Stories by German Authors, vol 2 | Page 9

said: "Yes, whoever in the darkness lighteth another with a
lamp, lighteth himself also; and the light is not part of ourselves,--it is
put into our hands by Him who hath appointed the suns their courses."
The peasant stood speechless, and looked upon the ground: there was
something within him which took away the power of looking up; he
was only conscious that it ill became him to laugh so loudly just now,
when he told the story of the old minister.
A longer pause ensued, and Gellert seemed to be lost in reflection upon
this reference to a minister's work, for he said half to himself: "Oh!
how would it fulfil my dearest wish to be a village-pastor! To move
about among my people, and really be one with them; the friend of
their souls my whole life long, never to lose them out of my sight!

Yonder goes one whom I have led into the right way; there another,
with whom I still wrestle, but whom I shall assuredly save; and in them
all the teaching lives which God proclaims by me. Did I not think that I
should be acting against my duty, I would this moment choose a
country life for the remnant of my days. When I look from my window
over the country, I have before me the broad sky, of which we citizens
know but little, a scene entirely new; there I stand and lose myself for
half an hour in gazing and in thinking. Yes, good friend, envy no man
in the rank of scholars. Look at me; I am almost always ill; and what a
burden is a sickly body! How strong, on the contrary, are you! I am
never happier than when, without being remarked, I can watch a
dinner-table thronged by hungry men and maids. Even if these folks be
not generally so happy as their superiors, at table they are certainly
happier."
"Yes, sir; we relish our eating and drinking. And, lately, when felling
and sorting that wood below, I was more than usually lively; it seems
as though I had a notion I was to do some good with it."
"And must I permit you to make me a present?" asked Gellert, resting
his chin upon his left hand.
The peasant answered: "It is not worth talking about."
"Nay, it might be well worth talking about; but I accept your present. It
is pride not to be ready to accept a gift. Is not all we have a gift from
God? And what one man gives another, he gives, as is most
appropriately said, for God's sake. Were I your minister, I should be
pleased to accept a present from you. You see, good friend, we men
have no occasion to thank each other. You have given me nothing of
yours, and I have given you nothing of mine. That the trees grow in the
forest is none of your doing, it is the work of the Creator and Preserver
of the world; and the soil is not yours; and the sun and the rain are not
yours; they all are the works of His hand; and if, perchance, I have
some healthy thoughts rising up in my soul, which benefit my
fellow-men, it is none of mine, it is His doing. The word is not mine,
and the spirit is not mine; and I am but an instrument in His hand.
Therefore one man needs not to utter words of thanks to his fellow, if
every one would but acknowledge who it really is that gives."
The peasant looked up in astonishment. Gellert remarked it, and said:
"Understand me aright. I thank you from my heart; you have done a

kind action. But that the trees grow is none of yours, and it is none of
mine that thoughts arise in me; every one simply tills his field, and
tends his woodland, and the honest, assiduous toil he gives thereto is
his virtue. That you felled, loaded, and brought the wood, and wish no
recompense for your labor, is very thank- worthy. My wood was more
easily felled; but those still nights which I and all of my calling pass in
heavy thought--who can tell what toil there is in them? There is in the
world an adjustment which no one sees, and which but seldom
discovers itself; and this and that shift thither and hither, and the scales
of the balance become even, and then ceases all distinction between
'mine' and 'thine,' and in the still forest rings an axe for me, and in the
silent night my spirit thinks and my pen writes for you."
The peasant passed both his hands over his temples, and his look was
as though he said to himself, "Where are