ENTICEMENTS ABROAD.
Eric and Roland lived together in the castle, for so the rooms in the
turret were called, as if they had taken possession of a new abode, and
were all alone; no sound from the human world penetrated here, nothing
but the song of birds, and the ringing of the bells of the village
church on the mountain.
A regular employment of the time was instituted; until noon they knew
nothing of what was going on in the house, and Roland lived almost
exclusively in the thought of Benjamin Franklin.
New analogies were continually presenting themselves, and it was
especially productive of them that an American youth, a rich youth
besides, who had never been deprived of anything, should lay out for
himself a life full of deprivations. Roland lived and moved wholly in
Franklin; he spoke, at the table, of Benjamin Franklin, as if he were a
man who had just appeared, and was invisibly present and speaking with
them. Roland wished to keep a regular record of what he thought and
did, exactly as Franklin had done, but Eric restrained him, knowing
that he would not persevere in it, being as yet too fickle. And this
calling one's self to account was peculiarly adapted to one who stood
alone, or was seeking the way by himself. But Roland was with Eric from
morning till night. They repeated Franklin's physical experiments, they
entered into his various little narratives, and Roland would often ask
on some occurrence:--
"What would Franklin say to that?" Eric had been in doubt whether he
should say anything to Roland of the interview with Herr Knopf. He was
waiting for a more suitable time; he felt that the fixed order of
Roland's method of life should not now be disturbed.
There was a great commotion at the villa, for the entire contents of
the hothouse were brought out into the park, and a new garden was made
in the garden. Roland and Eric did not see it until everything was
arranged.
Pranken made a brief visit almost every day, and when he remained to
dinner, he spoke a great deal of the princes of the church; he always
called the bishop the church-prince. A second court-life seemed to have
been opened to him, and this court had a consecrating element, was
self-ordering, and needed no Court-marshals.
Herr Sonnenkamp enquired with much interest about all the arrangements
at the Episcopal court; but Frau Ceres was wholly indifferent, for she
had discovered that there was no court ball given, and no ladies were
visible, except some very worthy and respectable nuns. Frau Ceres
entertained a great dislike to all nuns, principally because they had
such great feet, and wore such clumsy shoes and cotton gloves. Frau
Ceres hated cotton gloves; and whenever she thought of them, she
affirmed that she experienced a nervous _shiver_.
The days were still; the trees from the South grew green and fragrant,
with those that were native to the soil; but the quiet days came to an
end, for they were packing up and making other preparations in the
house. Lootz was the director, and huge trunks had already been sent
off.
It was a rainy morning: Eric and Roland were sitting together with
Franklin's life again before them. Eric perceived that Roland was
inattentive, for he often looked towards the door.
At last there was a knock, and Sonnenkamp, who had never before
disturbed their morning's occupation, now entered the room. He
expressed his satisfaction that the course of instruction had been so
regularly arranged, and he hoped that it would suffer only a temporary
derangement from the journey, as they could immediately resume it on
arriving at Vichy.
Eric asked in amazement what this reference to Vichy meant, and was
told that the family, with the whole corps of servants, male and
female, as well as Roland and Eric, were going to the mineral baths of
Vichy, and from there to the sea-baths at Biarritz.
Eric composed himself with great effort; the struggle had come sooner
than he anticipated, and he said that he did not know what Roland
thought about it, but that, for his own part, he had made up his mind,
that he could not take the journey to the Baths.
"You cannot go with us? Why not?"
"It is unpleasant to me to make this declaration in Roland's presence,
but I think that he is sufficiently mature to comprehend this matter. I
think, I am firmly convinced, that a serious course of study cannot be
resumed at a fashionable watering-place, and then continued at
Biarritz. I cannot begin the instruction after my pupil has been
hearing, in the morning, all kinds of music at the fountains. No human
being can be confined there to earnest and fixed thought. As I said, I
consider Roland mature enough to decide for himself. I will remain here
at the villa, if you desire it, until your return."
