Part Second
1815.
Many centuries ago according to tradition, a people dwelt in this region who supported themselves by farming and hunting. They had shown much forethought in damming up the Winkel, while along its banks were carefully tended green meadows and a waggon road led to the adjoining country. Not far from the place where the master wood-cutter’s house now stands the remains of a wall show the spot upon which it is supposed a church once stood. Indeed, the opinion is advanced that it was no church, but the temple of an idol, where it was still the custom to drink mead to Wotan and to sacrifice animals whenever the full moonbeams shimmered through the leaves of the linden. In the same olden time, a snow-white raven would fly down each year from the wastes of the Alps, pick up the corn which had been strewn upon a stone for it, and fly away again. Once, however, no corn was scattered for the bird, because the year had been a sterile one, and someone had declared the whole thing to be a foolish superstition. Then the white raven was seen no more. But the winter was scarcely over when from the East savage hordes came streaming hither, with ugly brown faces, wearing blood-red caps and horses’ tails, riding strange beasts, and carrying unusual weapons,—and they invaded even the Winkel woods. These bands plundered and carried off the inhabitants by hundreds, and thus the region became deserted.
Then the houses and the temple fell into ruins, the water destroyed the dams and roads and covered the fields with pebbles and stones. The fruit-trees grew wild; larch-woods sprang up in the meadows. But the larches were afterwards supplanted by firs and pines. And thus the dark, high forests, now centuries old, came into existence.
It is not certain whether the present race of foresters are descendants of those ancient people. I rather think that, as the old inhabitants were washed away by a surging flood over the Alps in savage ages, so after many years in the storms of time, fragments of other races have been driven into these forests. Indeed, one can tell by observing the present inhabitants that this is not their native soil, but notwithstanding, they have been impelled to take root here and to prepare a safe and orderly dwelling-place for their descendants.
However, the old German legends of the wood-gods live on in these people. In the autumn they leave the last wild fruit upon the trees, or decorate their crosses and Haus Altare with the same, in order to secure fruitfulness for the coming year. They throw bread into the water, when a flood is impending; they scatter meal to the wind, to appease threatening storms—even as the ancients sacrificed to the gods. At the sacred hour of twelve they hear the wild hunt, even as the ancients heard with terror the thundering of Father Wotan. Instead of Freya of the olden time, they call to mind the beautiful woman who presides at the wedding-feasts, with her two kittens harnessed to a golden waggon. And when the Winkel foresters bury one of their comrades outside in Holdenschlag, they empty the cup of mead to his memory. Everywhere still linger the old Germanic superstitions and customs, but above them all is heard the lofty song of the Cross.
To a certain extent the Winkel foresters appreciate what is needed here, but only the few are able to give it a name. However, that root-digger was right when, a year ago at the charcoal-burner’s wedding, he said these words: “Neither God nor priest troubles himself about us. We are made over to sorrow and the devil. A dog’s life is good enough for us; we are only Winkel people!”
But the root-digger may yet live to see my toast fulfilled. Since the wedding I have become a year younger. The foresters of the Winkel are to have a church.
If a nation desires to rise from its barbarism to a perfect, harmonious height, God’s temple must form the foundation. Therefore I will begin with the church in the Winkel woods.
I have been obliged to urge and press the matter. Herr von Schrankenheim dwells in his palace in the city, where from every window church bells are heard, while upon dainty shelves are displayed hundreds of books for the mind and heart. Who there imagines what a pulpit and a sound of bells would mean in the distant forest? But at last the proprietor of these lands has comprehended, and to-day the men are already here to examine the site.
Yonder, near the house of the Winkel-warden, straight up from the path which leads across the Winkel, is a piece of high, rocky ground, secure from caving, slides, and torrents. It lies between the Upper and Lower Winkel, and is equally distant from Lautergräben, the Miesenbach valley and the banks of the Kar. That is the right place for God’s house. I have presented plans which I think are suitable for such a forest church.
It should be large enough for all to find room therein who have sad and hungry hearts, of which there are many and always will be in the forest country. It should not be too low, for the high woods and rocky walls have changed and broadened our conceptions; and then again the human dwellings are small, so it will be doubly comforting to the eye if it can look upward in the house of God. In city churches a solemn half-light should always reign, that it may offer a contrast to the gay and joyous lives of the rich and great; but in God’s house of the woods must smile a bright and gentle friendliness, for gloomy and solemn are the forest and the forester’s house and heart. So the worship of God should balance and even life; and that which the working-day and home deny, Sunday and the church should offer. The temple should be a refuge from the storms of this world, and the entrance to eternity.
