“We are all that,” said Martin. Then the veil of melancholy dropped again.
“When we are conscious of it, the cure is there. Rousseau was the mind of his generation; he might have been its soul, but he never found himself.”
Einsiedeln—with its monasteries a thousand years old, its few sad Benedictine hermits poring over their ancient manuscripts, restoring the eaten-away remnants, kept with pious reverence hidden in old chests. Einsiedeln—its pilgrims, its Life Eternal, hypnotized, under the spell of religion.
Arosa—the bleak mountains, the hopeless sick wrapped in blankets on open balconies. Martin shivered.
“Let us go.”
Zurich again, with its historical surroundings. The pastor told the story of Charlemagne who, finding a toad sitting in the nest of a beautiful serpent, drove it out and killed it with one blow of his heavy stick. “There was a banquet at the Palace that night; the guards were terrified at the sight of a white spotted snake who crawled into the hall, wound herself up on the legs of a chair, and dropped a priceless jewel into the goblet of wine which the monarch held to his lips, giving him the magic gift of compelling the love of all who set eyes on him.”
“A toad in her nest,” repeated Martin....
Two months in the cities, then the country beautiful—the trees heavy with white blossoms, bearing embryonic fruit. Toward evening the air grew heavy with the day’s perfume; the night was warm in the valley. Martin moved about restlessly.
“I cannot sleep; let us go into the woods.”
They walked through dark trails, lit faintly by stars shining through the trees; then he broke a long silence, speaking of himself for the first time, slowly, timidly.