The bell was ringing a second time as Hans, at the aged pastor's side, mounted the steps which behind the pastor's house led up to the churchyard of the village. The way to the church lay directly through this churchyard and the two clergymen stopped among the white graves and black crosses, which all wore caps of snow, to look back on the village. The sea sounded in the darkness but in the village nearly every window was lighted and many people were moving on the road leading to the church. The fisherfolk came out of their cottages, up to their church—the aged, men, women, and children. They came with lanterns and lights and if the grown people, the elders, in passing by greeted their pastor with cordial veneration, almost every child came up to give him its hand; and he knew them all by name, knew the short little stories of their lives and had a special word of endearment for nearly every one. From time to time one of the grown people loitered on the way or turned sidewise to set down his lantern and bend over one of the snow-covered graves; then the pastor of Grunzenow stood at the mourners' side and spoke softly to them, and the stars smiled in the black winter sky and it seemed as if the sea softened its roaring.
The sexton of Grunzenow was pulling the bell-rope for the third time when again a larger group of people entered the churchyard gate and it was Grips who carried the lantern ahead of them. Colonel von Bullau led Fränzchen at the head of his following in knightly fashion and, when Hans Unwirrsch stood before him and Grips raised his lantern to light the meeting, he said:
"This is the way a man looks who cannot say how happy he is. Here, my young friend, here you have your maiden; I wish you joyful holidays and much pleasure."
Hand in hand Hans and Fränzchen along with the other people of Grunzenow, went into the little church, where the sexton was already sitting in front of the organ. As they walked the short distance Franziska could not tell her betrothed nor Hans his future bride how they felt; but each knew it, nevertheless. Yet Fränzchen brought him a heartfelt greeting from Uncle Rudolf who sat at home under the Christmas tree with his pipe and had his Christmas thoughts as well as everyone else.
There were certainly a hundred lights illuminating the little church; no one had put out his little lamp on entering and the gathering of this community on the shore of the sea was wonderfully solemn.
Candidate Unwirrsch with his betrothed and Colonel von Bullau sat down on one of the front benches close to the altar and pulpit and, joining in the gruff chorus of fishermen's voices, sang the old Christmas hymn through to the end; until, as the last tones of the organ and the singing died away, the Reverend Josias Tillenius went up into his pulpit to preach his Christmas sermon; until all the sunburnt, weather-beaten and wind-seared faces of the men, all the women's earnest faces and the children's eyes were raised to their faithful and venerable adviser and comforter. And not one of the famous and popular speakers whom Hans had heard in the great city, not one of the celebrated professors who had given him such good precepts at the university could have spoken more fittingly than did the aged vicar of the hunger parish of Grunzenow, to whom the library of his predecessors had remained a perplexing maze, and the modern science of theology a book with seven seals.
His greeting to his congregation was that of the angels than which there is no more beautiful one in the world: "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." Then he wished them all happiness on that holy festival, the young and the old, the aged and the children; and he was right when he once said to Hans Unwirrsch that it was a strange thing for a pastor if his sermons had to echo the voices of the sea. He spoke of the good and the evil that had come to pass since that day had been celebrated a year before; he spoke of what might come before the bells rang for another Christmas. He had a word for those who were mourning and for those to whom joy had been given. Unlike his brother pastors farther inland who, like him, were now standing in their pulpits, he could not draw his similes from the work of the tiller of the soil; he could not speak of sowing and blossoming, reaping and fading;—it was the sea that sounded in his words.
He spoke of those members of his parish who were now in foreign parts, of whom it was not known whether they were alive or dead: the earth, from the north pole to the south pole, had to find a place in his sermon. He spoke of those from whom nothing had been heard for a long time, whose places by the fireside had been vacant for years, called two weeping mothers by name and comforted them with the promise that no one, no one, could be lost, however wide the world, as it was written that God held the sea in the hollow of his hand. He spoke of the great Christmas tree of eternity under which all the people on earth would be gathered in days to come.
Hans Unwirrsch thought of the sermons of hunger which he had tried to write in Grinse Street, by the publication of which he had hoped to make a name for himself and to touch and uplift thousands. Now he bowed his head before this old man's discourse which was certainly not ready for publication and yet penetrated to the inmost hearts of his auditors. Fränzchen, at his side, wept, from time to time; Colonel von Bullau cleared his throat very noticeably and mumbled something in his gray beard; the fisher folk sighed and sobbed;—Candidate Unwirrsch had no more time to go on thinking about his manuscript and Grinse Street.
Reverend Josias Tillenius had drawn near to the Christmas tree of every cottage in his village; now he suddenly stood in the shade of the tree of universal history through the branches of which the star of the annunciation shone down on the manger in Bethlehem. In a simple, impressive manner he told his congregation what things on earth were like when the angels brought down their greeting from heaven. He told about the city of Rome and the Roman Emperor Augustus, about the proud temples, the proud sages, warriors and poets. He spoke of how at that time the sun, moon and stars went on their way as blessedly as on the day when he was speaking, how the earth bore its fruits and the sea gave up its treasures. He told how human affairs were then ordered very much as now: how tribute was asked and given, how the lakes, rivers and sea were covered with the ships, how the country roads were full of wanderers and the marketplaces were full of merchants. He spoke of how then, even as in their own day, the wealth of the nations was carried back and forth, and then—then he spoke of the great hunger of the world.