"No house to live,
No farm to tend,
No gauds to give,
No money to lend,
And such a lassie
As I am
Will never find a friend."
"What makes you so down-hearted?" Ivo could not refrain from asking.
"Didn't you sleep well?"
[Illustration: What makes you so down-hearted?]
"I don't know any thing about sleeping well or ill. I am tired when I
go to bed, and my eyes shut. I just happened to think of the song, and
so I sang it."
"You needn't deny it: you would like to have Constantine for your
sweetheart, wouldn't you?"
"Him! I'd rather take the French simpleton, or Blind Conrad: I've no
mind to make up the balance of his half-dozen. I don't want any
sweetheart: I am going to remain single."
"That's what all the girls say."
"You shall see whether I am in earnest about it or not."
"But if you can get a good husband you oughtn't to be too dainty."
"What could I get? Some old widower who has furnished the gravedigger
with two or three wives already. No! whenever I can't stay in your
house any more, my mind's made up: I promised Mag when she went away to
go to America. But I'm so glad to see you care about what's to become
of me: sure, if you _are_ going to be a clergyman, that's no reason why
you should never look after your old friends."
"I should like nothing better than to do something for your comfort and
happiness in the world."
Emmerence looked at him with beaming eyes. "That's what I always said,"
cried she: "I knew you were good, and I never would believe you were
proud. Ask your mother: we talk of you often and often. Don't your ears
ever tingle?"
Thus they chatted for some time. Emmerence told him that she read his
letters to his mother, and that she almost knew them by heart. Ivo
thought it his duty to say that he too had not forgotten her, and that
he hoped she would always be good and pious. He said this with a great
effort of self-command, for the girl's warm-hearted candor had made a
great impression upon him.
The church-bell rang, and some old women who passed with their
prayer-books under their arms made Ivo aware that he was too late for
matins.
"Where are you going to work to-day?" he asked, before leaving.
"Out by the pond."
He went into the fields, but in the opposite direction: a violent
yearning drew him toward the spot where he knew Emmerence to be; but he
only walked the faster, to suppress the cry of his heart. At length he
returned home and took up a book; but he could not rivet his thoughts
to the subject. He began a letter to Clement, intending to pour out his
heart to his friend; but he soon tore it up, and consoled himself with
the reflection that he would soon see Clement again.
Contrary to all his former habits, Ivo was now rarely at home. He
frequently spent half a day at a time in Jacob's smithy. Smithies in
Germany, as here, are the resorts of various drones, old men, and
idlers: wagoners from a distance, and from the village, come and go, to
have their horses shod or their tools or vehicles repaired. As the
bellows fan the fire, so the arrivals and departures keep up the stream
of conversation. Ivo often asked himself how things would have been if
the wish of his early childhood had been fulfilled and he had become a
blacksmith. He resolved, when in the ministry, to frequent these places
and endeavor at times to edge in a wholesome word of counsel or
encouragement. Sometimes the thought struck him that possibly it would
not be his lot to take orders, after all. "So be it, then," he would
say: "only let me never be like the 'college chap.'"
13.
DISCORD.
On his return to the convent, Ivo suffered several days to pass before
informing his now pale and wasted-looking friend Clement of the
emotions which had gone on within him: he had a natural dread of this
disclosure.
As they walked in the Burgholz together, Clement grasped Ivo's hand and
said, "I saw in a dream how Satan laid his snares to entrap you."
Ivo confessed his love for Emmerence.
"Alas!" cried Clement, "alas! you too are pursued by the tempter. If
thine eye offend thee, pluck it out. You must trample this spark of
hell-fire out of existence, though life itself should follow."
Ivo went to confession. He never disclosed the penance imposed upon
him; but he agreed readily to Clement's proposal to sleep on the ground
in future and to subject themselves to various deprivations. Clement
always slept upon the ground in a sitting posture and with his arms
spread out to represent the form of the cross.
With the whole force of his will, Ivo disengaged his thoughts from the
affairs of this world, and succeeded in confining them once more to
subjects of ecclesiastical learning. But a new demon soon dogged him
even into the sacred precincts. He never dared to tell Clement of this
last machination of the evil one; for Clement would have raised a fresh
hue and cry. This made a rupture of their intimacy inevitable, and
accident soon brought it about. Clement was speaking of the Godhead of
Christ as manifested in his having assumed the bitterness of death upon
his cross, and said that this was needed to complete the revelation of
him as God and as the Savior of the world.
