"Sweetheart, sweetheart,
How is't with thee,
That thou wilt not speak to me?
"Hast thou another lover,
To make the time pass over,
Whom thou likest more than me?
"If thou likest him more than me,
I'll travel away from thee,
I'll travel away from thee.
"I travel far over distant lands,
Leave my love in another's hands,
And write her many a line;
You must know
Where I go,--
A horseman bold am I.
"I travel far over distant lands,
Leave my love in another's hands;
Oh, that is hard to do
When my love is fair and true!
"Oh, that is easily done
When love is past and gone!
To sleep without a sorrow
From the even to the morrow;
Oh, that is easily done
When love is past and gone!
"Fine cities too there are
Where I have wander'd far,--
In the Spanish Netherlands,
And in Holland and in France;
But over all this ground
My love nowhere I found.
"Who made the song and who sang it first?
He made it and he sang it first,--
A fine young fellow,--
When his love was at the worst."
The long-drawn notes swept over the lea as if borne on the wings of old
yet unforgotten wishes. But they died away, in all probability, long
before reaching the ear for which they were intended.
Could the old ploughman still carry in his heart the roots of so
deep-seated a passion?
At eleven o'clock there was another halt and another prayer; the horse
was unhitched and received a bundle of clover for his dinner. Ivo and
Nat sat down at the edge of the field, in what would have been a
fence-corner if there were fences in that part of Germany, and waited
for Mag, who soon appeared with their dinner. They ate out of one bowl,
with a good appetite, for they had worked hard. The bowl was so
entirely empty that Mag said,--
"There'll be fine weather to-morrow: you make the platter clean."
"Yes," said Nat, turning the bowl upside down; "you couldn't drown a
wasp there."
After dinner they took a little siesta. Ivo, stretched out at full
length, was listening to the many-voiced chirpings among the clover;
and, closing his eyes, he said,--
"It is just as if the whole field were alive, and as if all the flowers
were singing,--and the larks up there,--and the crickets----" He never
finished the sentence, for he had fallen asleep. Nat looked at him for
some time with an expression of delight; then he brought a few sticks,
fixed them carefully into the ground, and hung the cloth in which the
clover had been tied over them, so that the boy slept in the shade.
This done, he got up softly, hitched the horse to the plough, and went
on noiselessly with his work.
It would be hard to tell whether he kept down the songs which mounted
to his lips, or whether solemn thoughts made him so quiet. The dun was
very true to the rein, and a slight jerk was enough, without a word, to
keep the furrow straight.
[Illustration: The boy slept in the shade and he went with his work.]
The sun was sinking when Ivo awoke. He tore away the tent which was
stretched over him, and looked about him in wonder, not knowing, for a
while, where he was. On seeing Nat he bounded toward him with a shout
of joy. He helped Nat to finish the job, and was almost sorry to find
that Nat had managed to plough without him; for he would fain have
thought himself indispensable to the progress of the work.
At nightfall they quitted the field, leaving the plough behind them.
Nat lifted Ivo on the horse, and walked by his side up the hill; but,
suddenly remembering that he had left his knife where the plough was,
he ran back hastily, and thus found himself again in the valley.
Looking up, he saw the sun set magnificently behind two mountains
draped in pine woods. Like the choir of a church built all of light and
gold were earth and sky; the treasures of eternity seemed to blink into
time; long streamers of all shades of red and purple floated about; the
little cloudlets were like, angels' heads; while in the midst was a
large, solemn mass of vapor like a vast altar of blue pedestal covered
with a cloth of flame. The sight provoked a wish to rise upward and
melt in rapture, and again an expectation to behold the bursting of the
cloud and the coming forth of the Lord in his glory to proclaim the
millennial reign of peace.
On the crown of the hill was Ivo. The horse, bound to the earth and
tearing up its bosom all day, seemed now to stride in mid-air and to
travel gently upward; his hoofs were seen to rise, but not to stand on
ground. Ivo was stretching out his arms as if an angel beckoned to him.
Two pigeons above his head winged their flight homeward: they rose high
and far,--what is high and what is far?--their pinions moved not: they
seemed to be drawn upward from above, and vanished into the fiery
floods.
Who can tell the pride and gladness of the heart when, glowing with the
spirit of the universe, it overpeers every limit and looks into the
vast realms of infinity?
Thus Nat stood gazing upward, free from earth's sighs and sorrows. A
beam of the inexhaustible glory of God had fallen into the heart of the
simple-hearted working-man, and he stood above all principalities and
powers: the majesty of heaven had descended upon him.
The memory of this day never faded from the hearts of Nat and of Ivo.
6.
THE GRAMMAR-SCHOOL.
An unavoidable change soon separated Ivo from the friend of his
childhood. The time had come for taking the first step which led to his
future calling. The change was external as well as internal,--the short
jacket worn till now being replaced by a long blue coat, which, in
anticipation of his growing, had been made too large in every
direction.
As he walked toward Horb, with his mother, in this new garb, he dragged
his heavy boots along with some difficulty, and often lifted up his
hands to prevent the unruly flaps of his coat from flying away behind
him. Valentine took but little further trouble about the future of his
child. He had tasted the idea of having a parson for his son to the
dregs, and would almost have been content had Ivo become a farmer after
all. Indeed, the older he grew the less willing was he to take any
trouble which carried him out of the beaten track of his daily toil.
Mother Christina, however, was a pious and resolute woman, who had no
mind to give up the idea which had once entered her head.
The chaplain lived next to the church. Mother and son went into the
church first, knelt down before the altar, and fervently spoke the
Lord's Prayer three times over. The soul of Mother Christina was full
of such feelings as may have visited the soul of Hannah when she
brought her son Samuel to the high-priest of the Temple at Jerusalem.
She had never read the Old Testament, and knew nothing of the story;
but the same thoughts came up in her mind by their own force and
virtue. Pressing her hands upon her bosom, she looked steadfastly at
her son as she left the church.
In the parsonage she set down her basket in the kitchen, and made the
cook a present of some eggs and butter. Then, being announced to the
chaplain, she advanced with short steps, dropping a shower of curtsies,
into the open parlor. He was a good-natured man, and regaled all his
visitors with sanctified speeches and gestures, during which he
constantly rolled his fat little hands in and out of each other. Mother
Christina listened attentively as if he had been preaching a sermon;
and when Ivo was admonished to be diligent and studious, the poor
little fellow wept aloud, he knew not why. The good man comforted and
caressed him, and the two went on their way composed, if not rejoicing.
Their next visit was to an old widow who lived near the "Staffelbaeck."
On the way, Ivo was treated to a "pretzel," which he devoured while
sitting behind Mrs. Hankler's stove and listening to the negotiations
between her and his mother. The good lady was a dealer in eggs and
butter, and an old business acquaintance of Mother Christina's. It was
agreed that Ivo should get his dinner at her house, and that Mrs.
Hankler was to receive therefor a certain quantity of butter, eggs, and
flour.
The moment Ivo had reached home, he threw off his coat, kicked the
boots from his feet, and hastened to Nat in the stable. The latter
passed his hand over his eyes when he heard that Ivo was now a student.
Next morning our young friend was sad when the time came for his first
visit to the grammar-school. He was waked early, and obliged to dress
in his best clothes. To make the parting less bitter, his mother went
with him to the top of the hill. There she gave him a little roast meat
wrapped up in paper, and two creutzers as a precaution against
unforeseen emergencies.
Our readers have gone to Horb with us often enough to know the way.
But, besides the winding road of only two or three miles which ascends
the steep hill, there is a footpath which turns off to the left at the
hill-top, and where you cannot walk, but only scamper straight to the
Horb brick-yard. Ivo took this path: his heart beat high, and his tears
flowed freely, for he felt that he was entering upon a new and a
different life.
At the brick-yard he wiped his eyes and looked at the roast meat. It
had a delicious odor. He unfolded the paper, and the meat smiled at him
as if it wished to be kissed. He tried the least bit, then a little
more, and in a short time he had tried every thing but the paper. Yet,
had he been ninety years old, he could not have done more wisely: the
lunch restored his spirits and his courage, and he walked on with a
smiling face and steady eye.
The boys at the school inspected the appearance of the new-comer with
the minuteness of custom-house officers. The size of his clothes amused
them particularly.
