Christian, now, without relating the material facts of his life to the major, gave him a brief sketch of his inclinations, desires, weaknesses, and the progress of his moral and intellectual life, and explained to him how it was that he had tried to become an artist, so that he might continue to devote himself actively to the service of science.
“Now, my dear Osmund,” he added, “to be an artist, you must be that and nothing else; you must sacrifice travels, scientific studies, and liberty to that end. In my case, since I have not been willing to make these sacrifices, why should I not content myself with being simply and plainly an artisan without an art, such as any man in good health may become at any given moment of his life? I want to study the entrails of the earth; cannot I become a miner, for a month, in some mine? I want to study the flora of a given locality and zoology; can I not engage for a season as a pioneer or huntsman in that region? And the next season, can I not push on further, living in poverty in the meanwhile, so as to use my arms and legs for advancing my knowledge, instead of exhausting my mind in pasquinades, for the sake of obtaining more quickly better food and finer clothes? Have I not sufficient moral courage to work with my hands, so as to have my mind at liberty, and, in a modest way, productive? I have thought a great deal about the life of your great Linnæus, which is a résumé of the history of almost all the scientific men of our period. Poverty, the actual want of bread, has done all that it could with most of them, to check their development, and compel them to leave their works unknown or incomplete. In their youth they have all been wanderers like myself, anxious about the morrow, with no other hope than the chance of meeting intelligent patrons. And even when they have received some benefit—a bitter thing in itself—how often have they been obliged to interrupt their pursuits, in order to occupy themselves with petty duties, which are conferred upon them as a favor, but which consume their precious time, and prevent, or delay, their discoveries. Very well, why did they not do what I am proposing, and what I intend to do; take a hammer or a spade over their shoulders, and go and excavate the rock, or till the soil? What do I want with books, or pen and ink? Why should I be so eager to make known my existence to the learned world, before having something new and really interesting to communicate? I know enough now to begin to learn, that is, to observe and study Nature for her own sake. We know well that sublime secrets have been wrested from the very elements, as it were, by poor illiterate workmen, in whom God had planted, like a sacred spark, the genius of observation. And do you suppose, Major Larrson, that a man loving nature passionately as I do, would lose his zeal and vigilance because obliged to eat black bread and sleep upon a bed of straw? In observing the structure of the rocks and the nature of the soil, might he not seize some idea that would prove useful in developing and improving—stay, these porphyry rocks which surround us, or these uncultivated fields which we are crossing? I am sure that there are sources of wealth everywhere, that man will gradually discover. To be useful to all, that is the glorious ideal of the artisan, dear Osmund; to be agreeable to the rich, is the puerile destiny of the artist; and I escape from it with joy.”
“What!” said the major, astonished; “are you serious, Christian, in wishing to renounce the agreeable arts, in which you excel, the refinements of life, which, with your brilliant gifts, you could easily command, the charms of society, where it only depends upon yourself to reappear on the most advantageous and agreeable footing, by accepting employment, as a superintendent, we will say, of some court entertainment? You have only to desire it, and you would quickly secure powerful friends, who could easily make you the manager of a theatre, or the director of a museum. If you wish—my family is noble, and has relations—”
“No, no, major! Thanks! That would have been well enough yesterday morning; I was still a child then, seeking his road while playing truant from school; I should, perhaps, have accepted your proposition. The ball had led me back to the old life, to the old worldly vanities to which I have already too often yielded. To-day I am a man, who sees where duty points him. I do not know what ray has penetrated my soul with this morning sunshine—”
Christian sank into a revery. He asked himself what association of ideas had led him to form resolutions so simple and energetic; but it was useless for him to question himself, and attribute this new inspiration entirely to the influence of a good night’s sleep and a beautiful morning; one image constantly arose before him, that of Margaret hiding her face in her hands at the name of Christian Waldo. That stifled cry, breaking from her woman’s heart, had struck the proud breast of Christian Goffredi. It had lingered in his ears, it had filled his soul with a generous shame, with a sudden and inflexible courage.
“And why, let me ask you,” he replied to the major, who reminded him how fatiguing and tiresome physical labor is, “why must I have amusement and repose, and be exempted from any sort of suffering? Since my birth did not give me a place among the privileged classes, what have I to depend upon, if I have not courage enough to make an honorable position for myself? Those who gave me birth? If they were here before me they might very well reply, that, having made me strong and healthy, they had no idea of rendering me delicate and lazy, and that, if fine carpets to walk on and delicacies to eat are really indispensable to sustain my strength and keep me in good-humor, it had been quite impossible for them to foresee this strange and absurd contingency.”
“You are laughing, Christian,” said the major; “for life, without its superfluities, is not worth the trouble of living. Should not man’s aim be to build himself a nest with care and foresight, of which the very birds set him an example?”
“Yes, major, it should be the aim of such men as you, whose future is linked in with his past. But there is nothing edifying in my past life, and when I became an interpreter, as M. Goefle calls it, do you know what the real motive was that influenced me? Most assuredly, though I did not know it myself, it was the fear of what is called poverty. Now, such a fear in a man who has only himself to care for, is cowardly. Only think how absurd a lamentation on that score would sound in the mouth of a man so well formed and healthy as I am! Stay! imagine one of my marionettes soliloquizing; our friend Stentarello, for instance, speaking in all artlessness: ‘Alas, miserable me! three times unfortunate! I can no longer sleep in sheets of the finest linen! Alas! I can no longer, when I am warm in Italy, take a glass of vanilla ice cream; or, when I am cold in Sweden, pour first-class rum into my tea! Alas! I can no longer dance at balls in lavender-colored silk; no more lace sleeves to set off my white hand. Miserable me! I can no longer cover my hair with powder scented with violet, and with pomade scented with tuberose! Oh, stars, behold my deplorable destiny! So pretty, so charming, so amiable as I am, and yet I can have no more preserves served in china plates; no more moire ribbons to tie my queue; no more gold buckles to my shoes! Blind fortune, cursed society! you certainly owe me as much as that, and to Christian Waldo too, who makes his marionettes talk and gesticulate so well.’”
Larrson could not help laughing at Christian’s gayety.
“You are a droll fellow,” he said; “at some moments you seem to me paradoxical, and then again I ask myself whether you are not as great a sage as Diogenes, breaking his cup so as to drink at the fountain-head—in the brook itself.”