The Court Chaplain Eisenhart walked up the village street towards the schoolhouse. It was April, in the year 1750, and a soft west wind was blowing up the street, across the oak woods of the near forest. Between the forest and the village lay a valley of meadows, planted with thorn bushes and old birch trees with snow-white stems: the fresh green leaves trembled continually in the restless wind. On the other side of the street a lofty crag rose precipitously above a rushing mountain torrent. This rock is the spur of other lofty hills, planted with oak and beech trees, through the openings of which a boy may frequently be seen, driving an ox or gathering firewood on his half-trodden path. Here and there in the distance the smoke of charcoal-burners ascends into the sky. Between the street and the torrent stand the houses of the village, with high thatched roofs and walls of timber and of mud, and, at the back, projecting stages and steps above the rushing water. A paradise in the late spring, in summer, and in autumn, these wild and romantic woods, traversed only by a few forest paths, are terrible in winter, and the contrast is part of their charm. The schoolhouse stands in the upper part of the village, on the opposite side of the street to the rest of the houses, looking across the valley to the western sun. Two large birch trees are before the open door. The Court Chaplain pauses before he goes in.

How it comes to pass that a Court Chaplain should be walking up the street of this forest village we shall see anon.

At first sight there does not seem to be much schoolwork going on. A boy, or we should rather say a child, of fifteen is seated at an open window looking over the forest. He is fair-haired and blue-eyed; but it is the deep blue of an angel’s, not the cold gray blue of a courtier’s eyes. Around him are seated several children, both boys and girls; and, far from teaching, he appears to be relating stories to them. The story, whatever it is, ceases as the Court Chaplain goes in, and both raconteur and audience rise.

“I have something to say to thee, schoolmaster,” said the Chaplain, “send the children away. Thou wilt not teach them anything more to-day, I suspect.”

The children went away lingeringly, not at all like children just let loose from school.

When they were gone the expression of the Chaplain’s face changed he looked at the little schoolmaster very kindly, and sat down on one of the benches, which were black and worn with age.

“Last year, little one,” he said, “when the Herr Rector took thee away from the Latin school and from thy father’s tailoring, and confirmed thee, and thou tookest thy first communion, and he made thee schoolmaster here, many wise people shook their heads. I do not think,” he continued, with a smile, “that they have ceased shaking them when they have seen in how strange a manner thou keepest school.”

“Ah, your Reverence,” said the boy, eagerly, “the good people are satisfied enough when they see that their children learn without receiving much correction; and many of them even take pleasure in the beautiful tales which I relate to the children, and which they repeat to them. Every morning, as soon as the children enter the school, I pray with them, and catechise them in the principles of our holy religion, as God teaches me, for I use no book. Then I set the children to read and to write, and promise them these charming tales if they learn well. It is impossible to express with what zeal the children learn. When they are perverse or not diligent I do not relate my histories, but I read to myself.”

“Well, little one,” said the Court Chaplain, “it is a strange system of education, but I am far from saying that it is a bad one. Nevertheless it will not last. The Herr Rector has his eye upon thee, and will send thee back to thy tailoring very soon.”

The tears came into the little schoolmaster’s eyes, and he turned very pale.

“Well, do not be sad,” said the Chaplain. “I have been thinking and working for thee. Thou hast heard of the Prince, though thou hast, I think, never seen the pleasure palace, Joyeuse, though it is so near.”

“I have seen the iron gates with the golden scrolls,” said the boy. “They are like the heavenly Jerusalem; every several gate is one pearl.”

The Chaplain did not notice the confused metaphor of this description.

“Well,” he said, “I have been speaking to the Prince of thee. Thou knowest nothing of these things, but the Prince has lived for many years in Italy, a country where they do nothing but sing and dance. He has come back, as thou knowest, and has married a wife, according to the traditions of his race. Since he came back to Germany he has taken a fancy to this forest-lodge, for at first it was little more, and has garnished it and enlarged it according to his southern fancies; that is why he likes it better than his princely cities. He has two children a boy and a girl eight and nine, or thereabouts. The Princess is not a good woman. She neglects her children, and she prefers the princely cities to her husband, to her little ones, and to the beautiful forests and hills.”

The little schoolmaster listened with open eyes. Then he said, beneath his breath:

“How Satanic that must be!”

“The Prince,” continued the Court Chaplain, “is a beautiful soul ‘manque,’ which means spoilt. His sister, the Princess Isoline von Isenberg-Wertheim, is such a soul. She has joined herself to a company of pious people who have taken an old manor-house belonging to the Prince on the farther side of the palace gardens, where they devote themselves to prayer, to good works, and to the manufacture of half-silk stuffs, by which they maintain themselves and give to the poor. The Prince himself knows something of such feelings. He indeed knows the way of piety, though he does not follow it. He acknowledges the grace of refinement which piety gives, even to the most highly bred. He is particularly desirous that his children should possess this supreme touch. Something that I told him of thee pleased his fancy. Thy strange way of keeping school seemed to him very new; more especially was he delighted with that infancy story of thee and old Father Stalher. The old man, I told the Prince, came into thy father’s for his new coat and found thee reading. Reading, in any one, seemed to Father Stalher little short of miraculous; but in a child of eight it was more it was elfish.

“‘What are you doing there, child?’ said Father Stalher.

“‘I am reading.’

“‘Canst thou read already?’

“‘That is a foolish question, for I am a human being,’ said the child, and began to read with ease, proper emphasis, and due distinction.

“Stalher was amazed, and said:

“‘The devil fetch me, I have never seen the like in all my life.’

“Then little Mark jumped up and looked timidly and carefully round the room. When he saw that the devil did not come, he went down on his knees in the middle of the floor and said:

“‘O God! how gracious art thou.’

“Then, standing up boldly before old Stalher, he said:

“‘Man, hast thou ever seen Satan?’

“‘No.’

“‘Then call upon him no more.’

“And the child went quietly into another room.

“And I told the Prince what thy old grandfather used to say to me.

“’The lad is soaring away from us; we must pray that God will guide him by His good Spirit.’

“When I told all this to the Prince, he said:

“’I will have this boy. He shall teach my children as he does the village ones. None can teach children as can such a child as this.’”

The little schoolmaster had been looking before him all the time the Chaplain had been speaking, as though in something of a maze. He evidently saw nothing to wonder at in the story of himself and old Stalher. It seemed to him commonplace and obvious enough.

“I shall send up a tailor from Joyeuse to-morrow,” said the Chaplain; “a court tailor, such as thou never saw’st, nor thy father either. He must measure thee for a court-suit of black. Then we will go together, and I will present thee to the Prince.”