Chapter II

A JESUIT AS A PASTOR.

In a meditative mood, the count walked towards the village. The serene and joyous expression of his handsome face had disappeared, and was replaced by a grave earnestness.

“A valuable experience!” said he to himself. “So ‘The Trowel or the Cross!’ is to be the watchword of those who govern! Thrones are to be broken over the ruins of the altars, so that, in the end, a general fraternization of mankind may, according to the spirit of Freemasonry, crown the whole. Fraternization—hem! The real meaning of all this is that men who are not rich and are not liberals are to become the slaves of the liberals and the rich. The farmer was right: these Freemasons are wicked rascals, for they do not believe in God. And this spiritual rascality is, without doubt, more wicked and dangerous to the state than open drunkenness. This farmer is a brave fellow; I like him!” continued the count, laughing. “Healthy in body and spirit, courageous, sincere, and free! Like a night-bird before the eagle, so also do these light-hating Freemasons shrink before righteous and honest anger.” He sauntered through the streets of the village, observed with pleasure the universal cleanliness that prevailed, and returned politely the friendly salutations of all who greeted him, after which he entered his hotel. When he had dined, and while reading the newspaper, his servant appeared.

“Some men are here, your lordship, who desire to speak with you.”

“Who are they?”

“Good people from the country, your lordship.”

“Send them up!”

Slowly, and bowing respectfully, at least a dozen villagers entered the room. The count at once recognized the tall form and broad shoulders of Franz Keller. The men were dressed in their Sunday attire, and their weather-beaten countenances were full of care and solicitude.

“What can I do for you, my friends?” began the count, who saw their embarrassment.

“We have come here on business, your lordship,” said the leader of the little troop. “I am the burgomaster of this place, and these men are the aldermen.”

“I am greatly rejoiced to make the acquaintance of the principal men of Weselheim,” replied the young count kindly. “What is the nature of your business with me?”

“I will tell your lordship. For three years we have had a Jesuit father as our pastor—a good, pious, and zealous priest. The government has, for the last four months, endeavored to take him away from us, because he is a foreigner. He has received no less than three letters ordering him to leave, but he will not desert his post. He says that the government did not make him pastor of our church, but the bishop, and therefore government cannot dismiss him from the care of souls. But because the Freemasons hate the Jesuits, and because they are all-powerful with the government, our pastor is to be taken away from us by force. The whole congregation are indignant at this, for it will be difficult to find another pastor like him. If the gendarmes come, I do not pledge myself that they will not be driven out of the village; we all feel that it would be a sin crying to heaven if we allow a pious, innocent man to be taken away by gendarmes like a thief. No; we shall never submit to such treatment! Now, this is our humble request to your lordship: to-morrow, or after to-morrow, our most gracious king will arrive at the palace yonder, and, since your lordship is the friend of his majesty, the entire parish beg of you to speak in our behalf, so that we may be able to keep our pastor.”

“I thank you, Herr Burgomaster, and all the parish for the confidence they place in me,” said the count. “At the same time, I must confess that it is a long time since I have heard any praise of the Jesuits; the fashion is now to heap insult upon them, and to accuse them of every known crime.”

“I ask pardon, your lordship,” said Keller; “only those who do not know the Jesuits will ever insult them. We know them. Our Jesuit father is a very pious man; he has no fault—or at least one only.”

“Well, what fault has he?” inquired Count von Scharfenstein.

“He gives away everything to the poor, your honor,” replied the burgomaster. “He keeps nothing of what we give him; the lay brother who lives with him carries it away to others. A man must eat and drink well if he expects to work well.”

“Very true!” said Von Scharfenstein, hardly able to restrain a laugh. “And because your pastor does not eat and drink well, he therefore does not work well either.”

“Oh! yes, your honor, oh! yes. I did not mean to say that. What I wanted to say was that our pastor works very hard, but that he does not eat enough, and therefore looks pale and thin. We cannot make him grow fat.” And the burgomaster cast a satisfied glance at his own well nourished body. “If we give him the very best we have, he will not eat it, but gives it away, and that provokes us.”

“Console yourselves!” answered Von Scharfenstein. “The poor to whom your pastor gives the best he has will not be displeased with him for it. And for the very reason that he is such an incorrigible friend of the poor, I shall speak to the king in his behalf.”

The interview now came to an end.

“God reward your honor!” said each one of the delegation, as they bowed and took their departure.

Von Scharfenstein, whose thoughts were generally in the clouds, and who paid very little attention to the course of things in the world around him, walked thoughtfully up and down his room. The touching fidelity, love, and reverence of the villagers for their priest, at a time when authority was mocked at unless supported by brute force, excited in him great admiration.

“The hatred of Freemasons for Jesuits is very natural,” said he. “The grandmaster is right: it will never be possible to plant the banner of infidelity upon the ruins of the altar as long as the bravest soldiers of the church militant exist. This forcible expulsion of the society is a political blunder. The case merits attention; I must take a look at the theatre of action.”

