CHAPTER XIV.
THE TEACHER'S TEACHER.
"Ball"—"American"—"Betrothed"—was heard the next morning at the spring in all the different languages, for, inconsistent as it may seem, winter gayeties are brought into a place frequented only by invalids.
Frau Ceres' carriage did not appear at the spring; she had a tumbler of mineral water brought to her room.
Before the altar in the village church lay Manna, long after the mass was over, studying her own heart. She cried out for help, for support against the world; she remembered the advice of the Priest to make free confession, wherever she might be, to a brother or a father, and she longed to confess here; but she did not, for there was one thing she could not tell. For the first time, she left the church with a burden on her heart.
Eric was fighting his fight with himself out upon the hills. Sonnenkamp had spoken with great openness to him, but one thing he had not said, that Pranken was waiting till Manna was titled before announcing the betrothal. He was angry with himself for having allowed the idea to take possession of him, and perhaps increase, though unconsciously, his repugnance to the commission laid upon him.
The sudden calling of his name terrified him, though it was pronounced by a gentle voice. Looking up he perceived Professor Einsiedel coming towards him: What better man could he have to clear up his doubts and restore his peace of mind? For one moment, he entertained the thought of laying all his questions before the pure and childlike, yet clear and brave spirit, of his old friend; but neither could he confess, neither could he tell all, and so he too shut his secret in his own heart.
The good old man could not understand how he was to live for weeks without work, without books, doing nothing but nurse his body. Such a cure as this, he said with a childlike smile, was only a sickness with the ability to take walks, and it would be nothing worse than sickness if he lay in bed.
But he soon turned the conversation from himself, and asked Eric about his studies, and how he was getting on with his great work upon slavery. Before Eric could answer, the Professor told him that he was continually making notes upon the subject for him, and that one of the most striking things he had met with was the decision with which Luther, from a religious point of view, had expressed himself in favor of holding slaves.
"I do not blame Luther," he continued; "he adopted the views of his day, just as others in other generations have believed in the agency of evil spirits. The language of the great Bossuet shows how much the strongest minds were influenced by the general belief of the time; he said that whoever denied the right of holding slaves sinned against the Holy Ghost. Perhaps a future generation will be as little able to understand our prejudices."
Eric found in this morning walk a satisfaction to which he had been long a stranger. Professor Einsiedel had looked cautiously about him as he walked, as if fearing some one might overhear the great secret he was about to reveal. At last he said:—
"Dear Doctor," he always called Eric Doctor, "I have been thinking a great deal about the task of educating a rich youth. The absolutely right I have not found; that can exist only in the imagination. But so to educate a human being, intellectually and morally, that we can be approximately sure—mark you, I say approximately—that we can be approximately sure, or have reason to believe, that, in any given case he will be guided by pure moral laws, that is all that we can hope to do; and I am very much mistaken, if that is not what you have already succeeded in accomplishing with regard to your pupil. As far as I know the world,—and I was tutor myself once, though only for a short time—as far as I know the world, those of high birth, and no doubt it is the same with those of great wealth, are full of wishes and cravings; and the task is to convert these wishes, these cravings, this expectancy, into active will and effort. Your handsome pupil has excellent, dispositions, in this respect; he understands the seriousness of life."
Never had the forest seemed, to Eric so grand, the sunlight so clear, the air so invigorating, the whole world so transfigured, as when he heard this testimony from his teacher's lips. Silently he, walked by his side, and sat with him in the forest; he would gladly have kissed the good man's delicate hand.
At another time, Professor Einsiedel admonished Eric that he was falling into the very error common among rich men of neglecting his own culture.
"Living with others is good," he said; "but living with one's self is better; and I fear you have not lived as you should with yourself."
He asked Eric plainly how far he had finished his book, and like a school-boy who finds himself detected in laziness and neglect of duty, Eric was obliged to confess that it had altogether dropped out of his mind. The face of the Professor suddenly collapsed, as if it were nothing but wrinkles; after a long silence he said,—
"You are inflicting the greatest injury on yourself and your pupil."
"On myself and my pupil?"
"Yes. You have no intellectual work of your own to counteract the daily distractions of your profession, and, therefore, you do not bring to your teaching the necessary freshness and elasticity. I have been a teacher myself, and always made it a rule to preserve inviolate my own intellectual sanctum, and in that way constantly renewed my strength. It is one of the conditions of a proper education, that the teacher should not be always at the disposal of his pupil. The pupil should understand, that living side by side with him is another human being like himself, who has his own life to nourish, and that no one has a right to command from another the total surrender of himself and all his powers. You must never consider yourself as a finished man; mark, I say finished; you must keep on educating yourself. To be finished is the beginning of death. Look at the leaves upon the trees; as soon as one has reached its perfection, it begins to turn yellow and shrink."
The words made a deep impression upon Eric. What this man here in this silent wood-path was saying aloud, he had often felt, but had never been willing to confess even to himself.
"'Non semper arcum tendit Apollo,' says Virgil," Eric answered, quoting from his teacher's favorite poet.
"Good, good! that agrees with what I say. Apollo, to be sure, is not always bending his bow, but he never lays it aside; it remains his inalienable attribute."