The tower of the little forest church should be slender and airy, like an upward-pointing finger, warning, threatening, or promising. Three bells should proclaim the Trinity in the Unity of God, and the three-toned melody sing of faith, love, and hope. The organ should be well placed, for its music must be the word of God to the souls of the poor ones who do not understand the sermon.
Gilded pictures and dazzling decorations are objectionable; the worship of God should not coquette with the treasures of this earth. Simplicity and unity most eloquently and worthily render comprehensible the thoughts of God and eternity.
But other things must be considered as well. In order to secure dryness I have proposed bricks for the walls. The benches and chairs must be arranged as resting-places, since Sunday is a day of rest. If during the sound of the organ one should fall asleep, what then? One would only dream one’s self into heaven. For the floor, flagstones are too damp and cold; thick fir planks are more suitable. For the roof, on account of hail-storms, neither tiles nor large flat boards are practicable; small larch shingles are the best.
My plans have been accepted. Already roads are being cut through and building material brought here. In the Bins valley, where clay is found, a brick-kiln has been constructed and by the Breitwand a stone-quarry opened.
The foresters stand and watch the strange workmen. They too have their thoughts about it.
“They want to build us a church, do they?” says one; “’t would be more sensible to divide the money among the poor. The Lord God should build Himself a house only when He is unwilling to remain under the open sky or dwell in the Winkel forest.”
“I wonder what saint they will set up for us!”
“Hubertus, I think.”
“Hubertus,—ah, he carries a rifle and could stop the poachers too easily. The hunters would never endure him. I say, the Vierzehn Nothelfer[#] would be right for us.”
[#] Vierzehn Nolhelfer, fourteen saints to whom the Catholics prayed in times of great need.
“Not to be thought of; they would cost too much, and besides, the great Christopher is among them, and no church door would be large enough for him.”
“To him who wishes to find lost things, Saint Anthony many a wonder brings!” says Rüpel, the old bristly-beard, whose words seem to rhyme, let him twist his tongue as he will.
One little old woman very sagely remarks that, as there is no one in the whole Winkel forest who can play the organ, Saint Cecilia should be chosen as parish saint.
Others wish to dedicate the church to Florian, who protects against fire; but those living by the water prefer Sebastian.
Thereupon an old shepherd responds: “That’s no way to talk. The people can help each other; but you mustn’t forget the poor cattle! The holy Erhart (patron saint of cattle) should be the one for us in the Winkel.”
Another speaks: “I care nothing for the cattle. We need the church for the people. And as long as we have to pay for the saint, we may as well have something fine. I am no heathen; I go to church, and I like a pretty woman. What do you say to the Magdalen?”
“Thou wretch,” cries his wife, “thou wouldst place that wicked person upon the altar!”
“Thou art right, old woman; for such as thou, we must have one who will set a good example.”
So the people argue, half in fun, half in earnest. They have rummaged through the whole heaven and have found no saint satisfactory to everyone.
And we must have one who will suit them all. I have already my own idea about it.
The wooded hills are growing lighter and lighter, as if the day were dawning. The jagged clefts in the mountains and a greater expanse of sky are visible. Many a marten is deprived of his hollow tree, many a fox of his hole. Innocent little birds and greedy vultures are made homeless, for branch after branch falls upon the damp, mossy earth, upon which at last the sun shines again. Through the winter the wood-cutters have been busy. In the country outside coal and wood have been in great demand.
This summer I have no longer much leisure.
Outside there is war, which will end God only knows when. In Holdenschlag the foundries are closed again and no coal-waggon enters the forest. The wood-cutter’s work is suspended; the stalwart men wander idly about.
I have advised them to join the defenders of the fatherland. They will listen to nothing of the kind. They have no home, they know no fatherland. The foreigners are welcome if they bring money and better times.
God grant the better times, and keep the foreigners at a distance!
It is fortunate for me that I am cool-blooded. That one wild year killed the germs of my passion. Now I can bend my whole energy toward this end: out of a scattered, divided people, to form one, united and whole. Am I successful, we shall have something upon which to build. I will found a home for them and myself. But we must first gain the co-operation of the Baron, after which we must influence the woodspeople.
Extraordinary strength does not seem to me necessary, but certainly persistent effort. These people are like balls of clay—a push, and they roll along for a while. They will go on of themselves, but they must be guided in order to reach one and the same goal. There are enough members, but they are self-willed and perverse. When the church is once finished, so that the parish has a heart, we will attend to the head and build the schoolhouse.
