Part 13

Ivo came, and soon after him his father. The latter took off his cap and welcomed the "young gentlemen;" then, rubbing his hands, he said, "What, wife! haven't you any thing in the house? Can't you get something to offer the young gentlemen?"

The mother had only waited to be relieved in entertaining the company. She hastened to find the very best the house afforded. Emmerence had had the good sense to drop into the kitchen, thinking that perhaps she might be wanted, for Mag had gone to take a walk with her beau. Perhaps she may have been curious also to see Ivo's great friends, for she shared the joy of the whole family at his exalted position.

Many of the neighbors' wives also found their way into the kitchen. Ivo's mother left them with complacent apologies, and took a big bowl of red-cheeked "Breitlinger" apples with her into the parlor. Emmerence brought two glasses of kirschwasser on a bright pewter plate. The boys ate heartily, and even drank a little of the fiery liquor, and Ivo's mother stuffed their pockets with fruit besides. At last she gave the youngest a particularly fine apple, with "her compliments to his lady mother, and she was to put it on the bureau."

After a long conversation, the boys took their leave. Valentine nodded pleasantly when they asked his permission to take Ivo with them: his mother arranged his collar, and brushed every mote of dust from his blue coat. Ivo was pleased to hear that he was to have a new one shortly.

Accompanied by the women, who had lingered behind the half-open door of the kitchen, Christina now walked into the street and looked after the three as they walked toward Horb, escorted by Valentine as far as the Eagle. The squire's wife was looking out of her window, and Christina said to her, "Those are the President-Judge's boys. They are going to take my Ivo out to their father in the Dipper. He likes to see them make friends with him: Ivo is quite smart, and they are quite fond of him."

Nor is it to be denied that Ivo felt some pride as he walked through the village hand in hand with his town acquaintances. He was pleased to see the people look out of the windows, and bid them all "Good-day" with great self-complacency. Who will think ill of him for this in a country where the very child in its cradle babbles of the omnipotence of the functionaries, where their existence and their activity is shrouded in awe-inspiring darkness, where all ages and all conditions unite in humble salutations to clerk and constable, knowing that there is no escape from their ill-will the moment the door of the secret tribunal is closed upon the unhappy mortal against whom an accusation, or a mere suspicion, has been uttered?

Mine host of the Dipper saluted Ivo very kindly, rubbing his hands the while, according to an old habit, as if he were cold. Ivo was now admitted to the "gentlemen's room," and to the table, where, screened from the vulgar gaze, the Auditor-General and the President-Judge sat in undisturbed admiration of each other's respectability.

Two merchants of Horb stood at the entrance of this chamber of peers, in some little embarrassment. After considerable hesitation, one said to the other, "Well, Mr. Councilman, what shall we drink'!"

"What you please, Mr. Councilman," answered the other.

The two had just been elected to their present exalted station, and this was their first appearance at the gentlemen's table. They sat down with many profound bows, to which the President-Judge returned a sneer and exchanged a supercilious look with his colleague.

Ivo's satisfaction at being admitted into such great society was destined to be cruelly dashed. The boys told what they had heard from Ivo's mother about the efficiency of the horseshoe. The judge, who liked to play the freethinker in matters of religion, because it was a liberty not expressly removed by legislation, and because he thought it a mark of culture, interrupted the story with "Stuff! What do you talk of such brainless superstition for? Don't let every silly old peasant cram your heads with her nonsense. I have told you ever so often that there are no devils and no saints. The saints may pass, but not the devils, nor the witches."

Ivo trembled. It stung him to the soul to hear his mother spoken of in that manner and with such irreverence. He wished he had never dreamed of this great company. He hated the judge cordially, and eyed him with looks of fury. Of course the great man had no perception of the disgrace into which he had fallen. He waxed exceedingly condescending to the new councilmen, who were so charmed with his goodness that their organs of speech seemed to have lost every check-spring.

To Ivo's relief, the "gentlemen" at last departed, leaving him to comfort himself with the reflection that he had not bid the judge "Good-night."

