When Paul was fourteen years old his father decided to send him to
confirmation-classes.
“He will never learn anything decent in school, anyhow,” he said; “time
and money are thrown away upon him. Therefore, he shall be confirmed at
once, so that he can make himself useful on the farm. He will never be
anything better than a peasant, anyhow.”
Paul was satisfied, for he was longing to take a part of the care which
pressed on his mother upon his own shoulders. He thought of making
himself a sort of inspector, who could at any time replace the absent
master, and work himself where the farm-servants needed a good example.
He hoped this activity might be the beginning of a new, prosperous time,
and when he lay in his bed at night he dreamed of waving cornfields and
brand-new massive barns. The resolution to use all his strength to bring
the neglected Haidehof into good repute became stronger and stronger.
The brothers one day should be able to say of him: “He has been of
some good, after all, even if he could not follow us in our brilliant
careers.”
Yes; the brothers! How tall and distinguished they had grown meanwhile.
One of them studied philology, and the other had entered a big bank as
clerk. In spite of their good aunt, both wanted money, much money--far,
far more than their father could send them. Paul hoped that for them
also, as a result of his beginning farming, a better time would come.
All surplus money should be sent to them, and he! oh, he would save and
scrape, so that they might strive for their lofty aims, free from need
and care.
With these pious thoughts Paul made his way to the first confirmation
class. It was a sunny spring morning at the beginning of the month of
April.
The fresh grass on the heath shone in greenish lights, juniper and
heather budded with new tender shoots, anemones and ranunculus were
blooming at the edge of the wood.
A warm wind waved over the heath towards him; he could have shouted
aloud, and his heart was quite filled with rapture.
“There must be something sad in store,” he said to himself, “for on
earth one may not feel so happy.”
Before the rectory garden there stood a long row of conveyances, only a
few of which he knew. There was also aristocratic carriages among them.
The coachmen with their shining buttons sat on their boxes with proud
smiles and threw contemptuous glances all around.
In the garden were assembled a big troop of children. The boys and girls
stood apart. Among the boys were the two brothers from whom he had had
to suffer so much formerly, and who had ceased going to school for the
last year. They gave him a friendly greeting, and while one of them
shook hands with him the other tripped him up.
Some of the girls walked arm in arm on the paths. Some also had put
their arms round each other’s waists and giggled. Most of them were
strangers to him. Some seemed especially aristocratic; they wore fine
gray ulsters, and had hats with feathers on their heads. The carriages
outside must belong to them.
He looked down at his jacket, to assure himself that he had nothing to
be ashamed of. It was made of fine black cloth, from an old evening suit
of his student brother’s, and looked as good as new, only that the seams
were a little shiny. Taken altogether, he did not need to be ashamed of
himself.
A bell sounded. The candidates were called into the church. Paul felt
light-hearted and pious in the solemn twilight of the house of God. He
did not think of his jacket any longer; the forms of the boys around
grew shadowy.
At both sides of the altar benches were placed. On the right the boys
were to have their seats, and on the left the girls.
Paul was pushed into the back row, where the little ones and the poor
sat. Between two barefooted cottage children, who wore coarse, ragged
jackets, he took his seat. Past the shoulders of the boys before him
he saw how the girls on the other side ranged themselves: the most
distinguished in front, and then the more poorly clad.
He was thinking whether in heaven the order of rank would be a similar
one, and the verse occurred to him:
“Blessed are the meek and lowly, for they shall be exalted.”
The vicar came.
He was a comfortable-looking man, with a double chin and light, spare
whiskers. His upper lip shone from frequent shaving. He did not wear his
robe, but a simple black coat; nevertheless, he looked very dignified
and solemn.
He first spoke a long prayer on the text, “Suffer little children to
come unto Me,” and added an exhortation to consider the coming year as a
time of consecration, not to romp wildly or to dance, for that would not
be in keeping with a student of religion.
“I have never romped or danced,” thought Paul, and for a moment he was
filled with pride over his pious conduct. “But it was a pity all the
same--” he thought afterwards.
Then the vicar praised as the highest of all Christian virtues:
humility. None of these children should feel above the others because
their parents happened to be richer and more distinguished than those
of their humbler brethren and sisters, because before God’s throne they
were all equal.