Sonnenkamp looked at Eric in astonishment, and Roland, supplicatingly.
Sonnenkamp did not appear to rely upon his self-command sufficiently to
meet the family tutor in the requisite manner, and he therefore said in
a careless tone that the matter could be discussed in the evening. In a
half-contemptuous manner, he begged pardon for not having informed Eric
of his plans for the summer at the University-town.
Eric now sat alone with Roland, who, in silence, looked down at the
floor. Eric let him alone for awhile, saying to himself. Now is the
critical time, now is the trial to be made.
"Do you understand the reasons," he at length asked, "why I cannot and
will not continue our life of study, this life that we pursue together,
in a place of amusement?"
"I do not understand them," said the boy, perversely.
"Shall I explain them?"
"It is not necessary," replied the boy, sullenly.
Eric said nothing, and the silence enabled the boy to realize how he
was behaving; but there was something in the soul of the youth that
rebelled against anything like subjection. Taking up a different topic,
Roland asked:--
"Have I not been diligent and obedient?"
"As it is proper that you should be."
"Do I not deserve now some amusement?"
"No. The performance of duty is not paid for, and certainly not by
amusement."
Again there was a long silence, the boy turning up and down the corners
of the biography of Franklin, which he had just been reading. Without
saying anything, Eric took the book out of his hand and laid it down.
With his hand upon the cover, he asked,--
"What do you think that Franklin would now say to you?"
"I can't tell what he would say."
"You can, but you do not choose to."
"No, I cannot," said the boy. He stamped insolently with his foot, and
his voice was choked with tears.
"I have a better opinion of you than you have of yourself," said Eric,
taking hold of the boy's chin. "Look at me, don't look down to the
earth, don't be out of humor."
Roland's countenance was unmoved, and the tears stood motionless in his
eyes. Eric continued,--
"Is there any good thing in the world that I would not like to give
you?"
"No; but----"
"Well, but what? Go on."
"Ah, I don't know any. And yet--yet--do go for my sake, go with us; I
could not take pleasure if you were not with us--I there, and you here
alone."
"Would you like to journey then without me?"
"I will not do it, you are to go too!" said the boy, springing up and
throwing himself upon Eric's neck.
"I declare to you most decidedly, I do not go with you."
Roland let his hands fall, when Eric grasped them, saying,--
"I could also say in my turn, Do stay here for my sake; but I will not.
Look up brightly, and think how it would be if we remain together here.
Your parents travel to the Baths; we stay here and learn something
regularly, and are happier than we should be on the promenade, with the
music of the saloon, happier than by the sea-shore. See, Roland, I have
never been to France, nor seen the sea. I renounce the pleasure, I
prefer the duty; and do you know where my duty lies?"
"Ah, the duty can go with us wherever we go," cried the boy, smiling
amidst his tears. Eric was obliged to laugh too; at last he said,--
"This duty cannot travel abroad. You have had distractions enough all
your life. Come, be my dear comrade, my good fellow. Have confidence in
me, that I can see reasons which you cannot."
"Yes, I do have confidence, but it is so splendid, you can't imagine
it, and I will show everything to you."
A whirlwind seemed to have seized Roland, so that he turned round and
round. It came over him with a rush, that he had forced Eric to remain
with him, that he had forced his father to give Eric to him, and now he
was about to desert him! But there was the enticement of the music, the
pleasant journeys, the protecting ladies, and the roguish girls who
played with him. Suddenly he cried,--"Eric! thy mother!" for she had
said to him on taking leave, Be so worthy, that Eric will never leave
you! This thought was now aroused within him, and on the other hand,
there were the carriages driving, and the merry troop riding on
horseback, and he among them. How could this old, grave lady, clad in
mourning, who stood in the path, detain him? It was like a feverish
waking dream.
"Eric! thy mother!" cried he again, and then he said, embracing him,--
"Eric! I remain with you! now help me, so that they shall not take me
away without you."