7. THE CONVENT.

Years glided by almost imperceptibly. Constantine and Peter had passed their examination in autumn, and were now destined to enter the convent at Rottweil. An event, however, which formed the theme of conversation for a long time to come, detained Peter at the village.

The second crop of grass had been mowed in the garden of the manor-house; the daisy--called here the wanton-flower because it presents itself so shamelessly without any drapery of leaves--stood solitary on the frost-covered sward; the cows browsed untethered; and the children gambolled here and there and assailed with sticks and stones the few scattered apples and pears which had been forgotten on the trees.

Peter sat on the butter-pear tree by the wall of the manor-house, near the corner turret. A bright golden pear was the goal of his ambition. Constantine, the marplot, wished to snatch the prize out of his grasp, and threw a stone at it. Suddenly Peter cried, "My eye! my eye!" and fell from the tree with the limb on which he had been sitting. The blood gushed from his eye, while Constantine stood beside him, crying and calling aloud for help.

Maurice the cowherd came running up. He saw the bleeding boy, took him on his shoulder, and carried him home. Constantine followed, and all the children brought up the rear. The train increased until they reached Hansgeorge's house: the latter was engaged in mending a wagon. At sight of his child bleeding and in a swoon he wrung his hands. Peter opened one eye; but the other only bled the faster.

"Who did this?" asked Hansgeorge, with clenched fists, looking from his wailing boy to the trembling Constantine.

"I fell from the tree," said Peter, closing the sound eye also. "Oh, God! Oh, God! my eye is running out."

Without waiting to hear more, Constantine ran off to Horb for young Erath, who now held the post of his late father. Finding that the doctor had gone out, he ran up and down before the house in unspeakable agony: he kept one hand pressed upon one of his eyes, as if to keep the misfortune of Peter vividly before his mind; he bit his lips till they bled; he wished to fly into the wide, wide world as a criminal; and again he wished to stay, to save what could be saved. He borrowed a saddle-horse, and hardly had the expected one come home when he hurried him on the horse and away; but he travelled faster on foot than the surgeon did on horseback. The eye was declared irretrievably lost. Constantine closed both his eyes: night and darkness seemed to fall upon him. Hansgeorge, with the tears streaming from his eyes, sat absorbed in bitter thoughts, and held the stump of his forefinger convulsively in the gripe of his other hand. He regarded the maiming of his child as a chastisement from God for having wantonly mutilated himself. He expended all the gentleness of which his nature was capable on poor unoffending Peter, who was doomed to expiate his father's sin. But Peter's mother--our old friend Kitty--was less humble, and said openly that she was sure that accursed Constantine was the fault of it all. She drove him out of the house, and swore she would break his collar-bone if he ever crossed the threshold again.

Peter persisted in his account of the matter, and Constantine suffered cruelly. He would run about in the field as if an evil spirit were at his heels, and when he saw a stone his heart would tremble. "Cain! Cain!" he often cried. He would fain have fled to the desert like him too, but always came home again.

It was three days before he ventured to see his companion. He prepared himself for a merciless beating; but the wrath of the mother had gone down, and no harm befell him.

He found Ivo sitting by the patient's bedside, holding his hand. Pushing Ivo aside, he took Peter's hands in silence, his breath trembling. At last he said,--

"Go away, Ivo; I'll stay here: Peter and I want to talk together."

"No: stay here, Ivo," said the sufferer: "he may know all."

"Peter," said Constantine, "in the lowest hell you couldn't suffer more than I have suffered. I have prayed to God often and often to take my eye away and let you keep yours: I have kept one of my eyes shut when I was alone, just to see no more than you. Oh, dear Peter, do please, please forgive me!"

Constantine wept bitterly, and the patient begged him to be quiet, lest his parents should find out about it. Ivo tried to comfort him too; but the ruling passion soon appeared again:--

"I wish somebody would tear one of my eyes out, so that I shouldn't have to be a parson, and sit behind a parcel of books and make a long face while other people are enjoying themselves. Be glad you have only one eye and needn't be a parson. But the last cock hasn't crowed yet, neither."