"I see nothing so superhuman in death upon the cross," said Ivo, very
calmly. "It is holy and grand, but it is not superhuman, to die
innocently in the promotion of a great cause. I should have esteemed
him equally if there had been no occasion for a martyrdom to prove the
truth of his divine mission, and if the blind Jews had acknowledged him
without it, and had suffered him to live. Not the crucified, but the
living Christ, His divine life and divine doctrines, are my salvation
and my faith."
Clement stood trembling from head to foot: his lips swelled, and his
eyes rolled wildly. With clenched fist he struck Ivo's face, making
sparks of fire start from his eyes and causing his cheek to tingle. Ivo
stood unmoved, or motionless; but Clement fell to the ground before
him, seized his hand, and cried,--
"Down into the dust, forsaken one! Verily, the heaviest chastisement
which could befall thy blasphemy has the Lord visited upon thee by my
hand: it was not my will, but the Lord's, which hurled my arm against
thee. Thou art the brother of my heart, and by me thou must be smitten;
for thou must feel two-edged swords piercing thy flesh.
"If thou thrust me away, the Lord's wrath is thereby visited upon thee
still more: thou shalt lose the best friend thou hast. Do what thy
spirit will, put me away, and thou shalt be doubly wretched. The Lord
must plunge thee into the depths of darkness, that thine eye may be
opened to receive the light. He must give thee sadness to drink and
gall to feed upon, until the spirit of lies shall depart and the slime
of sin fall away from thee. Lord, let this offering be pleasing in thy
sight: I offer thee half of my heart,--my friend. Thou art my friend, O
Lord! Forgive me that my soul still clings to one who is the food of
worms. Be gracious unto me, O Lord! give me the full cup of sorrow, and
lead me in the thorny path to thee, thee!"
Ivo stood sadly regarding his friend, whose rashness grieved but did
not surprise him. He offered to raise him up; but Clement refused, and
Ivo soon saw the entire meaning of this fit of ecstasy. With a
sensation of indescribable pain, he thought he saw the corpse of his
friend in the place of his living body; and then again his own
disembodied spirit seemed to stand before his own lifeless frame and
look upon its last convulsive movements. He was giddy. He offered again
to assist Clement in rising; but the latter sprang to his feet, and
demanded, peremptorily,--
"Will you do penance? Will you wash the rust from your soul with tears
of repentance?"
"No."
"To hell with you, then!" cried Clement, again seizing him by the
throat. Ivo, however, defended himself stoutly, and the savage said,
imploringly, "Smite me; tread me under foot: I will undergo all things
willingly: but I must save you, for the Lord wills it."
Ivo turned on his heel without another word, and quitted his friend in
silence.
For days Ivo walked about in thoughtful silence. The string of his
heart which had the fullest tone was cruelly snapped asunder: he had
buried the bright promise of youthful friendship. Besides, the excess
of religious frenzy which he had witnessed had given fresh vitality to
many half-slumbering doubts and scruples. He was "doubly wretched," as
Clement had foretold; but he knew not how to help himself.
The chaplain of Horb had come to Tuebingen as a professor: he had never
lost his preference for Ivo, who now sought his friendship and
acquainted him with his troubles.
Strange to say, it was the Virgin Mary who had provoked his doubts
especially. He first inquired "whether, as a saint, she was also
omnipresent?" as he thought she ought to be, seeing that prayers were
everywhere offered up to her.
The professor looked at him with some astonishment, and said, "The
notion of omnipresence is a purely human one, deduced from bodily
things, and, in strictness, applicable to them alone. In coupling
'_omnis_' (all) with 'present' we merely seek to comprehend the
totality of existence: we do not really add to the number of our ideas,
though we may seem to do so. Nothing which is not earthly can become,
as such, the subject of our conceptions: for the same reason, we cannot
legitimately undertake to subject a spirit to the measure of what is,
in fact, a merely physical standard,--that of 'presence.' We must
renounce, once for all, the idea of comprehending supernatural things
logically: faith is the proper organ of their function, and no other."
Ivo was entirely satisfied with this answer, and only ventured timidly
to ask how the _Virgin_ Mary could be spoken of, when the Bible makes
mention of brothers of Christ.
The professor answered, "The Greek word [Greek: adelphos][12] is not to
be taken literally: it is an Oriental expression, taken from the
Hebrew, and signifies as much as 'kinsman,' or 'friend.'"
"Then I suppose the expression [Greek: huios theou][13] is not to be
taken literally either, but is also an Oriental expression?"
