But as I now go over the Lauterhoehe, having business in the new
clearing on the other side, my path is barricaded by fallen trees, lying
about in wild confusion, split and criss-crossed in every direction.
Many a desolate gap has been made in the forest, and when, in the
afternoon, I approach the pines in the Wolfsgrube, I see that the middle
tree has fallen. Of the three this is the largest and probably the
oldest.
Upon the trunk, which has buried its branches deep in the earth, sits
the Einspanig.
He has wrapped a woollen cloak about his shoulders, over which fall his
black locks with their many silvery threads. The man sits with his
knees crossed, resting his elbows upon them, while with his hands he
supports his head with its pale face.
As I approach he rises.
"You have come after all," he says, "and I was almost prevented from
coming. The storm barred my dwelling-place in the night; it hurled a
rock against the entrance." And after a deep breath, which reminds me
of the sighing of the wind, he pronounces these gloomy words: "Perhaps
it would have been better if last night had buried me for all time in
the rocky cave, than that I should give you the answer to-day. But
since I give it, I would rather give it to you than to anyone. I have
heard good things of you and am glad of the opportunity to know you
better. My answer, young man, is a heavy burden; help me to bear it,
just as you have laden yourself with the sorrows of the other dwellers
in the forest. I well know that you understand filling the office of
priest; so be my father confessor, and free me from a secret, concerning
which I do not know if it be a black dove or a white raven. But what if
you should be incapable of comprehending----"
He stops; in his glance is something like suspicion.
I answer that I wish to ask him about nothing excepting the cause of his
action at the altar of our church.
"In that one question you ask me about everything!" he replies, laughing
painfully; "you ask me about my life's history, about the torment of my
soul, about my devil and about my God. Well, well, come here and sit
down beside me on this fallen tree. No place could be better suited to
my answer than a wreck like this. So, sit down with me on this ruin!"
A nervous dread almost overcomes me. It is so quiet among the pines,
that one can hear the monotonous sighing of the branches; overhead
clouds are flying from crag to crag.
I seat myself near the man, whose eyes and words express much more force
than one would have imagined possible in the bent and weary Einspanig.
Yes, he is called _Einspanig_--single--because he has never been seen in
the company of another. Now the _Zweispan_--the pair--sit upon the
tree-trunk: the question and the answer.
Turning upon me suddenly, the man begins his story: Do you know what it
is to be a child of the nobility? Born in a palace, rocked in a golden
cradle; the rough floor covered with soft rugs; the burning sunbeams and
threatening clouds concealed from view by heavy silken curtains; for the
slightest wish a troop of servants; the present full of peace and
tenderly guarded happiness; the future full of pleasure and high
dignities; this is the childhood of the nobility. Such a child was I,
yet poorer than a beggar-boy. But at that time I did not know it, and
not until I was twelve or fourteen years of age did the sorrowful
question arise within me: Boy, where is thy mother?--My mother gave me
life and the light of the sun--the life which she gave me was her
own--she died at my birth.
My father I seldom saw; he was either hunting or travelling, or in the
great city of Paris or at the Baths. The love in my heart designed for
father and mother, I lavished upon my tutor, who was always with me as
teacher and companion and who was deeply attached to me. He was a
priest belonging to the Order of Jesus, a kindly, cheerful man, of great
piety. I still remember how, when reading mass in our chapel, his
countenance would often become glorified like that of Saint Francis
Xavier in the picture above the altar; and how he confided to me that
sometimes during the service he was filled with ecstasy, being
continually inspired with the idea that I, his dear young friend, had
been chosen for great and sacred things. By this I became aware of his
extraordinary love for me.
And now the day arrives when I must lose him, my only friend. At this
time an unjust law is made and the Order of Jesus is driven from the
country. My good tutor must leave me, he weeps bitterly as he bids me
farewell. But in a moment of inspiration he expresses the assurance
that after trials overcome, we shall meet again.
And lo, the priestly word is, beyond all expectation, quickly fulfilled.
After a few months my tutor is again in our house. He has left the
Order of Jesus and now belongs to the "Fathers of the Faith," and thus
he receives protection once more in our country.