"You are not to be obstinate with your parents, but you have now also a
duty to me; you must not leave me, as I must not leave you."
It was a hard struggle to gain the consent of the parents to Roland's
remaining at the villa with Eric. Frau Ceres was brought over the
soonest, but Sonnenkamp held out, and Roland looked on in perplexity.
The desire arose in him that his father would withhold his consent, and
Eric be prevailed on to go with them.
Eric took the father aside, and told him that he considered it would be
the ruin of Roland, if now when he had voluntarily pledged himself, and
was constrained to do what was best, the whole should be upset; the
youth had never, on account of various distractions, come to any
knowledge of himself. He declared that, grievous as it would be to him,
he should be obliged to leave the family, if Roland went with them. He
had not said this to Roland, for Roland should not be permitted to
think upon the possibility of the tie being severed. He besought
Sonnenkamp to employ now a little policy; it would not be wrong. He was
to say to Roland, that he wanted to test his constancy, and he was glad
that he had stood the trial; that he had hoped Roland would make the
proposal to stay with Eric, and he gave his consent.
Inwardly chafing, Sonnenkamp complied with this proposition, and Roland
saw himself released on the one side, and bound on the other.
On. the next day, the parents set out on the journey.
Eric and Roland drove with them to the railroad station, and when the
approaching train was signalized to be near, Sonnenkamp took his son
aside, and said to him,--
"My boy, if it is too hard for you, jump into the car, and leave the
Doctor to himself. Believe me, he won't run away from you; there is a
golden whistle by which every one can be called. Be bold, young
fellow."
"Father, is this also a part of the test you have put me to?"
"You are a plucky youth," answered Sonnenkamp, with emotion.
The train rumbled in. A great number of black trunks, studded with
yellow nails, were put on board, Joseph and Lootz showing themselves
expert travelling-marshals. Boxes, bags, portmanteaus, bottles, and
packages were placed in the first-class car which Sonnenkamp, Frau
Ceres and Fraeulein Perini occupied. Roland was kissed once more,
Sonnenkamp whispering at the same time something in his ear. The train
rolled away, and Eric and Roland stood alone on the station-steps.
They went silently back to the villa. Roland looked pale; every drop of
blood seemed to have left his face. They reached the villa, where all
was so silent and desolate.
After they had got out of the carriage, Roland grasped Eric's hand,
saying,--
"Now we two are alone in the world. What can one undertake at such a
time?"
The wind roared in gusts through the park, and shook the trees, whose
blossoms went whirling into the air, while the river tossed up its
waves; a thunder-storm was coming on.
Eric ordered the horses to be put again to the carriage, and entered it
with Roland, who asked,--
"Where are we going?"
Eric quieted him with the assurance that he was about to show him a
miracle. They drove down the road, where the wind was dashing about the
branches of the nut-trees, while the lightning flashed and the thunder
rolled overhead.
"Where are we driving?" Roland asked again.
"We are now going to school to Franklin. I can now show you how the
lightning is tamed." And they drove on to the railroad station.
The telegraphist gave Eric a very friendly reception. Eric showed his
pupil, in the office of the telegraph, the electrical current in a
pretty little glass box, where a blue spark darted rapidly hither and
thither, and then vanished over the connecting wires. At every flash a
sharp click came from the connecting rods, and, at the same instant,
the little blue flame appeared and then vanished.
Eric was glad to be able to exhibit this to his pupil, and the
telegraphist added many important and interesting details. He related
how they were inexpressibly troubled in their communications during a
thunderstorm, for incomprehensible words came over the wires, and he
was once hurled by a shock of electricity against the stove yonder. He
showed the metal plates to draw off the lightning, which often struck
and cut off the conducting rods as nicely as if done with a sharp file.
They had removed the lights, and saw only the little blue flame, which
Roland watched with childish delight. It was easy to explain the
operation of the electro-magnetic telegraph, and Roland said,--
"Even if Franklin was not acquainted with this, he yet first caught the
lightning."