“That’s for you,” thought Paul, and lovingly seized the arm of his
ragged neighbor. The latter thought he wanted to pinch him, and said,
“Ow, don’t!”
Then the vicar took from his pocket a piece of paper, and said, “Now
I will read you the order of rank in which you will have to sit
henceforth.”
“Why this order of rank,” thought Paul, “if before God’s throne we are
all equal?”
The very first name startled Paul, for it was “Elsbeth Douglas.” He
saw a tall, pale girl, with a gentle face and fair hair smoothly combed
back, rise and walk towards the first place.
“So that’s you,” thought Paul, “and we shall be confirmed together.” His
heart beat with joy, but also with fear, because he was anxious at the
same time lest she should think him too much beneath her. “Perhaps she
does not remember me any more,” he thought.
He watched her as she took her seat with downcast eyes and a kind smile.
“No; she is not proud,” he said softly to himself; but to make sure he
looked at his jacket.
Then the boys were called up. The brothers Erdmann came first. Without
asking, they had already placed themselves comfortably on the first
seats, and then his own name was called out. At this moment Elsbeth
Douglas did exactly as he had done before. She raised her head quickly
and scrutinized the ranks of the boys.
When he had seated himself in his place he also looked down on the
ground, for he wanted to imitate her humility; and when he looked up
again he saw her eyes on him, full of curiosity. He blushed and picked a
little feather from the sleeve of his jacket.
And then the lesson began. The vicar explained passages from the Bible
and heard verses of hymns. It was Elsbeth’s turn first. She raised her
head a little, and repeated her verses quietly and modestly.
“Oh golly! the hussy has courage,” mumbled the younger Erdmann, who was
at his left side.
Paul felt sudden anger rise within him. He could have cudgelled him
in open church. “If he calls her ‘hussy’ again I shall thrash him
afterwards.” He promised this solemnly to himself. But the younger
Erdmann no longer thought of her; he was busy sticking pins into the
calves of the boys sitting behind him.
When the lesson was over, the girls left the church first, marching
in couples. Only when the last were outside, the boys were allowed to
follow. Just outside the church he met Elsbeth, who was walking towards
her carriage. Both looked a little askance at each other and passed on.
An old lady, with little gray curls and a Persian shawl, stood near her
carriage; she probably had waited for her at the vicarage. She kissed
Elsbeth’s forehead, and both seated themselves on the back seat. The
carriage was the finest one in the whole row. The coachman wore a
beautiful fur cap with a red tassel; he had also smart braid on his
collar and cuffs.
Just as the carriage had started, Paul was attacked by the two Erdmanns,
who thrashed him a little.
“You ought to be ashamed, two against one,” he said, and they let him
go.
He went home very contentedly. The midday sun glittered on the open
heath, and in misty distance the carriage rolled before him; it grew
smaller and smaller, and at last disappeared as a black spot in the
fir-wood.
When he arrived home his mother kissed him on both cheeks, and asked,
“Well, was it nice?”
“Quite nice,” he answered, “and, mamma, Elsbeth from the White House was
there, too.”
Then she blushed with joy and asked all sorts of things: how she looked,
whether she had grown pretty, and what she had said to him.
“Nothing at all,” he answered, ashamed; and as his mother looked at him
surprised, he added, eagerly, “but you know she is not proud.”
Next Monday when he entered the church he found her already sitting in
her place. She had the Bible lying on her knee, and was learning the
verses they had been given as their task.
There were not many children there, and when he sat down opposite to her
she made a half movement as if she meant to get up and come over to him;
but she sat down again immediately and went on learning.
His mother had told him before he left just to address Elsbeth. She had
charged him with many greetings for her mother, and he was to ask, too,
how she was. On his way he had studied a long speech, only he was not
quite decided yet whether to address her with “_Du_” or “_Sie_.” “_Du_”
would have been the simplest; his mother took it for granted. But the
“_Sie_” sounded decidedly more distinguished--so nice and grown up. And
as he could come to no decision he avoided addressing her at all. He,
too, took out his Bible, and both put their elbows on their knees and
studied as if for a wager.
It was not of much use to him, because when the vicar questioned him
afterwards he had forgotten every word of it.
A painful silence ensued; the Erdmanns laughed viciously, and he had to
sit down again, his face burning with shame. He dared not look up any
more, and when, on leaving the church, he saw Elsbeth standing at the
porch as if she was waiting for something, he lowered his eyes and tried
to pass her quickly. However, she stepped forward and spoke to him.