Ivo looked sorrowfully at the scapegrace.

Peter was, indeed, henceforth unfit for the ministry. For in Leviticus iii. 1 it is written, "If his oblation be a sacrifice of peace-offering, he shall offer it without blemish before the Lord." A clergyman must be without bodily imperfection.

Even when Constantine came to take leave of Peter, before getting into the carriage which was to take him to the convent, he said, "I wish the carriage would upset and break my leg. Good-bye, Peter: don't grieve too much for your eye."

These words of Constantine, which betrayed the abhorrence of his inmost soul to the clerical function, had made a deep impression on Ivo. Often, in his solitary walk to school, he would whisper to himself, "Be glad you have only one eye: you needn't be a parson;" and then he would close each of his eyes alternately, to make sure that it was not his case. Constantine was a riddle to him; but he prayed for him in church for some time.

Meanwhile the time had come for Ivo in his turn to set out for the convent of Ehingen. His father's house was filled with the bustle of preparation, as if he were on the point of being married. At first the sight of his new clothes was a source of pleasure; but soon the thought of parting outweighed all others, and an inexpressible feeling of dread overcame him. It was a comfort to think that his mother and Nat, with the dun, were to accompany him. Having taken leave of the chaplain, of his companions at Horb, and of Mrs. Hankler, he devoted three days to going the rounds of the village. All gave him their best wishes,--for all thought well of him and envied the parents of so fine and good a lad. Here and there he received a little present,--a handkerchief, a pair of suspenders, a purse, and even some money: the last he hesitated to accept,--for, as his parents were well off, it seemed humiliating. But he reflected that clergymen must accept presents, and rejoiced over the six-creutzer pieces with childish glee. Having finished his parting calls, he avoided being seen before the houses he had visited; for there is something disagreeable in meeting casually with persons of whom you have just taken a final and long farewell: a deep feeling seems to be rudely wiped away and a debt to remain uncancelled. Ivo thus became almost a prisoner for some days, restricted to the society of his pigeons and the little localities which had become endeared to him in his father's curtilage.

On the eve of his departure he went to the house where Emmerence lived, to say "Good-bye." She brought him something wrapped up in paper, and said, "There, take it: it is one of my ducklings!" Although Ivo did not object, she pressed him, saying, "Oh, you must take it! Do you remember how I drove them in from the hollow? They were little weeny things then, and you used to help me get food for them. Take it: you can eat it for lunch to-morrow."

Holding the roast duck in one hand, he gave the other to Emmerence and to her parents. With a heavy heart, he returned home. Here all was in a bustle. They were to start at one o'clock in the night, so as to be in Ehingen betimes. On the bench by the stove sat an orphan-boy from Ahldorf, who was also to enter the convent, with a blue bundle of goods and chattels beside him. Ivo forgot his own sorrows in his pity for the orphan, whom nobody accompanied, and who was forced to rely upon the kindness of strangers. Seeing no other comfort at hand, he held the roast duck under his nose, and said, "That's what we're going to have for lunch tomorrow. You like a good drum-stick or a bit of the breast, don't you?" He looked almost happy; and, to assure the stranger of his share, he told him to put the duck into his bundle; but his mother interfered to prevent this, as it would stain the clothes.

They all went to bed early. The orphan, whose name was Bart, slept in Nat's bed, who stayed up to feed the horse and wake the others. When Ivo was already in bed, His mother stole softly into the room once more. She shaded the oil-lamp which she carried with her hand, in order not to disturb him if he slept; but Ivo was awake, and, as her hand smoothed the cover under his chin and then rested on his head, she said, "Pray, Ivo dear, and you'll sleep well. Good-night!"