AUTUMN, 1816.
A few weeks ago I visited all the huts, carrying with me a note-book. I questioned the fathers about their households, the number in their families, the year of birth and the names of the little people. The birthdays can usually be remembered only by events and circumstances. This boy was born in the summer when the great flood occurred; this girl, the same winter that straw bread had to be eaten. Such incidents are striking landmarks.
Designation by name is not of frequent occurrence. The male inhabitants are called Hannes or Sepp, Berthold, Toni, or Mathes; those of the female sex are named Kathrein, or Maria, the last of which is converted into Mini, Mirzel, Mirl, Mili, Mirz, or Marz. It is much the same with other names; and a stranger coming here must submit at once to such a change, according to the custom of the people. For a while they called me Andredl; but that they found too long a name for such a small man, and to-day I am only Redl.
Very few know anything of a surname. Some have either lost or forgotten theirs, others have never had any. These people need a special form by which to designate their ancestry and relationship. Hansel-Toni-Sepp! That is a household name and by it is meant, that the owner of the house is called Sepp, whose father was named Toni, and grandfather Hansel. Kathi-Hani-Waba-Mirz-Margareth! Here Kathi was the great-great-grandmother of Margareth. So the race may have existed a long time in the solitude of the forest.
And thus a person is often known by half a dozen names, and each one drags the rusty chain of his ancestors after him. It is the only heritage and monument.
But this confusion must not continue. The names must be prepared for the parish-book. New surnames will have to be invented and it will not be difficult to choose those which are fitting. We will call the people after their characteristics or occupations; that is easily remembered and preserved for the future. The wood-cutter Paul, who married Annamirl, is no longer Hiesel-Franzel-Paul, but briefly Paul Holzer (woodman), because he transports the tree-trunks upon a slide to the coal-pit, which work is called wooding. The tinder-maker and his descendants, do what they will, shall remain Schwammschlager. A hut in Lautergräben I call Brünnhütte (spring hut), because a large spring flows before it. Why then should the owner of the hut be named Hiesel-Michel-Hiesel-Hannes? He is a Brünnhütter, as well as his wife, and if his son goes out into the world, whatever his occupation, he shall always remain a Brünnhütter.
An old thick-necked dwarf, the coal-driver Sepp, has for a long time been called Kropfjodel. I recently asked the little man whether he would be satisfied to be registered in my book under the name of Joseph Kropfjodel. He assented quite willingly. I then explained to him that his children and grandchildren would also be called Kropfjodel. At that he grinned and gurgled, “Let him be called Kropfjodel ten times over, that boy of mine!” And a little later he added mischievously: “The name, thank God, we have that at least! Oh, if we but had the boy as well!”
The new names meet with approval, and each person bearing one carries his head higher and is more independent and self-sufficient than formerly. Now he knows who he is. But everything depends upon keeping the name in good repute and doing it honour.
When I came to the Alm boy, Berthold, he shocked me greatly. “A name,” he screamed, “for me? I need no name, I am nobody. God did not make me a woman, and the priest does not allow me to be a man. Marriage is denied me because I am as poor as a beggar. Call me Berthold Elend! (misery). Call me Satan! I know I break the law, but I will not betray my flesh and blood!”
After these words he hastened away like one mad. The lad, once so merry, is hardly to be recognised. I have written the name Berthold in the book and added a cross to it.
Another man wanders about in the Winkel forests, whose name I do not know, or if any he bears; it may be evil. The man avoids us all, and buries himself often for a long time, one knows not where, then appears again at unusual hours, one knows not why. It is the Einspanig.
MAY, 1817.
This winter I have suffered from a severe illness, caused by frequently visiting Marcus Jager, who had been shot by a gamekeeper in Lautergräben. As fever threatened to appear in the wound and as there was no one else who would or could nurse the sick man, I often went over to see him. The people here, instead of cleansing a wound with tepid water and lint, apply all kinds of salves and ointments. It must indeed be a powerful constitution which can recover in spite of such hindrances, and I had a hard struggle keeping Jager alive.
The last time I was with him was a stormy March day. On the way back the paths were blocked with snow. In places it reached to my shoulders. For a number of hours I struggled along, but as night approached I was still far from the Winkel valley. An indescribable weariness came over me, which I resisted a long time, but at last could not conquer. My only thought was that I must perish there in the midst of the snow, and that I should be found in the spring and be carried past the new church in the Winkel to Holdenschlag. Here in the forest I should like to lie, but I would far rather be walking about within it.