"What's your name?" asked one.
"Ivo Bock."
"Oh, this is Ivo Book,
Dress'd in the family frock!"
said a boy with a fine embroidered collar. The muscles of Ivo's face
twitched as is usual when a crying-spell is setting in. But, when the
boys gathered around him to follow up their words with practical
pleasantry, he struck at them with his fists hard and fiercely. The
rhymester with the collar now came up and said, "Never mind. Nobody
shall hurt you: I'll help you."
"Are you in earnest, or do you only want to fool me more?" asked Ivo,
with a trembling voice, still clenching his fists.
"In earnest, 'pon honor. There's my hand."
"Well and good," said Ivo, taking his proffered hand. Perhaps the boy's
original intention had been to hit upon a new way of teasing Ivo, or to
oppress him with the grandeur of his protection; but Ivo's firmness
turned the scales.
The arrival of the chaplain brought them all to order. The instruction
given was that usually awarded as the first lesson in Latin grammar. In
this country the problem is to decline "_penna_:" in Germany "_mensa_"
is the word. When it was over, the boy with the embroidered collar, and
his younger brother, accompanied Ivo to Mrs. Hankler's door. It was at
the hands of the sons of the President-Judge that he received this
distinction. Henceforward we may look with composure on his fortunes in
the good town of Horb.
[Illustration: Ivo sat on the step to wait for Mrs. Hankler.]
Mrs. Hankler's door was locked. Ivo sat down on the step to wait for
her. Sorrowful thoughts rose in his mind, though at first of every-day
origin. He was hungry. He thought of them all at home,--how they were
gathering round the table, while he alone was left outside and hungry
in the world, with nobody to care for him. People ran by in a hurry,
without even becoming aware of his existence. They were all going to
the steaming bowls which awaited them: only he sat there as if he had
fallen from the sky and had never had a home. "Every horse and every
ox," said he, "has his food given him when it is time; but nobody
thinks of me. I have two creutzers in my pocket; but then it would
never do to break the money already."[8]
At last his home-sickness was too much for him: he jumped up and
bounded homeward with long strides. As he turned the corner he met Mrs.
Hankler, running over with apologies about having forgotten all about
it and having been detained. "Come with me," was the peroration, "and
I'll cook you some nice turnips, and put some pork in them for your
mother's sake: your mother is a dear, good woman. And when you're a
minister and I am dead, you must read a mass for me: won't you?"
Ivo was happy the moment he heard somebody talk to him about his
mother. He felt as if he had travelled a thousand miles and had left
home ten years ago. The Latin, the wide coat, the quarrels, the roast
meat, the new comrade, the flight: he seemed to have had more
adventures in half a day than formerly in half a year. He ate heartily:
still, he was not quite at his ease with the strange old lady;
something told him, indistinctly, that he had been removed from the
basis of his prior existence, his father's house. A young forest-tree
lifted out of its native soil and carried away on rattling wheels to
adorn some distant hill might express, if it could speak, what was
pressing so heavily on the heart of poor Ivo.
The afternoon studies were easier, being in German, and so conducted
that Ivo could put in a word or two of his own now and then. In going
home he joined the two other boys from his village,--Johnny's
Constantine and Hansgeorge's Peter. Constantine said that it was the
rule for the youngest student always to carry the books for the others;
and Ivo took the double burden on himself without a murmur.
At the top of the hill they saw Mother Christina, who had come to meet
her son. He was relieved of the books immediately. Ivo joyfully ran to
meet his mother, but, suddenly checked himself, for he was ashamed to
kiss her in the presence of the big boys, and even winced a little at
her caresses.
With their caps on one side, and their books under their arms, the two
elder students paraded the village.
Ivo had as much to tell at home as if he had crossed the sea. He also
felt his own importance when he found that they had cooked and set the
table expressly for him. Even Mag, who seldom had a kind word for him,
was now in a better humor than usual: he came from abroad.
Thus did Ivo go to and from the grammar-school from day to day.
A great change had taken place with Brindle about this time: he no
longer spent all his time in the stable, for he had been yoked. Ivo
thought the poor beast suffered from his absence, and was often out of
spirits about it.
But in the grammar-school all things went on as well as well could be.
Ivo speedily filled up his new coat and his new position, to the
admiration of everybody.
His intercourse with Nat could not remain the same, however. Even the
detailed reports of Ivo's doings gradually ceased, as there was not
often much to be told; and Ivo generally sat down quietly to his books
as soon as he got home. With Mrs. Hankler, on the other hand, he was
soon on the best of terms. She always said that "Ivo was as good to
talk with as the oldest." She told him a great deal about her deceased
husband; and Ivo advised her financially whenever a quarter's rent came
to be paid.
With the sons of the President-Judge he kept up a friendship for which
everybody envied him. And Emmerence,--she was now nine years old, went
to school, and minded the schoolmaster's children in recess. At an age
when children rarely have any thing more than dolls to play with, she
had an exacting living baby to attend to; but she seemed to look upon
it all as rare sport. When Valentine was away she was welcome to visit
at the house with the child; not otherwise. The carpenter could not
bear the child's crying. He was growing more and more querulous and
discontented from day to day. Ivo saw Emmerence now and then, but the
two children had a certain dread of each other. Ivo, particularly,
reflected that it was not proper for a future clergyman to be so
intimate with a girl. He often passed Emmerence in the street without
speaking to her.
In other respects, also, he was gradually warped away from his favorite
associations. When he went into the stable, according to custom, to
help Nat feed the steer, the cow, and the dun, his father would often
drive him out, saying, "Go away! you have no business in the stable. Go
to your books and learn something: you're to be a gentleman. Do you
think a man is going to spend all that money for nothing? Hurry up!"
With a heavy heart, Ivo would see the other boys ride the horses to
water or sit proudly on the saddle-horse of a hay-wagon. Many a sigh
escaped his breast while translating the exploits of Miltiades: he
would rather have been on the field by the target-place, raking the
new-mown grass, than on the battle-field of Marathon. He would jump up
from his seat and beat the empty air, just to give vent to his thirst
for action.
He was also enstranged from his home by the occupation of his mind with
matters of which no one around him had ever heard. He could not talk
about them with anybody,--not even with Nat. Thus he was a stranger in
his own home: his thoughts were not their thoughts.
Nat beat his brains to gladden the heart of the poor boy whom he so
often saw out of spirits. Ivo had told him with delight of the pretty
dovecote which the judge's sons had at home: so Nat repaired the old
dovecote, which was in ruins, and bought five pairs of pigeons with his
own money, and peas to feed them with. Ivo fell upon his neck when, one
morning, without saying a word, he took him up into the garret and made
him a present of it all.
Of a Sunday morning Ivo might have been seen standing under the
walnut-tree, in his shirt-sleeves, with his arms folded, watching his
little treasures on the roof, as they cooed and bowed and strutted and
at last flew into the field. From possessions which he could hold in
his hand, which walked the earth with him, he had now advanced to such
as could only be followed with a loving look. It was only in thought he
owned them: caress them he could not. They flew freely in the air, and
nothing bound them but their confidence in his goodness. Is not this a
symbol of the turn which the course of his life had taken?
When he whistled, the pigeons would come down from the roof, dance at
his feet, and pick up the food he threw them. But he could not touch
them to express his pleasure: he had to content himself with cherishing
them in his soul, if he would not scare them suddenly away.
When Ivo entered the church, his soul was so full of love and childlike
confidence that he almost always said, "Good-morning, God." With a
happy home feeling, he then went into the vestry, put on his
chorister's dress, and performed his functions during mass.
A deep-seated fear of God, sustained by a glowing love for the mother
of God, and, above all, for the dear child Jesus, dwelt in the soul of
Ivo. With especial joy he used to call to mind that the Savior too
had been the son of a carpenter. Of all the festival-days he liked
Palm-Sunday most: it made almost a deeper impression upon him than Good
Friday. Huge nosegays as high as a man, made particularly odorous with
wild sallow and torch-weed, were carried into the church. The nosegays
were sprinkled with holy water, and after the ceremony they were hung
up in the stables to protect the cattle from all harm. At home, all
parties were solemn and serious; no one spoke above his voice,--not
even Valentine; everyone was kind and gentle to everybody else, and
this made Ivo happy.
