Part 20

Without uttering another word, she suffered the operation to be performed; and when the bone cracked under the terrible pressure, when all around sobbed and wept, when Valentine was led half fainting into the adjoining room, and his suppressed sobs became louder as the door closed upon him, Christina was silent and motionless: only her lips quivered, her eyes were directed steadfastly upon the cross, and a holy brightness seemed to issue from them.

When all was over, and even the surgeon broke out into praise of the patient's fortitude, she sank upon her pillow, and her eyes closed; but a brilliant glory still rested upon her face. All the bystanders were dumb with admiration. Valentine had returned. He bent over his wife till he felt her breath, and then looked up with a heavy sigh and a cry of "God be praised!" Ivo kneeled at the bedside, looked up to his mother, and worshipped her. All folded their hands: not a breath was heard, and it seemed as if the living Spirit of God were passing through every heart.

When Christina awoke with the cry of "Valentine," the latter hastened to her side, pressed her hand upon his heart, and wept. "You forgive me, don't you, Christina?" he said, at length. "You shall never, never hear an unkind word from me again. I am not worthy of you: I see that now better than ever; and if the Lord had taken you away I should have gone mad."

"Be calm, Valentine. I have nothing to forgive you: I know how good you are, though you are not always yourself. Don't grieve now, Valentine: it's all right again. Our Lord only wished to try us."

She recovered with wonderful rapidity. Valentine kept his word most faithfully. He watched over his wife as over a higher being: the slightest motion of her eye was his command. He could scarcely be induced to allow himself the rest he needed.

Emmerence and Ivo took turns in sitting up with his mother; and she once said, "You are dear, good children: the Lord will certainly make you happy."

Often also, when his mother slept, and the one came to relieve the other, they had long conversations. Ivo confessed to her the longing of his mind for active employment; and she said, "Yes, I can understand that; I couldn't live if I hadn't plenty of work to do: I don't want to praise myself, but I can work just as hard as any in the village."

"And if you only had a house of your own you'd work harder still, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," said Emmerence, pushing up her short sleeves, and stiffening her powerful arms, as if to set about it at once: "yes, then; but even so I can do just as much work as turns up."

"Well," said Ivo, "do you think of any thing while you work?"

"Yes, of course."

"What, for instance?"

"Whatever happens to come into my head: I never thought of remembering it afterward."

"Well, give me an instance."

Usually so confident, the girl was in a perfect flurry of embarrassment.

"Are you ashamed to tell me?"

"Not a bit; but I don't know any thing to tell."

"What did you think this morning when you were cutting the rye? What sort of thoughts went through your head?"

"Well, I must think; but you mustn't laugh at me."

"No."

"At first, I guess, I thought of nothing at all. You might break me on the wheel, and I couldn't remember any thing. Then I came upon a nest of young quails,--dear little bits of things. I put them on one side, out of the way of the boys. Then I was wishing to see how surprised the old ones would be when they came to find their house in another spot. Then I thought of Nat's song, which you can sing too, about the poor soul. Then I thought, 'Where may Nat have gone to?' Then,--then I thought, 'I'm glad it's only half an hour till dinner-time,' for I was getting mighty hungry. There! that's all: it isn't much, is it?" She tugged bashfully at her sleeves, and could not raise her eyes to his face. Ivo asked again,--

"Don't you sometimes think how wonderful it is that God causes the seed which man throws out to bear sevenfold, and that the young crop sleeps under the snow until the sun wakes it in spring? How many millions of men have already lived upon the juices of the earth, and yet have not exhausted them!"

"Oh, yes, I often think that, but it wouldn't have occurred to me of my own accord: the parson says it often in sermons and in the catechism. You see, when you have to work at all these things yourself you don't find time for such reflections, but only think, 'Will it be ripe soon?' and 'Will it bear much?' The parsons, who don't work in the field, don't carry out the dung, and don't do any threshing, have more time for such thinking."