Not until weeks afterwards did I know that I was not frozen, that on the same evening two wood-cutters came to meet me on snow-shoes, found me unconscious and carried me into the house of the Winkel-warden; and as I lay for many days seriously ill, it seems that once they even called the doctor from Holdenschlag. The messenger who brought him was also commissioned, as he himself has since told me, to speak at once with the grave-digger. The latter said, “If the man would only do me the favour not to die now; one can’t dig a hole in this hard, frozen ground.”
I am glad that I was able to spare the good man his labour.
After the danger of the illness had passed I was attacked by a serious trouble with my eyes, which has not yet quite left me. For a long time I shall be obliged to remain in my room, indeed until the warm weather comes and the freshets are over. I am not at all lonely, for I busy myself with wood-carving. I intend to make a zither or something of the kind for myself, so that I may practise music until the organ is ready in the church.
The people come often and, sitting down beside me on the bench, inquire after my health. Russ-Annamirl, who has moved with her family into the master wood-cutter’s house in Lautergräben and according to the new order of things is called Anna Maria Russ, sent me three big doughnuts last week. They are some of those which have been baked in great quantities to celebrate the arrival of a wee Russ. They have christened the little one with doughnuts.
The widow of Black Mathes has also been to see me once. She asked me in great sorrow what was to be done with her boy Lazarus. She then told me how he was often attacked by a frenzy. A frenzy, she explained, was when one broke out into a passion at the slightest provocation, threatening everything. Lazarus had this malady in a much worse degree than his father; sister and mother would be in danger when he became a little stronger. Did, then, no remedy exist for such a trouble?
What can I advise the distressed woman? A continuous, regular employment, and a loving but earnest treatment should be given to the lad; that is my proposition.
Of all the people in the Winkel forests, I have the greatest sympathy for this woman. Her husband, after an unfortunate life, died a violent death and was dishonourably buried. Nothing better is in store for the child. And his mother, formerly accustomed to better days, is so soft-hearted and gentle.
Day before yesterday a boy came to me dragging a bird-cage with him. The lad was so small that he could not even reach the door-handle, so he timidly knocked for a while until I opened the door. Still standing on the steps, he said, “I am the son of Marcus Jager, and my father sends me here—father sends me here——”
The little fellow had learned the speech by heart, but he stopped short, blushed, and would have liked to make his escape. I had some trouble in discovering that his father’s message was, that he was entirely well and wished me the same; that soon he would come to thank me, and that he presented me with a pair of fine crested titmice, for, being aware that I could not yet go out of doors, he would be glad to send the whole spring to me in my room.
What shall I do with the little creatures? If one approaches them, they flutter confusedly about in the cage and beat their heads against the wires in their fright. I let them fly out into our Father’s bird-cage, out into the May.
And when the time is finally fulfilled, I myself walk out early one morning into the open May. The cock crows, the morning star is peeping brightly over the dark forest hill. The morning star is a good companion; it shines faithfully as long as it is night, and modestly retires when the sun appears.
Softly I steal through the front door, so that I may not awaken the people who have not rested for weeks, as I have; the weariness of yesterday still weighs upon the eyelids, which the dawning day is already forcing open.
In the forest there is a trembling, rustling awakening from deep rest. How strange is the first walk of a convalescent! One feels as if the whole earth were rocking one—rocking her newly born child in her arms. O thou holy May morning, bathed in dew and sweet perfumes, trembling and reverberating with eternal thoughts of God! How I think of thee and thy fairy magic, which at this hour hath sunk into my soul from the dome of heaven and the crown of the forest!
And now I experience a strange sorrow. Youth has been given to me in vain. What is my aim? What do I signify? A short time ago and from eternity I was nothing; a short time hence and through all eternity I shall be nothing. What shall I do? Why am I in this small place, and conscious of myself for this brief period? Why have I awakened? What must I do?
Then I vow to myself anew to work with all my might, and also to pray that such difficult, heart-burning thoughts may not return to me.
As the sun appears, I am still standing on the edge of the woods. Below splashes the water of the Winkel, from the chimney of the house rises a silvery wreath of smoke, and in the church building the masons are hammering.
My housekeeper, having noticed that I was not in my room, reproved me for my carelessness. As soon as she discovered that I had been lying on the damp moss in the cool early morning, she asked me quite seriously if I then found it so uncomfortable in her house, or if I had something on my mind, that I risked my life in such a way; yes, and did I not know that he who lies down on the dewy ground in the spring is giving his measure to the grave-digger?