But, with all this, a thoughtful spirit soon showed itself in him, even
in religious matters. One day the chaplain was explaining that St.
Peter carried the keys because he opened the gates of heaven for the
redeemed.
"How so?" asked Ivo. "Where does he stay?"
"At the gate of heaven."
"Why, then, he never gets into heaven himself, if he is kept sitting
outside all the time opening the door for other people."
The chaplain stared at Ivo, and was silent for some time; at last he
said, with a complacent smile, "It is his celestial happiness to open
to others the gates of eternal bliss. It is the first of virtues to
rejoice in and to strive for the good fortune of others: such is the
high calling of the Holy Father at Rome, who has the keys of Peter on
earth as well as the keys of all those consecrated by him and by his
bishops."
Ivo was satisfied, but not quite convinced; and he pitied in his heart
the good Peter who is kept standing at the gate.
A load rested on Ivo's bosom from the day the chaplain told the
children that it was their duty to ask themselves every evening what
they had learned or what good they had done that day. He tried to act
up to the letter of this behest, and was very unhappy whenever he found
nothing satisfactory to report to himself. He would then toss about in
his bed distractedly. Yet he was mistaken. The mind grows much as the
body does: like an animal or a plant, it thrives without our being
able, strictly speaking, to see the process. We see what has grown, but
not the growth itself.
Another institution of the chaplain was wiser. He made the boys sit,
not in the order of their talents, but in that of their diligence and
punctuality. "For," said he, "industry and good order are higher
virtues, for they can be acquired, than skill and talent, which are
born with a man, and so he deserves no credit for them." Thus he
constrained the talented to labor, and inspired those of lesser gifts
with confidence. Ivo, who to very good natural parts added great
consciensciousness was soon near the head of the class, and the
President-Judge was pleased to see his sons bring him into his house.
We made the acquaintance of Judge Rellings in the story of "Good
Government." Ivo, having heard many anecdotes of his harshness, was not
a little astonished to find him a pleasant, good-natured man, fond of
playing with his children and of doing little things to give them
pleasure. Such is the world. Hundreds of men will be found who, when
talking generalities, are liberal to a degree, asseverating that all
men were born free and equal, &c., while the members of their
household, and sometimes of their family, experience nothing but the
most grinding tyranny at their hands. Others, again,--particularly
office-holders,--treat all who are not in office like slaves and
vagrants, and yet are the meekest of lambs in the four walls of their
own dwellings.
[Illustration: At the hill-top he would sit down on his little sledge.]
Though not ill pleased with life in the town, yet Ivo never heard the
curfew-bell of a Sunday evening without a little pang. It reminded him
that to-morrow would be Monday, when he must again leave his home, his
mother, Nat, and the pigeons. His daily walk gradually became invested
with cheerful associations. He always went alone, dreading the society
of Constantine, who teased him in many ways.
In summer he sang as he walked. In autumn there were some pleasant days
when his mother and sister ground corn in Staffelbaeck's mill: at that
season he did not dine with Mrs. Hankler, but met them in the
trembling, thundering mill, and dined with them at the mill table.
Winter was the most pleasant season of all. Nat, who was something of a
Jack-of-all-trades, had shod Ivo's little sledge with an old iron
barrel-hoop. At the hill-top he would sit down on his little conveyance
and sweep down the road to the Neckar bridge swift as an arrow. With
chattering teeth, he often said his rule of syntax or his Latin
quotation for next day as he rode. True, in the evening he had to pull
his sledge up the hill again by a rope; but that he liked to do.
Sometimes a wagon would pass, and then, if the teamster was not very
ill-natured, he would take the sledge in tow.
Ivo acted as a sort of penny postman for half the village: for one, he
would carry yarn to be dyed; for another, a letter to the mail; and for
another, he would inquire whether there was a letter for him. In coming
home, his satchel sometimes contained a few skeins of silk, some herb
tea, leeches in a phial, patent medicine, or some other purchase he had
been commissioned to make. All this made him very popular in the
village, while Peter and Constantine always scorned such uncongenial
service.
One Sunday afternoon there was great excitement in the village when the
President-Judge's two sons came in their red caps to visit Ivo. Mother
Christina was looking out of the window when she heard them ask Blind
Conrad the way to Ivo's house; and, although the room had been put into
good order, she was in great trepidation. In her embarrassment she laid
the stool on the bed, and took a pair of boots from the corner in which
they had been stowed, putting them under the table in the middle of the
room. Hearing the visitors come up the steps, she opened the door with
great bashfulness, but yet with not a little pleasure, and welcomed
them. Then she called out of the window to Emmerence, telling her to
look for Ivo and for his father, and to send them in quickly to receive
company.
Wiping off the two chairs, for the fortieth time, with her white Sunday
apron, she pressed the boys to be seated. She apologized that things
looked so disorderly. "It is the way with farmers' folk," said she,
looking bashfully at the floor, which was scrubbed so clean that it
was an easy matter to trace the joists by the nail-sockets.
Blind Conrad came and opened the door a little, to see what was the
matter, and with an eye to the prospects of a good cup of coffee, or
such other treat as might be looked for; but Mother Christina pushed
him out without much ceremony, bidding him "come some other time."
Poor woman! At other times so strong in her religious force, and now so
humble and abashed before the whelps of the mighty ones of the earth!
But then she had grown old in the fear of the Lord and greater fear of
the lordlings!
The elder of the two boys had, meantime, surveyed the room with great
confidence. Pointing to the door of the room, he now inquired, "What is
that horseshoe nailed there for?"
Folding her hands solemnly and bending her head, the mother answered,
"Don't you know that? Why, that is because if you find a horseshoe
between eleven and twelve o'clock in the day, and make no cry about it,
and nail it to your door, no evil spirit and no devil and no witch can
come in."
The boys stared with astonishment.
Ivo came, and soon after him his father. The latter took off his cap
and welcomed the "young gentlemen;" then, rubbing his hands, he said,
"What, wife! haven't you any thing in the house? Can't you get
something to offer the young gentlemen?"
The mother had only waited to be relieved in entertaining the company.
She hastened to find the very best the house afforded. Emmerence had
had the good sense to drop into the kitchen, thinking that perhaps she
might be wanted, for Mag had gone to take a walk with her beau. Perhaps
she may have been curious also to see Ivo's great friends, for she
shared the joy of the whole family at his exalted position.
Many of the neighbors' wives also found their way into the kitchen.
Ivo's mother left them with complacent apologies, and took a big bowl
of red-cheeked "Breitlinger" apples with her into the parlor. Emmerence
brought two glasses of kirschwasser on a bright pewter plate. The boys
ate heartily, and even drank a little of the fiery liquor, and Ivo's
mother stuffed their pockets with fruit besides. At last she gave the
youngest a particularly fine apple, with "her compliments to his lady
mother, and she was to put it on the bureau."
After a long conversation, the boys took their leave. Valentine nodded
pleasantly when they asked his permission to take Ivo with them: his
mother arranged his collar, and brushed every mote of dust from his
blue coat. Ivo was pleased to hear that he was to have a new one
shortly.
Accompanied by the women, who had lingered behind the half-open door of
the kitchen, Christina now walked into the street and looked after the
three as they walked toward Horb, escorted by Valentine as far as the
Eagle. The squire's wife was looking out of her window, and Christina
said to her, "Those are the President-Judge's boys. They are going to
take my Ivo out to their father in the Dipper. He likes to see them
make friends with him: Ivo is quite smart, and they are quite fond of
him."
Nor is it to be denied that Ivo felt some pride as he walked through
the village hand in hand with his town acquaintances. He was pleased to
see the people look out of the windows, and bid them all "Good-day"
with great self-complacency. Who will think ill of him for this in a
country where the very child in its cradle babbles of the omnipotence
of the functionaries, where their existence and their activity is
shrouded in awe-inspiring darkness, where all ages and all conditions
unite in humble salutations to clerk and constable, knowing that there
is no escape from their ill-will the moment the door of the secret
tribunal is closed upon the unhappy mortal against whom an accusation,
or a mere suspicion, has been uttered?
