Part 14

Ivo stood with his hands folded and his head sunk upon his breast. When he raised his tearful eyes and saw nothing of the loved ones, he ran out into the street to get one more look at the car: from the town-gate he saw it speeding on the dusty road. He stopped and turned to go back. Everybody around seemed so cheerful, and he alone was sad and a stranger! In the car his mother took her rosary and prayed,--

"Dear, holy Mother of God! Thou knowest what a mother's love is: thou hast felt it in sorrow and in joy. Preserve my child; he is the jewel of my heart. And, if I do a sin in loving him so much, let me atone for it, not him."

When Ivo reached the convent it was time for the afternoon service; but he found no devotion this time: his heart trembled too much with weariness. For the first time in his life he found himself in church without knowing it: he sang and listened unthinkingly.

This one circumstance was a feature of the life on which he was about to enter: the actions of his own will fell into the background; directions and precepts dictated his steps. His existence now became legally and strictly monotonous. The story of one day is the story of all.

The boys slept in large halls under the supervision of an usher. At half-past five in the morning a bell rang, which brought in the famulus, who lighted the lantern hanging from the roof and summoned them all to prayers. Then there was breakfast at the common table, succeeded by hours of private study which lasted till eight o'clock. The schools now began, and continued until dinner-time, after which there was an hour of "recreation,"--that is, of a walk taken under the eye of a functionary. After some more hours of instruction the boys were permitted to play in the yard, but never without being watched by a person in authority. The constraint indicated by the enclosed space was never relaxed even during "free time;" nowhere was there room for a spontaneous pleasure to spring forth, _nowhere a moment of unreconnoitred solitude_.

At home Ivo had been the pet of the family: when he sat at his books, his mother made it her especial care to see that no noise was made near him; scarcely was any one permitted to enter the room, and an impression was made as if a saint was engaged in working miracles there. Here, on the contrary, when the studies were resumed after supper, whispers would be heard here and there, which distracted his attention and took away the edge of his industry. Those who know the inscrutable power that often animates the soul which mirrors itself in its own thoughts or drinks in the thoughts of others, who are acquainted with that mute intellectual commerce which extends its organs and spreads its fragrance like a budding flower, will appreciate the regret of Ivo at never being left to himself. He was no longer his own property: a society moved him as if he had been one of their fingers or teeth.

At nine o'clock there were prayers once more, after which every one was compelled to go to bed. Here, at last, Ivo returned to himself, and his thoughts travelled homeward, until sleep spread its mantle over him.

Thus it happened that for some days Ivo felt as if he had been sold into slavery. Nowhere was there a trace of free will; every word and every thought was hedged in by injunctions and commandments; the _inflexibility of the law_ raised a cold high wall before him wherever he turned. It is a consistent deduction from the essence of every Church which has reached the development of a fixed and unchanging form of ritual and tenet, to begin in early youth with the task of tapping the fountain-head of individual self-regulation in the hearts and minds of its pupils, and of clapping them into the iron harness of its unbending forms. But the highest effort of education should be to draw out this self-regulating principle, and not to repress it; to educe the laws of right and wrong from the workings of the young mind, and not to nail a foreign growth upon the stock after having deadened the source from which alone a healthy fruitage could spring.

Ivo was so low-spirited that a single harsh word sufficed to bring tears to his eyes. Some of the naughtiest of his companions discovered this, and teased him in all sorts of ways. Many of these boys were of the coarsest stamp,--had left the most humble abodes behind them, and found every thing their hearts desired in the good food and the care taken of all externals. They noticed that Ivo was easily disgusted, and often amused themselves by getting up a conversation at the table which made it impossible for the poor boy to taste a morsel. At such times his mother's arrangement with the stewardess was of the greatest service to him.

Over-government always leads to circumventions of the law which the supervisors are forced to wink at: some of these tricks are handed down by a sort of secret tradition; others are invented with the occasion. Ivo never took part in these irregularities, nor in the practical jokes sometimes attempted to be played on the teachers and overseers. He was quiet and retiring.

His letter to his parents gives a vivid picture of his state of mind. It was as follows:--