He wept bitterly when she had gone. A vision of light seemed to have passed away, leaving him in total darkness. He felt as if a strange and distant roof covered him already. To-morrow he knew his mother would not come to him thus, and he sobbed into the pillows. He thought of Emmerence, and of the other people in the village: they were all so dear to him, and he could not imagine how they would do when he was gone, and whether things would really go on without him just as they always had done. He thought they ought to miss him as much as he longed to be with them: he wept for himself and for them, and his tears seemed to have no end. At last he nerved himself, folded his hands, prayed aloud with a fervor as if he strained God and all the saints to his bosom, and fell gently asleep.

With his eyes half shut, Ivo struck about him when Nat came with the light: he thought it absurd to get up when he had hardly begun his first nap. But Nat said, sorrowfully, "No help for it: up with you. You must learn to get up now when other people bid you."

He staggered about the room as if he were tipsy. A good cup of coffee brought him to his senses.

The house was all astir; and Ivo took a weeping farewell of his brothers and sisters. Bart was already seated by Nat's side on the board, which had the bag of oats for a cushion: his mother was getting into the wagon, and Joe, his eldest brother, held the dun's head. Valentine lifted up his son and kissed him: it was the first time in his life that he gave him this token of love. Ivo threw his arms around his neck and wept aloud. Valentine was visibly touched; but, summoning up all his manhood, he lifted the boy into the wagon, shook his hand, and said, in a husky tone, "God bless you, Ivo! be a good boy."

His mother threw his father's cloak around them both; the dun started, and they were on their way through the dark and silent village. Here and there a taper was burning by the bedside of sickness, while the unsteady shadows of the watchers flitted across the window. The friends who lived in all these silent walls bade him no farewell: only the watchman, whom they met at the brick-yard, stopped in the midst of his cry and said, "Pleasant trip to you."

For nearly an hour nothing was heard but the horse's tread and the rattling of the wheels. Ivo lay on his mother's bosom with his arms around her. Once he made his way out of the warm covering and asked, "Bart, have you a cloak?"

"Yes: Nat gave me the horse-cloth."

Ivo again sank upon his mother's bosom, and, overpowered by sorrow and fatigue, he fell asleep. Blest lot of childhood, that the breath of slumber is sufficient to wipe all its bitterness away!

The road led almost wholly through forests. They passed through Muehringen, traversed the lovely valley of the Eiach, and left the bathing-place of Imnau behind, before ever it occurred to Ivo to look about him. Not until they came down the steep that leads into Haigerloch did he fairly awake; and he was almost frightened to see the town far down in the ravine encircled by the frowning hills. As day broke they felt the cold more keenly; for it is as if Night, when she arises to quit the earth, gathered all her strength about her to leave the traces of her presence as deep as possible.

They stopped at Hechingen, at the Little Horse, where a young girl was standing under the door. Perhaps this reminded Ivo of Emmerence; for he said, "Mother, shall we eat the duck now?"

"No: we'll have it for dinner at Gamertingen, and get them to make us a nice soup besides."

The bright sunshine in the Killer Valley, the constant change of scene, and the novel details of rural life which he saw in the "Rauh Alb" Mountains, cheered Ivo a little; and when he saw a large herd of cattle grazing he said to Nat, "Mind you take good care of my Brindle."

"There's an end of my care of him: your father has sold him to Buchmaier, and he is coming to fetch him to-day and break him in."

Ivo was too well acquainted with the stages of a domestic animal's life to be much grieved at this news: he only said, "Well, Buchmaier is a good man, and deals well by man and beast; so I guess he won't work him too hard. And, besides, he don't yoke two oxen into one yoke, but gives each his own, so they're not worried quite so much."

The sun was near setting when they reached the valley of the Danube. Nat became quite lively. With his head bent back, he told all sorts of stories of the neighboring town of Munderkingen, of which much the same jokes are told as are sometimes expended upon the Schildburgers; for these towns are to the Wurtembergers or Suabians what the Suabians are to the Germans outside of themselves, and something like what the Irish are to the English and Americans,--a tribe upon which every cobbler of wit patches a shred of his facetiousness in the cheap and durable form of a "bull." Ivo laughed heartily, and said, "I wish you and I could travel about together for a whole year."