Mine host of the Dipper saluted Ivo very kindly, rubbing his hands the
while, according to an old habit, as if he were cold. Ivo was now
admitted to the "gentlemen's room," and to the table, where, screened
from the vulgar gaze, the Auditor-General and the President-Judge sat
in undisturbed admiration of each other's respectability.
Two merchants of Horb stood at the entrance of this chamber of peers,
in some little embarrassment. After considerable hesitation, one said
to the other, "Well, Mr. Councilman, what shall we drink'!"
"What you please, Mr. Councilman," answered the other.
The two had just been elected to their present exalted station, and
this was their first appearance at the gentlemen's table. They sat down
with many profound bows, to which the President-Judge returned a sneer
and exchanged a supercilious look with his colleague.
Ivo's satisfaction at being admitted into such great society was
destined to be cruelly dashed. The boys told what they had heard from
Ivo's mother about the efficiency of the horseshoe. The judge, who
liked to play the freethinker in matters of religion, because it was a
liberty not expressly removed by legislation, and because he thought it
a mark of culture, interrupted the story with "Stuff! What do you talk
of such brainless superstition for? Don't let every silly old peasant
cram your heads with her nonsense. I have told you ever so often that
there are no devils and no saints. The saints may pass, but not the
devils, nor the witches."
Ivo trembled. It stung him to the soul to hear his mother spoken of in
that manner and with such irreverence. He wished he had never dreamed
of this great company. He hated the judge cordially, and eyed him with
looks of fury. Of course the great man had no perception of the
disgrace into which he had fallen. He waxed exceedingly condescending
to the new councilmen, who were so charmed with his goodness that their
organs of speech seemed to have lost every check-spring.
To Ivo's relief, the "gentlemen" at last departed, leaving him to
comfort himself with the reflection that he had not bid the judge
"Good-night."
7.
THE CONVENT.
Years glided by almost imperceptibly. Constantine and Peter had passed
their examination in autumn, and were now destined to enter the convent
at Rottweil. An event, however, which formed the theme of conversation
for a long time to come, detained Peter at the village.
The second crop of grass had been mowed in the garden of the
manor-house; the daisy--called here the wanton-flower because it
presents itself so shamelessly without any drapery of leaves--stood
solitary on the frost-covered sward; the cows browsed untethered; and
the children gambolled here and there and assailed with sticks and
stones the few scattered apples and pears which had been forgotten on
the trees.
Peter sat on the butter-pear tree by the wall of the manor-house, near
the corner turret. A bright golden pear was the goal of his ambition.
Constantine, the marplot, wished to snatch the prize out of his grasp,
and threw a stone at it. Suddenly Peter cried, "My eye! my eye!" and
fell from the tree with the limb on which he had been sitting. The
blood gushed from his eye, while Constantine stood beside him, crying
and calling aloud for help.
Maurice the cowherd came running up. He saw the bleeding boy, took him
on his shoulder, and carried him home. Constantine followed, and all
the children brought up the rear. The train increased until they
reached Hansgeorge's house: the latter was engaged in mending a wagon.
At sight of his child bleeding and in a swoon he wrung his hands. Peter
opened one eye; but the other only bled the faster.
"Who did this?" asked Hansgeorge, with clenched fists, looking from his
wailing boy to the trembling Constantine.
"I fell from the tree," said Peter, closing the sound eye also. "Oh,
God! Oh, God! my eye is running out."
Without waiting to hear more, Constantine ran off to Horb for young
Erath, who now held the post of his late father. Finding that the
doctor had gone out, he ran up and down before the house in unspeakable
agony: he kept one hand pressed upon one of his eyes, as if to keep the
misfortune of Peter vividly before his mind; he bit his lips till they
bled; he wished to fly into the wide, wide world as a criminal; and
again he wished to stay, to save what could be saved. He borrowed a
saddle-horse, and hardly had the expected one come home when he hurried
him on the horse and away; but he travelled faster on foot than the
surgeon did on horseback. The eye was declared irretrievably lost.
Constantine closed both his eyes: night and darkness seemed to fall
upon him. Hansgeorge, with the tears streaming from his eyes, sat
absorbed in bitter thoughts, and held the stump of his forefinger
convulsively in the gripe of his other hand. He regarded the maiming of
his child as a chastisement from God for having wantonly mutilated
himself. He expended all the gentleness of which his nature was capable
on poor unoffending Peter, who was doomed to expiate his father's sin.
But Peter's mother--our old friend Kitty--was less humble, and said
openly that she was sure that accursed Constantine was the fault of it
all. She drove him out of the house, and swore she would break his
collar-bone if he ever crossed the threshold again.
Peter persisted in his account of the matter, and Constantine suffered
cruelly. He would run about in the field as if an evil spirit were at
his heels, and when he saw a stone his heart would tremble. "Cain!
Cain!" he often cried. He would fain have fled to the desert like him
too, but always came home again.
It was three days before he ventured to see his companion. He prepared
himself for a merciless beating; but the wrath of the mother had gone
down, and no harm befell him.
He found Ivo sitting by the patient's bedside, holding his hand.
Pushing Ivo aside, he took Peter's hands in silence, his breath
trembling. At last he said,--
"Go away, Ivo; I'll stay here: Peter and I want to talk together."
[Illustration: Peter and I want to talk together.]
"No: stay here, Ivo," said the sufferer: "he may know all."
"Peter," said Constantine, "in the lowest hell you couldn't suffer more
than I have suffered. I have prayed to God often and often to take my
eye away and let you keep yours: I have kept one of my eyes shut when I
was alone, just to see no more than you. Oh, dear Peter, do please,
please forgive me!"
Constantine wept bitterly, and the patient begged him to be quiet, lest
his parents should find out about it. Ivo tried to comfort him too; but
the ruling passion soon appeared again:--
"I wish somebody would tear one of my eyes out, so that I shouldn't
have to be a parson, and sit behind a parcel of books and make a long
face while other people are enjoying themselves. Be glad you have only
one eye and needn't be a parson. But the last cock hasn't crowed yet,
neither."
Ivo looked sorrowfully at the scapegrace.
Peter was, indeed, henceforth unfit for the ministry. For in
Leviticus iii. 1 it is written, "If his oblation be a sacrifice of
peace-offering, he shall offer it without blemish before the Lord." A
clergyman must be without bodily imperfection.
Even when Constantine came to take leave of Peter, before getting into
the carriage which was to take him to the convent, he said, "I wish the
carriage would upset and break my leg. Good-bye, Peter: don't grieve
too much for your eye."
These words of Constantine, which betrayed the abhorrence of his inmost
soul to the clerical function, had made a deep impression on Ivo.
Often, in his solitary walk to school, he would whisper to himself, "Be
glad you have only one eye: you needn't be a parson;" and then he would
close each of his eyes alternately, to make sure that it was not his
case. Constantine was a riddle to him; but he prayed for him in church
for some time.
Meanwhile the time had come for Ivo in his turn to set out for the
convent of Ehingen. His father's house was filled with the bustle of
preparation, as if he were on the point of being married. At first the
sight of his new clothes was a source of pleasure; but soon the thought
of parting outweighed all others, and an inexpressible feeling of dread
overcame him. It was a comfort to think that his mother and Nat, with
the dun, were to accompany him. Having taken leave of the chaplain, of
his companions at Horb, and of Mrs. Hankler, he devoted three days to
going the rounds of the village. All gave him their best wishes,--for
all thought well of him and envied the parents of so fine and good a
lad. Here and there he received a little present,--a handkerchief, a
pair of suspenders, a purse, and even some money: the last he hesitated
to accept,--for, as his parents were well off, it seemed humiliating.
But he reflected that clergymen must accept presents, and rejoiced over
the six-creutzer pieces with childish glee. Having finished his parting
calls, he avoided being seen before the houses he had visited; for
there is something disagreeable in meeting casually with persons of
whom you have just taken a final and long farewell: a deep feeling
seems to be rudely wiped away and a debt to remain uncancelled. Ivo
thus became almost a prisoner for some days, restricted to the society
of his pigeons and the little localities which had become endeared to
him in his father's curtilage.