"DEAR PARENTS, BROTHERS, AND SISTER:--I did not wish to write before I had learned to feel at home here. Oh, I have lived through so much in these three weeks that I thought I should die! Indeed, if I had not been ashamed I would have run away and come back to you. I often thought that I was just like the cow that father bought: she could not eat any thing either until she had become accustomed to the rest of the cattle. We have very good eating here,--meat every day except Friday, and wine on Sunday. The stewardess is very kind to me. I cannot go to see the landlady at the Vineyard, as we are not allowed to go to taverns. We are kept strictly in all things:--we are not even permitted to take half an hour's walk by ourselves after dinner. If I only had wings, to come and fly over to you! What I like best is to walk in the road by which we came here: then I think of the future,--when I shall travel this road again in the holidays. It is very cold here, too. Would you please send me a flannel jacket, dear mother, slashed with green in front? I feel the cold much more here than when I used to go to Horb: there I could do as I liked; here I don't seem to belong to myself at all. Oh, my head is often so heavy with crying that I feel as if I were going to be sick! But don't grieve about it, dear mother: all will go on very well soon, and I am really in good health now: only I must pour out my heart before you. I will study very hard, and then God will make all things go rightly: I depend on Him, on our Savior, on the holy mother of God, and on all the saints: others have gone through with it all before me, and why should not I? Be happy among yourselves, and love each other dearly; for, when one is away, one feels how much those should love each other who are privileged to be together: I would certainly never be quarrelsome or discontented now, and dear Mag would not need to scold me. Good-bye. Give my love to all good friends, and believe me your loving son,

"IVO BOCK.

"P.S.--Dear mother, a new usher has just come,--Christian the tailor's son Gregory; but his sister does not keep house for him now, it seems: there is somebody else with him. Please get Christian the tailor to write to him to be a little kind to me.

"Dear Nat, my best love to you, and I think of you very often. The cattle here are almost all black; and whenever I see a farmer at work in the fields I can hardly help running up to him to help him. The steward has pigeons too, but he kills them all in winter.

"Bart lives in a different room from mine. He is very happy: he has never been so well cared for in his life. Poor fellow! he hasn't such a dear good mother and father as I have. If I only had one companion to my liking here--

"In the evenings we are allowed to visit in families: many of the boys do so, but I know nobody to go to. Oh, if I were only in Nordstetten----

"Pardon my scrawling. If I were only with you! I have many things on my heart still, but will close now: the night-bell is ringing. Think of me often."

This letter made a great impression at home. His mother carried it in her pocket, and read it again and again, till it fell to pieces. The High-German dialect in which it was written came so strangely from her child that she could hardly realize the fact: but then he was a "scholar," and the minister preached in the same way in church. The numerous dashes tried her patience sorely. What could the boy have been thinking of when he made them?

Nat at once offered to walk all night to Ehingen, to bring Ivo the things he had asked for and news from home. Walpurgia, the pretty seamstress, was taken into the house and set to work. Christina treated her to the best of fare, for it seemed as if she were feeding the jacket. Often she said, "Don't save any thing: it is for my Ivo." As it was near Christmas, some "hutzelbrod" was baked, being kneaded with kirschwasser and filled with dried apples, pears, and nut-kernels. This, with a great quantity of fruit, some money, and other knickknacks, was packed into a bag and laid upon the shoulders of the devoted Nat, who trudged out of the village late in the evening.

Ivo could hardly believe his eyes when, as the class were taking their afternoon stroll, he saw Nat coming up the road. He ran to meet him, and fell upon his neck. Many of the boys gathered round wondering.

"Bock," asked one, "is that your brother?"

Ivo nodded, unwilling to say that Nat was only a servant.

"What an old buck your father must be!" said another boy. The rest laughed,--all except Clement Bauer, a boy from the principality of Hohenlohe, who said, "For shame, you jealous daws! Why, a'n't you glad his brother's come to see him?" He ran to the usher in command and obtained permission for Ivo to go home with Nat alone. Ivo was delighted beyond measure to meet with such a fine boy. The thought awoke in his mind that perhaps Nat had helped him to a friend.

Hand in hand they turned toward the convent, Ivo talking and rejoicing incessantly. When the things came to be unpacked, he shouted with delight. He immediately laid up a reserve for the good Clement; but when the other room-mates returned he shared his treasure with them all. Nat had also brought a letter for Gregory, the tailor's son, which Ivo immediately carried to him, and received an invitation to come to him often and call upon him for aid and counsel.

In the evening he was allowed to go to the inn with Nat, where there was no end of their chatting. When the bell rang for prayer, Nat escorted him back to the convent. Ivo ascended the stairs as lightly as if an unseen hand supported him. He was quite at home here now, since all Nordstetten, in the person of its most acceptable envoy, had come to see him. Besides, he now had both a friend and a patron, all owing to dear good old Nat.

From this time forth Ivo's life was sustained by industry, cheerfulness, and friendship. His mother hardly suffered a bird to pass without charging it with something kind for her son. His chest was never without some little delicacy, nor his heart without some secret pleasure. A brighter light fell on all things around him, much of which was owing to the encouraging influence of Clement. Still, the two did not become intimate so quickly as might have been expected: an extraordinary occurrence was necessary to bring this about. The other boys, seeing that Ivo was in favor with Mr. Haible,--such was Gregory's surname,--left him unmolested, and even sought his good-will.

The study of music afforded Ivo particular pleasure. An orchestra was organized to perform at the church-festivals. Ivo chose the bugle as his instrument, and soon acquired considerable skill.