SUMMER SOLSTICE, 1817.
This has been a strange walk in the woods, and for what has happened I feel that I shall not be held responsible either in heaven or on earth. Where the little stream splashes in the shadowy denies of the Winkelegger forest, there I remain standing.
Here upon these ripples let thy thoughts drift without aim or purpose. Thou knowest the Greek legend of the river Lethe. That was a strange water. Whoever drank of it, forgot the past. Still stranger are the waters of the little forest brook. He whose soul floats upon the same, e’en though his locks be wintry, finds again the long past time of his childhood and youth.
I penetrate deeper into the wilderness and rest in the moss, listening to the ever present murmuring silence. Many a little flower, just opened, is cradled close to my breast, endeavouring to knock softly at the gate of my heart. And many a beetle crawls anxiously up, who has lost his way to his sweetheart in the thicket of grasses and moss. Now he lifts his head and asks for the right path. Do I know the right path myself? O tell us where is the longing satisfied which follows us everywhere? A spider lets itself down from the branches; it has worked its way to the top, and now that it is there, it wishes to be upon the ground again. It spins threads, I spin thoughts. Who is the weaver who knows how to weave a beautiful garment from loose threads of thought?
While thus dreaming, I hear a rustling in the thicket. It is no deer, it is no doe; it is a human being; a young, blooming woman, excited and frightened, like a hunted creature. It is Aga, the Alm maiden. She hastens up to me, seizes my hands and cries: “Oh, I am so glad it is you!”
Then she looks at me and stops for breath, unable to overcome her excitement. “It is a horrible fate!” she cries again; “but I know no other way. The evil one follows us both, and now we fear the people; but I ’m not afraid of you, for you are good and learned! I ’m sure you will help us out of our trouble, Berthold and me! We should so like to live a decent life; pray give us the marriage blessing!”
At first I do not understand, but, comprehending her at last, I say: “If you are honest in your purpose, the church will not withhold its blessing.”
“Mein Gott im Himmel!” cries the girl; “with the church we will have nothing more to do; it refuses us marriage because we have no money. But if God should be angry with us, that would be terrible indeed. My conscience gives me no peace, and I beg you a thousand times, give us the blessing which every man may bestow. You are still young yourself, and if you have a sweetheart, then you must know there is no parting or leaving one another. And so we live together in the wilderness; we have n’t a single soul to be our friend and wish us happiness. We should so like to hear one good word, and if someone would only come and say: ‘By God’s will and with His blessing remain together until death!’ Just a single word, and we should be freed from the sin, and a wedded pair before God in heaven!”
This longing for deliverance from their sin, this struggling for the right, for human sympathy, for peace of heart—who would not be moved by that!
“You true-hearted people!” I cry. “May the Lord God be with you.”
The lad has already knelt beside the maiden. And so, with my words I have done something for which I am not responsible in heaven or on earth. I have consummated a marriage in the midst of the green woods.
THE FEAST OF ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL, 1817.
Strange,—what is the matter with this lad, Black Mathes’s son! He has his mother’s heart and his father’s blood. No, he has a still larger heart than his mother’s, and blood three times as savage as his father’s. This boy will become either a saint or a terrible murderer.
Old Russ-Kath has been ill for months. The people say she lacks young blood. Little Lazarus, hearing of it, came to me yesterday with a small wooden bowl and his father’s huge pocket-knife, and asked me to draw some blood from his hand to send to Russ-Kath.
His face was flushed, otherwise he was quiet. I remonstrated with him for making such a request. He darted away, and soon afterwards in the Winkelwarden’s yard he was wringing a pigeon’s neck: for anger, for love—I cannot tell which.
I went out to the dead creature. “Lazarus,” I said; “now thou hast deprived a mother of her life. Seest thou the poor, helpless young yonder? Dost thou hear how they cry?”
The boy stood there trembling, pale as marble, struggling for breath, and biting his underlip until the blood trickled down his chin. Loosening his clenched fist, I poured water on his forehead and led him back into his hut. There he fell exhausted upon the moss, and sank into a deep sleep.
Something must be done to save the child. How would it be if I should take him, be father and brother to him, curb and guide him according to my strength, teach him and keep him at work, seeking in every way to kill his passion?
But perhaps the boy has too much blood... the people say.
DOG-DAYS, 1817.