On the eve of his departure he went to the house where Emmerence lived,
to say "Good-bye." She brought him something wrapped up in paper, and
said, "There, take it: it is one of my ducklings!" Although Ivo did not
object, she pressed him, saying, "Oh, you must take it! Do you remember
how I drove them in from the hollow? They were little weeny things
then, and you used to help me get food for them. Take it: you can eat
it for lunch to-morrow."
Holding the roast duck in one hand, he gave the other to Emmerence and
to her parents. With a heavy heart, he returned home. Here all was in a
bustle. They were to start at one o'clock in the night, so as to be in
Ehingen betimes. On the bench by the stove sat an orphan-boy from
Ahldorf, who was also to enter the convent, with a blue bundle of goods
and chattels beside him. Ivo forgot his own sorrows in his pity for the
orphan, whom nobody accompanied, and who was forced to rely upon the
kindness of strangers. Seeing no other comfort at hand, he held the
roast duck under his nose, and said, "That's what we're going to have
for lunch tomorrow. You like a good drum-stick or a bit of the breast,
don't you?" He looked almost happy; and, to assure the stranger of his
share, he told him to put the duck into his bundle; but his mother
interfered to prevent this, as it would stain the clothes.
They all went to bed early. The orphan, whose name was Bart, slept in
Nat's bed, who stayed up to feed the horse and wake the others. When
Ivo was already in bed, His mother stole softly into the room once
more. She shaded the oil-lamp which she carried with her hand, in order
not to disturb him if he slept; but Ivo was awake, and, as her hand
smoothed the cover under his chin and then rested on his head, she
said, "Pray, Ivo dear, and you'll sleep well. Good-night!"
He wept bitterly when she had gone. A vision of light seemed to have
passed away, leaving him in total darkness. He felt as if a strange and
distant roof covered him already. To-morrow he knew his mother would
not come to him thus, and he sobbed into the pillows. He thought of
Emmerence, and of the other people in the village: they were all so
dear to him, and he could not imagine how they would do when he was
gone, and whether things would really go on without him just as they
always had done. He thought they ought to miss him as much as he longed
to be with them: he wept for himself and for them, and his tears seemed
to have no end. At last he nerved himself, folded his hands, prayed
aloud with a fervor as if he strained God and all the saints to his
bosom, and fell gently asleep.
With his eyes half shut, Ivo struck about him when Nat came with the
light: he thought it absurd to get up when he had hardly begun his
first nap. But Nat said, sorrowfully, "No help for it: up with you. You
must learn to get up now when other people bid you."
He staggered about the room as if he were tipsy. A good cup of coffee
brought him to his senses.
The house was all astir; and Ivo took a weeping farewell of his
brothers and sisters. Bart was already seated by Nat's side on the
board, which had the bag of oats for a cushion: his mother was getting
into the wagon, and Joe, his eldest brother, held the dun's head.
Valentine lifted up his son and kissed him: it was the first time in
his life that he gave him this token of love. Ivo threw his arms around
his neck and wept aloud. Valentine was visibly touched; but, summoning
up all his manhood, he lifted the boy into the wagon, shook his hand,
and said, in a husky tone, "God bless you, Ivo! be a good boy."
His mother threw his father's cloak around them both; the dun started,
and they were on their way through the dark and silent village. Here
and there a taper was burning by the bedside of sickness, while the
unsteady shadows of the watchers flitted across the window. The friends
who lived in all these silent walls bade him no farewell: only the
watchman, whom they met at the brick-yard, stopped in the midst of his
cry and said, "Pleasant trip to you."
For nearly an hour nothing was heard but the horse's tread and the
rattling of the wheels. Ivo lay on his mother's bosom with his arms
around her. Once he made his way out of the warm covering and asked,
"Bart, have you a cloak?"
"Yes: Nat gave me the horse-cloth."
Ivo again sank upon his mother's bosom, and, overpowered by sorrow and
fatigue, he fell asleep. Blest lot of childhood, that the breath of
slumber is sufficient to wipe all its bitterness away!
The road led almost wholly through forests. They passed through
Muehringen, traversed the lovely valley of the Eiach, and left the
bathing-place of Imnau behind, before ever it occurred to Ivo to look
about him. Not until they came down the steep that leads into
Haigerloch did he fairly awake; and he was almost frightened to see the
town far down in the ravine encircled by the frowning hills. As day
broke they felt the cold more keenly; for it is as if Night, when she
arises to quit the earth, gathered all her strength about her to leave
the traces of her presence as deep as possible.
They stopped at Hechingen, at the Little Horse, where a young girl was
standing under the door. Perhaps this reminded Ivo of Emmerence; for he
said, "Mother, shall we eat the duck now?"
"No: we'll have it for dinner at Gamertingen, and get them to make us a
nice soup besides."
The bright sunshine in the Killer Valley, the constant change of scene,
and the novel details of rural life which he saw in the "Rauh Alb"
Mountains, cheered Ivo a little; and when he saw a large herd of cattle
grazing he said to Nat, "Mind you take good care of my Brindle."
"There's an end of my care of him: your father has sold him to
Buchmaier, and he is coming to fetch him to-day and break him in."
Ivo was too well acquainted with the stages of a domestic animal's life
to be much grieved at this news: he only said, "Well, Buchmaier is a
good man, and deals well by man and beast; so I guess he won't work him
too hard. And, besides, he don't yoke two oxen into one yoke, but gives
each his own, so they're not worried quite so much."
The sun was near setting when they reached the valley of the Danube.
Nat became quite lively. With his head bent back, he told all sorts of
stories of the neighboring town of Munderkingen, of which much the same
jokes are told as are sometimes expended upon the Schildburgers; for
these towns are to the Wurtembergers or Suabians what the Suabians are
to the Germans outside of themselves, and something like what the Irish
are to the English and Americans,--a tribe upon which every cobbler of
wit patches a shred of his facetiousness in the cheap and durable form
of a "bull." Ivo laughed heartily, and said, "I wish you and I could
travel about together for a whole year."
But this was soon to cease; for they were at the gates of Ehingen. Ivo
started and grasped his mother's hand. They put up at the Vineyard, not
far from the convent. Hardly had they seated themselves, however,
before the vesper-bell rang: Ivo's mother rose without speaking, took
the two boys by the hand, and went to church.
There is a peculiar power in the universal visibility of the Catholic
religion: wherever you go or stand, temples open wide their portals to
receive your faith, your hope, your charity; worshippers are everywhere
looking up to the same objects of veneration, uttering the same words,
and making the same gestures; you are surrounded by brothers, children
of the great visible holy father at Rome. Halls are always open to
receive you into the presence of the Lord, and you are never out of
your spiritual inheritance.
[Illustration: Christina and the two boys knelt devoutly at the altar.]
Thus Christina and the two boys knelt devoutly at the altar. They
forgot that their home was far away; for the hand of the Lord had
erected a dwelling around and over them.
With an invigorated confidence, the mother once more took the boys by
the hand and sought the convent-gate. There was much stir here, and men
and boys might be seen walking and running to and fro in all
directions, dressed in all the various costumes of the Catholic
portions of the country. The famulus at the entrance, having examined
their passports, brought them to the director. This was an old man of
rather querulous mien, who answered every remark and every question of
Christina with "Yes, yes: right enough." He had been catechized so much
that day that his taciturnity was not to be wondered at. Feeling Ivo
pulling at her skirt, she took courage to request that his reverence
would permit Ivo to sleep at the hotel for the coming night.
After some hesitation he said, "Well, yes. But he must be here before
church in the morning."
Bart took leave of Christina with a specimen of that verbiage of
gratitude which he had learned by heart from frequent practice. This
duty performed, he cheerfully followed the famulus to his room.
Ivo danced with joy at being allowed to stay with his mother. He
continued chatting with her till late at night.
[Illustration: The Convent.]
The next morning a beautiful clear Sunday was shining. An hour before
church began, Ivo went to the convent with his mother, followed by Nat
with the baggage and a bundle for Bart. She helped him to arrange his
chattels in the press, counting over every piece, and often looking
about sorrowfully to find that twelve boys were forced to live here in
one room. At the sound of the convent-bell, mother and son separated,
and the latter went to join his comrades.
After church his mother introduced herself to the stewardess, on
whom as a woman she hoped to exercise some little influence. She begged
her to give the boy a little something to eat between meals
occasionally,--for he would certainly forget to ask for it,--and she
would pay for it all honestly.
