Part 13

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"?

I fall upon my face,--Holy God, preserve me from suicide!

Suddenly a foreboding arises within me. What if it should be the man to whom I so lately refused the comfort of absolution, whose despairing soul, struggling for forgiveness, I repulsed? What if he should have gone away and taken his life? Who is his murderer, O God in heaven!--In that hour, my good friend, I endured torments.--In my feverish condition I hear the rattling of dead men's bones; I see the suicide swinging by the churchyard wall, and how he stares at me with his fixed eyes! From the depths of the pond rises a woman with her child, and her damp locks become serpents which wind themselves about my limbs. And all the lost souls appear to whom I have preached damnation. In the midst stands the high cross, and I hear a voice calling: "Thou hast crucified the Saviour in the hearts of men; thou hast burdened them with a heavy cross--the cross without a Saviour, thou murderer of God."

With a sigh the man sank upon the branch of the tree. I was scarcely able to raise him again. I picked fern leaves wet with mist and laid them upon his burning forehead.

"Tell me the rest another time," I said, "and to-day we will return to our homes; night is now really approaching."

He straightened himself, and with the edge of his mantle he wiped his eyes.

"To-day I am at peace," he said, calmly, "but whenever I think of that hour, my blood is hot like the flames of hell. There, I feel better now." After a little he continued:

When I opened my eyes again, the glow of dawn was shining in at the church windows. Like a gentle smile it rested upon the altar and the image of the Mother of God. I arose and made a vow, whereupon a feeling awoke within me, that everything, everything must end well.

Soon afterwards the keys rattled in the church door; the schoolmaster entered with one of the Brothers of the Order, and others. They uttered a cry of joy when they saw me, and, taking me by the hand, they led me out. They related how they had sought for me, how they had heard a scream in the church, but in their confusion had imagined it to be the voice of a spirit. They led me away from the graveyard, for yonder the suicide was hanging from an iron cross.

Afterwards I locked myself in my room, where I remained the whole day. I was to have preached a sermon that morning on repentance and the mercy of God. One of my companions did it for me. There was a report among the people that I had purposely remained all night in the church and had received revelations, for I was considered the most pious of the four priests.

Late in the evening, when all were asleep, I wrote these words on a sheet of paper: "Farewell, my Brothers. Do not search for me. My new mission is self-redemption." And then I took what was mine, and left the house and village, and walked the entire night.

My wandering was without plan. I gave myself up to chance. I had nothing to lose. Endeavouring to escape from the more crowded regions, I turned in the direction of the mountains.