"By no means! Such an idea is at once repelled by the Messianic
passages of the Old Testament, the Gospels, and the tenets of the
Church. And, besides," added he, watching Ivo's features narrowly, "the
incarnation of God has no other purpose than to give a hold to our
human faculties, because, as I said before, we can form no conception
of that which is not earthly: its essence is and must remain a mystery,
which we can do nothing but believe in, and faith will be given you, if
you take pains to keep your soul pure, childlike, and innocent."
"But that is not so easy," said Ivo, with some timidity.
"I will give you some advice which is founded on experience," answered
the professor, laying his hand upon Ivo's shoulder: "as often as a
thought arises within you which threatens to drift you away from the
moorings of faith, banish it immediately by prayer and study, and do
not suffer it to abide in your heart. We stand with our God much as we
do with our friends: once estranged from them, it is not an easy matter
to revive the old affection."
The advice and the illustration made a great impression on Ivo; but
they came too late.
It must not be supposed, however, that inquiries of this kind carried
Ivo out of the pale of the Church, and to the furthermost bounds of
thought. He remained a believing spirit: he was firmly convinced of the
reality of the miraculous: and only the soul which holds fast to this
conviction is really within the pale prescribed for the genuine
Churchman: faith is the surrender of the mind to the inexplicable, to a
miracle.
His distaste to a clerical life was caused, in a far greater degree, by
other considerations, which now pressed upon him with increasing
vividness: he longed for a life of active energy. An early chain of
reflections which had first manifested itself to his consciousness at
Ehingen once more appeared on the surface of his thoughts. "Not the
hard drudgery of hands," said he to himself, "is the punishment of sin;
but, because mankind have once tasted of the tree of knowledge, they
are now condemned everlastingly to seek it, without ever enjoying it to
repletion. In the sweat of their brows they seek food for their minds:
the dry rustling leaves of books are the foliage under which the fruit
of knowledge is supposed to be concealed. Happy he to whom the
Christmas-tree, with its tapers lighted by unseen hands, has proved
this better tree of knowledge. Labor, Labor! Only the beast lives
without labor: it goes forth to seek its food without preparing it:
man, on the contrary, mingles his powers with the generative forces of
mother earth, lends his aid to the activity of the universe, and thus
the blessings of labor, rest, and peace of soul, fall to his share.
Blind Roman, how vapid was your motto, that life is warfare! how tawdry
the triumphs you held over subjugated brethren! Life is labor. True,
even that is a strife with the silent forces of nature; but it is a
strife of freedom, of love, which renovates the world. The stone's
obduracy yields to the chisel's industry, and helps to form the shelter
of the homestead. And more than all let me praise thee, tiller of the
soil! Into the furrowed wounds of the earth thou strewest sevenfold
life. The heart glows, the spirit moves, in thee. And as we subjugate
the earth and make it serve us, so also we learn to govern and guide
the earthly portion of our own natures; and as we wait for rain and
sunshine from above to make our work take root and flourish, so it is
thy will, O God, to pour out thy grace over us, to make the seed sown
in our spirits to thrive and sanctify our bodies. Give me, O Lord, a
little speck of earth, and I will plough it seven times over, so that
its hidden juices may sprout forth in blades which bow their heads
before the breath of thy mouth: I will raise the warts of my hands
aloft to praise thee, until thou shalt draw me up into thy kingdom."
"I should like well enough," he once said to himself, "to be a parson
on Sunday; but to spend a whole week occupied with nothing but the Lord
and the nothing we know about him,--to be as much at home in the church
as in one's bedroom,--why, that is to have no church and no Sunday at
all. Oh, heavens! how happy was I when I used to go to church of a
Sunday and say, 'Good-morning, God!' The sun shone more brightly, the
houses looked better, and all the world was different from what
it was on working-days." Perhaps he thought of Emmerence, for he
continued,--"A Lutheran parson's life wouldn't suit me, either. To
support a wife and a houseful of children on preaching? No, no!" Then
his theological scruples returned, and he said, "Theology is the bane
of religion: what need of so much subtlety? Love God: love thy
neighbor. What more?"
Thus his whole being was racked and tossed. The thought of Emmerence
would drive the fever-heat to his face, and then icy coldness returned
when he thought of his own future. He was at a loss how to inform his
parents of his irrevocable determination to leave the convent: it was
hard to explain to them that he could not look upon a clerical life as
his vocation, and that he did not find the faith within him strong
enough to justify such a step.