Ivo was permitted to join his mother again a little before dinner-time.
She even tried to make interest with the hostess of the Vineyard, and
implored her to give Ivo any thing he might ask for, and keep an
account of it, and it would be punctually paid. The busy hostess
attended to every thing, though she well knew that she could do
nothing.
Ivo ate with a good appetite: he knew that his mother was with him. But
after dinner he walked sadly to the Vineyard; for now the inevitable
leave-taking was to come.
"Well, Nat," said he, "you'll always be my friend, won't you?"
"You may swear to that as if it was gospel," replied he, pushing the
collar over the horse's head: he did not turn around, wishing to
conceal his emotion.
"And you'll give my love to all the people that ask about me?"
"Yes, yes; indeed I will: only don't grieve so much about being far
away from home. Why, it's pleasant to take leave when you know that
there are people at home who love you dearly, and when you haven't done
any harm." Nat's voice gave out; his throat was parched up, and his
neck swelled. Ivo saw nothing of this, but inquired,--
"And you'll mind the pigeons till I come back again, won't you?"
"Sha'n't lose a feather. There now: go to your mother, for we must be
off, or to-morrow will be lost too. Keep up your spirits, and don't let
it worry you too much: Ehingen isn't out of the world, either. Hoof,
dun!"
He led the horse up to the car, and Ivo went to his mother. Seeing her
weep so bitterly, he suppressed his own tears, and said, "Mustn't be so
sad: Ehingen isn't out of the world, either, and I'm coming home at
Easter, and then we shall be so glad: sha'n't we?"
His mother bit her lips, bent over Ivo, embraced and kissed him. "Be
pious and good" were the last words she sobbed out. She got on the car;
the dun started, after looking around at Ivo, as if to take leave also;
Nat nodded once more, and they were gone.
Ivo stood with his hands folded and his head sunk upon his breast. When
he raised his tearful eyes and saw nothing of the loved ones, he ran
out into the street to get one more look at the car: from the town-gate
he saw it speeding on the dusty road. He stopped and turned to go back.
Everybody around seemed so cheerful, and he alone was sad and a
stranger! In the car his mother took her rosary and prayed,--
"Dear, holy Mother of God! Thou knowest what a mother's love is: thou
hast felt it in sorrow and in joy. Preserve my child; he is the jewel
of my heart. And, if I do a sin in loving him so much, let me atone for
it, not him."
When Ivo reached the convent it was time for the afternoon service; but
he found no devotion this time: his heart trembled too much with
weariness. For the first time in his life he found himself in church
without knowing it: he sang and listened unthinkingly.
This one circumstance was a feature of the life on which he was about
to enter: the actions of his own will fell into the background;
directions and precepts dictated his steps. His existence now became
legally and strictly monotonous. The story of one day is the story of
all.
The boys slept in large halls under the supervision of an usher. At
half-past five in the morning a bell rang, which brought in the
famulus, who lighted the lantern hanging from the roof and summoned
them all to prayers. Then there was breakfast at the common table,
succeeded by hours of private study which lasted till eight o'clock.
The schools now began, and continued until dinner-time, after which
there was an hour of "recreation,"--that is, of a walk taken under the
eye of a functionary. After some more hours of instruction the boys
were permitted to play in the yard, but never without being watched by
a person in authority. The constraint indicated by the enclosed space
was never relaxed even during "free time;" nowhere was there room for a
spontaneous pleasure to spring forth, _nowhere a moment of
unreconnoitred solitude_.
At home Ivo had been the pet of the family: when he sat at his books,
his mother made it her especial care to see that no noise was made near
him; scarcely was any one permitted to enter the room, and an
impression was made as if a saint was engaged in working miracles
there. Here, on the contrary, when the studies were resumed after
supper, whispers would be heard here and there, which distracted his
attention and took away the edge of his industry. Those who know the
inscrutable power that often animates the soul which mirrors itself in
its own thoughts or drinks in the thoughts of others, who are
acquainted with that mute intellectual commerce which extends its
organs and spreads its fragrance like a budding flower, will appreciate
the regret of Ivo at never being left to himself. He was no longer his
own property: a society moved him as if he had been one of their
fingers or teeth.
At nine o'clock there were prayers once more, after which every one was
compelled to go to bed. Here, at last, Ivo returned to himself, and his
thoughts travelled homeward, until sleep spread its mantle over him.
Thus it happened that for some days Ivo felt as if he had been sold
into slavery. Nowhere was there a trace of free will; every word and
every thought was hedged in by injunctions and commandments; the
_inflexibility of the law_ raised a cold high wall before him wherever
he turned. It is a consistent deduction from the essence of every
Church which has reached the development of a fixed and unchanging form
of ritual and tenet, to begin in early youth with the task of tapping
the fountain-head of individual self-regulation in the hearts and minds
of its pupils, and of clapping them into the iron harness of its
unbending forms. But the highest effort of education should be to draw
out this self-regulating principle, and not to repress it; to educe the
laws of right and wrong from the workings of the young mind, and not to
nail a foreign growth upon the stock after having deadened the source
from which alone a healthy fruitage could spring.
Ivo was so low-spirited that a single harsh word sufficed to bring
tears to his eyes. Some of the naughtiest of his companions discovered
this, and teased him in all sorts of ways. Many of these boys were of
the coarsest stamp,--had left the most humble abodes behind them, and
found every thing their hearts desired in the good food and the care
taken of all externals. They noticed that Ivo was easily disgusted, and
often amused themselves by getting up a conversation at the table which
made it impossible for the poor boy to taste a morsel. At such times
his mother's arrangement with the stewardess was of the greatest
service to him.
Over-government always leads to circumventions of the law which the
supervisors are forced to wink at: some of these tricks are handed down
by a sort of secret tradition; others are invented with the occasion.
Ivo never took part in these irregularities, nor in the practical jokes
sometimes attempted to be played on the teachers and overseers. He was
quiet and retiring.
His letter to his parents gives a vivid picture of his state of mind.
It was as follows:--
"DEAR PARENTS, BROTHERS, AND SISTER:--I did not wish to write before I
had learned to feel at home here. Oh, I have lived through so much in
these three weeks that I thought I should die! Indeed, if I had not
been ashamed I would have run away and come back to you. I often
thought that I was just like the cow that father bought: she could not
eat any thing either until she had become accustomed to the rest of the
cattle. We have very good eating here,--meat every day except Friday,
and wine on Sunday. The stewardess is very kind to me. I cannot go to
see the landlady at the Vineyard, as we are not allowed to go to
taverns. We are kept strictly in all things:--we are not even permitted
to take half an hour's walk by ourselves after dinner. If I only had
wings, to come and fly over to you! What I like best is to walk in the
road by which we came here: then I think of the future,--when I shall
travel this road again in the holidays. It is very cold here, too.
Would you please send me a flannel jacket, dear mother, slashed with
green in front? I feel the cold much more here than when I used to go
to Horb: there I could do as I liked; here I don't seem to belong to
myself at all. Oh, my head is often so heavy with crying that I feel as
if I were going to be sick! But don't grieve about it, dear mother: all
will go on very well soon, and I am really in good health now: only I
must pour out my heart before you. I will study very hard, and then God
will make all things go rightly: I depend on Him, on our Savior, on the
holy mother of God, and on all the saints: others have gone through
with it all before me, and why should not I? Be happy among yourselves,
and love each other dearly; for, when one is away, one feels how much
those should love each other who are privileged to be together: I would
certainly never be quarrelsome or discontented now, and dear Mag would
not need to scold me. Good-bye. Give my love to all good friends, and
believe me your loving son,
"IVO BOCK.
"P.S.--Dear mother, a new usher has just come,--Christian the tailor's
son Gregory; but his sister does not keep house for him now, it seems:
there is somebody else with him. Please get Christian the tailor to
write to him to be a little kind to me.
"Dear Nat, my best love to you, and I think of you very often. The
cattle here are almost all black; and whenever I see a farmer at work
in the fields I can hardly help running up to him to help him. The
steward has pigeons too, but he kills them all in winter.
