"By God's help and his gracious power
We have finish'd this house in good time and hour.
And so we thank him, one and all,
That he has suffer'd none to fall,--
That none has been unfortunate
In life or limb, health or estate;
And also to our Lord we pray
Us henceforth still to keep alway;
And now I commend this house into his hand,
And all the German fatherland.
And hope the owner may use it so
As to make a good living out of those who come and go.
And I wish you, all together,
Health and success in all wind and weather.
And almost I had done great wrong
To have left the lassies out of my song,
Who have wound for us these garlands fine,
And hung them with roses and eglantine:
The flowers in our hats we mean to wear
In honor of our lassies fair."
With the rosemary in his hat, and the apron of skins, Joseph came down
to receive the applause and congratulations of his friends. His
intended, Hansgeorge's Maria, took both his hands, gazed into his face
with radiant eyes, and then looked triumphantly round on the
bystanders.
Turning to Ivo, Joseph said, "I can preach too, if it comes to that:
can't I, Ivo? This was my first mass, you see."
Ivo sighed deeply at the mention of the first mass.
All now returned home, except those specially invited by Constantine to
partake of a grand dinner. Ivo, however, could not be persuaded to
accept this invitation: he stood still a while, looking at the airy
rafters, and thinking how happy Constantine must be in the possession
of a house of his own. "As for these parsonages," he said to himself,
"they are like sentry-houses, which belong to no one, and where no one
leaves a trace of his existence: a solitary sentinel takes the place of
his predecessor until he is relieved in his turn. But let me not be
selfish: if the joys of a home are not for me, I will work for the
welfare of others.
"I like what is fine,
Though it be not mine;
Though it cannot be my treasure,
It can always give me pleasure."
A week later was Joseph's wedding. It was a merry time. Christina sat
at the head of the table, beside her son Ivo, who was and remained the
pride of the family. Ivo danced a figure with his sister-in-law, and
another with Emmerence. She was overjoyed, and said, "So we've had a
dance together: who knows whether we shall ever have another?"
Ivo's second brother now brought his sweetheart to him, and said,
"Dance together." When they had done so, his mother came to him and
said, "Why, you dance splendidly! Where did you learn it?"
"I never forgot it: the spin-wife used to teach me, you remember, in
the twilight."
"Shall we try it?"
"Yes, mother."
All the others stopped to see Ivo dance with his mother. Valentine
rose, snapped his fingers, and cried,--
"Gentlemen, play a national for me, and I'll send an extra bottle.
Come, old girl!"
[Illustration: Valentine took his wife and danced the old national
dance.]
He took his wife by the arm, skipped and jumped, and danced the old
national dance, now wellnigh forgotten: he smacked his tongue, struck
his breast and his thighs, swayed himself on his toes and his heels
alternately, and executed all sorts of flourishes. Now he would hold
his lady, now let her go, and trip round and round her with
outstretched arms and loving gestures. Christina looked down modestly,
but with manifest enjoyment, and turned round and round, almost without
stirring from the spot on which she stood. Holding a corner of her
apron in her hand, she slipped now under his right arm, now under his
left, and sometimes they both turned under their uplifted arms. With a
jump which shook the floor, Valentine concluded the dance.
Thus was their vacation full of joy, in the house and out of it.
14.
THE QUARREL.
Once more Ivo was compelled to leave these things behind and return to
the convent. He no longer met Clement there, the latter having obtained
permission to leave a year before the usual time, in order to enter a
Bavarian monastery.
A new pang awaited him in the fate of Bart, of whom we, like him, have
lost sight for some years. The poor, good-natured, but weak-minded,
youth was in a terrible condition. He gnawed his finger-nails
incessantly, and rubbed his hands as if they were cold: his walk was
unsteady and tottering; the color of his face was a livid green; his
cheeks were sunken; while the red nose and the ever-open mouth made the
lank, ungainly lad a fright to look upon. He was not far from
imbecility, and had to be transferred to the hospital. It was intended
to make an effort for his recovery and then discharge him from the
convent. Ivo shuddered when he went to see him. The only signs of
mental vigor he displayed took the form of frenzied self-accusation.
The very air of the place now seemed infected. The design which had
long worked within Ivo's breast at last became an outward act, and he
wrote a letter to his parents, informing them of his unalterable
resolution to leave the convent, as he could not become a clergyman:
further than this he entered into no argumentations, well knowing that
they would lead to no result. He would have been called ungodly if he
had disclosed them fully, and thus the pain he caused would have been
double. With a firm hand he wrote the letter; but with trembling he
dropped it into the letter-box in the dusk of evening. As the paper
glided down the opening, it seemed as if his past life was sinking into
the grave; and every life--even a hopeless one--dies with a struggle.
With a firm effort, however, he recovered his courage and looked the
future in the face.
Some days after, Ivo had a visit from his parents. They took him with
them to the Lamb Tavern. There Valentine ordered a room; and, when they
were all in it, he bolted the door.
"What's the matter with you?" he said to Ivo, sternly.
"I cannot be a minister, dear father. Don't look so angrily at me: you
have been young too, surely."