I have grown to young manhood. I love my tutor as I would an elder
brother. In secret I have often envied him his cheerful peace and the
serene happiness of his soul. At the same time I begin to be tormented
by a spirit of restlessness. It is too narrow for me within the house,
nor is there space enough without; if it is quiet, I wish for noise, and
if there is noise, I long for silence. My impulse is like that of a
blind, hungry man who has lost his way on the heath.
Then my tutor says to me; "That, dear young friend, is the curse of the
children of the world. It is the wild longing which, in spite of all
the possessions and pleasures of the earth, can find nothing to satisfy
it, unless one takes refuge in the fortress which Christ has founded
upon earth, in God's Kingdom of the Holy Church."
"If you are speaking to me, you well know that I am a Catholic," I
answer.
"You are that only in your intellectual life"--he replies--"but it is
your body, your heart that so thirsts to be satisfied. Your body, your
heart you must lead into God's Kingdom on earth. My dear friend, each
day I pray God that He may make you as happy as I am, that you may
become a brother of Jesus Christ, like myself, for the healing of your
soul and for the good of the holy Faith."
From that day when my priestly tutor spoke thus to me, the burden and
the unrest grew to be doubly tormenting; but, on examining myself
seriously, I perceived that it would be impossible for me to renounce
the world.
"You have not understood me," said my tutor, "and I am astonished, that
after the many years of instruction, you can so misunderstand your
friend. Who tells you that you should renounce the joys of the world?
The pleasures of the world are a gift of God; to enjoy them, not for
their own sake, but for the glory of God, that is what brings us true
satisfaction."
Thus a new life begins for me; my moral feeling, which has hitherto
restrained me, now urges me on to satisfy all the cravings of my nature.
In pleasure and enjoyment I shall serve the Lord--so there no longer
exists any conflict in this life.
My friend smiles and does not interfere. The world is _beautiful_ when
one is young, and it is also _good_ when one is rich. I make it very
good for myself; and I drain its sweetest cups before drinking the
sacred sacrificial-blood at the altar.
And after a few years I have emptied the cup of pleasure to its dregs.
I am disgusted. I am sated, more than sated. And the world bores me.
Now, as I have become of age, my friend again speaks to me, and upon his
advice I decide to devote my life to the service of God and the
salvation of man. I enter the Order of the "Fathers of the Faith," and
willingly I now take the oath of patience, chastity, and poverty. My
entire property passes into the hands of the Order and I swear to
absolute obedience.
And then--one day a young woman comes to me with whom I have had much to
do in my former life. Now I dare not know her. She implores me not to
abandon her with her child; she implores me for God's sake. But I am as
poor as a beggar, and cannot apply to anyone else in her behalf; I have
to live exclusively for my Order--and it enjoins obedience.
A few days later the girl is taken from a pond--a corpse. Bitterly I
weep on the breast of my priestly friend, but he pushes me gently away,
saying, "God has done all things well!"
After speaking thus, the man whom they called the Einspanig started as
if in fear. A jay was flying over our heads.
He then quickly seized my hand and cried:
Even to-day I am married to her. That night she stood with the child
before my bed. My Order has one beautiful gleaming star, but only
one--that is the worship of Mary.
Many a youth, forced into the Order by external circumstances, thus
renouncing everything, gazes eagerly and passionately up to the Virgin
and the child Jesus. I always saw in it the betrayed girl.
I am consecrated as priest, and in exchange for my worldly title and
honours receive simply the name of Paulus. But my rank enables me to
skip one degree, and from novice I am advanced at once to holy orders.
I have sacrificed nature and property and my own will; only one thing do
I still possess--the fatherland, and of that I am also deprived. Our
Order is accused of being, by whatever name it may be called, nothing
but masked Jesuitism, whose aims it serves in everything. And, as such,
according to the existing law, it is deprived of a foothold in the land.
My courage almost fails me at the thought of leaving my home and aged
father; but here there is no rest for the soul. We are martyrs for the
greater glory of God; and I am so much of an enthusiast that this
thought sustains me, and I resolve to tear myself from everything.