The principal once conceived the idea of giving the boys, who were condemned to such a dismal barrack-life, a taste of family comfort. So, after catechism, he invited twelve of the most advanced--Ivo among them--to come to his room in the evening. This invitation was understood as a command, and the boys marched in at the appointed hour, in the order of their seats at school, bowing and scraping.

The principal, who lived with his old maiden sister, had tea ready for them, to which they were helped, and of which they bashfully partook. The good old gentleman had unfortunately forgotten all about family comfort and domestic enjoyment himself; so, instead of asking questions about home, he conversed about books and studies. Once only, when he told a magnificent joke of the perplexity into which he was thrown in early childhood by finding two leaves of his Bible sticking together, a suppressed giggle passed around the room. He immediately went on to argue, however, that whenever we find it hard to understand any thing in the Bible we might be sure there was a leaf pasted down somewhere.

At nine o'clock he said, "Now let us pray." They prayed, and then he said "Good-night," and the boys went their way. They were not much the better for their taste of family comfort.

Thus the winter passed by. Sometimes it made Ivo sad to see the town-boys sledging or throwing snow-balls. When the snow thawed, however, and nature began again to thrive, his heart reverberated to the pulses which beat all round him. He yearned for his free sunny home.

8. THE HOLIDAYS.

For several weeks before the holidays none of the boys had their minds fixed upon their studies; all skipped and danced with joy at the thought of going home. Ivo and Clement often walked hand in hand, telling each other stories of home. Clement was the son of a scrivener or actuary,--the lowest grade of those officials who form the great political and legal hierarchy of the continental states of Europe. He had had no settled home in his childhood, as his father had been transferred from town to town three or four times during his life.

On the last evening all the boys were packing their trunks, as if on the eve of a march or a retreat. In the morning there was divine service, and, though the singing was loud, it is to be feared that more thoughts were directed to earthly homes than to the heavenly one.

After taking an affectionate leave of Clement, Ivo set out, taking short steps at first, according to the rule among pedestrians, all impatient as he was. Bart kept him company: he was going to an aunt. He was an unpleasant companion, for he wanted to stop at every tavern-sign which showed itself. Ivo never assented until they had reached the valley of the Lower March, where their roads parted. Fortunately he here found some Jewish horse-jockeys from Nordstetten. They were very glad to see him, and he them. They took him in their car and gave him a lift of many miles. He heard of all the births, marriages, and deaths. Ivo thought that these were the three fates between which vibrates the life of the children of men; and, without halting at the redundant spondee, he quoted to himself

"Clotho colum retinet, et Lachesis net, et Atropos occat."[9]

When the road was up hill the travelling traders took their prayer-straps out of their pouches, fastened them to their foreheads and arms and offered up their long devotions. Ivo compared the breath which rose from their moving lips in whiffs of fume, to the incense of the Bible: he honored every creed, and particularly the Jewish one, as the oldest of all. He even glanced into the open prayer-book of his neighbor, and pleased him by showing that he was able to read Hebrew. Ivo admired the ease with which these horse-jockeys read the language: even the principal could not have kept pace with them.

On setting him down again, where they travelled in a direction different from his home, they made him promise not to go all the way to Nordstetten that day, so that he might not injure his health. Walking on silently, Ivo praised his beloved native village, in which every one, Christian and Jew, appeared to be equally good.

Although his thoughts all tended homeward, he was very observant of things around him, and even found time for some general reflections. More than once, when a distant village-spire hove in sight, he said to himself, "How well it is that the church-steeple is always the first thing to be seen as you approach a village! It shows that Christians live there, and that they dedicate their best and finest house to God."

At another time he thought, "These fruit-trees around every village are the best friends of man. Man comes first, cattle next, and then the orchard-trees,--for they also need the special care of man to prune and graft them and remove the caterpillars. How strange it is! All around is grass and puny herbage, and suddenly a great stem rears itself aloft and its crest is all white with blossoms.

"God's earth is full of wondrous beauty, A lovely place to dwell upon; Then to rejoice shall be my duty Till in the earth I make my wonne."

Though so well entertained by communing with himself, he entered into conversation with more than one of the travellers he overtook, or who overtook him. They all were pleased with his open, kindly talk; and he quite rejoiced to find the world full of such good-humored people.

It was dark when he reached Hechingen. Though it was but five hours' walk to his home, and he felt no fatigue, he kept his promise to his friends. He wished, moreover, to come home in the daytime. "It was dark when I went away," he said to himself as he sat at the inn, "and it must be light when I return." He was even vain enough to wish that his father's house was at the other end of the village, so that his green knapsack and student's dress might attract universal attention.

The sun shone brightly when Ivo awoke. It was a happier waking than that on which the lantern of the convent used to look down. It was a beautiful day,--a day of jubilee for the birds in the air and the buds on the trees.

