“Perhaps some day, but why not you? You have the instinct in you; I feel it.”
The boy’s face lit up. “How strange you should know that. I love art; I’ve studied it in Paris. I’ve been dabbling a bit in oil. They say I have talent.”
The man bent forward. “I have a class of young artists in Geneva; they are all unusually gifted. Join us!” How eager he was; he hung on to the boy’s answer.
“I would like it, but an artist’s career is too passive for me. I have no patience. I want action, results; I want to work for the great World Reformation which is coming. I want to help bring down to this miserable, unhappy earth, a little of the Heaven we have been dreaming of so long. We must wake up! We must commence now and fight the monster of materialism which is destroying us.” He was on his feet, his head erect, his eyes blazing. A young David sharpening his sword for the great encounter with the Giant of superstition, lies, false Gods.
“I must go now. May I come again? I’m going to write all about you to my mother. Were you here that time they were caught in the storm?”
Angela put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. He started, looked up.
“I was in America, I was very unfortunate there. I often lost my way—in jungles. Race instinct made me restless. The peasant blood was strong in me.”
“Race instinct?” repeated the boy. “I’ve felt that—but I didn’t know what it was, stirring in me. I can’t express it. It was like a melody—from far, far away, coming back in snatches—like—like the strains of—a National Hymn. It excites me.”
Angela’s eyes shone.
“You are living a great romance, the romance of race.”