"Is there any soul which does not belong to God, did not emanate from Him, is not a part of His power? And does not that which flows from one part to another stream back in a perpetual circle to the Creator? We can take nothing which does not come from God, give nothing which does not return to Him. Do you know the principle of the preservation of power?"
"No," said Freyer, confused by his ignorance of something he was asked.
"Well, it can be explained in a very few words. Science has proved that nothing in the universe can be lost, that even a force which is apparently uselessly squandered is merely transformed into another. Thus in God nothing can be lost, even though it has no direct relation to Him--for he is the spiritual universe. True, every feeling does not produce a work of God, any more than every effort of nature brings forth some positive result. But as in the latter case the force expended is not lost, because it produces other, though secondary results, so in God no sentiment of love and enthusiasm is lost, even though it may relate to Him only in a secondary degree."
"Very true."
"Then if that is so,--how can any one rob this God, who surrounds us like the universe, from which we come, into which we pass again, and in which our forces are constantly transformed in a perpetual round of change."
Freyer rested his head on his hand, absorbed in thought.
"And if a feeling is so deeply rooted in religion, so directly associated with God as that which men offer to you. His representative, why should you have these scruples?"
"I have never heard any one talk in this way! Pardon my faint-heartedness, and ignorance--I am a poor, simple-hearted man--you will be indulgent, will you not?"
"Freyer!" cried the countess, deeply moved, and spite of the distance to which he had pushed his chair, held out her hand.
"You see, I had no opportunity to attend a higher school, I was so poor. I lost my parents when a lad of twelve and received only the most necessary instruction. All my knowledge I obtained afterwards by reading, and it is of course defective and insufficient. On our mountains, beside our rushing streams, among the hazel bushes whose nuts were often my only food, I grew up, watching the horses sent to pasture with their colts. Up by St. Gregory's chapel, where the Leine falls over the cliffs, I left the animals grazing in the wide meadows, flung myself down in a field of gentian and, lying on my back, gazed upward into the blue sky and thought it must surely open, the transparent atmosphere must at last be pierced--as the bird imagines, when it dashes its head against a pane of glass--so I learned to think of God! And when my brain and heart grew giddy, as if I were destined for something better, when a longing overwhelmed me which my simple meditations could not quell, I caught one of my young horses by the mane, swung myself on its bare back, and swept over the broad plain, feeling myself a king."