Hans left after another hour had passed. The warm hours of the afternoon when the fish bite were drawing near. Until supper he fished from the bridge and caught next to nothing. The fish were made for his hook; every few seconds the bait had been devoured but they avoided the barb. He had baited it with cherries. Evidently they were too large and soft and so he decided to give it another try later on.
At supper he heard that many relatives had stopped by to congratulate him. He was also given the local weekly. Under the heading Official Notice he could read the following text:
"This year our town sent only one candidate to the state examination for the theological academy, Hans Giebenrath. To our gratification we have just been informed that Hans Giebenrath passed the examination and came in second."
He folded the sheet and stuck it in his back pocket, not saying anything, but he was almost ready to burst with pride and joy. Afterwards he went back to fish. He took a few pieces of cheese along because fish like it and it is visible to them in the dusk. However, he left the rod behind and only took the line. He preferred to fish this way, just the line without rod and float, so that the tackle consists of just line and hook. Fishing became a little more strenuous but much more fun. You had complete control over every movement of the bait, felt every touch and nibble, and by observing the twitch of the line you could follow the fish as if it were actually in front of your eyes. Of course you have to know what you are doing when you fish like this, your fingers must be quick; you have to be as alert as a spy.
Dusk fell early in the winding narrows of this deeply indented river valley. The water lay tranquilly under the bridge and lights had been turned on at one of the mills downstream. Loud talk and singing could be heard from the bridges and narrow streets. The air was a little muggy. In the river a dark fish leaped into the air with a sharp splash every few seconds. Fish are remarkably excited on evenings like this--they zigzag back and forth, leap into the air, collide with the line and hurl themselves blindly at the bait. When the last piece of cheese was gone Hans had caught four small carp. He decided to bring them to the pastor in the morning.
A warm breeze was blowing down-valley. Though the sky was still pale it was rapidly getting dark. Of the entire town only the church tower and the roof of the castle were visible jutting like black silhouettes into the pale sky. Somewhere at a great distance there was a thunderstorm--you could hear occasional muffled rumbling.
When Hans went to bed at ten o'clock he was pleasurably tired in mind and limb as he had not been for a long time. A series of beautiful, carefree summer days stretched out before him, calm and alluring, days he would idle away swimming, fishing, dreaming. Only one thing irked him: he had not come in first in the examination.
*
Very early next morning Hans stood in the foyer of the pastorage to deliver his carp. The pastor emerged from his study.
"Oh, Giebenrath. Good morning and my congratulations. What do you have there?"
"Just a few fish I caught yesterday."
"Well, look at that! Thank you, but now come inside."
Hans stepped into the familiar study. It actually did not look like a pastor's room. It neither smelled of the earth of potted plants nor of tobacco. The substantial library consisted mostly of new, freshly varnished and gilded spines, not of the worn, bent, worm-eaten or mildewed volumes you usually find in pastors' libraries. If you inspected them closely you detected from the titles of the well-arranged volumes that a modern spirit ruled here, different from that of the old-fashioned, honorable gentlemen of the previous generation. The esteemed showpieces of the pastor's library, volumes by Bengel, Otinger, Steinhofer, plus all the collections of devout songs which Morike treats so affectionately in the Turmhahn, were missing or lacked prominence among the mass of modern works. All in all, the lectern, the large desk and the periodical holders lent the room a dignified, learned air. You received the impression that much work was accomplished here, and that was indeed the case. Of course, less effort was devoted to sermons, catechism and Bible hours than to research and articles for learned journals and preparatory studies for the pastor's own books. Vague mysticism and premonition-filled longing were banned, as was the "theology of the heart," which goes out to the thirsting souls of the people with love and charity, crossing the gulf of science. Instead Biblical criticism and a zealous search for the historical Christ were pursued.
For the first time in his life Hans was allowed to sit on the little leather sofa between the lectern and the window. The pastor was more than friendly. In a most comradely fashion he told Hans about the academy and how one lived and studied there.
"The most important new experience that you will have there is the introduction to the Greek of the New Testament," he said at the end. "This will open up an entirely new world to you, rich in work and pleasure. At first you will find the language difficult because it is no longer the Attic Greek with which you are familiar but a new idiom, created by a different spirit."
Hans listened attentively and proudly felt himself drawing nearer to true science.
"The academic introduction into this new world," the pastor continued, "will of course rob it of some of its magic. The study of Hebrew may also make rather one-sided demands on you at first. If you like, we can make a small beginning during your vacation. You'll be glad once you get to the academy to have time and energy left over for other things. We could read a few chapters of Luke together, and you would pick up the language almost unintentionally. I can lend you a dictionary. You would have to spend an hour or two a day at most. But no more than that because, more than anything else, you should be able to enjoy the period of relaxation you so highly deserve. It's only a suggestion of course, the last thing I want to do is spoil your holiday."
Hans of course agreed to the proposal. Although this Luke lesson looked to him like a small cloud in the promising blue vacation sky, he was too ashamed to say no. And to learn a new language, just like that, during his vacation certainly was more like pleasure than work. In any case, he was somewhat anxious about the many new things he would have to learn at the academy, especially Hebrew.
