It was the sea and not the great city that roared beneath Hans
Unwirrsch's windows next morning; but at first he would not believe it.
Long before he awoke the sound of the sea penetrated his slumber and
he dreamt curious things. All night long he had had to defend himself
against the strange seething and roaring that rose in the distance and,
swelling as it approached, threatened to suffocate him. All night long
he fought against this mysterious something, this tumult of thousands
and thousands of voices in which his own voice died away as feebly as
the voice of a child crying for help in the midst of a wild tornado. It
was like being set free when he finally awoke and could no longer doubt
that he heard the sea and not the noise of the world through which the
course of his life had led him.
After he fully realized that he was under the roof of the vicarage in
Grunzenow and not in Grinse Street, or, indeed, in the house in Park
Street, he lay for some time with half-closed eyes and gave himself
up to the rapturous feeling of certain happiness and the sweetly
melancholy thoughts and memories that are always so inseparably bound
up with that feeling. The moment that shows a man what he has gained
also teaches him to realize what he has lost most clearly. How many
faithful hearts and warm hands we always miss in our happiest hours!
It was still quite dark when Hans awoke, only the snow brightened the
night a little. Hans did not need to offer the shades of the dead a
draught of blood to give them voices; he did not need to call them,
they came voluntarily;--and he gave an account of himself to them on
this Christmas morning.
A bent, lean man with a mild, earnestly cheerful face stood before his
mental vision--Master Anton Unwirrsch, who had had such intense hunger
for the light and who wanted to complete in his son his life, his
wishes and hopes. "Oh Father," said Johannes, "I have traveled the path
that you showed me and have labored hard to grasp the truth. I have
erred much and despondency and faintheartedness have often taken hold
of me--I have not been able to advance with steady steps. The world
has been to me too great a wonder for me to be able to catch boldly
and carelessly at its veils and coverings as others do;--it seemed to
me too serious and solemn for me to be able to meet it with smiles as
others do. Oh Father, any man that comes out of such a lowly house as
ours cannot be blamed if he traverses the first part of his way with
shyness and hesitation, if he is dazzled by trifles, if deceptive
mirages confuse him, if a will o' the wisp leads him astray. Father,
whoever comes out from under such a low roof as ours must have a strong
heart in good and in evil so that, after the first few steps upward, he
does not turn back and continue his dark life in the depths. Even the
first knowledge and experience that he gains serve only to destroy the
harmony of his being; they do not make him happy. In addition to all
other doubts they awaken in him doubt of himself. Oh Father, Father, it
is hard to be a true man and to give to everything its proper measure;
but whoever is born in the depths with this yearning is more likely
to attain it than those who awake to life halfway up the slope and to
whom both height and depth remain equally unknown and indifferent.
The liberators of mankind rise from the depths; and just as springs
come from deep down in the earth to make the land fruitful so too the
soil of humanity is eternally refreshed from the depths. Oh, Father,
man has nothing better than this painful aspiration for the heights!
Without it he remains forever of the earth, earthy; in this aspiration
and by means of it he raises himself above all serfdom to the dust;
in it he extends his hand to all heavenly powers, however little he
may attain; in it he stands though it be on the tiniest spot of earth,
in the narrowest circle, as the ruler of the most unlimited region,
as the ruler of himself. Doubt too is gain in his life and pain is
ennobling--often more ennobling than happiness, than joy. Father, I
have gone my way in unrest; but I have found the truth, I have learnt
to distinguish the sham from the genuine, the semblance from the
reality. I no longer fear the things of the world; for love stands at
my side;--Father, bless your son on his future way and ask for him that
the hunger which has guided him till now may never leave him as long as
he lives."
