"Come, my daughter," said the pastor, as with much kind dignity he kissed her forehead. "You too, my friend, and my gentle Ebba (speaking to M. de Vermondans and his other daughter), are welcome. You too, Monsieur," said he, turning to Ireneus, "though I have not before had the honor to see you, I welcome as a friend. You are all welcome to the hearthside of the poor priest, and may the festival of to-day be to us a commemoration of the past, and a happier tie for the future."
The old man took his guests into his own room, in which there was an Inconsiderable library, a few models of utensils for agricultural purposes, testifying to both his taste and his occupation. He sat on a sofa, which debility in his limbs made necessary to him, and placed his guests beside him. Alete, who could not sit quiet long, soon arose and took Eric to the window. While, as was the custom with her, she tested the patient character of her husband that was to be, the old man conversed with Ireneus, who from the very first had been attracted by his venerable and pleasing face.
"From these instruments of labor collected around you, I see," said Ireneus, "that you have contrived a sure method of making your solitude active. Ebba has already told me how usefully you employ your time."
"Usefully," replied M. Guldberg, with sincere modesty. "Alas! let us act usefully as we may, how much weakness is there in our will, and forgetfulness in our best resolutions. If by the grace of God we accomplish any good, what is that in comparison with what we should do. I love toil, but I can make no merit of it. In my youth it was a necessity. The son of a laborer, who earned with his own hands the money which supported me at school, I was compelled, at every risk, to repay him for his paternal tenderness by my success. Gradually labor became a habit, and then a quasi dogma of religion. I thought it my duty, as soon as possible, to release him from the necessity of sacrifice. I feel myself attracted by a brotherly sympathy to all who toil. I look with respect on the sweaty brow and toil-stained hand. God himself prescribed labor to us as a law, and his infinite goodness unites with obedience to it the enjoyment of much happiness. Certainly no person with a heart can repress sympathy at the sight of the poor laborer, who is busy from morning to night to earn his moderate wages, who braves every weather to sow and harvest his crop. This laborer, however, is often happier than the majority of the rich, who, as they pass, look on him with pity. He has done his duty. When his task is done he sits contented at his humble hearth. The sparkling wood, the bread on his table, he has earned himself. He educates his child by his own exertions, and as he seeks his bed, may say he has done his duty. He is ignorant of the troubles which fill the hearts of the opulent. Ceaseless toil to him is a cuirass warding off stormy passions. The door of his soul is shut to dark chimeras, to the mad fancies which people the area of the palace, and on his rude pillow he enjoys a peaceful repose, which the lord of his village often asks for in vain. When I thus praise the efficaciousness of toil, I do not speak only of manual labor. The labor of thought is often most painful, and its fruits infinitely more valuable."
"Take care," said Ireneus, "you touch a sensitive string of my uncle's breast."
"Yes," said the old man, "Eric has told me of your discussions on this subject. I however know my friend M. de Vermondans, and whatever disdain of science he may affect, I believe he would be distressed if he did not know all that he has turned to so good a purpose in life. In attacking in your conversations books and writers, he did not tell you how much he had borrowed from them, and how earnestly he had read them."
"What books?" asked M. de Vermondans; "a few incomplete histories, and some odd volumes of philosophy. One must examine closely the reveries of human pride to be able to judge of them."
"Traitor!" said M. Guldberg, shaking his finger affectionately at his friend, "you not only persist in hypocrisy, but you attack the character of my library. A few incomplete histories! a few odd volumes! Must I then recall to you the admiration with which you looked at my books, and studied all that I had collected? Some incomplete histories! a few odd volumes! Must I recall to you the delight with which you often have studied my collection? Must I defend it against you? Know, that to attack my books is to make war against myself. I passed forty years of my life in collecting them, and to each one is attached some pleasant remembrance. From some I date my student life, and my entry into the priesthood. From some I fix the epoch of my marriage, and the various phases of my existence; some I found in a country cabin, where they were forgotten; some I brought from Stockholm, where I had been to see my bishop and an old friend. All therefore recall to me kind teachers, skillful guides, and are the memorials of different events, which are the great items of my life. Gradually I have collected around me those books which interest me the most. When I am here in my woodland home they are company to me, and the most instructive friends man can meet with. Here I have the philosophers, who aid me in the examination of the mysteries of the soul; the historians, who record the revolutions of nations; the geologists and natural philosophers, who expound to me the organic laws of nature; the poets, who sing the joyous or sad emotions of the heart. Whatever may be my moral disposition, I need only to reach my hand toward one of them to seize on some brilliant intellect, to enlighten, strengthen, and console me."
"How that delights me!" said Ebba, in a low tone.
"Listen," said M. de Vermondans, with emphasis, and with an intonation of grief entirely contradicted by his face, "see, this woman has been bewitched: the poison of your pernicious doctrines has reached the very interior of my house. I fancied I would be able to educate my daughter in the love of good principles, but I have warmed a very serpent at my heart. Luckily, I see my faithful Alete attending only to the positive and who now says that dinner is ready or Christmas-day. Christmas comes but once a year."