"But you must seek such thoughts a little, and then you will find them oftener. Won't you, Emmerence?"

"Yes, indeed I will: you are right: it is always well to admonish me. If you ask me often, you'll soon find I shall have more to tell you. I'm not so very stupid."

"You're a dear girl," said Ivo. He was on the point of taking her hand, but restrained himself with an effort, though he could not prevent himself from being more and more absorbed in admiration of her frank and sterling ways.

With a heavy heart Ivo returned to the convent. He admired the heroic endurance of his mother, and vowed to imitate it. But another subject occupied him. Through suffering and pain the paradise of his parental home had uprisen from its ashes, and he saw what an inexhaustible source of happiness is found in the attachment of two loving hearts which cling together the more closely the more rudely they are tossed by life's storms and changes. The undying sorrow of his heart broke forth again. He thought of Emmerence; and, sitting in the dark valley of pines, he wept. Down in the dingle was heard the harsh clang of a saw-mill; and Ivo wished that the boards being sawed there might be nailed into his coffin.

In the next holidays he was again almost constantly at home. Life was happy and peaceful there now. Valentine was regenerated, and a petulant word was never heard. Each member of the household behaved with tender consideration to all the others, and the Palm Sundays of early childhood seemed to have returned. But this very calm was to Ivo a source of unrest; in this very peace grew for him a tree of discord. He saw, with unmantled clearness, the solitary gloom of his own future, and knew that the happiness he witnessed was never to be his.

Two important events enhanced the interest of this vacation. Johnnie, Constantine's father, had had a house built for his son. Valentine and his sons had erected it; and Joseph, who became master-builder about this time, spoke the customary poem or oration.

The whole village had assembled before the building: the master and the journeymen were on the summit, engaged in fastening the crown of a young fir, hung with ribbons of all colors, to the peak of the gable. All were on the alert for Joseph's first performance. After a simple salutation, he began:--

"Here you see I have climb'd up unbidden: If I had had a horse I would have ridden; But, as I never had a horse, I may as well talk about something else, of course. The highest power in the State, The Kaiser,--God keep him, early and late,-- And all the lords and princes round about, The carpenters' trade could never do without. A journeyman-carpenter here I stand, And I travel through every prince's land. I look about me with care, Whether I can make a living there. If I had every lassie's good-will, And every master's craft and skill, And all the wit of my friend the beadle, I could build a house on the point of a needle; But, as I can do nothing of the kind, I must first have my house design'd. He who would build on roads and streets Must give every one a chance to try his wits. I like what is fine, Though it be not mine; Though it cannot be my treasure, It can always give me pleasure. So I'll drink its health in some yellow wine: Comrade, just fill up this glass of mine. Builder! I drink to your satisfaction, Not that I envy or wish you detraction, But for good feeling and brotherhood. Long life to the Kaiser and all his brood! Destruction to every enemy, And good luck to this worshipful company, And to all the people, from far and near, That have come to look at the building here. Now I drink over all your heads: Look out! what comes down's no feather-bed; What goes up must come down: Every man take care of his crown. Now I'll think no more about it, But drink the wine and throw away the glass without it."

Having dropped the glass, among the cheers of the crowd, he went on:--

"By God's help and his gracious power We have finish'd this house in good time and hour. And so we thank him, one and all, That he has suffer'd none to fall,-- That none has been unfortunate In life or limb, health or estate; And also to our Lord we pray Us henceforth still to keep alway; And now I commend this house into his hand, And all the German fatherland. And hope the owner may use it so As to make a good living out of those who come and go. And I wish you, all together, Health and success in all wind and weather. And almost I had done great wrong To have left the lassies out of my song, Who have wound for us these garlands fine, And hung them with roses and eglantine: The flowers in our hats we mean to wear In honor of our lassies fair."

