It was the sea and not the great city that roared beneath Hans Unwirrsch's windows next morning; but at first he would not believe it. Long before he awoke the sound of the sea penetrated his slumber and he dreamt curious things. All night long he had had to defend himself against the strange seething and roaring that rose in the distance and, swelling as it approached, threatened to suffocate him. All night long he fought against this mysterious something, this tumult of thousands and thousands of voices in which his own voice died away as feebly as the voice of a child crying for help in the midst of a wild tornado. It was like being set free when he finally awoke and could no longer doubt that he heard the sea and not the noise of the world through which the course of his life had led him.
After he fully realized that he was under the roof of the vicarage in Grunzenow and not in Grinse Street, or, indeed, in the house in Park Street, he lay for some time with half-closed eyes and gave himself up to the rapturous feeling of certain happiness and the sweetly melancholy thoughts and memories that are always so inseparably bound up with that feeling. The moment that shows a man what he has gained also teaches him to realize what he has lost most clearly. How many faithful hearts and warm hands we always miss in our happiest hours!
It was still quite dark when Hans awoke, only the snow brightened the night a little. Hans did not need to offer the shades of the dead a draught of blood to give them voices; he did not need to call them, they came voluntarily;—and he gave an account of himself to them on this Christmas morning.
A bent, lean man with a mild, earnestly cheerful face stood before his mental vision—Master Anton Unwirrsch, who had had such intense hunger for the light and who wanted to complete in his son his life, his wishes and hopes. "Oh Father," said Johannes, "I have traveled the path that you showed me and have labored hard to grasp the truth. I have erred much and despondency and faintheartedness have often taken hold of me—I have not been able to advance with steady steps. The world has been to me too great a wonder for me to be able to catch boldly and carelessly at its veils and coverings as others do;—it seemed to me too serious and solemn for me to be able to meet it with smiles as others do. Oh Father, any man that comes out of such a lowly house as ours cannot be blamed if he traverses the first part of his way with shyness and hesitation, if he is dazzled by trifles, if deceptive mirages confuse him, if a will o' the wisp leads him astray. Father, whoever comes out from under such a low roof as ours must have a strong heart in good and in evil so that, after the first few steps upward, he does not turn back and continue his dark life in the depths. Even the first knowledge and experience that he gains serve only to destroy the harmony of his being; they do not make him happy. In addition to all other doubts they awaken in him doubt of himself. Oh Father, Father, it is hard to be a true man and to give to everything its proper measure; but whoever is born in the depths with this yearning is more likely to attain it than those who awake to life halfway up the slope and to whom both height and depth remain equally unknown and indifferent. The liberators of mankind rise from the depths; and just as springs come from deep down in the earth to make the land fruitful so too the soil of humanity is eternally refreshed from the depths. Oh, Father, man has nothing better than this painful aspiration for the heights! Without it he remains forever of the earth, earthy; in this aspiration and by means of it he raises himself above all serfdom to the dust; in it he extends his hand to all heavenly powers, however little he may attain; in it he stands though it be on the tiniest spot of earth, in the narrowest circle, as the ruler of the most unlimited region, as the ruler of himself. Doubt too is gain in his life and pain is ennobling—often more ennobling than happiness, than joy. Father, I have gone my way in unrest; but I have found the truth, I have learnt to distinguish the sham from the genuine, the semblance from the reality. I no longer fear the things of the world; for love stands at my side;—Father, bless your son on his future way and ask for him that the hunger which has guided him till now may never leave him as long as he lives."
Hans talked to all his dead on that dark Christmas morning before the dawn came. They passed him in a long procession and he thanked each for whatever he had received from him on his life's way. It was no wonder that his mother, little Sophie, the charity school teacher Karl Silberlöffel, Auntie Schlotterbeck and Uncle Nikolaus Grünebaum should pass by and nod to him smiling; but it was almost a wonder how many other people came forth out of the darkness to claim their part in his growth and development. It was a wonder how many places had contributed to the forming of his mind, how far back lay the point of departure of every emotion of his soul. In those moments Hans realized for the first time how rich his life had been, what wealth he was taking with him out of the sunken world of his youth, out of the sunken world of Neustadt which Auntie Schlotterbeck and Uncle Grünebaum had taken with them into their graves, out of the sunken world of his "years of wandering" into his new life in Grunzenow on the Baltic. Ever new, ever changing scenes and figures rose up and passed by until at last the church bell of Grunzenow began to ring.
The bell of Grunzenow, his new home! The bell for the Christmas service! Hans Unwirrsch sat upright in bed and listened;—his heart beat loud and all his pulses throbbed! All his blood rushed to his heart and brain—Oh Fränzchen, Fränzchen!
All the feelings of his childhood had wakened in the man's breast. Before he went downstairs he knelt and hid his face in his hands for some minutes; he did not hear the door open behind him.
In his long, black clerical gown old Josias entered the room and softly set down the light he carried beside the candidate's lamp. He stood motionless as long as the little bell rang, as long as Johannes Unwirrsch knelt beside his bed. When the bell ceased and his young companion raised his head again he laid his hand on his shoulder and said with feeling as he bent down to him:
"It is a happy sign to be awakened by such ringing to new work, new cares, new life. My dear, dear son, be welcome in this poor and yet so rich, so narrow and yet so limitless field of endeavor. God give you strength and His blessing on this shore, among these cabins, under this roof. God keep you in your happiness and bless you in your sorrow!"