Hans talked to all his dead on that dark Christmas morning before the
dawn came. They passed him in a long procession and he thanked each
for whatever he had received from him on his life's way. It was no
wonder that his mother, little Sophie, the charity school teacher Karl
Silberlöffel, Auntie Schlotterbeck and Uncle Nikolaus Grünebaum should
pass by and nod to him smiling; but it was almost a wonder how many
other people came forth out of the darkness to claim their part in his
growth and development. It was a wonder how many places had contributed
to the forming of his mind, how far back lay the point of departure of
every emotion of his soul. In those moments Hans realized for the first
time how rich his life had been, what wealth he was taking with him out
of the sunken world of his youth, out of the sunken world of Neustadt
which Auntie Schlotterbeck and Uncle Grünebaum had taken with them into
their graves, out of the sunken world of his "years of wandering" into
his new life in Grunzenow on the Baltic. Ever new, ever changing scenes
and figures rose up and passed by until at last the church bell of
Grunzenow began to ring.
The bell of Grunzenow, his new home! The bell for the Christmas
service! Hans Unwirrsch sat upright in bed and listened;--his heart
beat loud and all his pulses throbbed! All his blood rushed to his
heart and brain--Oh Fränzchen, Fränzchen!
All the feelings of his childhood had wakened in the man's breast.
Before he went downstairs he knelt and hid his face in his hands for
some minutes; he did not hear the door open behind him.
In his long, black clerical gown old Josias entered the room and
softly set down the light he carried beside the candidate's lamp. He
stood motionless as long as the little bell rang, as long as Johannes
Unwirrsch knelt beside his bed. When the bell ceased and his young
companion raised his head again he laid his hand on his shoulder and
said with feeling as he bent down to him:
"It is a happy sign to be awakened by such ringing to new work, new
cares, new life. My dear, dear son, be welcome in this poor and yet so
rich, so narrow and yet so limitless field of endeavor. God give you
strength and His blessing on this shore, among these cabins, under this
roof. God keep you in your happiness and bless you in your sorrow!"
The bell was ringing a second time as Hans, at the aged pastor's
side, mounted the steps which behind the pastor's house led up to the
churchyard of the village. The way to the church lay directly through
this churchyard and the two clergymen stopped among the white graves
and black crosses, which all wore caps of snow, to look back on the
village. The sea sounded in the darkness but in the village nearly
every window was lighted and many people were moving on the road
leading to the church. The fisherfolk came out of their cottages, up
to their church--the aged, men, women, and children. They came with
lanterns and lights and if the grown people, the elders, in passing by
greeted their pastor with cordial veneration, almost every child came
up to give him its hand; and he knew them all by name, knew the short
little stories of their lives and had a special word of endearment for
nearly every one. From time to time one of the grown people loitered on
the way or turned sidewise to set down his lantern and bend over one
of the snow-covered graves; then the pastor of Grunzenow stood at the
mourners' side and spoke softly to them, and the stars smiled in the
black winter sky and it seemed as if the sea softened its roaring.
The sexton of Grunzenow was pulling the bell-rope for the third time
when again a larger group of people entered the churchyard gate and it
was Grips who carried the lantern ahead of them. Colonel von Bullau led
Fränzchen at the head of his following in knightly fashion and, when
Hans Unwirrsch stood before him and Grips raised his lantern to light
the meeting, he said:
"This is the way a man looks who cannot say how happy he is. Here, my
young friend, here you have your maiden; I wish you joyful holidays and
much pleasure."
Hand in hand Hans and Fränzchen along with the other people of
Grunzenow, went into the little church, where the sexton was already
sitting in front of the organ. As they walked the short distance
Franziska could not tell her betrothed nor Hans his future bride how
they felt; but each knew it, nevertheless. Yet Fränzchen brought him
a heartfelt greeting from Uncle Rudolf who sat at home under the
Christmas tree with his pipe and had his Christmas thoughts as well as
everyone else.
There were certainly a hundred lights illuminating the little church;
no one had put out his little lamp on entering and the gathering of
this community on the shore of the sea was wonderfully solemn.
