The Boy blushed deeply. He drew a copy of Kant from his bosom, but in his confusion several other volumes dropped from his bosom on the ground. The Baronet picked them up.
“Ah!” said the Philosopher, “what’s this? Cicero’s De Senectute, and at your age, too? Martial’s Epigrams, Cæsar’s Commentaries. What! a classical scholar?”
“E pluribus Unum. Nux vomica. Nil desperandum. Nihil fit!” said the Boy, enthusiastically. The Philosopher gazed at the Child. A strange presence seemed to transfuse and possess him. Over the brow of the Boy glittered the pale nimbus of the Student.
“Ah, and Schiller’s Robbers too?” queried the Philosopher.
“Das ist ausgespielt,” said the Boy modestly.
“Then you have read my translation of Schiller’s Ballads?” continued the Baronet, with some show of interest.
“I have, and infinitely prefer them to the original,” said the Boy with intellectual warmth. “You have shown how in Actual life we strive for a Goal we cannot reach; how in the Ideal the Goal is attainable, and there effort is victory. You have given us the Antithesis which is a key to the Remainder, and constantly balances before us the conditions of the Actual and the privileges of the Ideal.”
“My very words,” said the Baronet; “wonderful, wonderful!” and he gazed fondly at the Italian boy, who again resumed his menial employment. Alas! the wings of the Ideal were folded. The Student had been absorbed in the Boy.
But Sir Edward’s boots were blacked, and he turned to depart. Placing his hand upon the clustering tendrils that surrounded the classic nob of the infant Italian, he said softly, like a strain of distant music:
“Boy, you have done well. Love the Good. Protect the Innocent. Provide for The Indigent. Respect the Philosopher.”... “Stay! Can you tell me what is The True, The Beautiful, The Innocent, The Virtuous?”