This train of thought was interrupted by a letter from the squire of
Nordstetten to the principal, requesting permission for Ivo to come
home, as his mother had to undergo a severe surgical operation, which
she wished to be performed in his presence.
Harrowed by anxiety, Ivo hastened home with the messenger who had
brought the letter. He learned that his mother had broken her arm some
time previously by falling down-stairs; that she had disregarded the
injury, and that now she could only be saved by another artificial
fracture and resetting of the limb; that she would have preferred death
had she not thought it her duty to reserve herself for her children.
Ivo was stung to the soul to find that the messenger always spoke of
his mother as if she were already dead or, at least, beyond all hopes
of recovery. "You couldn't find a better woman wherever cooking is
done," was the curious proverbial expression which formed the burden of
his answers.
The meeting between mother and son was heart-rending. "So, now! I can
bear it all better," said she, "because you are here."
The surgeon came next day. He offered to blindfold the patient; but she
said, "No: put the bed into the middle of the room, where I can see the
Savior, and you will see that I won't budge nor murmur."
After much reluctance, her wish was complied with. In one hand--the
hand of the injured arm--she grasped the rosary, while the other
clasped that of her son. Her eyes rested on the crucifix, and she said,
"Dear Savior, Thou hast borne the most cruel pain with a heavenly
smile: dear Savior, give me Thy power, hold me when I would tremble;
and, when the sharp swords pierce my soul, I will think of thee, O
Mother of God, and suffer in silence. Pray with me, dear Ivo."
Without uttering another word, she suffered the operation to be
performed; and when the bone cracked under the terrible pressure, when
all around sobbed and wept, when Valentine was led half fainting into
the adjoining room, and his suppressed sobs became louder as the door
closed upon him, Christina was silent and motionless: only her lips
quivered, her eyes were directed steadfastly upon the cross, and a holy
brightness seemed to issue from them.
When all was over, and even the surgeon broke out into praise of the
patient's fortitude, she sank upon her pillow, and her eyes closed; but
a brilliant glory still rested upon her face. All the bystanders were
dumb with admiration. Valentine had returned. He bent over his wife
till he felt her breath, and then looked up with a heavy sigh and a cry
of "God be praised!" Ivo kneeled at the bedside, looked up to his
mother, and worshipped her. All folded their hands: not a breath was
heard, and it seemed as if the living Spirit of God were passing
through every heart.
When Christina awoke with the cry of "Valentine," the latter hastened
to her side, pressed her hand upon his heart, and wept. "You forgive
me, don't you, Christina?" he said, at length. "You shall never, never
hear an unkind word from me again. I am not worthy of you: I see that
now better than ever; and if the Lord had taken you away I should have
gone mad."
"Be calm, Valentine. I have nothing to forgive you: I know how good you
are, though you are not always yourself. Don't grieve now, Valentine:
it's all right again. Our Lord only wished to try us."
She recovered with wonderful rapidity. Valentine kept his word most
faithfully. He watched over his wife as over a higher being: the
slightest motion of her eye was his command. He could scarcely be
induced to allow himself the rest he needed.
Emmerence and Ivo took turns in sitting up with his mother; and she
once said, "You are dear, good children: the Lord will certainly make
you happy."
Often also, when his mother slept, and the one came to relieve the
other, they had long conversations. Ivo confessed to her the longing of
his mind for active employment; and she said, "Yes, I can understand
that; I couldn't live if I hadn't plenty of work to do: I don't want to
praise myself, but I can work just as hard as any in the village."
"And if you only had a house of your own you'd work harder still,
wouldn't you?"
"Yes," said Emmerence, pushing up her short sleeves, and stiffening her
powerful arms, as if to set about it at once: "yes, then; but even so I
can do just as much work as turns up."
"Well," said Ivo, "do you think of any thing while you work?"
"Yes, of course."
"What, for instance?"
"Whatever happens to come into my head: I never thought of remembering
it afterward."
"Well, give me an instance."
Usually so confident, the girl was in a perfect flurry of
embarrassment.
"Are you ashamed to tell me?"
"Not a bit; but I don't know any thing to tell."
"What did you think this morning when you were cutting the rye? What
sort of thoughts went through your head?"
"Well, I must think; but you mustn't laugh at me."
"No."
"At first, I guess, I thought of nothing at all. You might break me on
the wheel, and I couldn't remember any thing. Then I came upon a nest
of young quails,--dear little bits of things. I put them on one side,
out of the way of the boys. Then I was wishing to see how surprised the
old ones would be when they came to find their house in another spot.