“My mother has charged me--I am to ask you--how your mother is?”
He answered that she was well.
“And she sends her many kind regards,” continued Elsbeth.
“And my mother also sends many kind regards to yours,” he answered,
turning the Bible and hymn-book between his fingers, “and I was to ask
you, too, how she is?”
“Mamma told me to say,” she replied, like something learned by heart,
“that she is often ill, and has to keep in-doors very much; but now that
spring is here she is better; and would you not like to drive in our
carriage as far as your house? I was to ask you, she said.”
“Just look, Meyerhofer is sweethearting!” cried the elder Erdmann, who
had hidden behind the church door, through the crack of which he wanted
to tickle his companions with a little straw.
Elsbeth and Paul looked at each other in surprise, for they did not
know the meaning of this phrase; but as they felt that it must signify
something very bad they blushed and separated.
Paul looked after her as she got into the carriage and drove away. This
time the old lady was not waiting for her. It was her governess, he had
heard. Yes; she was of such high rank that she even had a governess of
her own.
“The Erdmanns will get a good licking yet;” with that he ended his
reflections.
The next week passed without his speaking to Elsbeth. When he entered
the church she was generally already in her seat. Then she would nod to
him kindly, but that was all.
And then came a Monday when her carriage was not waiting for her. He
noticed it at once, and as he walked towards the church-yard he breathed
more freely, for the proud coachman with his fur cap, which he wore even
in summer, always caused him a feeling of oppression. He had only to
think of this coachman when he sat opposite to her and she appeared to
him like a being from another world.
To-day he ventured to nod to her almost familiarly, and it seemed to him
as if she answered more kindly than usual.
And when the lesson was ended she came towards him of her own accord,
and said, “I must walk home to-day, for our horses are all in the
fields. Mamma thought you might walk with me part of the way, as we go
the same road.”
He felt very happy, but did not dare to walk by her side as long as they
were in the village. He also looked back anxiously from time to time,
to see whether the two Erdmanns were lurking anywhere with their mocking
remarks. But when they went through the open fields it was quite natural
that they should walk side by side.
It was a sunny forenoon in June. The white sand on the road glittered;
round about golden hawkweed was blooming and meadowsweet waved in the
warm wind; the midday bell sounded from the village; no human creature
was to be seen far and wide; the heath seemed quite deserted.
Elsbeth wore a wide-brimmed straw-hat on her head as a protection
against the sun’s rays. She took it off now, and swung it to and fro by
the elastic.
“You will be too hot,” he said; but as she laughed at him a little he
took his off also and threw it high in the air.
“You are quite a merry fellow,” she said, nodding approvingly.
He shook his head, and the lines of care which always made him look old
appeared again upon his brow.
“Oh no,” he said; “merry I am certainly not.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“I have always so many things to think of,” he answered, “and if ever I
want to be really happy something always goes wrong.”
“But what do you always have to think about?” she asked.
He reflected for a while, but nothing occurred to him. “Oh, it is all
nonsense,” he said; “clever thoughts never come to me, by any means.”
And then he told her about his brothers, of the thick books, which were
quite filled with figures (the name he had forgotten), and which they
had already known by heart when they were only as old as he was now.
“Why don’t you learn that as well, if it gives you pleasure?” she asked.
“But it gives me no pleasure,” he answered; “I have such a dull head.”
“But _something_ you know, surely?” she went on.
“I know absolutely nothing at all,” he replied, sadly; “father says that
I am too stupid.”
“Oh, you must not heed that,” she replied, consolingly. “My Fraulein
Rothmaier also finds fault with many things I do. But I--pah, I--” she
was silent, and pulled up a sorrel-plant which she began to chew.
“Has your father still such sparkling eyes?” he asked.
She nodded, and her face brightened.
“You love him very much--your father?”
She looked at him wonderingly, as if she had not understood his
question, then answered, “Oh yes; I love him very much.”
“And he loves you, too?”
“Well, I should think so.”
Now he also rooted up a sorrel-plant and sighed.
“Why do you sigh?” she asked.
Something was just crossing his mind, he said, and then asked,
laughingly, if her father still took her on his knee sometimes, as on
the day when he had been in the White House.
