After the completion of the mysterious _exercitia_, Paul returned to
Heidelberg from Speyer. His brother found him serious, pale, but calmer
than before. Instead of the lurid passionate glare of the eye which had
so often terrified Felice, he found him at times struggling with his
tears. He did not resume his office in the Stift. The parson of a
neighboring village, who was looked upon as a Lutheran at heart, filled
that post. From the mouth of the Abbess, who had inquired into Paul's
unexpected disappearance and Lydia's sudden illness with more suspicion
than any one else and who thereby had come nearer to the truth, did he
hear of the misfortune which had befallen his beloved pupil. During her
narrative the old lady had fixed a curiously cold and searching look on
him, and her fingers played with the rosary, no longer at her side.
Luckily for him he did not at first connect this event with the
appointment made by him on the Kreuzweg, so that he was enabled to ask
in an unconstrained manner for exact details. "I heard the news on the
same day that I received your letter from Speyer," said the Countess in
a cold tone, and again she looked at him with a piercing gaze. Abashed
he rose up and hastily took his leave. It was evident that this woman
saw through him, and only had to open her mouth to ruin him.
Added to his crime towards the ministers was now another towards
Erastus, whose child perhaps crippled for life, had had her peace of
mind destroyed in any case through him. From that hour he no longer
ventured to visit the Stift. Hastily did he reject his brother's offer
to share his dwelling in the Schloss. He preferred taking an apartment
by himself in the marketplace. There he often worked till late in the
night, as might be seen from the light in his window; by day he would
stand for hours at the window and survey with saddened look the throng
in the market, or follow with his eye the single individuals who might
at a later hour cross the emptied square, as if envying each man his
freedom. After some time had elapsed, when once again a more
sympathetic relation had sprung up between the brothers, Felix made
known to him his engagement to Klytia. Paul turned pale, and for the
first time the tigerish glare in his eyes intimidated his brother; then
silently did he turn to the window. "I know she loves thee," added
Felice, "but thou art not freed from thy oaths. Renounce thy order and
I will at once retire. But Klytia is too good to be toyed with, she
must not be torn up as a flower on the road-side, for a passing
pleasure and then cast away."
"I have raised no objections," said Paul in a husky voice.
"Then dost thou renounce her?" asked Felix earnestly.
"It is well as it is. I wished to free myself when in Speyer but did
not succeed. We are bound by more chains than you imagine. I must have
become Protestant in earnest, so as to shake them off; that I cannot
do. I must have given up all hopes of returning to Italy, and that also
I cannot do. I cannot be free, but I have sworn, never to let myself be
made a tool of again."
Felix pressed his hand. "Thou shouldst quit thy dubious position here
altogether."
"That I will do. But I can only do so by order of my superiors. I am
waiting for them, God only knows with how much sorrow."
Thus the brothers parted. Grief concerning Klytia had disclosed the
true feelings of Paul's heart more than ever before, and Felice now
knew what fierce contentions had taken place, in spite of this cold
pale face.
The Magister had returned to Heidelberg with a feeling of deep shame.
He had been received in a most friendly manner, but if asked how he had
spent his holidays, he turned pale and answered evasively. The
friendliness with which the common people greeted him, oppressed him.
"They have so good an opinion of thee," he said to himself, "which thou
dost not deserve." Since he had admitted his unworthiness to himself by
his foolish flight, and affirmed this acknowledgment in the
confessional and in a written declaration, he knew himself as if
portrayed. His inward impurity if but only of a negative kind had
become external and practical, and it seemed to him as if thereby the
intended sin had been in reality committed. Involuntarily he sought to
discover in the face of each acquaintance whether his flight was known
in Heidelberg, and yet he dared not make the slightest allusion to it,
lest he should himself betray it. His secret ever on his lips, he
feared that he himself might reveal it. Ever listening to hear it,
terrified by any accidental word, guileless did he wish to live among
the guileless, and nevertheless he ever thought of his sin, and the
most insignificant allusion drove the blood to his heart. Thus did he
sojourn among men, humble, fearful, modest, nevertheless full of
suspicion and mistrust, with that shy manner peculiar to nocturnal
animals by day, an image of an evil conscience worthy of all pity.
