Villa Eden: The Country-House on the Rhine. Auerbach Berthold
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and groaning. When he arrived at the house of the huntsman, he did not find Roland, who had gone with Devil into the woods upon the height.
The huntsman greeted Eric less submissively; he lifted his cap, indeed, but only to cock it a little one side; he approached him in that familiar way so common on the upper Rhine, where it always seems as if one would touch glasses, and make himself friendly with you.
"Captain," he asked, "have you settled matters?"
"No."
"May I be permitted to say something to you?"
"If it is something good, why not?"
"That's just as one takes it. That one, down there" – he pointed with his thumb back to the villa – "that one is buying up the whole Rhine-land. But see you, that fox-hound there – "
"Stop," at once exclaimed Eric, proceeding to point out, in a very decisive manner, that he had no right to speak so to him, and about another person.
Eric was aware that he had not properly preserved his own dignity, or this man would not have been able to approach him so familiarly; and he was now more severe in repelling this forwardness than he intended. The huntsman only puffed the more vigorously at his pipe, and then said, —
"Yes, yes, you are the one to seize the man down there by the throat, and I see that you are too smart for me. You wish to get off from thanking me; I want no thanks, and no pay."
He muttered to himself, that everything which came near the rich man was always spoilt.
Eric must undo somewhat the impression he had made, for the huntsman was the only one who could rival him in his influence over Roland. The huntsman took, in very good part, Eric's expressions of friendliness, but he remained silent. When Roland came back, Eric asked him nothing about his excursion to the woods, and told him nothing about the dwarf. It was Roland's place to ask him, but the boy said nothing, and they both rode back in silence.
Eric immediately caused himself to be announced to Herr Sonnenkamp, and informed him that he now felt compelled to assume a definite relation with Roland.
"You find Roland, then, an excellent youth?"
"He has great boldness, determination, and – I know that a father can only hear it with unwilling ears, but after your searching inquiries yesterday, I may be permitted to hope that you are sufficiently free to – "
"Certainly, certainly; only speak out."
"I find a degree of hard-heartedness, and a want of sympathy with the purely human, surprising at such an age;" and Eric related how Roland had deported himself in regard to the dwarf.
A peculiar smile darted over Sonnenkamp's features, as he asked, —
"And do you feel confident that you can make a corrupted nature noble?"
"Pardon me, I said nothing about a corrupted nature; I should say, rather, that Roland is just now changing his voice, in a spiritual sense, and one cannot judge what tone it will take; but so much the more necessity is there for care in the kind of influence exerted."
"And what is your opinion of Roland's talents?"
"I think that he is not superior to the average. He has a good natural understanding, and a quick comprehension, but persistency, —that is indeed very questionable, and I have already observed that he goes along well enough a certain distance, then comes to a standstill, and will pursue the thought no farther. I am not yet very clear in regard to this mental characteristic; if it cannot be changed for the better, I should fear that Roland would be unhappy, for he would experience no abiding satisfaction, nor would he feel the delight, nor the obligation, of perseverance. Yet this is, perhaps, drawing too fine a thread."
"No, no, you are right. I place no reliance upon my son's stability of character; he only lives from hand to mouth. It is a bore to him to do anything of which he cannot see the direct result.
"That is the way with children. But such children never make sterling men; therefore I wanted Roland to love plants, as he would then be obliged to learn that there was something which can at no time be neglected or forgotten."
"I am rejoiced," Eric replied, "that you here remind me of the most vital points. First of all, the rich man, and the son of a rich man, like the prince and the son of a prince, have only subservient friends. Against my will I have become Roland's play-fellow, and so the subsequent serious work will be interfered with."
"Is it impossible then, to combine work and play?"
"I hope to do so. But the necessity of work must be recognized." Eric continued silent, and Sonnenkamp asked, —
"You have still another point?"
"Most certainly, and it is this. As I have already suggested, Roland must acquire a steadfast relation to external things, an intimate bond of union with them, as then only will he be at home in the world. He who has no recollections of childhood, no deep attachment to that which has transpired around him, is cut off from the very fountain-head of genial and hearty affection. Question yourself, and you will find – your return to Germany fully proves it – that the heartfelt, endearing recollections of childhood were the very sustenance, what one may perhaps call the spiritual mother's milk, of your deepest soul."
Sonnenkamp winced at these words, and Eric added, —
"Homelessness is hurting the soul of your son."
"Homelessness?" Sonnenkamp exclaimed in astonishment.
His face quivered for an instant, and his athletic strength seemed eager to make some outward demonstration, but he restrained it within the bounds of forced composure, asking, —
"Do I rightly apprehend you? Homelessness?"
"That is what I think. The inner life of the child needs training, that it may cling to something; a journey is, perhaps, not harmful to the soul of a child; at the best, it has little effect upon him. A child in travelling has no distinct impression from all the changes of the landscape; he takes delight in the locomotive at the station, and in the wind-mill on the hill. One fixed point in the soul anchors it firmly. I said that the human being ought to have an object to strive for, but permit me to add to that, that he must also have a fixed point of departure, and that is the home. You said, and I see it myself, that Roland takes no real delight in anything; and is not that owing to the fact that the boy is homeless, a child of hotels, with no tap-root in any place, and still more, no deep-seated impressions, no pictures in his memory which have become a portion of his very life, and to which he returns from all his wayward fancies? He told me that he had played in the Coliseum at Rome, in the Louvre at Paris, in Hyde-park at London, and on the lake of Geneva, – and now, living in Europe, yet always proudly conscious of being an American, – this causes – pardon me, I only ask the question – does this not cause a restlessness of spirit, which may be fatal to any growth?"
"I see," Sonnenkamp answered, leaning back his head, "you are an incarnate, or one might rather say, an insouled German, who runs over the whole world, in reality and in thought, and cajoles himself always with the self-complacent notion, 'I am so whole-souled, and that is more than the rest of you are.' Pah! I tell you that if I bestow anything of worth upon my child, I believe it will be just this, that he will be free from that sentimentality of a so-called settled home. The whistle of the locomotive scares away all the homesickness so tenderly pampered of old. We are in fact cosmopolites, and that is just the greatness of American civilization, that, not being rooted in the past, national limitations and rights of citizenship have no narrowing influence upon the soul. The home-attachment is an old nuisance and a prejudice. Roland is to become an untramelled man."
Eric was silent. After a considerable time, he said: —
"It is, perhaps, not beneficial, but tiresome, both to you and to me, to deal in generalities. I would only say, that however little calculated travelling may be to create an inner satisfaction, when there is no definite object to be attained that one can all along hold in view, much less can a life that has no special aim of action, thought, or enjoyment, confer any central peace. If Roland now had some special talent – "
"Do you find none at all in him?"
"I