Chapter V

The news that Montan was in the neighborhood had made Wilhelm reflect. He considered that it ought not to be left to chance alone whether he should meet with so estimable a friend, therefore he inquired of his landlord if they did not know towards what quarter this traveller had turned his course. No one had any information on this point; and Wilhelm had determined to pursue his pilgrimage on the former plan, when Felix cried, “If father were not so strange, we might soon find Montan.”

“What way?” said Wilhelm.

Felix answered, “Little Fitz told us last night that he could trace out the stranger gentleman, who had many fine stones with him, and understood them well.”

After some talking, Wilhelm at last resolved on making the experiment; purposing, in the course of it, to keep so much the sharper watch on the suspicious boy. Fitz was soon found; and, hearing what was to be done, he soon produced mallet and chisel, and a stout hammer, with a little bag, and set forth, running merrily before the party, in his mining accoutrements.

The way went to a side, and up the mountains. The children skipped on together, from crag to crag, over stock and stone, over brook and bourn; and, without having any path before him, Fitz pressed rapidly upwards, now looking to the right hand, now to the left. As Wilhelm, and especially the laden porter, could not follow so fast, the boys often ran back and forward, singing and whistling. The aspect of some new trees arrested the attention of Felix, who now, for the first time, formed acquaintance with larches and fir-cones, and curiously surveyed the strange gentian shrubs. And thus, in their toilsome wandering, there lacked not from time to time a little entertainment. But all at once they were fronted by a barricado of trees, which a storm had hurled together in a confused mass. “This was not in my reckoning,” said Fitz. “Wait here till I find my way again, only have a care of the cave up there: no one goes into it or near it, without getting harm, or having tricks played on him.”

The boy went off in an ascending direction: the porter, on the other hand, grumbling at the excessive difficulty of the way, set down his luggage, and searched sidewards and downwards for some beaten path.

No sooner did Felix see himself alone with his father, than his curiosity awoke, and he glided softly toward the cave. Wilhelm, who gave him leave, observed after some time that the child was no longer in sight. He himself mounted to the cave, at the mouth of which he had last seen the boy; and, on entering, he found the place empty. It was spacious, but could be taken in at a glance. He searched for some other outlet, and found none. The matter began to be serious. He took the whistle which he wore at his button-hole: an answer to his call came sounding out of the depth, so that he was uncertain whether he should take it for an echo, when, shortly afterwards, Felix peeped out of the ground; for the chink through which he looked was scarcely wide enough to let through his head.

“What art thou about there?” cried his father.

“Hush!” said Felix: “art thou alone?”

“Quite alone,” answered Wilhelm.

“Then, go quick,” cried the boy, “and fetch me a couple of strong clubs.”

Wilhelm went to the fallen timber, and, with his hanger, cut off a pair of thick staves: Felix took them, and vanished, having first called to his father, “Let no one into the cave!”

After some time Felix cried, “Another pair of staves, and larger ones!” With these also his father provided him, and waited anxiously for the solution of his riddle. At length the boy issued rapidly from the cleft, and brought a little box with him, not larger than an octavo volume, of rich, antique appearance: it seemed to be of gold, decorated with enamel. “Put it up, father,” said the boy, “and let none see it.” Wilhelm had not time to ask many questions, for they already heard the call of the returning porter; and scarcely had they joined him, when the little squire also began to shout and wave from above.

On their approach he cried out, “Montan is not far off: I bet we shall soon meet him.”

“How canst thou know this,” said Wilhelm, “in so wild a forest, where no human being leaves any trace behind him?”

“That is my knack,” said Fitz; and, like a Will-o’-wisp, he hopped off hither and thither, in a side direction, to lead his masters the strangest road.

Felix, in the mean while, highly satisfied in the treasure he had found, highly delighted at possessing a secret, kept close by his father, without, as formerly, skipping up and down beside his comrade. He nodded to Wilhelm with sparkling eyes; glancing towards his companion, and making significant faces, to indicate how much he was above Fitz now, in possessing a secret entirely wanting to the other. He carried it so far at length, that Fitz, who often stopped and looked about, must very soon have noticed it. Wilhelm therefore said to Felix, “My son, whoever wishes to keep a secret must hide from us that he possesses one. Self-complaisance over the concealed destroys its concealment.” Felix restrained himself; but his former gay, free manner to his comrade he could not now attain.

All at once little Fitz stood still. He beckoned the rest to him. “Do you hear a beating?” said he. “It is the sound of a hammer striking on the rock.”

“We hear it,” answered they.

“That is Montan,” said he, “or some one who will tell us of him.”