They went on for some time in silence, till presently the Professor began again,—
"You are still young; you must not waste these morning hours of your life. I warn you as your teacher and your father, yes in the very spirit of your father. It is my right and my duty thus to speak, for your father should serve you as a warning."
"My father serve me as a warning?"
"Yes. I need not remind you of the worth and importance of his labors, but your father often lamented that he had allowed an unworthy regard for his standing in society to interfere with his devotion to pure knowledge; he could not resume the steadiness of his former habits of study. More than that, he found himself thinking of persons while he was writing, instead of thinking only of ideas, which is our religion. If we lose that, we are the worst of idolaters; our idol is even less than a picture in a temple; it is the most worthless of all idols, the fickle voice of society."
Eric still remained silent, and the kindly old man began again,—
"Here is another proof of the wonderful connection of events. Our clinical Professor had to overcome a strong repugnance on my part to undertake this cure; neither of us knew that the real object of my being sent here was, perhaps, to be a healing-spring to you."
"Indeed you are," exclaimed Eric, as he grasped his teacher's delicate hand. Only for a little while longer, he said, till Roland had entered upon whatever work should be next appointed him, he wanted to devote himself entirely to his pupil; then he would return to the service of pure knowledges.
The Professor warned him not to wait for that, for he should never lose his hold of the world of ideas.
"Or if you mean to devote yourself to practical life," he added, "I have nothing to say against that; only you must decide on one or the other."
Eric returned to the hotel as one roused from a dream. He saw the danger which threatened him, of seeking to shine in society by a display of the thoughts and the knowledge he had acquired in the studies which he now no longer pursued. The Professor had touched a very different chord in him from what the Doctor had once stirred. He took pleasure in making his old teacher better acquainted with Clodwig, the Banker, Sonnenkamp, and particularly with Roland, whose lessons he now resumed with an energy which filled the boy with amazement.
The Professor took especial pleasure in the society of Roland, who called him, as he had done at their first meeting, "grand-teacher." There was a deference and a ready submission in his manner, which filled Eric with delight, when he saw them together. Many a saying of the noble old man's sank deep into the boy's mind.
"Who would suppose that the long lieutenant and the Professor belonged to the same race of men?" he once said to Eric.
Eric liked to leave his pupil as much as possible alone with the Professor, and was gratified by having the latter say to him after a few days,—
"You have done a good work; the boy has that sensitive pride in him which we are apt to associate with gentle birth. I should have no fear of his falling into low or criminal habits; his noble pride would be repelled by their vulgarity. There is no denying the fact that self-esteem amounting to pride can become, under proper guidance, a sure moral principle."
Bella had begun by trying to make a butt of the Professor, but the old man looked at her with an expression of such childlike compassion, and at the same time of such mild rebuke, that she soon dropped her tone of banter, and overlooked the good Professor altogether.
This unpretending and apparently inexperienced man formed, however, very decided opinions upon all whom he met. Clodwig he perceived to be a good and noble man. His classical education delighted him particularly. "Classical education," he said, "is the stone foundation, which, firmly planted in the ground, is itself invisible, but bears up the whole building."
The Banker was too uneasy and restless to please him, but he gave him credit for possessing a characteristic very common among the Jews, that of gratitude even for intellectual benefits.
Sonnenkamp inspired the Professor with a shrinking awe. He acknowledged that the feeling was unjust, for the man had always showed great friendliness towards him, but still he could not conquer it.
He once confessed to Eric that he was afraid of persons who were so strong; he always felt as if Sonnenkamp would take him up in his arms like a little child and run away with him. He knew he should never understand the man's character perfectly; reading characters was something like deciphering inscriptions on stone; if you cannot make them out at the first glance, you will succeed no better with hard study.
Quite a new influence was exerted, however, as Professor Einsiedel became more intimate with Manna. In Eric's case, he had recognized instantly his having been sent to this place by that invisible power which harmonizes all life, for the purpose of bringing help to his young friend. Such was even more the fact with regard to Manna, though here he was not conscious of it. Manna was needing and seeking help, and attached herself, with the loving watchfulness of a daughter, to this delicate man, who outwardly was so childlike and dependent.
Geology and chemistry have not yet satisfactorily settled the manner in which these medicinal springs work their cures, and we are equally ignorant of the workings of that subtle influence by which one man affects another for good or for evil. Thus mysteriously did Professor Einsiedel influence Manna. When she told him of her desire to enter the convent, he expressed his envy.
"If I were a Catholic," he said, "I would enter a convent too; but it must be a different kind of a convent, one exclusively for men of science, who have no time or faculty for providing for the necessities of life, and yet have works of importance to carry out."
Manna smiled, for she could not help thinking of Claus, who also wanted to enter a convent, so that he might have nothing to do but drink all the time. But she quickly banished all such comparisons; for here was a repose, a devotion to a sacred idea, which might boldly compare itself with the sacredness of the church. She trembled at the thought, but could not drive it from her mind. With some timidity, and yet emboldened by the remembrance of her former undoubting confidence, she ventured to approach the Professor, though only interrogatively, upon the subject of the necessity of religious faith, as the only means of salvation. She was amazed at the sudden excitement that blazed up in the quiet little man.