We move to Italy. In Rome lives Pius the Seventh, the friend of our
Order. I visit the graves of apostles and martyrs; I hope to lead a
quiet, contemplative life in this blessed land. But prayer and edifying
meditation are not always the affairs of the Society of Jesus. We are
soon sent out to hard work in the Vineyard of the Lord. I scarcely know
by what means, but, with the name of the Order changed, I find myself
all at once transferred to the court of the king, in the western part of
the country. It may be my ancestry or the good training which I have
received, or perhaps even my scholarly attainments and a certain
cleverness which by degrees I have acquired, or it may be my physique,
which has been called fine--whether it is this or something else which
advances me I do not know. I am soon appointed to an influential
position in the State chancery. And my motto is: Be a secret wheel in
the great workshop of the State and lead the people according to the
will of God,--the will of God, that is indeed only known to His
vicegerent at Rome.
Tact, gentleness, cheerfulness, and patience are the virtues which I
have to adopt. Thus I become the friend at court, the desired
companion, the counsellor much sought after; and when I read mass in the
royal chapel, the whole world of aristocratic women are on their knees
before the altar. Finally I become father confessor to the king.
About this time a commendatory written acknowledgment comes to me from
Rome, charging me to persevere in my subtle policy--Subtle? Surely I do
nothing secretly, but act as my head and heart dictate. It is a
beautiful life for me. The world smiles, and her smiles please me.
Easily I bear the oath of poverty, for I dwell in the king's palace. I
remain true to my oath of renunciation, for that which I enjoy I do not
enjoy for myself but for the love of God. Even the image of Mary and
the Child in the royal chapel, I am able once more to worship devoutly.
Then we enter upon stirring times. The revolution is raging in the
world; in our land an insurrection is also spreading. More frequently
than usual the king assembles the great and rich about him, and his
monthly confession increases in importance. One day an order comes to me
from Rome, fastened with a great seal. After reading and considering
it, something rebels within me and asks aloud: How have I the right to
force myself between the king and the people and to tear down the law
from the altar of the fatherland? I then suddenly perceive what a power
is given into my hands, and for the first time I understand why I have
been urged to persevere in my subtle policy. My conscience warns me; at
first I listen to its voice irresolutely, then I become bold and stifle
it.
I might have taken the step and history would perhaps tell to-day of a
second St. Bartholomew's Eve;--just at this time I receive news of my
father's death. This arouses me. Filial love, sorrow, longing,
homesickness, guilt, and remorse cut me to the heart and prey upon my
mind. I write to Rome that I am incapable of that which they require of
me.
What is the answer to this? It is an order to ask for my dismissal at
court, as I must sail at once for India.
This commission crushes me completely. Instead of going to my
fatherland, whither my heart leads me, I must travel to a distant part
of the world. Why? For what purpose? Who asks? The first law of the
Order is blind obedience!
Here the man made a pause in his story. He passed his fingers over his
pale, thin cheeks down to the coal-black beard. His eyes, which had a
restless, weary look, gazed sadly upwards. Above, the dark clouds were
no longer flying, but had begun to settle upon the rocky cliffs. Deep
silence and twilight reigned in the wooded ravine of the Wolfsgrube.
Finally the Einspanig continued: Four endless summers I lived with a few
companions in hot India. The hardships were great, but still greater was
the inward trouble, the awakened consciousness of an unsuccessful life.
Only in the strict fulfilment of the priestly calling did I find some
comfort, for now my service had become pure and unselfish. We no longer
worked for the special advantage of an alliance, but for the great,
common, and divine good of mankind, for civilisation. We preached to
the Hindoos European customs, thought, and worship. We gave them the
plough for their fields, upon the mountains we planted the cross. We
preached the teachings of God, self-sacrifice and love. At first they
regarded us with disfavour and suspicion, but finally they opened their
hearts. As messengers from heaven they honoured us, and they had great
respect for the people of the West, whose God had become man, in order
to teach love by His life and sacrifice by His death.
We had already organised a Christian parish in the Deccan, when troops
of Westerners, English and French, arrived, made war upon a part of the
land and subjugated the people. Now it was no longer a question of
Christian love, but of rice and spices. And that put an end to the
Hindoos' faith in our teachings. They would have murdered us. We fled
to a French ship and returned to Europe.