With the rosemary in his hat, and the apron of skins, Joseph came down to receive the applause and congratulations of his friends. His intended, Hansgeorge's Maria, took both his hands, gazed into his face with radiant eyes, and then looked triumphantly round on the bystanders.

Turning to Ivo, Joseph said, "I can preach too, if it comes to that: can't I, Ivo? This was my first mass, you see."

Ivo sighed deeply at the mention of the first mass.

All now returned home, except those specially invited by Constantine to partake of a grand dinner. Ivo, however, could not be persuaded to accept this invitation: he stood still a while, looking at the airy rafters, and thinking how happy Constantine must be in the possession of a house of his own. "As for these parsonages," he said to himself, "they are like sentry-houses, which belong to no one, and where no one leaves a trace of his existence: a solitary sentinel takes the place of his predecessor until he is relieved in his turn. But let me not be selfish: if the joys of a home are not for me, I will work for the welfare of others.

"I like what is fine, Though it be not mine; Though it cannot be my treasure, It can always give me pleasure."

A week later was Joseph's wedding. It was a merry time. Christina sat at the head of the table, beside her son Ivo, who was and remained the pride of the family. Ivo danced a figure with his sister-in-law, and another with Emmerence. She was overjoyed, and said, "So we've had a dance together: who knows whether we shall ever have another?"

Ivo's second brother now brought his sweetheart to him, and said, "Dance together." When they had done so, his mother came to him and said, "Why, you dance splendidly! Where did you learn it?"

"I never forgot it: the spin-wife used to teach me, you remember, in the twilight."

"Shall we try it?"

"Yes, mother."

All the others stopped to see Ivo dance with his mother. Valentine rose, snapped his fingers, and cried,--

"Gentlemen, play a national for me, and I'll send an extra bottle. Come, old girl!"

He took his wife by the arm, skipped and jumped, and danced the old national dance, now wellnigh forgotten: he smacked his tongue, struck his breast and his thighs, swayed himself on his toes and his heels alternately, and executed all sorts of flourishes. Now he would hold his lady, now let her go, and trip round and round her with outstretched arms and loving gestures. Christina looked down modestly, but with manifest enjoyment, and turned round and round, almost without stirring from the spot on which she stood. Holding a corner of her apron in her hand, she slipped now under his right arm, now under his left, and sometimes they both turned under their uplifted arms. With a jump which shook the floor, Valentine concluded the dance.

Thus was their vacation full of joy, in the house and out of it.

14. THE QUARREL.

Once more Ivo was compelled to leave these things behind and return to the convent. He no longer met Clement there, the latter having obtained permission to leave a year before the usual time, in order to enter a Bavarian monastery.

A new pang awaited him in the fate of Bart, of whom we, like him, have lost sight for some years. The poor, good-natured, but weak-minded, youth was in a terrible condition. He gnawed his finger-nails incessantly, and rubbed his hands as if they were cold: his walk was unsteady and tottering; the color of his face was a livid green; his cheeks were sunken; while the red nose and the ever-open mouth made the lank, ungainly lad a fright to look upon. He was not far from imbecility, and had to be transferred to the hospital. It was intended to make an effort for his recovery and then discharge him from the convent. Ivo shuddered when he went to see him. The only signs of mental vigor he displayed took the form of frenzied self-accusation.

The very air of the place now seemed infected. The design which had long worked within Ivo's breast at last became an outward act, and he wrote a letter to his parents, informing them of his unalterable resolution to leave the convent, as he could not become a clergyman: further than this he entered into no argumentations, well knowing that they would lead to no result. He would have been called ungodly if he had disclosed them fully, and thus the pain he caused would have been double. With a firm hand he wrote the letter; but with trembling he dropped it into the letter-box in the dusk of evening. As the paper glided down the opening, it seemed as if his past life was sinking into the grave; and every life--even a hopeless one--dies with a struggle. With a firm effort, however, he recovered his courage and looked the future in the face.