"We are no enemies of the church," he said, "for we only make war upon the living. The church has not been able to fashion the world, nor society, nor a single state; all it has succeeded in doing, is to found asylums and hospitals. Not to her is given the direction of life, but to classical education, to continually advancing culture. My child, there is a fellow-professor of mine in the University, who persistently maintains that the Corpus juris has done much more for the civilization of the world, than the fragments which are included under the name of the Old and New Testament. I do not wholly agree with him, for the Bible has touched a different chord in the world. Consider, the world has inherited from classical antiquity two great ideas, those of state and nationality. Men were brought up in these two ideas. Then came religion, and taught universality, the oneness of all mankind, the brotherhood of man, and the unity of humanity. Religion alone could have done it; it would have been impossible for the Roman civilization under the old and new Cæsars. The church has done her work; she has implanted the idea of humanity. Now people assemble again in states, in nationalities, still needing to preserve the idea of brotherhood. But forgive me, I am falling too much into the schoolmaster's tone."
"No, no; pray go on; I understand. Pray go on!"
"Very well, then; what was ever purely ideal is not lost to the world, only it must not require to be forever and ever the one sole expression of truth. Here lies the difference between us unbelievers, as we are called, and believers. Let me illustrate my meaning by facts—or do I weary you?"
"How can you think so poorly of me?"
"Forgive me. The present century is laboring for two great objects, the emancipation of the serfs, and the abolition of slavery. They will be accomplished, but not by the church; no, by the progress of culture. Forgive me, my child, I do not want to confuse you. Never touch upon the subject again, be sure you never do again. I am a patient man, very patient. I want to disturb no one, but I pray you, most earnestly I must pray you, never to touch upon these subjects with me again. As I have said, I am sorry if I have spoken slightingly of anything which is sacred and dear to you; I hope it will so continue to you, although I reject it. But I beg you, earnestly beg you, not to approach this theme again."
As Manna walked by the side of the Professor, she longed for some hand from heaven to snatch her away from him.
What had she fallen upon? What words had she had to hear? and that not from a man of the world, but from one who desired nothing but to end his life in modest quiet.
No hand from heaven was outstretched to snatch her away, and she gradually succeeded in regaining her tranquillity.
It was well she should have heard this from a man she could not despise. This was the last assault of the tempter; she would not yield under it. So she promised herself, and pressed her hand on her heart, as if there was something there of which she would keep fast hold. But the deed was done; she could not recall it. She had lost that for which she had been ready to sacrifice her life, for the church, to which she had been ready to give herself, had done nothing towards destroying this monstrous evil.
She felt inclined henceforth to avoid the Professor; but that would have been unjust. What had he done except honestly to tell her his convictions?
A feeling of attachment led her still to devote much of her time to him, but both avoided any discussion upon matters of religion; only Manna would sometimes look up at him with wondering eyes, when he would quote, from heathen writings, sayings which she had been taught to consider the exclusive property of the church.
A wide horizon opened before her eyes, in which the different religions seemed only so many promontories, and this unassuming, delicately organized man seemed a type of the human individual, who had received into himself and harmonized all contradiction. She saw Eric's reverence for the Professor, his childlike deference, his respectful attention, the submission which he every hour displayed towards him. She watched Eric closely. It surprised her that this man of strongly marked individuality should be capable of such humble veneration for another.
Professor Einsiedel was often accompanied also by a little dried-up old man of most humble exterior, who always withdrew at Manna's approach, as if he felt himself unworthy to intrude upon the society of men.
Professor Einsiedel once told Manna the history of this companion of his. They had been school-fellows together, and this man was early taken from his studies on account of the death of his father, and the necessity of providing for his brothers and sisters. He became book-keeper in a great banking house, by which he earned enough not only to support a widowed sister and her children, but managed, by practising the strictest economy, to lay by a considerable sum.
One night, on returning from the theatre, he found that his nephew had broken open his desk, stolen his whole property, and escaped with it to America. Without telling any one of the robbery—for how could he give up to justice his sister's son?—he began anew to spare and to save, and thus sacrificed his life for that of another.
Professor Einsiedel had no idea what a deep impression this simple history made upon Manna,—this story of silent, unobtrusive self-sacrifice.
One subject upon which Manna and Einsiedel could converse with perfect sympathy was Eric's mother. The Professor took for granted that Manna lived on terms of intimate friendship with the noble lady, and he could not find words strong enough to express his appreciation of her firmness and nobleness of mind. Manna smiled to hear him say that the Professorin had converted him from a very low opinion of the capabilities of her sex, to a conviction that a woman is endowed with all the characteristics of man, only in a more beautiful shape. Manna also had many pleasant things to tell of Eric's mother.
This unassuming little man, who had thus dropped by chance into their circle, had exercised on the minds of all an influence far outweighing that of the excitements and allurements of the life in the great world.
But even in this society, Sonnenkamp thought only of advancing his own plans of self-aggrandizement. In a few days the Prince, Clodwig, and Bella were to take their departure; if he could not win over the Prince, he was resolved to attach all the nobility at least to his interests.