Candidate Unwirrsch with his betrothed and Colonel von Bullau sat down
on one of the front benches close to the altar and pulpit and, joining
in the gruff chorus of fishermen's voices, sang the old Christmas
hymn through to the end; until, as the last tones of the organ and
the singing died away, the Reverend Josias Tillenius went up into
his pulpit to preach his Christmas sermon; until all the sunburnt,
weather-beaten and wind-seared faces of the men, all the women's
earnest faces and the children's eyes were raised to their faithful
and venerable adviser and comforter. And not one of the famous and
popular speakers whom Hans had heard in the great city, not one of
the celebrated professors who had given him such good precepts at the
university could have spoken more fittingly than did the aged vicar of
the hunger parish of Grunzenow, to whom the library of his predecessors
had remained a perplexing maze, and the modern science of theology a
book with seven seals.
His greeting to his congregation was that of the angels than which
there is no more beautiful one in the world: "Glory to God in the
highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." Then he wished them
all happiness on that holy festival, the young and the old, the aged
and the children; and he was right when he once said to Hans Unwirrsch
that it was a strange thing for a pastor if his sermons had to echo the
voices of the sea. He spoke of the good and the evil that had come to
pass since that day had been celebrated a year before; he spoke of what
might come before the bells rang for another Christmas. He had a word
for those who were mourning and for those to whom joy had been given.
Unlike his brother pastors farther inland who, like him, were now
standing in their pulpits, he could not draw his similes from the work
of the tiller of the soil; he could not speak of sowing and blossoming,
reaping and fading;--it was the sea that sounded in his words.
He spoke of those members of his parish who were now in foreign parts,
of whom it was not known whether they were alive or dead: the earth,
from the north pole to the south pole, had to find a place in his
sermon. He spoke of those from whom nothing had been heard for a long
time, whose places by the fireside had been vacant for years, called
two weeping mothers by name and comforted them with the promise that no
one, no one, could be lost, however wide the world, as it was written
that God held the sea in the hollow of his hand. He spoke of the great
Christmas tree of eternity under which all the people on earth would be
gathered in days to come.
Hans Unwirrsch thought of the sermons of hunger which he had tried
to write in Grinse Street, by the publication of which he had hoped
to make a name for himself and to touch and uplift thousands. Now he
bowed his head before this old man's discourse which was certainly not
ready for publication and yet penetrated to the inmost hearts of his
auditors. Fränzchen, at his side, wept, from time to time; Colonel von
Bullau cleared his throat very noticeably and mumbled something in his
gray beard; the fisher folk sighed and sobbed;--Candidate Unwirrsch had
no more time to go on thinking about his manuscript and Grinse Street.
Reverend Josias Tillenius had drawn near to the Christmas tree of every
cottage in his village; now he suddenly stood in the shade of the
tree of universal history through the branches of which the star of
the annunciation shone down on the manger in Bethlehem. In a simple,
impressive manner he told his congregation what things on earth were
like when the angels brought down their greeting from heaven. He told
about the city of Rome and the Roman Emperor Augustus, about the proud
temples, the proud sages, warriors and poets. He spoke of how at that
time the sun, moon and stars went on their way as blessedly as on the
day when he was speaking, how the earth bore its fruits and the sea
gave up its treasures. He told how human affairs were then ordered very
much as now: how tribute was asked and given, how the lakes, rivers and
sea were covered with the ships, how the country roads were full of
wanderers and the marketplaces were full of merchants. He spoke of how
then, even as in their own day, the wealth of the nations was carried
back and forth, and then--then he spoke of the great hunger of the
world.
The beautiful figures of the gods in the magnificent temples were
false images that had no life. The priests who served them laughed at
them and at the people who knelt before them, but the sages and the
wise were ashamed of both gods and priests. The world had become a
chaos without strength and stay. Man could not find peace either in his
heart or in his house or out in the market-place. In the Roman Empire
humanity had become lost in itself, it lay in chains beneath the purple
mantle that covered its bruised and bleeding limbs; the sky was dark
above it and the radiance of its golden diadem was but the livid light
of the night of death. In spite of life's magnificence and commotion,
the earth had come to be without form and void as before the creation.