At last I see my fatherland once more. The times have changed and our
Order has a foothold and protection in the land. But the people have
been greatly influenced by the trend of thought in recent years, and
some have even threatened to leave the Catholic Church. Thus a new and
difficult task begins for us. According to a systematic arrangement, we
are sent to the towns and country places, and I receive the commission
of missionary to the people. With three companions I wander from region
to region, to hold the services in certain churches. Our priesthood is
now compelled to reveal a new phase of character. With the great and
powerful we have been suave and indulgent; among savage nations,
apostles of civilisation, the strict but loving teachers of the
Christian faith. But here, before the hardened, lazy, frivolous country
folk, already influenced by the new ideas, we are obliged to appear as
earnest remonstrators, as powerful judges of crime. With God, heaven,
and love one accomplishes nothing amongst such people. The local curate
has already exhausted himself with the effort. We preach a devil and
everlasting punishment.
At first they come to the church full of arrogance and curiosity, to see
the wandering priest; but when they hear our solemn words on life,
death, and the judgment, they are soon prostrate; crushed and trembling
before the black draped altar, they soon force their way to our
confessional. They deny themselves bread until the setting of the sun,
they put sand into their shoes and go on pilgrimages to distant churches
and isolated chapels to pray for pardon.
Before each church we erect a high, bare cross. Christ has been
crucified for you, now crucify yourselves in mortification and
expiation.
I am filled with a new zeal which inspires me for my work. Like a
flaming revelation from God it stands before my soul: Penance alone can
save us.
However gay the life of the village we enter, the streets are soon
silent and the fields and meadows deserted. God's house has become the
refuge. The inhabitants show their readiness to exchange the earthly
for the heavenly, for the fruits of the earth spoil through neglect,
while the people pray in the churches.
And even the government perceives the necessity of a general conversion
in the land. Should a man be found idling in the village square on a
Sunday, he would be driven into the church at the point of the bayonet.
That was a time of rejoicing for our Order, which became powerful and
established in the land to a degree never before known.
But for myself, I was not happy. When the hours of inspiration were
over, I felt within me a void and a demon, constantly seeking to turn me
away from my holy calling, which imposes the great task of taming
rebellious human nature and leading it into the unity and universality
of our church. I fought against this demon with work and prayer, for I
considered it the devil. But I must have been mistaken.
"Night is now nearing, is it not?"
The man looked at me in an almost confused way, as if he expected me to
answer his question.
"It cannot yet be night," I answered; "it is the dark mist hanging over
the forest.'
"Yes, yes," continued the strange narrator, as if dreaming. "The night
is nearing, young friend; you shall see, the dark night will come."
It was now so silent for a time, that one seemed to hear the mist
weaving itself among the branches of the pines. Then the man proceeded
with his story:
We were in a large village. Late one evening I am still sitting in the
confessional. The church is empty at last and the lamp on the altar
already casts its soft, rosy light on the walls. A single man remains
standing near the confessional and seems undecided whether to approach
or leave the church.
I beckon to him; he starts in terror, draws near and falls upon his
knees before the window of the confessional. He crosses himself merely
with a nervous movement of his right hand over his face. He does not
repeat the customary prayer; in confused and hasty words he makes his
confession. With tightly clasped and trembling hands, he stammers his
request for pardon. My heart rises to my lips and I long to console the
terrified one. But indignantly I banish my own feelings; for the law,
in this case, requires unrelenting severity. The crime is no uncommon
one. We will say, for example, the man has stolen property from his
neighbour.
And as he kneels there, silent, I answer calmly that he may not be
pardoned for the wrong until it is wholly redressed.
"Redress it, I cannot do that," he replies; "my neighbour has gone away;
I do not know where to find him."
"Then wander over the world and seek him; better wear out your feet than
allow your own precious soul to be everlastingly lost."
"But my wife, my young children!" he cries, passing his hand over his
brow.
"Just so many souls you plunge with yourself into destruction, if you do
not atone for the sin."
"For God's sake, yes, I will fast, I will pray! I will give alms, ten
times more than that which I have stolen."
"All in vain. You must make atonement to the one whom you have
deceived; if he forgives, then God will strike it out."
