Christian Gellerts Last Christmas | Page 8

up closer to him, and, stretching out his hand to
him, said: "I have taken the liberty--I should like--will you give me
your hand, Mr. Gellert?"
Gellert drew his long thin hand out of his muff and placed it in the hard
oaken-like hand of the peasant; and at this moment, when the peasant's
hand lay in the scholars palm, as one felt the other's pressure in actual
living grasp, there took place, though the mortal actors in the scene
were all unconscious of it, a renewal of that healthy life which alone
can make a people one.
How long had the learned world, wrapped up in itself, separated from
the fellow-men around, thought in Latin, felt as foreigners, and lived
buried in contemplation of bygone worlds! From the time of Gellert
commences the ever-increasing unity of good-fellowship throughout all
classes of life, kept up by mutual giving and receiving. As the
scholar--as the solitary poet endeavors to work upon others by lays that
quicken and songs that incite, so he in his turn is a debtor to his age,
and the lonely thinking and writing become the property of all; but the
effects are not seen in a moment; for higher than the most highly gifted
spirit of any single man is the spirit of a nation. With the pressure
which Gellert and the peasant exchanged commenced a mighty change

in universal life, which never more can cease to act.
"Permit me to enter your room?" said Christopher, and Gellert nodded
assent. He was so courteous that he motioned to the peasant to enter
first; however, Sauer went close after him: he thought it must be a
madman; he must protect his master; the man looked just as if he were
drunk. Gellert, with his amanuensis, Gödike, followed them.
Gellert, however, felt that the man must be actuated by pure motives:
he bade the others retire, and took Christopher alone into his study; and,
as he clasped his left with his own right hand, he asked: "Well, my
good friend, what is your business?"
"Eh? oh! nothing--I 've only brought you a load of wood there--a fair,
full load; however, I 'll give you the few logs which I have in my
wagon, as well."
"My good man, my servant Sauer looks after buying my wood."
"It is no question of buying. No, my dear sir, I give it to you."
"Give it to me? Why me particularly?"
"Oh! sir, you do not know at all what good you do, what good you have
done me; and my wife was right; why should there not be really pious
men in our day too? Surely the sun still shines as he shone thousands of
years ago; all is now the same as then; and the God of old is still
living."
"Certainly, certainly; I am glad to see you so pious."
"Ah! believe me, dear sir, I am not always so pious; and that I am so
disposed to-day is owing to you. We have no more confessionals now,
but I can confess to you: and you have taken a heavier load from my
heart than a wagon-load of wood. Oh! sir, I am not what I was. In my
early days I was a high-spirited, merry lad, and out in the field, and
indoors in the inn and the spinning-room, there was none who could
sing against me; but that is long past. What has a man on whose head

the grave-blossoms are growing," and he pointed to his gray head, "to
do with all that trash? And besides, the Seven Years' War has put a stop
to all our singing. But last night, in the midst of the fearful cold, I sang
a lay set expressly for me--all old tunes go to it: and it seemed to me as
though I saw a sign-post which pointed I know not whither--or, nay, I
do know whither." And now the peasant related how discontented and
unhappy in mind he had been, and how the words in the lay had all at
once raised his spirits and accompanied him upon the journey, like a
good fellow who talks to one cheerfully.
At this part of the peasant's tale Gellert folded his hands in silence, and
the peasant concluded: "How I always envied others, I cannot now
think why; but you I do envy, sir: I should like to be as you."
And Gellert answered: "I thank God, and rejoice greatly that my
writings have been of service to you. Think not so well of me. Would
God I were really the good man I appear in your eyes! I am far from
being such as I should, such as I would fain be. I write my books for
my own improvement also, to