But this was soon to cease; for they were at the gates of Ehingen. Ivo started and grasped his mother's hand. They put up at the Vineyard, not far from the convent. Hardly had they seated themselves, however, before the vesper-bell rang: Ivo's mother rose without speaking, took the two boys by the hand, and went to church.

There is a peculiar power in the universal visibility of the Catholic religion: wherever you go or stand, temples open wide their portals to receive your faith, your hope, your charity; worshippers are everywhere looking up to the same objects of veneration, uttering the same words, and making the same gestures; you are surrounded by brothers, children of the great visible holy father at Rome. Halls are always open to receive you into the presence of the Lord, and you are never out of your spiritual inheritance.

Thus Christina and the two boys knelt devoutly at the altar. They forgot that their home was far away; for the hand of the Lord had erected a dwelling around and over them.

With an invigorated confidence, the mother once more took the boys by the hand and sought the convent-gate. There was much stir here, and men and boys might be seen walking and running to and fro in all directions, dressed in all the various costumes of the Catholic portions of the country. The famulus at the entrance, having examined their passports, brought them to the director. This was an old man of rather querulous mien, who answered every remark and every question of Christina with "Yes, yes: right enough." He had been catechized so much that day that his taciturnity was not to be wondered at. Feeling Ivo pulling at her skirt, she took courage to request that his reverence would permit Ivo to sleep at the hotel for the coming night.

After some hesitation he said, "Well, yes. But he must be here before church in the morning."

Bart took leave of Christina with a specimen of that verbiage of gratitude which he had learned by heart from frequent practice. This duty performed, he cheerfully followed the famulus to his room.

Ivo danced with joy at being allowed to stay with his mother. He continued chatting with her till late at night.

The next morning a beautiful clear Sunday was shining. An hour before church began, Ivo went to the convent with his mother, followed by Nat with the baggage and a bundle for Bart. She helped him to arrange his chattels in the press, counting over every piece, and often looking about sorrowfully to find that twelve boys were forced to live here in one room. At the sound of the convent-bell, mother and son separated, and the latter went to join his comrades.

After church his mother introduced herself to the stewardess, on whom as a woman she hoped to exercise some little influence. She begged her to give the boy a little something to eat between meals occasionally,--for he would certainly forget to ask for it,--and she would pay for it all honestly.

Ivo was permitted to join his mother again a little before dinner-time. She even tried to make interest with the hostess of the Vineyard, and implored her to give Ivo any thing he might ask for, and keep an account of it, and it would be punctually paid. The busy hostess attended to every thing, though she well knew that she could do nothing.

Ivo ate with a good appetite: he knew that his mother was with him. But after dinner he walked sadly to the Vineyard; for now the inevitable leave-taking was to come.

"Well, Nat," said he, "you'll always be my friend, won't you?"

"You may swear to that as if it was gospel," replied he, pushing the collar over the horse's head: he did not turn around, wishing to conceal his emotion.

"And you'll give my love to all the people that ask about me?"

"Yes, yes; indeed I will: only don't grieve so much about being far away from home. Why, it's pleasant to take leave when you know that there are people at home who love you dearly, and when you haven't done any harm." Nat's voice gave out; his throat was parched up, and his neck swelled. Ivo saw nothing of this, but inquired,--

"And you'll mind the pigeons till I come back again, won't you?"

"Sha'n't lose a feather. There now: go to your mother, for we must be off, or to-morrow will be lost too. Keep up your spirits, and don't let it worry you too much: Ehingen isn't out of the world, either. Hoof, dun!"

He led the horse up to the car, and Ivo went to his mother. Seeing her weep so bitterly, he suppressed his own tears, and said, "Mustn't be so sad: Ehingen isn't out of the world, either, and I'm coming home at Easter, and then we shall be so glad: sha'n't we?"

His mother bit her lips, bent over Ivo, embraced and kissed him. "Be pious and good" were the last words she sobbed out. She got on the car; the dun started, after looking around at Ivo, as if to take leave also; Nat nodded once more, and they were gone.