"And I must go away now and seek, seek through the whole world?" he
screams excitedly. "Did not the Lord die upon the cross that He might
take upon Himself the sins of the world? Murder and death are pardoned,
and my error may not be forgiven for the sake of Christ's blood?"
"Do not find fault with a just God in heaven!" I cry, indignant that one
should rebel against the Highest. "Each drop of Christ's red blood
becomes a flaming tongue of hell-fire to the criminal. Heaven is thrice
as high, since it has been bought by the sacrifice on the cross; and
hell is nine times as deep, since the men drove three nails through
Christ's hands and feet."
At these words of mine I hear a groan, a curse, and the echo of hastily
retreating footsteps. I am now alone in the dark church.
I leave the confessional, kneel before the high, towering altar and pray
long for the hardened one. And as I gaze up at the image of the Queen
of Confessors, she seems to step suddenly out of the niche--she and the
Child--into the ruddy glow. I hasten toward the door, that I may reach
the refreshing night air outside. But lo, the entrance is locked!
I had not noticed the hour of closing. The church is some distance from
the town; close by is the charnel-house, but no one there will hear,
call I ever so loudly.
So I am locked in the gloomy building where I have so often preached a
personal devil and the everlasting pains of hell. Yonder under the holy
canopy the eternal God is throned in reality and truth; now am I alone
with Him; now shall I give account to Him, how, as His substitute, I
have taught His holy doctrines among the people.
I dare not gaze upon the altar; the terrifying image stands there as if
suspended in the air; the red light sways towards me. Hastening on
tiptoe from one corner to the other, I finally steal into the
confessional again and draw the curtain.
And there I sit in the greatest excitement. Now, now I fancy the
curtain is moving and a cold hand is reaching in after my faithless
heart. But all is quiet, only the clock on the tower from time to time
strikes the quarter-hour--and before the high window, through which the
moon is now shining, a bat occasionally flies. I lean back against the
wall and close my eyes; sleep does not come to me,--but thoughts.
Yes, usually they kneel outside there at the confessional, the poor
sinners, and search their consciences; and to-day the confessor searches
his own. I look back over my whole life. How agitated it has been, how
poor and lonely I myself have been! I left my father, even as he left
me; my tutor was estranged from me when he thrust me out among the
snares of the world; and in the pond a heart ceased to beat. I no
longer possess a single friend in the wide, wide world. Like a toy I
have been tossed over land and sea. What has been the meaning of my
empty deeds? For what have I been striving? Have I done well? I am a
priest; have I honoured God with my heart? I am a mediator; have I
reconciled God with man and man with himself? When I stand before God's
judgment seat, when the scales are weighed down with my evil deeds, is
there one soul who will cry, "He has saved me"?
And while this struggle is going on within me, I suddenly hear a pitiful
groan before the window of the confessional, as if that man were still
kneeling there with his sin. I start, but I am deceived; all is quiet
and the bright moonlight is streaming through the window.
And so my years--the golden years--have run to waste in the sand. Good
friend, such a misfortune you could never comprehend. At last I begin
to weep painfully.
In my influential position I surely could have loved and served mankind.
But I was led astray; and my only friend was not my friend. How many
years will still be given to me to misuse? O God, lead me away from Thy
altar, where I have been an unworthy servant; lead me forth from Thy
temple, wherein I have taken Thy name in vain. And lead me away from
men, to whom I have so wickedly misinterpreted Thee. Lead me to a
still, lonely place where I can work out my own salvation!
This longing is like dew to my spirit; I become calmer and close my
eyes.
But now I suddenly hear a voice without, calling: "Pater Paulus!" and a
second voice: "What if something should have happened to him!" "Pater
Paulus!" it calls again. Released at last!--I think; and I am about to
rise that I may answer. At the same moment I hear a terrible screaming:
"_Jesu Maria!_ there he is; he is hanging there by a rope!"
I utter one cry, which terrifies me as it resounds through the nave of
the church. Then, without, I hear another wail and the people hastily
making their escape. The cry in the church, my call for help, has
frightened them. I am alone and so agitated that I almost cease to
breathe. It strikes midnight. What? Outside someone is hanging by a
rope. That is what they called out. Were they not seeking me and then
did they not cry: "There he is; he is hanging there by a rope"?