Eric's father had intended to write a book with the title, "The Real Man in History;" but he had died before accomplishing his purpose. Many valuable notes, even single portions, had been written out, but no use could be made of them, for each separate remark was considered in three different ways, and the leading idea had been contained in the head of the professor alone. All the sciences and the most remote facts of history had been drawn together, but the leading and connecting thought of the whole had vanished with the man himself, now resting in the ground; no entire form could be constructed out of these fragments. Only one thing was often pointed out, that the title should be, "The Real Man."
The first and larger part was to have collected those traits, scattered in the course of ages, out of which the image of God could be constructed as it was manifest in all the actual unfoldings of humanity; the second part was then to give an exact account of the manifestations of the soul's life in the past, to be as definitely determined as past events in external nature; and from there onwards was the point to be designated where genius, that miracle in the intellectual sphere, lays the foundation for new developments. This was what Eric thought, at any rate, when he tried to arrange the papers left by his father; then the leading and fundamental thought vanished, and all this matter collected with such laborious industry seemed utterly useless. As a treasure-digger, who must raise the treasure without speaking, so his father seemed to have closed his lips upon what he had already done, and upon what he intended to do.
Eric went back to the sitting-room, and the deep emotion of his heart, the whole uncertainty of his position, the growing strangeness of his home—all these were gathered into the thought of the lost labor, the useless toil of his father.
He looked around the room; it seemed to him inconveniently crowded with old furniture. He, who generally examined himself so closely and judged himself so severely, did not suspect that the sight of luxurious wealth and the late recognition of his own poverty had thrown a dark veil over all surrounding objects.
He collected himself, for he heard his mother and aunt returning.
His mother was heartily glad to see her son, but Eric was deeply troubled when she told him that she should have thought it quite right if he had accepted the situation with Sonnenkamp without reference to her, because, in their present position, it seemed double good fortune.
Eric saw that his mother, whom nothing had ever been able to bend, was now not only bent, but broken, and while he looked into her sorrowful face, he bitterly felt that his scruples and his sacrifice appeared superfluous.
His mother, repressing her own feelings, had written to the widowed princess, whose maid of honor she had been, giving an account of her situation. She had poured out her whole heart to the noble lady, and spoken of the great good fortune of the princess in being able to render essential help to her, who had never asked any favor; she requested a limited sum of money in order not to be obliged to sell the library of her husband, which was a sacred family possession, and had great value for her son. Tears came into her own eyes, as she read over the letter she had written. And now the mother handed to her son the reply of the dowager princess. She had answered through her secretary in well-expressed, sympathetic, and gracious terms. A small sum of money was enclosed, not half enough for the object in view.
The mother had had the desire to return this small sum, with the shrewd reply that, perhaps, the subordinate employed had not enclosed the full amount determined on by the princess; but she did not do it; one must not offend these high personages; one must even return humble thanks, in order not to forfeit their unsubstantial good-will.
Eric promised to have the library secured within a week.