Some days after, Ivo had a visit from his parents. They took him with them to the Lamb Tavern. There Valentine ordered a room; and, when they were all in it, he bolted the door.

"What's the matter with you?" he said to Ivo, sternly.

"I cannot be a minister, dear father. Don't look so angrily at me: you have been young too, surely."

"Oh, that's where the shoe pinches, is it? You blessed scamp, why didn't you tell me that eight years ago?"

"I did not understand it then, father; and, besides, I would not have had the courage to say it."

"Courage,--eh! We'll make short work of it, my fine fellow: you _shall_ be a minister; and there's an end."

"I'd rather jump into the river."

"No occasion for that. You shall never go out of this room alive if you don't give me your hand upon it to be a clerical man."

"That I won't do."

"What? That you won't do?" cried Valentine, seizing him by the throat.

"Father," cried Ivo, "for God's sake, father, let me go: do not force me to defend myself: I am not a child any more."

Christina seized her husband's arm. "Valentine," said she, "I shall cry 'Fire!' out of the window if you don't let him go this minute." Valentine released his hold, and she went on:--"Is this the gentleness you promised me? Ivo, forgive him: he is your father, and loves you dearly, and God has given him power over you. Valentine, if you speak another loud word you've seen the last of me, and I'll run away. Ivo, for my sake, give him your hand."

Ivo pressed his lips together, and big tears stole down his cheeks. "Father," he sobbed, "I did not designate myself for a clergyman; nor are you to blame, for you could not know whether I was suited for it or not. Why should we reproach each other?"

He went up to Valentine to take his hand; but he only said, "Very fine; but what does the gentleman intend to be?"

"Let me go to the school for veterinary surgeons for a year, and I shall manage to get settled somewhere or other as veterinary surgeon and farmer."

"A good idea; and I'm to pay off the convent, I suppose? Two hundred florins a year? Then they can sell my house; and it'll be a glorious thing to say, 'Yes: Ivo's to be a cat-doctor, and so it is no great matter if the house does go by the board.' And what do you mean to study with? Live on the old Kaiser's exchequer?--or do you suppose I'm to pay? You can go to law with me and ask your motherly portion; but I'll make up a little account against you then, to show what you've cost me."

"I shall petition the ministry to have the indemnity to the convent charged upon my future inheritance."

"We've had our say, and you needn't talk any more," interrupted Valentine. "If you won't obey, only don't make yourself believe you have a father in the world. You've been my pride till now; but, after this, I can never look into any man's face again, and must only be glad if people are good enough not to talk about you." The tears trickled down his cheeks; and, pressing both his hands to his face, he continued:--"I wish a clap of thunder had struck me into the earth before I had lived to see this day!" He laid his head upon the window-sill, turned his back upon them, and struck fiercely at the wall with his foot.

Such, again, is man! Valentine had no hesitation in displaying his grief and hatred to his son; but he had always been ashamed to show his love and his satisfaction, and had buried them in his heart like the memory of a crime. Do not educated and uneducated men equally resemble him in this?

Hitherto Christina had contented herself with admonishing each party to silence and gentleness by looks and gestures; but now she began, with a firmer voice than her countenance might have led one to expect,--

"Ivo, dear Ivo, you were always good and pious: there never was a vein of evil in you. I won't say that I always thought it would be a good word for me in heaven if you were clerical: that's neither here nor there: it is you we must consider. For the sake of Christ's blood, examine yourself: be good, be true, and our Lord will help you and will purify your heart of all things that should not be there. Oh, you always had such a pious mind! You see I can't speak much: it seems to tear out my very heart. Be good and pious again, as you always were; be my dear, dear Ivo." She fell upon his neck and wept. Ivo answered, embracing her,--

"Mother dear, mother dear, I cannot be a minister. Do you suppose I would have given you all this unhappiness if I could have done otherwise? I cannot."

