The years of misery and war were over. In the streets of the old town,
where only a few years ago the roll of the drum resounded, and where the
plague, in deathly silence, had spread its black wings, there, the stork
on the town-hall heard, to his great satisfaction, merry shouts of
children,--the ringing laugh of peace. A group of boys chased each
other noisily over the market-place, playing at war. War! which had
desolated so many of their homes. Oh! the fresh, merry laughter of
childhood! how like unto ivy it climbeth over all ruins and findeth at
last the sunshine!
But there was one not amongst the noisy group, and that one was Hans.
His parents perceived with anxiety that the little noisy child had grown
into a silent, shy boy, who avoided the games of his comrades and
dreamingly went his own way. For hours he sat in the garden on the bench
near his mother's flowers, and gazed dreamingly at the busy bees and
butterflies, or lay in the woods near by and stared up through the
branches of the beech-trees at the blue sky.
"What are you thinking of?" his mother would ask at times; then he would
start up like one awakened from sleep, the thread of whose dreams are
broken by awaking. "He is ill," the mother would think, anxiously. But
folks would shake their heads suspiciously when, on speaking to the boy,
they received no other answer than a shy, questioning look. "There is
something wanting," said some, with an unmistakable gesture. "He is a
fool," murmured others.
Thus a boy fares who has peeped too early into Paradise. The children
of his own age made fun of him, and poor Hans would have been quite
forsaken if Liesel from next door had not taken his part. She was quite
the opposite to him,--merry and high-spirited. Whilst he sat dreaming,
she was romping about, singing and laughing. But the children kept
together, and the parents thought they might some day be a pair. The
boy's reserved nature vexed the father, and, being of the opinion that
man's hand cannot learn too early to handle and knead the tough clay of
existence, he apprenticed him to a potter, in the hope that time would
change the character of his son. He was mistaken, however; the boy grew
up a fine, handsome youth, but in character he remained the boy of
former days. If he looked up from his work it was not in order to gaze,
like other journeymen, after a young girl who maybe was tripping past;
but to stare up at the sky, which shone so blue between the houses, or
to follow with his eyes the great white clouds away,--who knows whither?
In his free time he did not go like others to the market-place, but
would mount the ramparts at the back of his parents' house and gaze into
the valley below, where the river was bearing its silvery wavelets into
the far distance. What might not be in the far distance? Far, far away
yonder must be the place where the dream of his childhood was realized!
How astonished, then, was his father, when one fine sunny spring morning
his son stood before him, with knapsack and staff, in order to bid him
farewell before setting out on his travels. Who would ever have thought
he would want to travel! The father rejoiced in the belief that the son
would seek work according to the custom of journeymen workmen, and gave
him his blessing, and much good advice besides. But he hardly even heard
the words and advice of his father; there was a singing in his ears and
a mist before his eyes, so that he felt like one intoxicated. Yes, he
was a fool! Nor did he see the tears his mother and Liesel were shedding
at his departure: he only thought of that far-off land, of the dream of
his childhood. What mattered to him their tears! He wanted only to
travel to find his Eden. And he travelled. With each rising sun he arose
and thought, "To-day you will find what you seek;" and when he laid
himself down tired at night, he thought, "To-morrow I shall reach my
goal;" and, happy in this thought, he would fall asleep. No mountain was
too steep for him, no path too stony, no forest too dense; he thought of
his Eden, and minded not the thorns that tore his flesh. Yes, he was a
fool!
Far behind him, forgotten, lay his home in the dim distance!
No living creature could tell him where his Paradise lay! The birds of
the forest went on with their song; the deer gazed at him astonished;
the brooks babbled on monotonously and sought the way to the ocean.
People he asked only laughed, and they looked back at the strange lad,
shaking their heads.
Quickly the time flew by; the spring faded, summer and autumn passed,
and still he wandered on. His path, that once lay before him green and
fair, was now covered with snow. He, however, heeded it not, and
journeyed on. It must come at last, the long-sought goal! At last he
reached a mighty snow-covered mountain range, so mighty that he said to
himself, "Beyond this it must surely lie," and in glad hope passed
forward. A whole day he ascended over snow and ice: his feet were sore
and bruised, and he was shivering from the cold, and yet no hut was to
be seen that might offer him shelter. The sun went down in crimson
behind the ice-armored mountains, leaving behind a bitter coldness, so
great that the stars in the heavens shivered with frost.
Then it occurred to tired Hans that it was Christmas, and for the first
time on his journey he thought for a long while of home, where the
Christmas-tree was now lighting up the warm room, and the dear ones were
assembling around it. But what mattered the Christmas-tree to him; he
was seeking Paradise!
Suddenly he saw on the roadside an old man. He was sitting on his
bundle, and leaning his head on his hands. He must have been very old,
for his face was furrowed like the bark of an oak, and his snowy beard
hung nearly to the ground.
Then tired Hans rejoiced, greeted him, and asked how far it might be to
the nearest habitation of man.
"To-day you can no longer reach it," replied the old man. "Whither are
you journeying?"
"I seek Paradise," answered Hans: "nearly a year have I wandered over
the earth, and yet have not found it."
Thereupon the old man arose, laid his hands upon Hans's shoulder, and
said, "Turn back and go home! I have wandered for more than a thousand
years on earth, and sought Paradise, and have not found it. Know, then,
I am Ahasuerus, doomed to everlasting wandering as a penance. Wherever I
go I am persecuted; where I knock the gate is locked; and nowhere have I
a home. Stones are my bed, and my bundle is my pillow. Go, poor fool!
return to the place of your birth. There, some day, they will dig a
grave for you, wherein you may sleep peacefully. Go back to your home,
where a Christmas-tree is lit up for you, and where you are loved, and
leave to me all wandering and seeking: to me, the poor, old, accursed
man!"
Then Hans was very sad: he threw down his bundle, sat down in the snow,
and wept bitterly. However, he was so tired from the long journey that
he soon forgot all his misery, and fell into a deep slumber. The old man
spread his cloak over him to protect him from the cold, and then
listened to the deep-drawn breathing of precious sleep, that drowns all
cares. The youth lying there could sleep, and die, and forget! but he
himself must keep awake, and live, and wander!
Upon the face of Hans a smile was playing; he was dreaming! Did he see
the long-sought Paradise? He saw in his dream a house with snow-covered
gable and little windows; a small house, closely encircled by other
houses, a garden in front. In a room inside sat his parents round a
cheerful fire. The spinning-wheel whizzed, and the cat purred in comfort
in front of the fire. Softly there fell, now and again, a needle from
the Christmas-tree. A resinous, pine-tree odor filled the room. From the
next house a clear, maiden's voice was singing the old, old Christmas
carol,--
"A rose has bloomed
From a tender root,
Our fathers have sung:
Out of Jesse it came."
And the crackling of the fire, the whizzing of the spinning-wheel, and
the maiden's song seemed to the dreamer fairer than a thousand Edens. An
indescribable homesickness overcame him.
When he awoke, the east was radiant with the blush of morning. He sprang
up and seized his staff. Scales seemed to fall from his eyes. "Home,
home!" a thousand voices seemed to echo within him.
But up the mountains, outlined by the red of the morn, he saw the old
man wandering on his comfortless path.
_A Yarn Spun by a Yankee._
"A white-haired, thin-visaged, weather-worn old gentleman in a
blue, Quaker-cut coat."
_Hawthorne._