So he was not displeased when he left the pastor and made his way up the path lined with larches to the forest. The slight doubt he had felt had passed and the more he thought about the proposition the more acceptable it seemed to him. For he was aware that in the academy he would have to be even more ambitious if he wanted to outstrip his new fellow students. Why did he want to surpass them actually? He didn't really know himself. For three years now he had been the object of special attention. The teachers, the pastor, his father and particularly the principal had egged and urged him on and had never let him catch his breath. All these years from grade to grade he had been first in his class, until it had gradually become a matter of pride for him to come in first and brook no rivals. At least his stupid fear of the state examination was behind him.
Still, to be on vacation was actually the best thing in the world. How unusually beautiful the forest was in the morning without anyone walking through it but him, column after column of spruce, a vast hall with a blue-green vault. There was little real underbrush, only an occasional raspberry thicket and a broad felt of moss dotted with bilberries and heather. The dew had evaporated. Between the bolt-straight trunks there hovered a mugginess characteristic of forests in the morning, a mixture compounded of the sun's warmth, mist, the smell of moss and resin, fir needles and mushrooms which caresses all one's senses like a gentle anesthetic. Hans flung himself on the moss, picked the generous bilberry bushes clean, heard here and there a woodpecker hammer against a tree trunk and the call of the envious cuckoo. The spotless deep blue sky was visible between the blackish spruce crowns and in the distance thousands upon thousands of vertical columns crowded together into a single solemn brown wall. Here and there a yellow spot of sun gleamed warm, strewn opulently on the moss.
Actually Hans had wanted to go on a long ramble, at least as far as Lutzeler Hof or
the crocus meadow. Now he reclined in the moss, ate bilberries and gazed listlessly into the air. He began to wonder why he was so tired. Formerly a walk of three or four hours had been a lark. Now he decided to pull himself together and to cover a good stretch of his planned excursion. He walked a few hundred steps. Then he lay down in the moss again--he hardly knew himself how it had happened, but he just lay there, his glance roving distractedly among the trunks and crowns and along the green floor. He wondered why this air made him so drowsy.
When he came home around noon he had a headache again. His eyes too hurt him--the sun had been blinding along the forest path. Half the afternoon, he sat moodily around the house; only when he went swimming did he revive. Then it was time to go see the pastor.
Shoemaker Flaig, sitting on his three-legged stool by the window, caught sight of him as he passed and asked him in.
"Where are you off to, son? Where have you been keeping yourself these days?"
"I have to go see the pastor."
"You're still going? But isn't the examination over?"
"Yes, it is. We're working on something else now. The New Testament. That was written in Greek too, but in an entirely different Greek from that which I have learned. That's what I'm supposed to learn now."
The shoemaker pushed his cap back onto his neck and screwed his forehead into deep quizzical furrows. Then he gave a deep sigh.
"Hans," he said gently, "I want to tell you something. I've laid low on account of the exam, but now I have to warn you. You should know that the pastor is an unbeliever. He will try to tell you that the Scriptures are false, and once you've read through the New Testament with him you'll have lost your faith and you won't know how."
"But, Master Flaig, it's just a question of Greek. I'll have to learn it anyway once I enter the academy."
"That's what you say. But it's an entirely different matter if you study the Bible under devout and conscientious teachers than with someone who does not believe in God."
"Yes, but no one really knows, do they, whether he believes or doesn't?"
"Oh yes, Hans, unfortunately we do know."
"But what should I do? It's all arranged that I go see him."
"Then you'll have to go, naturally. But when he says things like the Bible was written by human beings and not inspired by the Holy Ghost, then come see me and we'll discuss it. Would you like that?"
"Yes, Master Flaig, but I'm sure it won't be as bad as all that."
"You'll see. Remember what I said."
The pastor had not come home yet and Hans had to wait for him in his study. While looking at the gilded titles, he could not help thinking of what the shoemaker had said. He had heard similar comments about the pastor and modern theology several times before. But now for the first time he felt himself becoming involved, interested in these matters. They seemed by no means as important and awful to him as to the shoemaker. On the contrary, he sensed the possibility of coming near to the heart of old, great mysteries. In his early school years the questions of God's immanence, the abode of human souls after the death of the body, and the nature of the devil and hell had driven him to fantastic speculations. Yet these interests had subsided again during those last strict hard-working years, and his orthodox, unquestioning Christianity had awakened to a genuine personal involvement only occasionally during his conversations with the shoemaker. A smile came over his face when he compared the shoemaker with the pastor. He could not understand how Flaig's sturdy faith had grown through so many trying years. If Flaig was intelligent, he was also an unimaginative, one-sided man whom many people mocked because of his evangelizing. At meetings of the Pietists he performed the role of stern if brotherly judge, and as a formidable exponent of Holy Scripture he also conducted inspirational sessions in the nearby villages, but otherwise he was just an ordinary craftsman with all the limitations of his kind. The pastor, on the other hand, was not only a clever and eloquent man and preacher but also an assiduous and careful scholar. Hans gazed with awe at the rows of books.
