Christian Gellerts Last Christmas | Page 3

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 tranquillity, that virtue for which his whole life long he strove;
but his loving nature received new life, and only by slight intimations
did he betray the heaviness and dejection which weighed upon his soul.

He was, in the full sense of the word, "philanthropic," in the sight of
good men; and in thoughts for their welfare, there was for him a real
happiness and a joyous animation.
When, however, he had done writing and felt lonely again, the gloomy
spirits came back: he had seated himself, wishing to raise his thoughts
for composing a sacred song; but he was ill at ease, and had no power
to express that inward, firm, and self-rejoicing might of faith which
lived in him. Again and again the scoffers and freethinkers rose up
before his thoughts: he must refute their objections, and not until that
was done did he become himself.
It is a hard position, when a creative spirit cannot forget the adversaries
which on all sides oppose him in the world: they come unsummoned to
the room and will not be expelled; they peer over the shoulder, and tug
at the hand which fain would write; they turn images upside down, and
distort the thoughts; and here and there, from ceiling and wall, they grin,
and scoff, and oppose: and what was just gushing as an aspiration from
the soul, is converted to a confused absurdity.
At such a time, the spirit, courageous and self-dependent, must take
refuge in itself and show a firm front to a world of foes.
A strong nature boldly hurls his inkstand at the Devil's head; goes to
battle with his opponents with words both written and spoken; and
keeps his own individuality free from the perplexities with which
opponents disturb all that has been previously done, and make the soul
unsteadfast and unnerved for what is to come.
Gellert's was no battling, defiant nature, which relies upon itself; he did
not hurl his opponents down and go his way; he would convince them,
and so they were always ready to encounter him. And as the applause
of his friends rejoiced him, so the opposition of his enemies could sink
him in deep dejection. Besides, he had always been weakly; he had, as
he himself complained, in addition to frequent coughs and a pain in his
loins, a continual gnawing and pressure in the centre of his chest, which
accompanied him from his first rising in the morning until he slept at
night.

Thus he sat for a while, in deep dejection: and, as often before, his only
wish was, that God would give him grace whereby when his hour was
come, he might die piously and tranquilly.
It was past midnight when he sought his bed and extinguished his light.
And the buckets at the well go up and go down.
About the same hour, in Duben Forest, the rustic Christopher was
rising from his bed. As with steel and flint he scattered sparks upon the
tinder, in kindling himself a light, his wife, awaking, cried:
"Why that heavy sigh?"
"Ah! life is a burden: I 'm the most harassed mortal in the world. The
pettiest office-clerk may now be abed in peace, and need n't break off
his sleep, while I must go out and brave wind and weather."
"Be content," replied his wife: "why, I dreamt you had actually been
made magistrate, and wore something on your head like a king's
crown."
"Oh! you women; as though what you see is n't enough, you like to
chatter about what you dream."
"Light the lamp, too," said his wife, "and I 'll get up and make you a
nice porridge."
The peasant, putting a candle in his lantern, went to the stable; and after
he had given some fodder to the horses, he seated himself upon the
manger. With his hands squeezed between his knees and his head bent
down, he reflected over and over again what a wretched existence he
had of it. "Why," thought he, "are so many men so well-off, so
comfortable, whilst you must be always toiling? What care I if envy be
not a virtue?--and yet I 'm not envious, I don't grudge others being
well-off, only I should like to be well-off too; oh, for a quiet, easy life!
Am I not worse off than a horse? He gets his fodder at the proper time,
and takes no care about it. Why did my father make my brother a

minister? He