He put on his overcoat and hat, and went forth into the twilight. Well-freighted wagons were returning home from the fields. Those who met saluted one another, or spoke a few words together. Children carried small bundles upon their heads, grown persons dragged their burdens after them. It was a scene of animated activity. No swearing or angry word was heard, but the day’s work ended in the most peaceful manner. The same thing was repeated every evening during the sojourn of the count in Weselheim, but, having never felt any interest in rural life, he was astonished at all that he saw.

In the middle of the road, a heavily-laden wagon came to a stand-still; the horses refused to proceed, notwithstanding the efforts of the driver. The count could not but admire the patience of a man who did not swear at or ill-treat his horses. Several peasants came to offer assistance. They pushed the wheels, but in vain, for the animals would not move.

“I do not know what is the matter with the horses to-day,” exclaimed the driver. “I have not overloaded them.”

“Just a little too much, Jacob!” said a voice.

At once all hats and caps are raised. A tall, thin form now approached.

“May Jesus Christ be praised, your reverence!” was the respectful salutation of all the men.

“Now and for ever!” answered the good priest. “Well, Prantner, what has happened?”

“Your reverence, the horses will not stir!”

“Because they want to rest a little,” replied the Jesuit. “We do the same when we are tired; and it is a heavy, a very heavy load,” said he, with a glance at the towering height of the wagon.

“I have just told him that the wagon was overloaded,” remarked another peasant, in a tone of reproach.

“Perhaps—but Prantner knows that his horses are very strong, and he therefore has great confidence in them,” said the pastor. “They are splendid creatures,” patting the broad necks of the horses, and stroking their manes. The horses commenced to snort, to toss their heads, and to paw the ground. “Ah! see, they like to be complimented,” he continued cheerfully. “Let us always acknowledge merit, and that which seems difficult will then become easy. Now, Prantner, go on!”

The priest had hardly stepped back, when the horses proceeded on their way without further urging.

“Was there ever any one like our pastor?” exclaimed the peasants, in astonishment. “He understands everything.”

“Where is he going, so late?”

“To Michael the carpenter, who is dying, and who refuses to be reconciled with his neighbor.”

“Michael has always been very stubborn; may Almighty God grant him a happy death!” Saying which, the men dispersed.

The count, who had watched the proceedings, also went his way.

“The leading spirit of this parish is evidently the Jesuit, and he deserves to be,” thought Von Scharfenstein.

The Angelus now rang; at once every head was uncovered; for the silvery tones of the bell reminded the villagers of the incarnation of the Son of God. From all the houses resounded the angelic salutation, sometimes uttered by the clear voices of the children.

“What a pity that those men of the trowel are not here to shake their empty heads compassionately at the pious usages of an ignorant but believing people!” said the count. “In my opinion, a people who are reminded thrice during the day of the incarnation of the Son of God, and who are admonished to walk in the presence of the Omniscient, are better than a people who have no faith in either the justice or the mercy of God.”

Before the windows of a house there stood several persons, principally women. The count approached out of curiosity, and looked into a well-lighted room. The table near the wall was covered with a white cloth. Between two burning candles stood a crucifix and a holy-water vase. At the bedside of the dying man sat the Jesuit father, making impressive exhortations. He held the hand of the sick man in his own, and would frequently bend his head towards him, as though expecting some reply. At the foot of the bed knelt a young man, who covered his face with both hands. Two young girls and an aged woman stood near with sad and depressed countenances.

“What is the matter here?” inquired the count, in a low tone.

“Alas! sir, it is a sad affair!” replied one of the women. “Michael the carpenter is dying, and the priest cannot give him the last sacraments.”

“Why not?”

“Because Michael has for a long time been at enmity with his neighbor. For the last eight days, our pastor has come several times a day to visit him, in order to persuade him to be reconciled; but Michael will not listen to any advice. It is a pity for any one to be so malicious and obstinate.”

At this moment, there was a movement in the sick-room. The young man who knelt at the foot of the bed rose hastily, and left the house.

“At last, at last!” exclaimed a voice, “Michael has again become a Christian!”

A man was now seen to enter the room; he was the carpenter’s neighbor. The dying Michael held out his emaciated hand to him, which the neighbor took, although nearly blinded by tears. The Jesuit said a few words, and the reconciled enemies again shook hands. The women standing near the window were loudly sobbing. Von Scharfenstein was also greatly moved by what he witnessed.

The priest left the house, and hurried to the church.

“He will now bring the holy viaticum,” said a voice.

“Thanks be to God!” said another.

The count returned slowly to the hotel.

“I have until now examined only superficially into the activity of the Jesuit father, and must confess that he works admirably—light and darkness combat each other, it cannot be otherwise. The Freemasons are naturally the sworn enemies of an order which fulfils its mission with zeal and prudence. The trowel will never attain an ascendency as long as the cross is defended by such brave soldiers, so well trained to combat!”

TO BE CONCLUDED IN OUR NEXT NUMBER.