She laughed and said she was a big girl now, and he should not ask such
silly questions; but afterwards it came out that all the same she still
sat on her father’s knee--“Of course, not astride any more!” she added,
laughing.
“Yes, that was a nice day,” he said, “and I sat on his other knee. How
small we must have been then.”
“And we were so pitifully stupid,” she answered, “when I think now how
you wanted to whistle, and could not.”
“Do you remember that?” he asked, and his eyes sparkled in the
consciousness of his present attainments in the art.
“Of course,” she replied; “and when you went away you came running back
and--do you still remember?”
He remembered very well.
“Now you can whistle, of course,” she laughed; “at our age that is no
longer an accomplishment--even I can do it,” and she pointed her lips in
a very funny manner.
He was sad that she spoke so slightingly of his art, and reflected
whether it would not be better to give up whistling altogether.
“Why are you so silent?” she asked. “Are you tired, too?”
“Oh no, but you--eh?”
Yes; the walk through the sand and the noontide heat had tired her.
“Then come into our house and rest,” he cried, with sparkling eyes, for
he thought what joy his mother would feel at seeing her.
But she refused. “Your father is not kindly disposed towards us, mamma
said, and that’s why you may not come for a visit to Helenenthal. Your
father would perhaps send me away.”
He replied, with a deep blush, “My father would not do that,” and felt
much ashamed.
She cast a glance towards the Haidehof, which lay scarcely a hundred
yards from the road. The red fence shone in the sunshine, and even the
gray half-ruined barns looked more cheerful than usual.
“Your house looks very nice,” she said, shading her eyes with her left
hand.
“Oh yes,” he answered, his heart swelling with pride, “and there is an
owl nailed to the door of one of the sheds. But it shall become much
nicer still,” he added after a little while, seriously, “only let me
begin to rule.” And then he set to work to explain to her all his plans
for the future. She listened attentively, but when he had finished she
said again,
“I am tired--I must rest;” and she wanted to sit down on the edge of the
ditch.
“Not here in the blazing sun,” he cautioned her; “we’ll look out for the
first juniper-bush we can find.”
She gave him her hand, and let him drag her wearily over the heath,
which undulated with molehills like the waves on a lake, and near the
edge of the wood there were some solitary juniper-bushes, which stood
out like a group of black dwarfs above the level plain.
Under the first of these bushes she cowered down, so that its shadow
almost entirely shrouded her slight, delicate figure.
“Here is just room enough for your head,” she said, pointing to a
mole-hill which was just within the range of shade.
He stretched himself out on the grass, his head resting on the
mole-hill, his forehead covered by the hem of her dress.
She leaned back on the bush in order to find support in its branches.
“The needles don’t prick at all,” she said; “they mean well by us. I
believe we could pass through the Sleeping Beauty’s hedge of thorns.”
“You--not I,” he answered, lifting his eyes to her from his recumbent
position; “every thorn has pricked me. I am no fairy prince, not even a
simple Hans in luck, am I?”
“That will all come in time,” she replied, consolingly, “you must not
always have sad thoughts.”
He wanted to reply, but he lacked the right words; and as he looked up,
meditatively, a swallow flitted through the blue sky. Then involuntarily
he uttered a whistle as if he wanted to call it, and as it did not come,
he whistled again, and for a second and third time.
Elsbeth laughed, but he went on whistling--first without knowing how,
and without reflecting why; but when one tone after the other flowed
from his lips, he felt as if he had become very eloquent all of a
sudden, and as if in this manner he could say all that weighed on his
heart and for which in words he never could have found courage. All that
which made him sad, all that which he cared about came pouring forth. He
shut his eyes and listened, so to speak, to what the tones were saying
for him. He thought that the good God in heaven spoke for him, and was
relating all that concerned him, even that which he had never been clear
about himself.
When he looked up he did not know how long he had been lying there
whistling, but he saw that Elsbeth was crying.
“Why do you cry?” he asked.
She did not answer him, but dried her eyes with her handkerchief and
rose.
Silently they walked side by side for a while. When they reached the
wood, which lay thick and dark before them, she stopped and asked,
“Who has taught you that?”
“Nobody,” he said; “it came to me quite naturally.”
“Can you also play the flute?” she went on.
No, he could not; he had never even heard it; he only knew that it was
the favorite pastime of “old Fritz.”
