A profound interest in metaphysics absorbed his whole being; and through this channel he had crept into the good graces of the college authorities. During his long study upon this subject, he had woven about himself all the labyrinthine meshes of the subtile German philosophy. Though only a tutor of twenty-five, the doctors of metaphysics touched their hats to him; all the students bowed before him; and I—I felt sorry for him.
Why? I can hardly tell. But he had grown thin and pale and nervous within the last year; and I could not help wishing that all Germany was as ignorant of psychology as in the days when the Suabians danced their dryad dances upon the very spot where now the great University lifted up its towers—this great University whose walls were built not of stone from the quarry, but of the labors of many lives, some of whose proudest pinnacles, reaching into a light of dazzling splendor, had been reared only by the everlasting sacrifice of reason.
A vague idea had floated into my mind, but so very terrible it was that I had never dared acknowledge its existence even to myself; nevertheless, it oppressed me constantly. Finally, it grew into such a burden that I could bear it no longer, and so made up my mind to do what little I could to relieve myself at any rate. A plan occurred to me whereby I might accomplish my chief design, which was to draw him away from this study that was consuming him; to draw him away from his myriad theories into life. But before I had said a word, while I was still meditating how it could best be done, Reinhart settled the trouble himself.
I never was more astonished or more pleased than when he proposed the very thing I had been trying to broach, that the two of us should spend the next six months in traveling. What had suggested it to him, or what his reasons were, I never asked. Had he any suspicions of this strange fancy that I would not admit to myself, and yet had been vainly striving to drive from my mind? Since then I have sometimes thought so, and sometimes thought not. To the proposition I consented eagerly, and did my best in hastening all the arrangements; therefore no time was lost before we found ourselves en route for the south of Europe.
As I have said, Reinhart was not in the least demonstrative. Very likely his natural reserve had been greatly increased by his sedentary life. But I noticed, early in our trip, that he seemed laboring to throw off his abstracted manner. I felt encouraged, notwithstanding I knew it was an effort to him, and determined, not only that he should see something of the world, but, what would be of much more benefit, that he should see something of society.
In the beautiful Italian scenery my own spirits rose perceptibly. The great load which had been burdening me lessened and finally raised itself altogether, as I saw this shadow of the German University that had been resting on my companion break. But I know now I was mistaken. It was only the battalion preparing for action; the marshalling of the forces before the conflict.
It had been almost a month since we left Germany. Many of the English and American gentlemen residing in Florence had shown us not only attention but hospitality. One thing I noticed quickly that Reinhart cared almost nothing for the society of ladies. He endured it; never sought it. The most beautiful faces he would pass without any notice, or with merely an indifferent glance. I was sorry for this, because here was a channel, I had thought, wherein might be turned the current of his existence.
With this subject still uppermost in my mind, I determined one morning I would bring my sounding-line into play, if it were only on account of my own satisfaction. We were sitting upon the deep sill of the open window, smoking our cigars and enjoying the utter tranquillity of the southern day, when I asked, indifferently, as if the question had been wholly unpremeditated,—
“Reinhart, were you ever in love?”
He looked up quickly, waited a moment, as though at first he had not exactly understood, then answered,—