"Oh, that's where the shoe pinches, is it? You blessed scamp, why
didn't you tell me that eight years ago?"
"I did not understand it then, father; and, besides, I would not have
had the courage to say it."
"Courage,--eh! We'll make short work of it, my fine fellow: you _shall_
be a minister; and there's an end."
"I'd rather jump into the river."
"No occasion for that. You shall never go out of this room alive if you
don't give me your hand upon it to be a clerical man."
"That I won't do."
"What? That you won't do?" cried Valentine, seizing him by the throat.
[Illustration: Valentine seized him by the throat.]
"Father," cried Ivo, "for God's sake, father, let me go: do not force
me to defend myself: I am not a child any more."
Christina seized her husband's arm. "Valentine," said she, "I shall cry
'Fire!' out of the window if you don't let him go this minute."
Valentine released his hold, and she went on:--"Is this the gentleness
you promised me? Ivo, forgive him: he is your father, and loves you
dearly, and God has given him power over you. Valentine, if you speak
another loud word you've seen the last of me, and I'll run away. Ivo,
for my sake, give him your hand."
Ivo pressed his lips together, and big tears stole down his cheeks.
"Father," he sobbed, "I did not designate myself for a clergyman; nor
are you to blame, for you could not know whether I was suited for it or
not. Why should we reproach each other?"
He went up to Valentine to take his hand; but he only said, "Very fine;
but what does the gentleman intend to be?"
"Let me go to the school for veterinary surgeons for a year, and I
shall manage to get settled somewhere or other as veterinary surgeon
and farmer."
"A good idea; and I'm to pay off the convent, I suppose? Two hundred
florins a year? Then they can sell my house; and it'll be a glorious
thing to say, 'Yes: Ivo's to be a cat-doctor, and so it is no great
matter if the house does go by the board.' And what do you mean to
study with? Live on the old Kaiser's exchequer?--or do you suppose I'm
to pay? You can go to law with me and ask your motherly portion; but
I'll make up a little account against you then, to show what you've
cost me."
"I shall petition the ministry to have the indemnity to the convent
charged upon my future inheritance."
"We've had our say, and you needn't talk any more," interrupted
Valentine. "If you won't obey, only don't make yourself believe you
have a father in the world. You've been my pride till now; but, after
this, I can never look into any man's face again, and must only be glad
if people are good enough not to talk about you." The tears trickled
down his cheeks; and, pressing both his hands to his face, he
continued:--"I wish a clap of thunder had struck me into the earth
before I had lived to see this day!" He laid his head upon the
window-sill, turned his back upon them, and struck fiercely at the wall
with his foot.
Such, again, is man! Valentine had no hesitation in displaying his
grief and hatred to his son; but he had always been ashamed to show his
love and his satisfaction, and had buried them in his heart like the
memory of a crime. Do not educated and uneducated men equally resemble
him in this?
Hitherto Christina had contented herself with admonishing each party to
silence and gentleness by looks and gestures; but now she began, with a
firmer voice than her countenance might have led one to expect,--
"Ivo, dear Ivo, you were always good and pious: there never was a vein
of evil in you. I won't say that I always thought it would be a good
word for me in heaven if you were clerical: that's neither here nor
there: it is you we must consider. For the sake of Christ's blood,
examine yourself: be good, be true, and our Lord will help you and will
purify your heart of all things that should not be there. Oh, you
always had such a pious mind! You see I can't speak much: it seems to
tear out my very heart. Be good and pious again, as you always were; be
my dear, dear Ivo." She fell upon his neck and wept. Ivo answered,
embracing her,--
"Mother dear, mother dear, I cannot be a minister. Do you suppose I
would have given you all this unhappiness if I could have done
otherwise? I cannot."
"Don't say you cannot: that isn't pious. Only set your will to it, make
up your mind firmly, and shake off all evil desires, and indeed you
will find it easy. The All-Merciful will help you, and you shall be our
pride and our joy again, and a good child before God and man."
"I am not bad, dear mother; but I cannot be a minister. Do not rend my
heart so. Oh, how gladly I would obey you! but I cannot."
"Let him go to the devil, the rascal!" said his father, tearing
Christina away from her son. "Can you see your mother begging and
imploring this way?"
"Tear me to pieces," cried Ivo, "but I cannot be a minister."
"Out with you, or I'll lay hands upon your life!" cried Valentine, with
foaming mouth. He opened the door and pushed Ivo out.
"It is over," said Ivo, breathing hard as he went tottering down the
stairs. A noise was heard above: the door opened, and his mother came
down after him. Hand in hand they walked to the convent, neither of
them speaking a word. In taking leave, she said,--
"Give me your hand upon it that you'll think of it again, and that you
will not lay hands upon yourself."
Ivo gave the required promise, and went in silence to his cell. The
floor rocked under his feet; but the purpose of his soul remained
unshaken not to let thoughts of childlike affection sway him in the
choice of his vocation for life. "I have duties to myself, and must be
responsible for my own actions," thought he. "I could die to please my
mother; but to enter upon a pursuit the root of which must be the
firmest conviction that it is my appointed mission, is what I dare not
and must not do."