“You must learn it,” she said.
He thought it would probably be too difficult for him.
“You should try all the same,” she counselled him; “you must be an
artist--a great artist.”
He was startled when she said that; he scarcely dared to follow out her
thoughts.
When they had reached the other side of the wood they separated. She
went towards the White House and he went back. When he passed the
juniper-bush where they had both been sitting all seemed to him like a
dream, and henceforth it always remained so to him. Two or three days
elapsed before he dared to say anything of his adventure to his mother,
but then he could contain himself no longer; he confessed everything to
her.
His mother looked at him for a long time and then went out; but from
that time she used to listen secretly to catch, if possible, some notes
of his whistling.
The two children often walked home together, but such an hour as the one
beneath the juniper-bush never came to them again.
When they passed it they used to look at each other and smile, but
neither of them dared to propose sitting down again beneath it.
There was also no further mention of the flute-playing between them,
but Paul thought of it often enough in secret. It seemed to him like
something divine, unheard of--like the science which taught the table of
logarithms. Ah, if he had been clever and gifted like his two brothers;
but he was only a dull, stupid boy, who might be glad if others allowed
him to help them.
He often asked himself what such flute-playing sounded like, and what
kind of people they were who were initiated into the mysteries of it. He
formed a high opinion of them, and thought that they must always cherish
high and holy thoughts, such as arose in his own mind occasionally when
he was deeply absorbed in his whistling.
And then came the day when he was to see a flute-player face to face.
It was a dreary, stormy afternoon in the month of November. It began to
get dark already as he left school and slowly walked along the village
road to-go home. Issuing from the public-house, which used to be
frequented by all the rogues of the neighborhood, wonderful sounds met
his ear. He had never heard the like, but he immediately knew this must
be a flute-player. Eagerly listening, he stopped at the door of the
public-house. His heart beat loudly, his limbs trembled. The sounds were
very much like his whistling, only much fuller and softer. “Such music
the angels of God must make at His throne,” he thought to himself.
Only one thing was inexplicable to him: how this flute-playing,
which sounded so sad and plaintive, could come from such a place of
ill-repute. The shouts and the clinking of glasses which sounded in
between filled his soul with horror. Sudden rage seized him; if he had
been tall and strong he would have sprung into the house and turned all
these noisy and drunken people out into the street, so that the holy
sounds should not be profaned.
At this moment the door was thrown open; a drunken workman reeled past
him, an obnoxious odor issued forth. Louder still grew the noise; the
tones of the flute could scarcely make themselves heard above it.
Then he took courage, and before the door was closed pressed through the
narrow opening into the inner room of the public-house.
He stood there, squeezed behind an empty brandy-cask. Nobody heeded him.
During the first few moments he could not distinguish anything.
The oppressive atmosphere and the noise had overwhelmed his senses, and
the tones of the flute grew harsh and unmelodious, so that they hurt his
ears.
In the midst of the yelling and stamping people sat a ragged fellow
on an upturned cask; he had a bloated, pimply face, a brandy-nose, and
black, greasy hair--a figure, the sight of which made Paul shudder. It
was he who had played the flute.
Petrified with horror, the boy stared at him. It seemed to him as if the
heavens were falling and the world going to ruin.
The musician now put down his flute, uttered a few coarse words in a
rough, hoarse voice, greedily swallowed the brandy which was handed to
him by the by-standers, and, beating time with his feet, began playing a
vulgar ballad, which the listeners accompanied with loud brawling.
Then Paul fled from the den, and ran and ran till he was perfectly
dizzy, as if he wished to escape from his own thoughts.
When he was alone on the storm-swept heath, from the extremity of which
a sulphurous streak of evening light was shining, he stopped, hid his
face in his hands, and cried bitterly.
In the winter which followed, Paul stopped whistling altogether, and
flute-playing disgusted him even more. When he thought of it there stood
before his eyes the figure of the outcast who had profaned his yearnings
for art.
He did not see Elsbeth any more. With the beginning of the cold weather
the confirmation-classes had been transferred from the church to the
vicarage, and as there was no room there large enough to hold all the
candidates, the boys and girls were taught separately. Sometimes he saw
Elsbeth’s carriage pass, but she herself was so wrapped up in furs
and shawls that her face could not be recognized. He did not even know
whether she had seen him.