"Bart lives in a different room from mine. He is very happy: he has
never been so well cared for in his life. Poor fellow! he hasn't such a
dear good mother and father as I have. If I only had one companion to
my liking here--
"In the evenings we are allowed to visit in families: many of
the boys do so, but I know nobody to go to. Oh, if I were only in
Nordstetten----
"Pardon my scrawling. If I were only with you! I have many things on my
heart still, but will close now: the night-bell is ringing. Think of me
often."
This letter made a great impression at home. His mother carried it in
her pocket, and read it again and again, till it fell to pieces. The
High-German dialect in which it was written came so strangely from her
child that she could hardly realize the fact: but then he was a
"scholar," and the minister preached in the same way in church. The
numerous dashes tried her patience sorely. What could the boy have been
thinking of when he made them?
[Illustration: Nat offered to walk all night to Ehingen.]
Nat at once offered to walk all night to Ehingen, to bring Ivo the
things he had asked for and news from home. Walpurgia, the pretty
seamstress, was taken into the house and set to work. Christina treated
her to the best of fare, for it seemed as if she were feeding the
jacket. Often she said, "Don't save any thing: it is for my Ivo." As it
was near Christmas, some "hutzelbrod" was baked, being kneaded with
kirschwasser and filled with dried apples, pears, and nut-kernels.
This, with a great quantity of fruit, some money, and other
knickknacks, was packed into a bag and laid upon the shoulders of the
devoted Nat, who trudged out of the village late in the evening.
Ivo could hardly believe his eyes when, as the class were taking their
afternoon stroll, he saw Nat coming up the road. He ran to meet him,
and fell upon his neck. Many of the boys gathered round wondering.
"Bock," asked one, "is that your brother?"
Ivo nodded, unwilling to say that Nat was only a servant.
"What an old buck your father must be!" said another boy. The rest
laughed,--all except Clement Bauer, a boy from the principality of
Hohenlohe, who said, "For shame, you jealous daws! Why, a'n't you glad
his brother's come to see him?" He ran to the usher in command and
obtained permission for Ivo to go home with Nat alone. Ivo was
delighted beyond measure to meet with such a fine boy. The thought
awoke in his mind that perhaps Nat had helped him to a friend.
Hand in hand they turned toward the convent, Ivo talking and rejoicing
incessantly. When the things came to be unpacked, he shouted with
delight. He immediately laid up a reserve for the good Clement; but
when the other room-mates returned he shared his treasure with them
all. Nat had also brought a letter for Gregory, the tailor's son, which
Ivo immediately carried to him, and received an invitation to come to
him often and call upon him for aid and counsel.
In the evening he was allowed to go to the inn with Nat, where there
was no end of their chatting. When the bell rang for prayer, Nat
escorted him back to the convent. Ivo ascended the stairs as lightly as
if an unseen hand supported him. He was quite at home here now, since
all Nordstetten, in the person of its most acceptable envoy, had come
to see him. Besides, he now had both a friend and a patron, all owing
to dear good old Nat.
From this time forth Ivo's life was sustained by industry,
cheerfulness, and friendship. His mother hardly suffered a bird to pass
without charging it with something kind for her son. His chest was
never without some little delicacy, nor his heart without some secret
pleasure. A brighter light fell on all things around him, much of which
was owing to the encouraging influence of Clement. Still, the two did
not become intimate so quickly as might have been expected: an
extraordinary occurrence was necessary to bring this about. The other
boys, seeing that Ivo was in favor with Mr. Haible,--such was Gregory's
surname,--left him unmolested, and even sought his good-will.
The study of music afforded Ivo particular pleasure. An orchestra was
organized to perform at the church-festivals. Ivo chose the bugle as
his instrument, and soon acquired considerable skill.
The principal once conceived the idea of giving the boys, who were
condemned to such a dismal barrack-life, a taste of family comfort. So,
after catechism, he invited twelve of the most advanced--Ivo among
them--to come to his room in the evening. This invitation was
understood as a command, and the boys marched in at the appointed hour,
in the order of their seats at school, bowing and scraping.
The principal, who lived with his old maiden sister, had tea ready for
them, to which they were helped, and of which they bashfully partook.
The good old gentleman had unfortunately forgotten all about family
comfort and domestic enjoyment himself; so, instead of asking questions
about home, he conversed about books and studies. Once only, when he
told a magnificent joke of the perplexity into which he was thrown in
early childhood by finding two leaves of his Bible sticking together, a
suppressed giggle passed around the room. He immediately went on to
argue, however, that whenever we find it hard to understand any thing
in the Bible we might be sure there was a leaf pasted down somewhere.
At nine o'clock he said, "Now let us pray." They prayed, and then he
said "Good-night," and the boys went their way. They were not much the
better for their taste of family comfort.
Thus the winter passed by. Sometimes it made Ivo sad to see the
town-boys sledging or throwing snow-balls. When the snow thawed,
however, and nature began again to thrive, his heart reverberated to
the pulses which beat all round him. He yearned for his free sunny
home.
8.
THE HOLIDAYS.
For several weeks before the holidays none of the boys had their minds
fixed upon their studies; all skipped and danced with joy at the
thought of going home. Ivo and Clement often walked hand in hand,
telling each other stories of home. Clement was the son of a scrivener
or actuary,--the lowest grade of those officials who form the great
political and legal hierarchy of the continental states of Europe. He
had had no settled home in his childhood, as his father had been
transferred from town to town three or four times during his life.
On the last evening all the boys were packing their trunks, as if on
the eve of a march or a retreat. In the morning there was divine
service, and, though the singing was loud, it is to be feared that more
thoughts were directed to earthly homes than to the heavenly one.
After taking an affectionate leave of Clement, Ivo set out, taking
short steps at first, according to the rule among pedestrians, all
impatient as he was. Bart kept him company: he was going to an aunt. He
was an unpleasant companion, for he wanted to stop at every tavern-sign
which showed itself. Ivo never assented until they had reached the
valley of the Lower March, where their roads parted. Fortunately he
here found some Jewish horse-jockeys from Nordstetten. They were very
glad to see him, and he them. They took him in their car and gave him a
lift of many miles. He heard of all the births, marriages, and deaths.
Ivo thought that these were the three fates between which vibrates the
life of the children of men; and, without halting at the redundant
spondee, he quoted to himself
"Clotho colum retinet, et Lachesis net, et Atropos occat."[9]
When the road was up hill the travelling traders took their
prayer-straps out of their pouches, fastened them to their foreheads
and arms and offered up their long devotions. Ivo compared the breath
which rose from their moving lips in whiffs of fume, to the incense of
the Bible: he honored every creed, and particularly the Jewish one, as
the oldest of all. He even glanced into the open prayer-book of his
neighbor, and pleased him by showing that he was able to read Hebrew.
Ivo admired the ease with which these horse-jockeys read the language:
even the principal could not have kept pace with them.
On setting him down again, where they travelled in a direction
different from his home, they made him promise not to go all the way to
Nordstetten that day, so that he might not injure his health. Walking
on silently, Ivo praised his beloved native village, in which every
one, Christian and Jew, appeared to be equally good.
Although his thoughts all tended homeward, he was very observant of
things around him, and even found time for some general reflections.
More than once, when a distant village-spire hove in sight, he said to
himself, "How well it is that the church-steeple is always the first
thing to be seen as you approach a village! It shows that Christians
live there, and that they dedicate their best and finest house to God."
At another time he thought, "These fruit-trees around every village are
the best friends of man. Man comes first, cattle next, and then the
orchard-trees,--for they also need the special care of man to prune and
graft them and remove the caterpillars. How strange it is! All around
is grass and puny herbage, and suddenly a great stem rears itself aloft
and its crest is all white with blossoms.
"God's earth is full of wondrous beauty,
A lovely place to dwell upon;
Then to rejoice shall be my duty
Till in the earth I make my wonne."
Though so well entertained by communing with himself, he entered into
conversation with more than one of the travellers he overtook, or who
overtook him. They all were pleased with his open, kindly talk; and he
quite rejoiced to find the world full of such good-humored people.
It was dark when he reached Hechingen. Though it was but five hours'
walk to his home, and he felt no fatigue, he kept his promise to his
friends. He wished, moreover, to come home in the daytime. "It was dark
when I went away," he said to himself as he sat at the inn, "and it
must be light when I return." He was even vain enough to wish that his
father's house was at the other end of the village, so that his green
knapsack and student's dress might attract universal attention.