"Don't say you cannot: that isn't pious. Only set your will to it, make up your mind firmly, and shake off all evil desires, and indeed you will find it easy. The All-Merciful will help you, and you shall be our pride and our joy again, and a good child before God and man."

"I am not bad, dear mother; but I cannot be a minister. Do not rend my heart so. Oh, how gladly I would obey you! but I cannot."

"Let him go to the devil, the rascal!" said his father, tearing Christina away from her son. "Can you see your mother begging and imploring this way?"

"Tear me to pieces," cried Ivo, "but I cannot be a minister."

"Out with you, or I'll lay hands upon your life!" cried Valentine, with foaming mouth. He opened the door and pushed Ivo out.

"It is over," said Ivo, breathing hard as he went tottering down the stairs. A noise was heard above: the door opened, and his mother came down after him. Hand in hand they walked to the convent, neither of them speaking a word. In taking leave, she said,--

"Give me your hand upon it that you'll think of it again, and that you will not lay hands upon yourself."

Ivo gave the required promise, and went in silence to his cell. The floor rocked under his feet; but the purpose of his soul remained unshaken not to let thoughts of childlike affection sway him in the choice of his vocation for life. "I have duties to myself, and must be responsible for my own actions," thought he. "I could die to please my mother; but to enter upon a pursuit the root of which must be the firmest conviction that it is my appointed mission, is what I dare not and must not do."

But in the middle of the night he suddenly awoke; and it seemed as if a cry from his mother had roused him. He sat up in his bed; and now the calling he was about to abjure suddenly presented itself to his mind in its most elevated and holy aspect. He thought of being the loving, comforting, helping friend of the poor and distressed, the father of the orphan and the forsaken, the dispenser of light and happiness in every heart: he lost sight of all theological dogmas, and even dreamed of taking part in the holy strife of liberating the world from superstition and human authority: he battled down the love of earth within him and resolved to live for others and for the other world: not a day would he suffer to pass without having refreshed some heavily-laden soul or gladdened some weary heart.

"Wherever a poor child of clay shall weep in bitter sadness, I will absorb his woes into my heart and let them fight their struggle there. I will dry the mourner's tears; and Thou, O Lord, wilt wipe the tears from my face when my spirit halts and I weep at night over my poor lonesome life."

Thus Ivo said to himself, and his heart was bright and clear. He seemed to have suddenly acquired the power of casting aside all earthly care, and winging his way to the fountain-head of bliss; and then again he experienced a sensation of triumph and of longing for the strife, as if he must go forth at once to battle. In an ecstasy of joy he called to mind the delight his return to his calling would awaken at home: his thoughts became indistinct, and he was again in the region of dreams.

Next morning he wrote a letter to his parents, announcing, with solemn earnestness and warm contrition, the recantation of his purpose, and praising the high character of the duties upon which he was resolved to enter. What he could not do to please his parents, he had achieved of his own free will. When he again heard the letter glide down into the box, he seemed to hear the swoop of the judicial sword: he had sentenced and executed himself. He returned, shaking his head. The elasticity of his spirit was bruised and broken. With all the power of his will, he returned to his studies, and succeeded for a time in quieting his mind.

At home the letter provoked the greatest exultation. But scarcely had the first flush of excitement passed away before a careful observer would have detected symptoms of uneasiness in the behavior of his mother. She often smiled sadly to herself, went thoughtfully about the house, and spoke little. Often, of an evening, she asked Emmerence to read the letter; and when she came to the words, "I will sacrifice my life to God, who gave it me; I will give you, my dear mother, the greatest earthly happiness," Christina sighed deeply.

One Saturday evening Christina and Emmerence sat together peeling potatoes for the next day: Emmerence, who had just read the letter once more, remarked,--

"Aunty, it always seems to me as if you were not quite happy to know that Ivo is going to be a clergyman, after all. Just tell me what you think about it. I see there is something the matter: you needn't conceal it from me."