Following the sound, which was repeated from time to time, they reached an opening in the wood, and perceived a steep, high, naked rock, towering over all the rest, leaving even the lofty forest deep beneath it. On the top of it they descried a man: he was too far off to be recognized. Immediately the boys set about ascending the precipitous path. Wilhelm followed with some difficulty, nay, danger: for the person that climbs a rock foremost always proceeds with more safety, because he can look out for his conveniences; he who comes after sees only whither the other has arrived, but not how. The boys soon reached the top, and Wilhelm heard a shout of joy. “It is Jarno,” cried Felix to his father; and Jarno immediately came forward to a rugged spot, stretched out his hand to his friend, and drew him up. They embraced, and welcomed each other into the free, skyey air, with the rapture of old friends.

But scarcely had they stepped asunder, when a giddiness came over Wilhelm, not so much on his own account, as at seeing the boys hanging over the frightful abyss. Jarno observed it, and immediately bade all sit down. “Nothing is more natural,” said he, “than that we should grow giddy at a great sight, which comes unexpectedly before us, to make us feel at once our littleness and our greatness. But there is not in the world any truer enjoyment than at the moment when we are so made giddy for the first time.”

“Are these, then, down there, the great mountains we climbed over?” inquired Felix. “How little they look! And here,” continued he, loosening a crumb of stone from the rock, “is the old cat-gold again: this is found everywhere, I suppose?”

“It is found far and wide,” answered Jarno; “and, as thou art asking after such things, I may bid thee notice that thou art now sitting on the oldest mountain, on the earliest rock, of this world.”

“Was the world not made at once, then?” said Felix.

“Hardly,” answered Jarno: “good bread needs baking.”

“Down there,” said Felix, “is another sort of rock; and there again another, and still again another,” cried he, pointing from the nearest mountains to the more remote, and so downward to the plain.

It was a beautiful day, and Jarno let them survey the lordly prospect in detail. Here and there stood several other peaks, similar to the one our travellers were on. A secondary moderate range of mountains seemed as if struggling up, but did not by far attain that height. Farther off, the surface flattened still more; yet again some strangely protruding forms rose to view. At last, in the remote distance, lakes were visible, and rivers; and a fruitful country spread itself out like a sea. And, when the eye came back, it pierced into frightful depths, sounding with cataracts, and connected with each other in labyrinthic combination.

Felix could not satisfy himself with questions, and Jarno was kind enough to answer all of them; in which, however, Wilhelm thought he noticed that the teacher did not always speak quite truly and sincerely. So, after the unstaid boys had again clambered off, Wilhelm said to his friend, “Thou hast not spoken with the child about these matters as thou speakest to thyself.”

“That, indeed, were a heavy requisition,” answered Jarno. “We do not always speak, even to ourselves, as we think; and it is not fit to tell others any thing but what they can take up. A man understands nothing but what is commensurate with him. To fix a child’s attention on what is present; to give him a description, a name,--is the best thing we can do for him. He will soon enough begin to inquire after causes.”

“One cannot blame this latter tendency,” observed Wilhelm. “The multiplicity of objects perplexes every one; and it is easier, instead of investigating them, to ask directly, whence and whither?”

“And yet,” said Jarno, “as children look at what is present only superficially, we cannot speak with them of origin and object otherwise than superficially also.”

“Most men,” answered Wilhelm, “continue all their days in this predicament, and never reach that glorious epoch in which the comprehensible appears to us common and insipid.”

“It may well be called glorious,” answered Jarno; “for it is a middle stage between despair and deification.”

“Let us abide by the boy,” said Wilhelm, “who is, at present, my first care. He has, somehow, got a fondness for minerals since we began this journey. Canst thou not impart so much to me as would put it in my power to satisfy him, at least for a time?”

“That will not do,” said Jarno. “In every new department one must, in the first place, begin again as a child: throw a passionate interest over the subject; take pleasure in the shell till one has the happiness to arrive at the kernel.”

“Tell me, then,” said Wilhelm, “how hast thou attained this knowledge? For it is not so very long, after all, since we parted.”

“My friend,” said Jarno, “we were forced to resign ourselves, if not forever, at least for a long season. The first thing that occurs to a stout-hearted man, under such circumstances, is to begin a new life. New objects will not suffice him; these serve only for diversion of thought: he requires a new whole, and plants himself in the middle of it.”

“But why, then,” interrupted Wilhelm, “choose this strangest and loneliest of all pursuits?”

“Even because of its loneliness,” cried Jarno. “Men I wished to avoid. To them we can give no help, and they hinder us from helping ourselves. Are they happy, we must let them persevere in their stolidities; are they unhappy, we must save them without disturbing these stolidities; and no one ever asks whether Thou art happy or unhappy.”

“It is not quite so bad with them, surely,” answered Wilhelm, smiling.

“I will not talk thee out of thy happiness,” said Jarno. “Go on thy way, thou second Diogenes! Let not thy lamp in daylight go out! Down on that side lies a new world before thee; but, I dare wager, things stand there as in the old one. If thou canst not pimp, and pay debts, thou availest nothing.”

“Yet they seem to me more entertaining than thy dead rocks,” said Wilhelm.

“Not they!” answered Jarno, “for my rocks are at least incomprehensible.”

---------------------------------------