The pastor came soon, changed his outdoor coat for a black house jacket, handed his pupil the Greek text of Luke and asked him to read it. This was quite different from what the Latin lessons had been like. They read just a few sentences, translating them faithfully word by word, then his teacher developed from seemingly unpromising examples a clever and convincing demonstration of the spirit peculiar to this language, and discussed how and at what time the book came to be written. In a single hour he introduced Hans to an entirely new approach to learning and reading. Hans received an intimation of what tasks and puzzles lay hidden in each line and word, how thousands of scholars and investigators had expended their efforts since the earliest times to unravel these questions, and it seemed to him that he was being accepted into the ranks of these truth-seekers this very hour.
The pastor lent him a dictionary and a grammar and he continued to work for the rest of the evening. Now he began to realize across how many mountains of work and knowledge the path to true science leads and he was prepared to hack his way through without taking any short cuts. Shoemaker Flaig, for the time being, slipped his mind.
For a few days this new revelation absorbed him completely. Each evening he visited the pastor and every day true scholarship seemed more beautiful, more difficult, more worthwhile. Early in the morning he went fishing, in the afternoon to the swimming hole; otherwise he stayed in the house. His ambition, diminished during the anxiety and triumph of the examination, had reawakened and would not let him retreat. Simultaneously he again felt that peculiar sensation in his head, felt so often during the last months, which was not precisely a pain but a hurried, triumphant pulsation of hectically excited energies, an impetuous desire to advance. Afterwards, of course, he would come down with a headache, but as long as this febrile state lasted, his reading and work moved forward at a lightning pace and he could read with ease the most difficult construction in Xenophon, one which usually took him fifteen minutes. Then he hardly needed a dictionary but flew with sharpened understanding across the most difficult passages quickly and happily. This heightened activity and thirst for knowledge also coincided with a proud sense of self-esteem, as though school and teachers and the years of study lay far behind him and as though he were already taking his own path toward the heights of knowledge and achievement.
All this came over him again, and again he slept fitfully and dreamed with a peculiar clarity. Thus, when he awoke in the night with a slight headache and could not fall back to sleep, he was overwhelmed by an impatience to forge ahead and by a great pride when he considered how far ahead of his companions he was and how the teacher and the principal had treated him with a kind of respect, admiration even.
The principal had taken genuine satisfaction in guiding and observing the growth of this ambition which he himself had kindled. It is wrong to say that schoolmasters lack heart and are dried-up, soulless pedants! No, by no means. When a child's talent which he has sought to kindle suddenly bursts forth, when the boy puts aside his wooden sword, slingshot, bow-and-arrow and other childish games, when he begins to forge ahead, when the seriousness of the work begins to transform the rough-neck into a delicate, serious and an almost ascetic creature, when his face takes on an intelligent, deeper and more purposeful expression--then a teacher's heart laughs with happiness and pride. It is his duty and responsibility to control the raw energies and desires of his charges and replace them with calmer, more moderate ideals. What would many happy citizens and trustworthy officials have become but unruly, stormy innovators and dreamers of useless dreams, if not for the effort of their schools? In young beings there is something wild, ungovernable, uncultured which first has to be tamed. It is like a dangerous flame that has to be controlled or it will destroy. Natural man is unpredictable, opaque, dangerous, like a torrent cascading out of uncharted mountains. At the start, his soul is a jungle without paths or order. And, like a jungle, it must first be cleared and its growth thwarted. Thus it is the sch
ool's task to subdue and control man with force and make him a useful member of society, to kindle those qualities in him whose development will bring him to triumphant completion.
How well little Giebenrath had come along! He'd given up playing games and running about almost of his own accord, he no longer burst out in stupid laughter during lectures, and he had even let himself be persuaded to abandon his gardening, his rabbits and silly fishing.
One fine evening the principal himself came to visit the Giebenraths. After he had spent a few polite minutes with the flattered father, he stepped into Hans' room only to find the boy sitting in front of his Luke. He greeted him in a friendly fashion.
"That's good of you, Giebenrath, already back at work! But why don't you ever show your face? I've been expecting you every day."
"I would have come," Hans excused himself, "but I wanted to bring at least one good fish along."
"Fish, what kind of fish?"
"Just a carp or something like that."
"Oh, I see. You're going fishing again."
"Yes, just a little. Father allowed me to."
"Well well. Are you enjoying it?"
"Yes, of course."
"Fine, very fine. You certainly deserve a vacation. So you probably don't want to learn anything on the side."
"But of course I do, naturally."
The principal took a few deep breaths, stroked his thin beard once and sat down on a chair.
"Look, Hans," he began. "Things are like this. It has been known for a long time that a good examination is frequently followed by a sudden letdown. At the academy you will have to cope with several entirely new subjects. There are always a number of students who prepare themselves for these tasks during the vacation--especially those students who have done less well in the examination. And these students then suddenly spurt forward at the expense of those who have rested on their laurels."