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."