A quiet, convent-like life it was which they led at Castle Grenwitz.
The region enclosed by the old wall lay virtually behind an ivy-covered
churchyard wall, and no noise, no disturbance was ever heard there. No
dogs barked there, no horses neighed; the hours glided quietly away,
like the shadow on the sun-dial above the portal--quietly as the
flowers in the garden bloomed and gave out their perfumes. The very
wind seemed but to rustle gently in the branches; the birds sang low
melodies in the tree-tops; and as for the inhabitants of the castle,
why, the large hall-clock in its oaken stand could not do its daily
work more punctually and systematically, or be freer from all desire of
innovation than they were. The servants did their work with the
regularity of automatons. Even the furniture seemed to be imbued with
this spirit of order, so that Oswald could not get rid of the idea that
the chairs and sofas moved by themselves back to their proper places,
if by a rare chance they had been dislodged for a time. Little as
Oswald had ever been accustomed to such a methodical life, and much
as he disliked it by nature, he still had enough elasticity in him
to adapt himself readily to the profound peace which reigned all
around--an effort in which he was largely aided by his gentle
disposition, full of good-will towards man. He did what he saw others
do, and returned the formal bows with which people greeted each other
on all occasions, with the same air of solemnity which he would have
assumed when dancing a minuet at a masked ball.
At first he had not been over-punctual in the matter of the lessons,
and taken more delight in enjoying himself with his pupils in the open
air. They had explored the beech forest, which extended for half an
hour from Castle Grenwitz down to the sea-shore; they had discovered an
ancient tumulus and a cave, and often they had climbed down from the
lofty chalk cliffs to the beach below, where, standing upon a huge
block, they had enjoyed seeing the tide rush up, and shouted aloud to
see if the breakers overpowered their voices.
During these excursions, which Oswald jestingly called preliminary
studies for Homer, he had had constant opportunity to study the
character of his two pupils. A greater contrast could hardly exist.
Bruno was tall for his years, but slender and agile, swift like a deer.
Malte, the young heir, looked stunted and sickly by the side of his
proud companion. He was narrow-chested and hollow-breasted; his
angular, awkward movements contrasted strangely with the marvellously
graceful carriage of Bruno, and the effect was still greater when the
latter was running or leaping. Malte shrank back from every danger,
from every exertion, conscious of his feeble strength, and from native
or acquired cowardice; for Bruno no tree was too high, no rock too
steep, no ditch too broad; it seemed almost as if he were trying to
subdue the passionate heat of his soul by bodily exhaustion. Oswald
bound a wreath of oak-leaves together and placed it on the boy's
bluish-black curls, to make him still more like one of the Bacchantes.
But as in his native land, Sweden, the icy night of winter suddenly
gives birth to fragrant, smiling spring, so in his mind also sunshine
and tempest changed in a moment. Now it was exuberant joy and now sad
melancholy which prevailed; now he abandoned himself like a child to
others, and now he became rigid in sudden defiance; and all this
suddenly and without transition, as lights and shadows change on the
mountain slope on a day when the wind is driving the clouds like arrows
across the face of the sun. Thus Oswald found the boy, a stranger in
the house of his relations, hated by some, feared by others, an
inexplicable riddle for all, even for the good old baron, who always
took the part of the boy, though generally more from inborn magnanimity
than from conviction. But for Oswald a single glance at the dreamy dark
eye of the boy had sufficed to recognize in him a kindred spirit, and
the mystic alliance which they had formed at that moment had been
strengthened by every hour of their intercourse since. Bruno had met
him on the first day of their meeting with the dark, defiant look which
he was wont to show to everybody. He had then watched him with his shy
but penetrating glances for two or three days more, and then Oswald's
kindly, cheerful manner had dissipated all suspicion, as the sun
scatters unwholesome fogs. His eye had become more open, more
brilliant, as if the unexpected happiness of meeting a man who loved
him, and cared to be loved by him, was dazzling and confusing him; and
at last all the passionate tenderness of his soul had broken forth, the
long pent-up current of affection had overflowed its banks--powerfully,
irresistibly, like a mountain torrent which breaks through a rocky gate
and pours its waters exultingly into the broad valley.
"Do you know," said the boy to Oswald, "that I was determined
beforehand to hate you?"
"Why, Bruno, is hatred so sweet?"
"Oh, no. But I thought all tutors were like our first, and so I said to
myself that what was good for one was good for all."
"And how was Mr. Bauer?"
"Well, he was a boor," said the boy, bitterly.
"Why, my proud little lord, will you despise all low-born men?"
"Certainly not," exclaimed the boy, warmly; "my own father was but a
peasant, although he was a nobleman; I have often seen him behind the
plough; but this man was coarse and rude, and a coward into the
bargain. Once after dinner, I do not know what I had done, he slapped
me in the face because aunty was present, and he thought she would be
pleased to see him do so. Yes, he beat me," and the boy's eye flashed
as he recalled the insult, and the big vein on his forehead, where
wrath lies hidden, swelled up high.
"And then, Bruno?"
"Then I took the knife that was lying before me on the table and jumped
at him, and the wretch ran away, crying for help. And when I saw that,
and all the pale faces around me, I could not help laughing, and went
quietly out of the room. And I would have liked to run away into the
wide, wide world on the spot, but uncle came after me and promised me
that that man should never touch me again. Uncle is very kind; you
don't know how kind he is. But he is afraid of aunty; everybody is
afraid of her--and yet I am fond of her, for she has pluck like a man,
and I hate only cowards. Malte is a coward."
"Malte is weak and sickly, and you ought to be patient with him; but if
you are really fond of your aunt, why are you so cross to her?"
"Am I cross?" The boy became silent. A cloud passed over his brow, his
nostrils quivered, and his dark-blue eyes looked like a thunder-cloud
when he said, glancing quickly upward:
"I know I am cross; but how can I help that? I am only on sufferance
here in the house; shall I be grateful for that? I cannot be so; I will
not be so, and if they were to turn me out. Look here, Oswald, I have
often wished they would drive me away; I have done things on purpose to
make them send me off; then I would go into the wide world and earn my
own bread, as thousands of boys do who are not half as strong and as
brave as I am. Even to-day, as we were walking along the strand, and
the great three-decker rose on the horizon and disappeared again, I
wished, oh! so eagerly, I could have sailed away in her as a boy, as a
sailor--only away, away from here, no matter where to."
When the boy thus laid open the most secret wishes of his heart to his
friend and teacher, the latter often wondered whether he, with his own
doubts as to the way which he ought to follow in life, was exactly the
right person to guide a wild, passionate boy. But the less he felt
himself able to keep down the vague wishes and chimerical hopes which
he shared with him in secret, the more the distance disappeared between
him and his pupil, the more brotherly became their relations. No human
being had ever yet made so deep an impression upon Oswald as this
strange boy. He loved him as the artist loves the work with which he is
occupied, as the father loves his son in whom he hopes to realize what
he has himself failed to accomplish, as a mother loves her child for
whom she has to work, to watch, and to care. Every night, when he was
weary from long reading and studying, he went, before seeking his own
bed, into the boys' room. He would not have been able to sleep if he
had not first seen his favorite once more. That reserve which makes it
impossible for nobler natures to show the whole fulness of their
tenderness, made him during the day withhold his caresses; but then, at
night, he took the boy's hands in his own and stroked them, and kissed
the sleeper on his brow.
"They call you unfeeling, my pet, you whose heart is hungering and
thirsting after love! And if all misjudge you and hate you, I
understand you and love you."