The sun shone brightly when Ivo awoke. It was a happier waking than
that on which the lantern of the convent used to look down. It was a
beautiful day,--a day of jubilee for the birds in the air and the buds
on the trees.
He longed for wings; and, in default of them, he flung his cap high in
the air as he walked briskly along. He suddenly stopped, sat down on
the wayside, and, repeating the words of Exodus iii. 5,--"Put off thy
shoes from off thy feet; for the place whereon thou standest is holy
ground,"--he obeyed the precept. Like an unshod colt, he 'bounded along
for a time; but soon he found that the life of the convent had unfitted
him for such exercise. Compressing his lips with pain, and resuming his
shoes, he again thought of the beautiful Psalm,--"He shall give his
angels charge over thee, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone."
Psalm xci. 11, 12.
At Haigerloch he bought two "pretzels,"--one for his mother and the
other for Emmerence. "Didn't she give me the duck when I went away?" he
argued to himself, to quiet his ecclesiastical conscience. He avoided
the short turns which the footpaths offered, and followed the highroad,
fearing to miss his way: besides, he had more of the village to pass
through on this route than in going by the way of Muehringen. The
nearer home he came, the more his heart bounded within him. Sometimes
it all seemed too good to be true, and he dreaded some unforeseen
disaster, or even that the weight of his exultation would drag him
down: at such times he would sit down to recover his strength.
People were wrong in saying that it was but two hours' walk from
Haigerloch to Nordstetten. "The fox must have measured this road and
thrown in his tail," said Ivo, repeating the old German proverb: "it is
eight hours' walk at least."
Near the beech farm he saw his Brindle pulling a plough. Running up to
the ploughman, he asked how Brindle worked, and rejoiced to hear him
praised. The brute had forgotten him, however, and let his head droop
earthward under the yoke. Ivo was tempted to give him one of the
pretzels to eat, but was ashamed of showing his weakness to the
workman, and went on.
At the brick-yard he met Hansgeorge's Peter, the one-eyed, who shook
his hand sadly, and said, "Constantine came last night."
Welcomed on every side, Ivo passed on. Every thing warmed his
heart,--the things which moved, and those which moved not: every hedge,
every stack of wood, looked like a friend, and seemed to be telling a
good old story: when his father's house stood before him it trembled in
his eyes, for the tears were running down his cheeks.
[Illustration: Emmerence sat under the walnut-tree with the school
master's child on her lap.]
Emmerence sat under the walnut-tree with the school master's child on
her lap. Instead of coming to meet him, she ran into the house, crying,
"Ivo's come! Ivo's come!"
His mother left the wash-tub, rushed down the stairs, and, with her
hands but half dried on her apron, embraced her darling. His father,
Mag, and his brothers also came up in high glee; and his mother, with
her arms still round his neck, almost carried him into the house.
Emmerence now came up also, saying, "I knew you were coming to-day.
Constantine came yesterday. I saw him first, though,--didn't I, aunty?"
she added, turning to his mother.
Nat now made his appearance, and, with a hearty "God bless you," he
helped Ivo off with his shoes and brought him a pair of slippers.
After the vaulted chambers of the convent, the rooms of the farmhouse
seemed no larger and no higher than the nests of a pigeon's cote: he
stretched himself to reach the ceiling; but, much as he had grown, this
was still out of the question. His mother hastened to make a soup for
him and a "parson's roast," as a pancake is called in those parts,
because it is the dish generally got up for sudden and unexpected
visitors at a parsonage.
Having given his mother one of the "pretzels," Ivo went to the stable
to talk to Nat. The beasts seemed to recognise him: the cow
particularly was pleased to turn her head toward him and let him tickle
her forehead.
"Haven't you brought me any thing?" asked Nat, smiling. Ivo found the
remaining pretzel in his pocket and handed it to him in silence. He was
thus relieved of the scruple which troubled him, that it might be wrong
for him to make Emmerence a present: on returning to the kitchen,
however, he heard Emmerence say,--
"Well, aunty, what are you going to give me for bringing you the good
news?"
"Take the pretzel he brought for me: Ivo knows I am as thankful as if I
had eaten it, but my teeth are giving out."
Ivo was but too well pleased to know that Emmerence had something from
him, and highly indignant that the squalling baby forthwith laid her
under contribution for half the prize. The baby found but little favor
in his eyes at any time: it was so large that when Emmerence carried
it--as it always insisted on her doing--she seemed in constant danger
of losing her balance and falling. So he said, with some solemnity,--
"You do a sin against yourself and against the baby, Emmerence, if you
drag it about all the time: it has strong feet, and ought to learn to
walk; and you will drag yourself crooked if you go on so."
She set the child down instantly, and did not take it up again in spite
of its crying. Wasn't Ivo a young parson now? and hadn't he said it was
a sin?
This little reprimand was almost the only interest Ivo manifested in
her to the end of the holidays. So much, he thought, his conscience
could not possibly disapprove; but he would not go further. The eyes of
the girl were often fixed on him, as if to inquire the cause of his
studied indifference. Once only, in a favored moment, he asked, "What
has become of your puss?"
"Why, only think, that tinker Caspar, 'the Dog Caspar,' stole it and
took its pretty black hide off, and ate poor pussy."
[Illustration: People walked up to him and took him by the hand.]
In the afternoon Ivo enjoyed the full honor of being welcomed by all
the villagers. He loved to stop at every door; it did his heart good to
see people walk up to him as to one who had been in foreign parts, take
him by the hand and admire his healthy appearance. Nor was it mere
vanity that afforded him this gratification: he felt that he had a nook
in the hearts of the eager welcomers, he was more or less beloved; and
thus the prevailing desire of his nature was gratified.
At night the most delicious home feeling always overcame him when his
mother visited his bedside and saw that he was well covered.
"Christmas white, Easter bright," had come true this year. The day
after he came home was Easter Sunday. Every thing was doubly fresh and
green. Once more Ivo stood under the walnut-tree, the leaves of which
were just peeping out of their buds; once more he was wrapt in
contemplation of his pigeons: he could not sing this time, for that
would have been unbecoming his station.
When the afternoon service was over, Ivo set out on a walk to Horb. At
the "Scheubuss," at Paul's Garden, he found several women seated on the
little bridge by the weeping willow which droops its green arches over
the runnel. They all rose reverentially at Ivo's greeting: one of them,
however, stepped up to him, and, after rubbing her hand very hard on
her apron, took that of Ivo. We have not forgotten her, though she has
grown quite old: it was the gawk's mother, Maria.
"God bless you, Ivo!" she said. "How you have grown! I won't call you
Mr. Bock until you are at the seminary in Rottenburg."
"You must always call me Ivo, aunty."
"No, no: that would never do."
The other women approached, and regarded the young "gentleman" with
great attention; but not one ventured to open her mouth.
"How are Matthew and Aloys coming on in America?" asked Ivo.
"Now, how nice that is in you to think of them! I've just had a letter
from Aloys. You know he's been married this long time to Mechtilde, the
daughter of Matthew of the Hill: they have two children. Oh, if I could
only have just one blessed look at them! It's like being half dead to
be so uncommon far apart. I must see Mat's children, and Aloys'; and
Matthew's wife, the American, I don't know at all. My boys are all the
time writing to come and come: if it only wasn't so shocking far to
that America! They say they will meet me at New York; and, if it's
God's will, I think I _shall_ go off after Whitsunday with some
emigrants from Rexingen. If our Lord God wishes to take me away He will
always know where to find me. Isn't it so?"
Ivo nodded; and Maria, taking from her pocket a paper which was very
carefully wrapped up, went on:--"See, here's the last letter: how kind
it would be of you to come in and read it to me once more! The
schoolmaster is tired of it, and the Jew schoolmaster has read it three
or four times too. There's a word in it that neither of 'em can make
out: you can, though, I'm sure; for you've got learning."
Ivo went into the house with her, the other women following, first with
hesitation and then with an air of great firmness and resolution. All
sat down, prepared to listen attentively. Many of the gawk's old
friends will be pleased to hear his letter also:--
"NORDSTETTEN ON THE OHIO, AMERICA,
October 18, 18**.