At this time he had to suffer much vexation from the brothers Erdmann,
who knew how to torment him beyond endurance. He was perfectly powerless
against them, for each of them was twice as strong as he; besides, they
always attacked him both at the same time, and while one held him the
other pinched. Not that they were thoroughly vicious; on the contrary,
they knew how to practise benevolence and generosity towards others;
but his quiet, reserved nature was just what they hated with all their
heart. They called him a hypocrite and a Puritan, and when they had
thrashed him would say, “There, now go and tell tales of us; that would
be just like you.”
His rancor against these antagonists grew stronger and stronger. He
often reproached himself with behaving in a cowardly and dishonorable
manner, and accused himself of having a low, servile nature. One day,
when he ran up and down in the snow, he worked himself into such a fury
that he resolved to rid himself of these two wicked brothers were it
at the risk of his own life. He ran to the stables where the
grindstone stood, thawed the frozen water in the tub, and sharpened his
pocket-knife till it cut a piece of the thinnest tissue-paper. But when,
on the following Monday, he was again thrashed, he had not the courage
to draw it from his pocket, and had once more to reproach himself with
cowardice. He put it off till the next time; but that was the end of it.
From his father, too, he had much to endure. The latter was again taken
up with grand plans, and when this was the case he always felt very
superior, and in an especially bad humor with Paul, whom he despised for
his narrow-mindedness.
“Why has not the tiniest spark of my genius been transmitted to that
boy?” he would remark; “how beautifully I could educate him to assist in
my plans. But he is too stupid--everything is lost upon him.” It was now
his intention to found a company to make his moor profitable, to bring
capital together, and to be himself named director of it all, with a
salary of several thousand thalers. Every week he drove into town two or
three times, and often did not come home even on the following day.
“It is difficult enough,” he would say, when he had slept off his
intoxication, “but I’ll be even with the niggards! That Douglas, too,
insolent fellow, shall pay for it. If I only knew how to tackle him. I
will never enter Helenenthal again, were it only that I might not see
how the fellow has neglected it--for that he certainly has done--and in
town I never get sight of him. But pay for it--pay for it he shall. If
he does not immediately sign a whole bushel of shares, the devil take
him.”
Frau Elsbeth listened sadly to all this without saying a word, but Paul
used secretly to take down the key of the shed from its shelf, and go
off to have mute intercourse with “Black Susy.” He stuck to the belief
that she would be the means of saving them.
When the Easter holidays were over, the confirmation-classes were again
held in the church. Boys and girls met together after a half year’s
separation.
Elsbeth had changed very much during the winter. She almost looked like
a grown-up lady now.
She wore a longer dress and her hair was arranged in little curls on her
forehead.
Paul saluted her very shyly; he felt as if he were no longer fit for
her; but she rose from her seat, walked a few steps towards him, and
shook his hand heartily before everybody’s eyes. During the ensuing
lesson a sheet of paper was circulated among the boys which caused much
mirth. On it was written, with all sorts of flourishes:
“_Paul Meyerhofer,
Elsbeth Douglas,
Betrothed.”_
The writing was that of the younger Erdmann. Paul’s hand searched for
his knife; for a moment he felt as if he could draw it on his neighbor
here in the open church. He snatched the paper from his hand and tore it
into little pieces.
Elsbeth looked at him wonderingly, and the vicar called him to order.
Then he became terrified at his own audacity. The Erdmanns must have
understood that on this subject he would not stand any joking, and made
no further attempts to tease him about Elsbeth.
The confirmation took place on the last Sunday before Whitsuntide. The
night before, Paul could not sleep, and at sunrise quietly got up, put
on the new clothes which his good aunt had sent him for this occasion,
and took a walk through the quiet yard and over the dewy fields, till he
reached the moor, which in its flowery garb lay brightly extended before
him.
At the sight of the rising sun he folded his hands and said an ardent
prayer. From this day forth he resolved to begin a new and better
life, forgive all offences, and love his enemies, as Jesus Christ had
commanded. Then he thought of the knife which he had once ground with
a view to the Erdmanns; he pulled it out of his pocket and threw it
far away over the moor, where it sank down in the swamp with a gurgling
sound. Hot tears streamed from his eyes; he thought himself bad and
reprobate, and totally unworthy to stand before God’s altar; he scarcely
dared to go home to the farm; only when the twins came rushing towards
him in their brand-new muslin dresses did he feel happier and easier
in his mind. He embraced his sisters, and vowed in silence to be a true
friend and support to them.