Pastor Josias Tillenius said this in words which his people understood.
No one dared stir; only the quicker breathing of the listeners was
heard and when Margarethe Jörenson, a great-grandmother of nearly a
hundred years, the only person who slept in that assembly and who,
according to a former order of the pastor's must not be awakened under
any circumstances, let her big hymn-book slip from her lap and fall to
the floor, a sudden shock passed through every heart and the hardened
men of the sea started.
"Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace, good will toward men!"
It was as if these words broke the spell that lay upon the people of
Grunzenow as they had once broken the fetters of all mankind.
The star of redemption stood above the stable in Bethlehem; the Saviour
had been born into the world of hunger; the man of sorrows, the son
of man, the son of God who was to take the sin of man upon him, had
appeared, and the poor shepherds came running from the field, not to
be followed till later by the kings and the wise men, to greet the
child in the manger, this child which came just in time to be included
in the census of the population of the Roman Empire which the Emperor
Augustus had ordered. Now the time was fulfilled and the kingdom of God
had come. Hungry mankind stretched out its hands for the "bread that
comes from heaven and gives life to the world." The heaven above which
had been so dark and drear opened above the children of the earth: all
the nations saw the great light,--humanity tore the crown from its
humiliated head and threw the purple mantle from its shoulders. It was
no longer ashamed of its bleeding wounds, its bruised and fettered
limbs,--it knelt and listened. "Truth!" was the jubilant cry from the
rising of the sun, and from the going down thereof the joyful answer
was "Freedom!" "Love!" sang the angels about the hut in which Mary,
she of the house of David, and Joseph, the carpenter of Nazareth,
showed the shepherds the child that had been born in the night. And now
Pastor Josias Tillenius showed it to the children of the village; for
the festival of Christmas is the true festival for the young to whom
the sublime Easter Day can bear no message until the first great grief
has touched their souls. And as the old preacher was thus speaking of
Christmas to the children the new day dawned. Its first pale light was
seen through the windows of the little church and the lanterns and wax
candles grew dim before the rosy glow that suffused the winter sky.
Again the organ pealed, the congregation of Grunzenow sang the final
verse of the Christmas hymn, the service was over.
Hans and Fränzchen stood in the churchyard beside the preacher and the
old Colonel and all the people of Grunzenow who passed them on the way
down again into the village nodded to them or came up to shake hands
and welcome them to their midst. The sky grew redder and redder, the
lights of the village disappeared in the dawn as had the lights in
the church. The organ ceased, the sexton too came, smiling shyly, to
congratulate Candidate Unwirrsch. The day came but the voice of the sea
did not die away.
The last inhabitants of the village had gone; Pastor Josias Tillenius
looked at the betrothed couple and then said:
"Come, Colonel, you will have to lend me your arm as usual. The young
people will be able to find their way alone, I am sure."
Colonel von Bullau looked at Hans and Fränzchen and drew his old
friend's hand through his arm.
And now the pastor and Colonel von Bullau had left the churchyard
like the rest of the people. Hans and his betrothed stood alone among
the snow-covered graves. They stood and held each other in a close
embrace. The same thought occurred to them both at the same moment,
that the time would come when they, too, should lie there in the little
churchyard and sleep; but they smiled and did not wish themselves away.
Labor and love! this was the thought that thrilled their hearts and
they knew that they had been given both. The day came up clear from the
east; the fog parted above the sea,--the sea sang of freedom, the sun
sang of truth; and the world did not belong to Dr. Théophile Stein, who
had once been Moses Freudenstein: Johannes and Franziska stood over the
graves of the poor little village of Grunzenow and in their love they
feared neither life nor death.