Then I thought of Nat's song, which you can sing too, about the poor
soul. Then I thought, 'Where may Nat have gone to?' Then,--then I
thought, 'I'm glad it's only half an hour till dinner-time,' for I was
getting mighty hungry. There! that's all: it isn't much, is it?" She
tugged bashfully at her sleeves, and could not raise her eyes to his
face. Ivo asked again,--
"Don't you sometimes think how wonderful it is that God causes the seed
which man throws out to bear sevenfold, and that the young crop sleeps
under the snow until the sun wakes it in spring? How many millions of
men have already lived upon the juices of the earth, and yet have not
exhausted them!"
"Oh, yes, I often think that, but it wouldn't have occurred to me of my
own accord: the parson says it often in sermons and in the catechism.
You see, when you have to work at all these things yourself you don't
find time for such reflections, but only think, 'Will it be ripe soon?'
and 'Will it bear much?' The parsons, who don't work in the field,
don't carry out the dung, and don't do any threshing, have more time
for such thinking."
"But you must seek such thoughts a little, and then you will find them
oftener. Won't you, Emmerence?"
"Yes, indeed I will: you are right: it is always well to admonish me.
If you ask me often, you'll soon find I shall have more to tell you.
I'm not so very stupid."
"You're a dear girl," said Ivo. He was on the point of taking her hand,
but restrained himself with an effort, though he could not prevent
himself from being more and more absorbed in admiration of her frank
and sterling ways.
With a heavy heart Ivo returned to the convent. He admired the heroic
endurance of his mother, and vowed to imitate it. But another subject
occupied him. Through suffering and pain the paradise of his parental
home had uprisen from its ashes, and he saw what an inexhaustible
source of happiness is found in the attachment of two loving hearts
which cling together the more closely the more rudely they are tossed
by life's storms and changes. The undying sorrow of his heart broke
forth again. He thought of Emmerence; and, sitting in the dark valley
of pines, he wept. Down in the dingle was heard the harsh clang of a
saw-mill; and Ivo wished that the boards being sawed there might be
nailed into his coffin.
In the next holidays he was again almost constantly at home. Life was
happy and peaceful there now. Valentine was regenerated, and a petulant
word was never heard. Each member of the household behaved with tender
consideration to all the others, and the Palm Sundays of early
childhood seemed to have returned. But this very calm was to Ivo a
source of unrest; in this very peace grew for him a tree of discord. He
saw, with unmantled clearness, the solitary gloom of his own future,
and knew that the happiness he witnessed was never to be his.
Two important events enhanced the interest of this vacation. Johnnie,
Constantine's father, had had a house built for his son. Valentine and
his sons had erected it; and Joseph, who became master-builder about
this time, spoke the customary poem or oration.
The whole village had assembled before the building: the master and the
journeymen were on the summit, engaged in fastening the crown of a
young fir, hung with ribbons of all colors, to the peak of the gable.
All were on the alert for Joseph's first performance. After a simple
salutation, he began:--
[Illustration: Joseph's first performance.]
"Here you see I have climb'd up unbidden:
If I had had a horse I would have ridden;
But, as I never had a horse,
I may as well talk about something else, of course.
The highest power in the State,
The Kaiser,--God keep him, early and late,--
And all the lords and princes round about,
The carpenters' trade could never do without.
A journeyman-carpenter here I stand,
And I travel through every prince's land.
I look about me with care,
Whether I can make a living there.
If I had every lassie's good-will,
And every master's craft and skill,
And all the wit of my friend the beadle,
I could build a house on the point of a needle;
But, as I can do nothing of the kind,
I must first have my house design'd.
He who would build on roads and streets
Must give every one a chance to try his wits.
I like what is fine,
Though it be not mine;
Though it cannot be my treasure,
It can always give me pleasure.
So I'll drink its health in some yellow wine:
Comrade, just fill up this glass of mine.
Builder! I drink to your satisfaction,
Not that I envy or wish you detraction,
But for good feeling and brotherhood.
Long life to the Kaiser and all his brood!
Destruction to every enemy,
And good luck to this worshipful company,
And to all the people, from far and near,
That have come to look at the building here.
Now I drink over all your heads:
Look out! what comes down's no feather-bed;
What goes up must come down:
Every man take care of his crown.
Now I'll think no more about it,
But drink the wine and throw away the glass without it."