Then came his mother, dressed in a faded silk gown, kissed him on his
forehead and cheeks, and held his face between her two hands for a long
while, looking fixedly into his eyes. She wanted to say something to
him, but she could get out nothing more than “My boy, my dear boy!”
Even his father was in the rosiest humor to-day. He took both Paul’s
hands in his, and made him a long speech as to how he must learn to look
out for what was great in human life, and to emulate him, his father,
who, though always pursued by misfortune and plundered by the wickedness
of men, had never allowed himself to be discouraged from aspiring to the
stars, even in this miserable hole into which adverse fate had let him
sink. And he knitted his brows and ruffled his hair, every inch of him
grandeur and importance.
Paul kissed both his hands and promised everything. At eight o’clock he
saw on the high-road which led across the heath a carriage roll by, the
silver ornaments of which sparkled in the morning sun.
For a long time he looked after it. Everything seemed to him like a
dream. He felt so exultantly glad that he was almost overpowered by
happiness. “How have I deserved all this?” he asked himself; and then he
began brooding over what the first trouble would be which would drag him
down from this bliss. When the twins announced to him that the carriage
stood ready for the drive to church he felt sad and depressed.
In the vicarage garden, where syringa and lilac were in bloom, and where
the sunbeams glittered on the lawn, stood two little groups of human
beings apart from each other--one black, the other white. The former
were the boys, the latter the girls.
Elsbeth, in her snowy muslin dress with a lace handkerchief crossed over
her bosom, looked white and graceful as a hawthorn blossom.
Her cheeks were very pale, and she kept her eyes lowered, and played
alternately with her hymn-book and a twig of lilac, both of which she
held in her hand.
Paul looked at her for a long time, but she did not see him. She would
not be disturbed in her devotion by any worldly thought.
And then the vicar came; the bells pealed, the organ resounded, and the
procession, ranged in couples, advanced slowly towards the altar.
Paul walked close behind the two Erdmanns, who in their long black coats
looked very solemn and demure. Suddenly the consciousness of his guilt
overcame him more forcibly than ever. He bent forward a little, touched
them softly on the shoulder, and whispered, with moist eyes,
“Forgive me, I have behaved so badly to you.”
They nudged each other and smiled maliciously. One of them half turned
round, and whispered, with a face of pathetic misery and a look of
injured innocence,
“My son, we forgive you.”
Paul felt very well that they were mocking him, but his heart was so
full of devotion and love that no mocking could affect him.
The children ranged themselves on both sides of the altar.
Paul sent a shy glance into the body of the church, which was crammed
with people, but he could not distinguish anybody.
The hour for the sermon was past. He gazed down before him. All seemed
like a dream.
A little later he felt his knees resting on a soft cushion and the hand
of the vicar on his head. What he said to him he did not hear. He saw
Elsbeth on the other side, crying quietly with her handkerchief to her
eyes, and thought,
“Ah, cry away, cry away, you will soon laugh again.”
And then he asked himself why people always laughed so much, while on
the whole there were so few laughable things in the world.
The organ now intoned the hymn, “Praise ye the Lord, the mighty King of
Glory.” The chorus of the congregation sounded jubilant, and his gaze
wandered up to the sunbeams which fell in iridescent light through the
painted church windows like a rainbow.
And while he was gazing at it he suddenly started. Just opposite the
cross which crowned the altar stood a dark woman clad in gray, of
supernatural stature, looking down upon him with big, hollow eyes. It
was the penitent Magdalene.
He felt a cold shudder run through his frame.
“Dame Care,” he murmured, and bent his head as if he wished to accept
with humility what she might grant him for life.
And when he lifted his eyes again the sun shone more magnificently than
before.
Fiery red and emerald green sparkled the rays, weaving a radiant halo
round the gray dame’s head.
But she stood there sadly in the midst of all the brilliant radiance,
and stared down upon him with her big, hollow eyes.
Then the organ began the finale with swelling chords. A joyful thrill
passed through the congregation. The troop of children hastened to throw
themselves into the arms of their parents, and a kindly glance greeted
him from Elsbeth’s eyes.