"Do you think that he could know what would be the results?"
Eric endeavored to explain to Roland, that in all discovery, invention,
creation and action, there is a great bond of unity, a continual
process of development. And here in this dark room, while the little
blue flame was dancing, and the three persons hardly venturing to speak
aloud soon became utterly speechless, the soul of the youth was touched
with a feeling of devotion, and raised far above the range of ordinary
experience. The separation from his parents, the pleasure that had
allured him, all had vanished, had sunk out of sight, as if he were
living on some star remote from the earth.
The storm had ceased, and a copious rain was falling; when the window
was re-opened, Roland said, gently taking Eric's hand, and looking out
into the night,--
"Can one not imagine, that the soul in the bodies of human beings moves
like the electrical spark on the wire?"
Eric made no reply. He saw that the boy was beginning to see something
of the enigma of life; he must work it out for himself, and could not
and must not be helped at present. And this trifling question gave
assurance that the higher life could be preserved in the youth; he had
overcome the desire of dissipation, and had given himself up to what
could not be made slavishly subject to his will.
The telegraphist gave an account of Sonnenkamp's frightful appearance
and conduct on the night that Roland was missing. He said in a
low tone to Eric, that he himself was afraid of the man, and that
notwithstanding the considerable sum of money which he offered him to
remain there through the night, he had pleaded as an excuse the want of
official orders, because he would not remain alone with Sonnenkamp for
all the gold in the world.
Eric perceived that Roland had heard the last remark notwithstanding
the low tone, and said in a jesting way, that a man who has to deal
with the nervous filaments extended over the earth might very readily
become nervous himself.
The telegraphist assented, and had many wonderful stories to tell. When
Eric went with Roland into the passenger's room, he was surprised to
see Roland's quick eye for the laughable characteristics of people. He
had observed very shrewdly the peculiarities of the telegraphist, and
imitated him very exactly. Without a direct rebuff, Eric endeavored to
explain to his pupil, that those persons who are partly engaged in
work, and partly in science, in that middle region of the vocations of
life, such as apothecaries, surgical operators, lithographists,
photographists, and telegraphists, are easily carried from one extreme
to the other. Telegraphy created a certain excitability, and
susceptibility, on account of the direct arousing of the faculties and
the operation at great distances, which give to the soul a certain
tension and excitation.
Eric sought to explain all this to his pupil; he would have liked to
give him the just views which are embraced in the knowledge of
psychological principles, but he led him back to the wonderful in what
they had seen, and he succeeded in his purpose of deeply impressing
this upon the soul.
The stars were glittering in the heavens, when they returned home from
their glance into the mysterious primitive force of earth's being.
Eric could not restrain the impulse to picture to his scholar what had
been probably the feelings of that people of the desert, on the evening
of that day when Jehovah had revealed himself to them in thunder and
lightning upon Mount Sinai; how it must have been with them when they
went to rest, and how it must have seemed to the souls of thousands, as
if the world were created anew.
Eric hardly knew what he was saying, as he drove through the refreshed
and glistening starry night. But the feelings of the boy and the man
were devotional. And after they reached home neither wished to speak
one word, and they quietly bade each other good-night. But Eric could
not go to sleep for a long time. Is the light in the soul of a human
being an incomprehensible electric spark that cannot be laid hold of,
and which flashes up in resolve and act? So long as there is no storm
in the sky we send at will the spark over the extended wire; but when
the great, eternally unsubdued, primitive forces of nature manifest
themselves, the human message is no longer transmitted, and the sparks
spontaneously play upon the conducting wires. Chaos sends forth an
unintelligible message.
A time will come when thou shalt no longer be master of the living soul
of thy pupil, in which, with all thy heedful precaution, rude,
uncontrolled elements are at work. What then?
There is no security given for the whole future, and in the meantime,
what concerns us is to fulfil quietly and faithfully the duty of the
day.