Stories by German Authors, vol 2 | Page 2

honored him and loved him: but what was all that
worth? His innermost heart could not be satisfied with that; in his own
estimation he deserved no meed of praise; and where, where was there
any evidence of that higher and purer life which he would fain bring

about! Then, again, the Spirit would comfort him and say: "Much seed
is lost, much falls in stony places, and much on good ground and brings
forth sevenfold."
His inmost soul heard not the consolation, for his body was weak and
sore burdened from his youth up, and in his latter days yet more than
ever; and there are conditions of the body in which the most elevating
words, and the cheeriest notes of joy, strike dull and heavy on the soul.
It is one of the bitterest experiences of life to discover how little one
man can really be to another. How joyous is that youthful freshness
which can believe that, by a thought transferred to another's heart, we
can induce him to become another being, to live according to what he
must acknowledge true, to throw aside his previous delusions, and
return to the right path!
The youngsters go their way! Do your words follow after? Whither are
they going? What are now their thoughts? What manner of life will be
theirs? "My heart yearns after them, but cannot be with them: oh, how
happy were those messengers of the Spirit, who cried aloud to youth or
manhood the words of the Spirit, that they must leave their former
ways, and thenceforth change to other beings! Pardon me, O God! that
I would fain be like them; I am weak and vile, and yet, methinks, there
must be words as yet unheard, unknown--oh! where are they, those
words which at once lay hold upon the soul?"
With such heavy thoughts went Gellert away from his college-gate to
Rosenthal. There was but one small pathway cleared, but the passers
cheerfully made way for him, and walked in the snow that they might
leave him the pathway unimpeded; but he felt sad, and "as if each tree
had somewhat to cast at him." Like all men really pure, and cleaving to
the good with all their might, Gellert was not only far from contenting
himself with work already done: he also, in his anxiety to be doing,
almost forgot that he the inward depression easily changes to
displeasure against every one, and the household of the melancholic
suffers thereby intolerably; for the displeasure turns against them,--no
one does anything properly, nothing is in its place. How very different
is Gellert's melancholy! Not a soul suffers from it but himself, against
himself alone his gloomy thoughts turn, and towards every other
creature he is always kind, amiable, and obliging: he bites his lips; but
when he speaks to any one, he is wholly good, forbearing, and

self-forgetful.
Whilst they were talking together, Gellert was sitting in his room, and
had lighted a pipe to dispel the agitation which he would experience in
opening his letters; and while smoking, he could read them much more
comfortably. He reproached himself for smoking, which was said to be
injurious to his health, but he could not quite give up the "horrible
practice," as he called it.
He first examined the addresses and seals of the letters which had
arrived, then quietly opened and read them. A fitful smile passed over
his features; there were letters from well-known friends, full of love
and admiration, but from strangers also, who, in all kinds of
heart-distress, took counsel of him. He read the letters full of friendly
applause, first hastily, that he might have the right of reading them
again, and that he might not know all at once; and when he had read a
friend's letter for the second time, he sprang from his seat and cried,
"Thank God! thank God! that I am so fortunate as to have such
friends!" To his inwardly diffident nature these helps were a real
requirement; they served to cheer him, and only those who did not
know him called his joy at the reception of praise--conceit; it was, on
the contrary, the truest modesty. How often did he sit there, and all that
he had taught and written, all that he had ever been to men in word and
deed, faded, vanished, and died away, and he appeared to himself but a
useless servant of the world. His friends he answered immediately; and
as his inward melancholy vanished, and the philanthropy, nay, the
sprightliness of his soul beamed forth, when he was among men and
looked in a living face, so was it also with his letters. When he
bethought him of the friends to whom he was writing, he not only
acquired