Besides this an especial punishment caused by an accidental
circumstance, of which no one had the slightest conception, was
reserved for him. There are new melodies which spread like epidemics,
for a while rule the market, till finally they are as totally forgotten
as their predecessors. The newest melody for the time in Heidelberg was
the Gavotte of that jovial Huguenot Henry IV. of France: "Oh! thou
beauteous Gabrielle," heard played by Paul on the day when he took
flight to Speyer. The baker's boy who left the warm bread of a morning
at each house, whistled in shrill notes, "Oh! thou beauteous
Gabrielle." The cobbler's boy who carried the boots and shoes repaired
for his master's customers took good care that it should not be
forgotten. From out of the open windows was heard the "beauteous
Gabrielle" in whose honor the maidens of the Palatinate let their
passionate thoughts pour forth. The "beauteous Gabrielle" was played of
an evening by the bands in the public gardens, and drunken students
sought their beds late after midnight humming the tune of the
"beauteous Gabrielle." If this eternal repetition became wearisome to
nervous people, it connected itself ever in Paul's mind with his
downfall. If his thoughts had once freed themselves from the
comfortless recollection of his imprisonment, of his guilt, of the
overwhelming consciousness of having been a perjured priest,
immediately the hated melody made itself heard, and he saw himself in
the ignoble position of a priest compelled by his evil conscience to
take flight, and the words of his unknown monitor sounded in his ears:
"Fly for all is betrayed." He had once met on the street the red-headed
boy to whom he had confided his message to Lydia. The boy had saluted
him in an evidently derisive manner, and Paolo blushed to the roots of
his hair. He feared to find in every peasant wench the bearer of his
warning and meet a second person who knew of his sin. Every mocking
gesture, made by some uncouth pupil of the college during the hours of
instruction quite decomposed him. He could not free himself from the
feeling that he was being watched, being spoken of. He continually
fancied himself abused and as he looked aside pale and agitated, when
people wished to greet him, he was in reality treated with less
friendly feeling than before, in the which he only saw a confirmation
of his opinion, that a universal contempt was felt for him. By day and
night he thought over whether it could be proved that he had betrayed
the clergymen, whether he in case of an inquiry could deny the
appointment made with Lydia. All his thoughts were concentrated on this
point; he was hurrying towards depression and monomania. A coarser
nature would have easily set aside trespasses which as a fact had never
been committed; his melancholy disposition supplemented the evil. In
his own eyes he was not like other young men who had stumbled, but a
priest who had broken his oaths, and violated his consecration. For God
punishes heavily the sins of men, the more their moral conceptions are
developed. None can enjoy at one and the same time the pure pleasure of
ideality and the debasing joys of sensuality; for the proverb "_quod
licet bovi non licet Jovi_" avails also when inverted. "Thou hast
wished to purchase pleasure outside the limits of the law, and
purchased thereby sorrow," said he to himself. "Thy just punishment has
been meted to thee and only in so far as thou deservest it." And yet it
seemed to him as if in early days much injustice had been done to him.
Accompanying this feeling was his grief for his lost love. Since Klytia
had become another's, he felt for the first time, that his sentiments
towards the sweet fair child had in reality been more than a sensuous
dream of his passions. He might have been so happy, wherefore had he
repelled this happiness? His love became serious, when however it was
too late.
Weighed down by all this mental pressure he soon became quite another
man to the public. The Jesuitical tirades, by which he had formerly
excited the wonderment of the young came no more from his lips. Since a
genuine feeling had found admission into his heart, the pious phrases
fell away from him as withered leaves. The living seed of life, budding
in him, cast out all that was false, fictitious or mendacious. He
prayed much for himself, in the pulpit the words seemed to choke him.
Even when following the coffins of those whom he accompanied to their
last resting place, he felt himself void, inwardly dried up and
wretched. It was no reality to him, that the sorrows of those left
behind and for whom he prayed filled his heart. They might go and beg
for aught he cared. It was no verity to him that the fate of the
deceased in another world troubled him, he might go down to Hell or to
Heaven, as it might please God. Sorrow for sin is egotistical and
destroys all feeling of pity for the grief of others. One single wish
filled his breast as he walked behind the hearse in his black gown, to
be himself within that narrow coffin about to be imbedded in the cold
still earth, above which bloomed the trees and flowers, the birds sang,
and clouds by day passed over so lovingly, on which at night the moon
shone so quietly and peacefully. All the spiritual commonplaces, with
which he had formerly drawn forth the tears of those attending a
christian's funeral, were now wiped away from his memory. Since that a
veritable feeling now ruled him, sorrow for his lost happiness, he
experienced no longer those fictitious emotions, those false
sensations. The veneration of others, for him a sinner, weighed him
down to the ground. Every salutation due to his position, told him that
he was a liar, and he felt ashamed of an office, from which his heart
was so far distant.
As he was once again preparing himself to hold divine service, this
feeling over-mastered him. "And wherefore dost thou not break loose
from these bonds?" he asked himself. "Who has told thee, that this can
be thine only vocation? Why willst thou not prove which is stronger, a
fate, which years ago seized upon a mere boy, or the riper will of a
man?" For the first time he determined to act without consulting
Pigavetta, and to resign his office without reference to his superiors.
Though in so doing he did not free himself, yet it was one lie the
less.
"Magister Laurenzano requests to be relieved from his spiritual
functions," said at a sitting of the Church council held in the
Auditorium of the former monastery of the bare-footed monks, the
President Zuleger, a young Bohemian. "This is to be regretted on
account of his oratorical talent, but as spiritual duties are not
obligatory with his professorial chair at the College, the request must
be granted." The others agreed. "_Conclusum_," said the President to
the Secretary, "the request is granted, with the hope nevertheless,
that Magister Laurenzano will of his own accord from time to time
preach the Gospel to the parishioners. _Fiat decretum_, but let it be
written out in a friendly manner," added the President. The Secretary
also did his best. But we, who know Magister Laurenzano's mental
disposition, can hardly condemn him, for not giving way to the wishes
of the honorable Collegium. Whilst Paolo thus apparently separated
himself from the work of God, divine Grace had begun a work in his
heart, which through repentance and sorrow refined him into a new man.
The Magister did not speak with his spiritual tyrants about his fresh
plans. He waited to see, what orders would be given to him. But
Pigavetta appeared not to notice Paul's disappearance from the pulpit,
in fact he acted as if Paul did not exist.