In the theatre we interest ourselves for struggling innocence; but we are still more affected when the destiny of a whole nation is to be decided. It is on this account that “Wilhelm Tell” possesses so much interest. Not of the single individual is here the question, but of all. Here is flesh of our flesh, and bone of our bone. Greater than the play created by the poet was the effect which this description of the July days produced upon Otto. This was the reality itself in which he lived. His heart was filled with admiration for France, who fought for Liberty the holy fight, and who, with the language of the sword, had pronounced the anathema of the age on the enemies of enlightenment and improvement.
The old preacher folded his hands as he heard it; his eyes sparkled: but soon he shook his head. “May men so judge the anointed ones of God? ‘He who taketh the sword shall perish by the sword!’”
“The king is for the people,” said Otto; “not the people for the king!”
“Louis XVIth’s unhappy daughter!” sighed Rosalie; “for the third time is she driven from her father-land. Her parents and brothers killed! her husband dishonored! She herself has a mind and heart. ‘She is the only man among the Bourbons,’” said Napoleon.
The preacher, with his old-fashioned honesty, and a royalist from his whole heart, regarded the affair with wavering opinion, and with fear for the future. Rosalie thought most of those who were made unhappy of the royal ladies and the poor children. Each followed the impulse of their own nature, and the instinctive feeling of their age; thus did Otto also, and therefore was his soul filled with enthusiasm. Enthusiasm belongs to youth. His thoughts were busied with dreams of Paris; thither flew his wishes. “Yes, I will travel!” exclaimed he; “that will give my whole character a more decided bias: I will and must,” added he in thought. “My sorrow will be extinguished, the recollections of my childhood be forgotten. Abroad, no terrific figures, as here, will present themselves to me. My father is dead, foreign earth lies upon his coffin!”
“But the office—examination!” said the old preacher, “pass that first. It is always good to have this in reserve, even if thou dost make no use of it. Only make this year thy philosophicum.”
“And in the spring I shall travel,” said Otto.
“That depends upon thy guardian, my son!” said the preacher.
Several days passed, and Otto began to feel it solitary in his home—all moved here in such a confined circle. His mind was accustomed to a wider sphere of action. He began to grow weary, and then the hours travel with the snail’s pace.
“...minutterna ligesom räcka og strärka sig.
Man känner behof at göre sa med.” [Note: Sketches of Every-day Life.]