He longed for wings; and, in default of them, he flung his cap high in the air as he walked briskly along. He suddenly stopped, sat down on the wayside, and, repeating the words of Exodus iii. 5,--"Put off thy shoes from off thy feet; for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground,"--he obeyed the precept. Like an unshod colt, he 'bounded along for a time; but soon he found that the life of the convent had unfitted him for such exercise. Compressing his lips with pain, and resuming his shoes, he again thought of the beautiful Psalm,--"He shall give his angels charge over thee, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone." Psalm xci. 11, 12.

At Haigerloch he bought two "pretzels,"--one for his mother and the other for Emmerence. "Didn't she give me the duck when I went away?" he argued to himself, to quiet his ecclesiastical conscience. He avoided the short turns which the footpaths offered, and followed the highroad, fearing to miss his way: besides, he had more of the village to pass through on this route than in going by the way of Muehringen. The nearer home he came, the more his heart bounded within him. Sometimes it all seemed too good to be true, and he dreaded some unforeseen disaster, or even that the weight of his exultation would drag him down: at such times he would sit down to recover his strength.

People were wrong in saying that it was but two hours' walk from Haigerloch to Nordstetten. "The fox must have measured this road and thrown in his tail," said Ivo, repeating the old German proverb: "it is eight hours' walk at least."

Near the beech farm he saw his Brindle pulling a plough. Running up to the ploughman, he asked how Brindle worked, and rejoiced to hear him praised. The brute had forgotten him, however, and let his head droop earthward under the yoke. Ivo was tempted to give him one of the pretzels to eat, but was ashamed of showing his weakness to the workman, and went on.

At the brick-yard he met Hansgeorge's Peter, the one-eyed, who shook his hand sadly, and said, "Constantine came last night."

Welcomed on every side, Ivo passed on. Every thing warmed his heart,--the things which moved, and those which moved not: every hedge, every stack of wood, looked like a friend, and seemed to be telling a good old story: when his father's house stood before him it trembled in his eyes, for the tears were running down his cheeks.

Emmerence sat under the walnut-tree with the school master's child on her lap. Instead of coming to meet him, she ran into the house, crying, "Ivo's come! Ivo's come!"

His mother left the wash-tub, rushed down the stairs, and, with her hands but half dried on her apron, embraced her darling. His father, Mag, and his brothers also came up in high glee; and his mother, with her arms still round his neck, almost carried him into the house.

Emmerence now came up also, saying, "I knew you were coming to-day. Constantine came yesterday. I saw him first, though,--didn't I, aunty?" she added, turning to his mother.

Nat now made his appearance, and, with a hearty "God bless you," he helped Ivo off with his shoes and brought him a pair of slippers.

After the vaulted chambers of the convent, the rooms of the farmhouse seemed no larger and no higher than the nests of a pigeon's cote: he stretched himself to reach the ceiling; but, much as he had grown, this was still out of the question. His mother hastened to make a soup for him and a "parson's roast," as a pancake is called in those parts, because it is the dish generally got up for sudden and unexpected visitors at a parsonage.

Having given his mother one of the "pretzels," Ivo went to the stable to talk to Nat. The beasts seemed to recognise him: the cow particularly was pleased to turn her head toward him and let him tickle her forehead.

"Haven't you brought me any thing?" asked Nat, smiling. Ivo found the remaining pretzel in his pocket and handed it to him in silence. He was thus relieved of the scruple which troubled him, that it might be wrong for him to make Emmerence a present: on returning to the kitchen, however, he heard Emmerence say,--

"Well, aunty, what are you going to give me for bringing you the good news?"

"Take the pretzel he brought for me: Ivo knows I am as thankful as if I had eaten it, but my teeth are giving out."

Ivo was but too well pleased to know that Emmerence had something from him, and highly indignant that the squalling baby forthwith laid her under contribution for half the prize. The baby found but little favor in his eyes at any time: it was so large that when Emmerence carried it--as it always insisted on her doing--she seemed in constant danger of losing her balance and falling. So he said, with some solemnity,--

"You do a sin against yourself and against the baby, Emmerence, if you drag it about all the time: it has strong feet, and ought to learn to walk; and you will drag yourself crooked if you go on so."

She set the child down instantly, and did not take it up again in spite of its crying. Wasn't Ivo a young parson now? and hadn't he said it was a sin?

This little reprimand was almost the only interest Ivo manifested in her to the end of the holidays. So much, he thought, his conscience could not possibly disapprove; but he would not go further. The eyes of the girl were often fixed on him, as if to inquire the cause of his studied indifference. Once only, in a favored moment, he asked, "What has become of your puss?"

"Why, only think, that tinker Caspar, 'the Dog Caspar,' stole it and took its pretty black hide off, and ate poor pussy."