But in the middle of the night he suddenly awoke; and it seemed as if a
cry from his mother had roused him. He sat up in his bed; and now the
calling he was about to abjure suddenly presented itself to his mind in
its most elevated and holy aspect. He thought of being the loving,
comforting, helping friend of the poor and distressed, the father of
the orphan and the forsaken, the dispenser of light and happiness in
every heart: he lost sight of all theological dogmas, and even dreamed
of taking part in the holy strife of liberating the world from
superstition and human authority: he battled down the love of earth
within him and resolved to live for others and for the other world:
not a day would he suffer to pass without having refreshed some
heavily-laden soul or gladdened some weary heart.
"Wherever a poor child of clay shall weep in bitter sadness, I will
absorb his woes into my heart and let them fight their struggle there.
I will dry the mourner's tears; and Thou, O Lord, wilt wipe the tears
from my face when my spirit halts and I weep at night over my poor
lonesome life."
Thus Ivo said to himself, and his heart was bright and clear. He seemed
to have suddenly acquired the power of casting aside all earthly care,
and winging his way to the fountain-head of bliss; and then again he
experienced a sensation of triumph and of longing for the strife, as if
he must go forth at once to battle. In an ecstasy of joy he called to
mind the delight his return to his calling would awaken at home: his
thoughts became indistinct, and he was again in the region of dreams.
Next morning he wrote a letter to his parents, announcing, with solemn
earnestness and warm contrition, the recantation of his purpose, and
praising the high character of the duties upon which he was resolved to
enter. What he could not do to please his parents, he had achieved of
his own free will. When he again heard the letter glide down into the
box, he seemed to hear the swoop of the judicial sword: he had
sentenced and executed himself. He returned, shaking his head. The
elasticity of his spirit was bruised and broken. With all the power of
his will, he returned to his studies, and succeeded for a time in
quieting his mind.
At home the letter provoked the greatest exultation. But scarcely had
the first flush of excitement passed away before a careful observer
would have detected symptoms of uneasiness in the behavior of his
mother. She often smiled sadly to herself, went thoughtfully about the
house, and spoke little. Often, of an evening, she asked Emmerence to
read the letter; and when she came to the words, "I will sacrifice my
life to God, who gave it me; I will give you, my dear mother, the
greatest earthly happiness," Christina sighed deeply.
One Saturday evening Christina and Emmerence sat together peeling
potatoes for the next day: Emmerence, who had just read the letter once
more, remarked,--
"Aunty, it always seems to me as if you were not quite happy to know
that Ivo is going to be a clergyman, after all. Just tell me what you
think about it. I see there is something the matter: you needn't
conceal it from me."
"You're right. You see, I'll tell you. Before him" (meaning her
husband) "I couldn't breathe a word about it, or the house would be on
fire in a minute. It always seems to me as if I had done a great sin: I
have made his heart so heavy. And he is such a good child: there's
never a drop of bad blood in his heart; and now for love of me he's
going to be a clergyman, when his heart clings to the world; and surely
it's a great sin."
"Why, that's dreadful! Why, I wouldn't have a moment's peace. I'd make
up my mind to set matters right immediately."
"Yes, but how? You see, I should like to tell him so, and unbeknown to
him," (meaning her husband.) "I don't want to trust all this to the
schoolmaster; and yet I can't write myself any more."
"Easy enough to help that. I'll write. I can write very well, and you
can dictate to me."
"Yes, that's true: I never thought of that. You're a good child. Come;
we'll set about it directly."
But another trouble soon arose, for nowhere was a pen to be found.
Emmerence was ready to go to the schoolmaster to have one made and tell
the schoolmaster's wife some story or other, if she asked questions;
but Christina would not consent. "We can't begin with sinning," she
said. With the same answer she dismissed Emmerence's second proposal,
to steal one of the schoolmaster's pens, as she knew exactly where he
kept them, and put a dozen fresh quills in its place. At length
Emmerence cried, getting up, "I know where to get one. My sister's boy,
Charlie, goes to school, and has pens; and he must give me one."
She soon returned in triumph, with a pen in her hand. Sitting down at
the table, she drew up the wick of the lamp with a pin, squared herself
to begin, and said, "Now dictate, aunty."
Ivo's mother sat behind the table in the corner under the crucifix, and
tried to peel an additional potato. She said,--
"Write 'Dear Ivo.' 'Got that?"
"Yes."
"'I'm thinking of you now. Not an hour and not a day passes but I think
of you; and at night, when I lie awake in bed, my thoughts are with
you, dear Ivo.'"
"Not so fast, or I can't get it down," clamored poor Emmerence. She
raised her blushing face, looked into the light, and gnawed her pen.
These were the very words she would have written had she penned the
letter in her own name. Laying her face almost on a level with the
paper, she now began to write, and at last said, "'Dear Ivo.' Go on."
"No; first read to me what you have written."
Emmerence did so.
"That's right. Now write again, 'I am not quite easy about your having
changed your mind so quickly'--Stop! don't write that: that's not a
good way to begin."