And what, indeed, could the blessed saints do more?
So the slow poison of praise crept into the boy's heart. And while he
thought his life was being filled with light, unknown to him the
shadows were deepening,--the one shadow which eclipses the sun, the
terrible shadow of self.
For he could not but be conscious how, even in the cathedral, a kind of
hush and silence fell around when he began to sing.
And instead of the blessed presence of God filling the holy place, and
his singing in it, as of old, like a happy little bird in the sunshine,
his own sweet voice seemed to fill the place, rising and falling like a
tide up and down the aisles, leaping to the vaulted roof like a
fountain of joy, and dropping into the hearts of the multitude like dew
from heaven.
And as he went out, in his little white robe, with the choir, he felt
the eyes of the people on him, and he heard a murmur of praise, and now
and then words such as "That is little Gottlieb, the son of the widow
Magdalis. She may well be proud of him. He has the voice and the face
of an angel."
And then, in contrast, outside in the street, from the other boys: "See
how puffed up the little prince is! He cannot look at any one lower
than the bishop or the burgomaster!"
So, between the chorus of praise and the other chorus of mockery, it
was no wonder that poor Gottlieb felt like a being far removed from the
common herd.
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