His mother sighed deeply.
“Thou wilt not leave Herr Erlangen’s, surely. It is little we get, but it keeps us in food.”
“I must leave,” he answered. “Nay, do not cry out, mother! I have other plans, and thou wilt not starve. Monsieur Dayrolles, the rich Frenchman, who lives in the Linden-Strasse, has often asked me why I do not set up a foundry of my own. Of course I laughed,—I, who never have a thaler to spend; but he told me he and several other rich friends of his would advance the means to start me in business. He is a great deal of his time at Erlangen’s, and is an enthusiast about fine bells. Ah! we are great friends, and I am going to him after supper.”
“People say he is crazy,” said his mother.
“Crazy!” indignantly. “People say that of everybody who has ideas they can’t understand. They say I am crazy when I talk of my chime of bells. If I stay with Erlangen, he gets the credit of my work; but my chime must be mine,—mine alone, mother.” His eyes lighted with a kind of wild enthusiasm whenever he talked on this subject.
His mother’s cheerful face grew sad, as she laid her hand on his shoulder.
“Why, Otto, thou art not thyself when thou speakest of those bells.”
“More my real self, mother, than at any other time!” he cried. “I only truly live when I think of how my idea is to be carried out. It is to be my life’s work; I know it, I feel it. It is upon me that my fate is woven inextricably in that ideal chime. It is God-sent. No great work, but the maker is possessed wholly by it. Don’t shake your head, mother. Wait till my ‘Harmony Chime’ sounds from the great cathedral belfry, and then shake it if you can.”
His mother smiled faintly.
“Thou art a boy,—a mere child, Otto, though a wonderful genius, I must confess. Thy hopes delude thee, for it would take a lifetime to carry out thine idea.”