial-looking man, with a full beard, and light, crispy curling hair; something of youthful, even ideal aspiration spoke in the expression of the strong and manly face.
With an air of mystery Knopf then confided to Eric, that the child had lived in the New World within the magic circle of Grimm's tales, and it was strange – he could not find out whether it was pure fancy or fact – but the child had had an adventure on her journey that seemed to belong to a fairy tale.
"Her name is Lilian," said Knopf, "and you know that in English our mayflower is called the lily of the valley, and the child received a mayflower from some being in the wood who did not know her name. A wonderful story she has woven together in her little blond head, for she constantly insists that she has seen the wood-prince."
"You are secretly a poet," said Eric.
Involuntarily Knopf's hand went to his breast-pocket, where his tablets lay hidden, as if he suspected that Eric had stolen them from him.
"I allow myself now and then to string a verse together; but don't be frightened, I've never troubled any one else with them."
Eric felt cordially attracted towards this man, so dry in outward appearance, and yet so deeply enthusiastic; and as the bells rang again in the village, he said, —
"Now come and make me acquainted with the schoolmaster."
CHAPTER IX.
ANTHONY
The schoolmaster of the village was stiff and formal in manner; he received the Captain very humbly. The three were soon seated together at the inn, and the village teacher related the history of his life.
He was sixty-four years old, but seemed still very vigorous. He had the same reason for complaining which all public teachers have, and related with a mingled pride and bitterness that his son, twenty-one years of age, was receiving more than twice the pay in a cement-factory of the young Herr Weidmann, than his father was receiving after a service of two and thirty years. He had four sons, but not one should become a schoolmaster. Another son was a merchant, and the oldest a building-contractor in America.
"Yes," cried he, "we schoolmasters are no better off than any common day-laborer."
"Would you remain a schoolmaster," asked Eric, "if you had a competency?"
"No."
"And you would never have become one?"
"I think not."
"This is the deplorable part of it," cried Knopf, "that riches always say, and say rightly, I ought not to remove all need, for through this the beautiful and noble build themselves up; need calls into being the ideal, the virtuous. See here, Herr Captain Colleague, Herr Sonnenkamp, who is a good deal of a man, of wide observation, says, —
"'I must not trouble myself concerning the people about me, neither must Roland, for if he did, he would lose all comfort of his life; he would never be able to ride out, without thinking of the misery and suffering he witnessed in this place and in that.' See, here is our riddle. How can one at the same time be a person of elevated thought, and be rich? We teachers are the guardians of the ideal. Look at the villages all around; there is in them all a visible and an invisible tower, and the invisible is the ideality of the schoolmaster sitting there with his children. I honor you, because you also have become a schoolmaster."
Eric looked up in a sort of surprise, for his vanity was inwardly wounded at being reckoned a schoolmaster, but he quickly overcame it, and was happy in the thought. He prevailed upon the village schoolmaster to go on with the history of his life. He was a good mathematician, had been employed in the land-registry and in the custom-house; he lost his situation when the Zollverein was established; for two years he looked round for something to do, almost in a starving condition, and then became a schoolmaster. He had married well, that is, into a wealthy family, so that he was able to give his sons a good education.
Evening had come on. Eric promised the village schoolmaster to give him something to do with the instruction of Roland.
Knopf accompanied Eric for some distance, and then requested him to mount his horse.
Knopf stood looking after Eric for a long time, until he was hidden by a bend of the mountain, and his puffed lips addressed words in a low tone to him, after he had disappeared.
On the way home, Eric was surprised that he thought less about Roland, than he did about Manna, who was to arrive this evening.
Laughable old stories, how the tutor fell in love with the daughter of the house, and was expelled by the hard-hearted, rich father, and here he stands before the house all lighted up, he hears music; above, the lovely one celebrates her marriage with a very noble coxcomb, and a pistol-shot – no; it would be more practical to find some better situation.
Eric had humor enough to dismiss every such fancy; he would remain distant, composed, and respectful towards the daughter of the house.
When he rode up to the villa, the carriages had already arrived, and Eric received from Herr Sonnenkamp a reproof for his want of friendliness in not remaining at home, or taking note of the hour of their arrival.
After the conversation that he had had with Knopf, the feeling of being in service seemed to him now very strange; or was this reception intended to give him a hint of how he was to conduct himself towards Manna?
Eric made no reply to the reprimand, for such it was. He came to Roland, who warmly embraced him and cried, —
"Ah! with you only is it well, all the rest are – "
"Say nothing about the rest," interrupted Eric.
But he could not restrain Roland from relating the disappointment of all, that Manna did not return with them.
Eric breathed more freely.
Roland mixed up in his relation an account of Bella's getting out at the water-cure establishment on their return, because a message from Count Clodwig had informed her that he would meet her there. Finally he said, —
"What does all the rest amount to? You are there in the convent, and I have told Manna that you look just like the Saint Anthony in the church of the convent. Yes, laugh, if you please! If he should laugh, he would laugh just like you; he looked just as you look now. Manna told me the story. The saint has been praying to heaven, and the Christ-child has laid himself there in his arms, when he was all alone, and he looks at him so lovingly, so devoutly."
Eric was thrilled; a pure living being has also been given into his hands. Is he worthy to receive it, and can his look rest purely upon it?
They sat together without speaking, and Roland, at last, cried, —
"We will not leave each other again, ever. To-day when I sat there upon the deck, all alone, it seemed to me – I was not asleep, I was wide awake – it seemed that you came, and took me in your arms and held me."
Roland's face glowed; he was feverishly excited, and Eric had great difficulty in calming him down. But what he could not easily do was easy for the dogs; Roland became the self-forgetting child again, when he was with the dogs, who had grown so astonishingly in a few days.
Pranken also came in a very friendly way to Eric, and said that he admired his stimulating power, for Roland had exhibited during their absence a susceptibility of mind and a sensitiveness of feeling, which no one would have supposed him capable of.
Now say what you please, candid reader! Yesterday, an hour ago, you held in little esteem some man's judgment, you saw distinctly his limitations, and now he shows that he recognizes your worth, he praises you, he extols you, and suddenly, without being aware of it, your opinion is changed concerning him whom you before regarded as one-sided and contracted, especially if you are a person struggling with yourself, withdrawn into yourself, and often self-doubting.
This was the case with Eric. Pranken seemed to him a man of very good judgment, very amiable indeed; and he even expressed openly his satisfaction, that the friends of the family stood by him and cheered him in his difficult work of education.
Pranken was content; Eric manifestly acknowledged his position; he showed this by not accompanying them on the journey, and not thrusting himself into the family; perhaps also there was a certain touch of pride in not wanting to appear as a part of the retinue; at any rate, Eric did not seem destitute of tact.
Pranken understood how to make this patronizing protection appear as a sort of friendly confidence.