Like Sturmhanns’s little dog, friendly one moment and the next snapping at one’s calf, are these uncertain dog-days. In the morning all promises well, and the skies are bright and clear. And the sun caresses and kisses thee, embracing the world with passionate love—who would not then stroll out into the comforting shade of the woods? Thou wanderest freely about and gazest on the green earth thinking: Beloved, beautiful day! Then, all at once, the dark clouds are over thee, and the storm tears thy hat from thy head, and the rain madly beats thee in the face; find a shelter for thyself quickly—the hail comes rushing down.
The dog-days. Can Nature be unfaithful also? It is man who accuses her of evil, because his thoughts are unreasonable and his wisdom is lacking. There is nothing evil and nothing good, excepting in the heart of man, the one being to whom is given free-will.
If we could lay aside our free-will, we should then have no conscience. In the forest there are many to whom that would be very agreeable.
THE FEAST OF ST. JAMES, 1817.
To-day I was in the Hinter Winkel again, in Mathes’s house. The woman is inconsolable. Two days ago the boy Lazarus disappeared.
Something horrible has happened. In his rage he hurled a stone at his mother. Then, with a wild cry, he ran away. Upon Mathes’s grave the fresh imprints of two knees were discovered yesterday.
We have summoned people to hunt for the boy. He is not in any of the huts. They will also search along the ravines and streams.
“He did n’t mean to hit me!” sobs the mother; “and it was only a little stone, but a large one lies upon my heart. He could never have thrown a greater one at me than by running away.”
THE FEAST OF ST. PETER IN CHAINS, 1817.
The following story has spread like wild-fire through the forest. Early this morning as the little daughter of Mathes was on her way to plant wild-rose trees upon her father’s grave, she saw the gleam of something white. Upon the mound had been placed a staff from which a piece of paper was fluttering. The girl ran home to her mother, and the latter hastened to me, begging me to come and explain it to her.
It is most remarkable. It is news from the boy. On the paper in strange handwriting were the words:
“My mother and my sister! Bear me no ill-will and do not worry. I am in the school of the Cross.
“LAZARUS.”
They all looked to me for an explanation. The boy could neither read nor write, as can hardly anyone in the forest. They think that I, being learned, ought to know everything.
I know nothing.
THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS, 1817.
The people come and go in silence.
A little drop collects on the high branch of a tree, travels along out to the farthest needle, trembles, glistens, and sparkles, now grey like lead, now red like a carbuncle. It has hardly reflected the glorious colour of the woods and sky, when a breath of wind stirs and the little drop frees itself from the swaying pine-branch and falls upon the ground. The earth sucks it in, and there is no longer a trace of the tiny, sparkling star.
Thus lives the child of the forest and thus it dies.
Outside it is otherwise. There the drops congeal in the frosty breath of conventionality, and the icicles tinkle against each other, tinkling even as they fall and rest upon the ground, reflecting for a while the glory of the world until they dissolve and melt, like our thoughts of a dear departed one.
Outside, the churchyards are not for the dead, but for the living. There we pay honour to the memory of our forefathers and to our own future resting-place. The flowers and the inscriptions are for us, and we feel peace in our hearts as we think of the sleeper who is freed from trial. We realise the dissolution of the departed but hope for him the resurrection. No one walks upon burial-ground unrewarded; these clods cool the passions and warm the heart, and not only is the peace of death written on the flowery mounds, but also the worth of life.
The forest brings rest to whom rest belongs. There the dead sleeper has no candle, nor has the living one had one. May the everlasting light give them light! is our only petition. The faint autumn sun smiles gently, promising eternal brightness, and the coming spring will care for the flowers and wreaths.
In the forest our thoughts are not for the bodies of the dead, but for the agony of the living souls of those who, having died in sin, are languishing in purgatory!
When the starving Hans stole the piece of bread from his starving neighbour in the field and then died, the primeval forest was not yet standing. The body has decayed. Hans is forgotten, the soul lies in purgatory. The meadow has become a forest, the forest a wilderness; the wolves howl and there is no man far or near. On the mountain sides blow summer breezes and winter storms, and with each moment a grain of sand; and with each century a mass of mountain plunges into the depths of the ravines. And the poor soul lies in the fire. Again man comes into the wilderness, the high forests fall, huts and houses appear and a parish is founded—the soul belonging to olden times and to days long past lies in the flames of purgatory, is abandoned and forgotten.
But there is one day in the year for the consolation of such forgotten souls.
When Christ, the Lord, died upon the cross and but one drop of blood was left in His heart, His Heavenly Father asked Him: “My dear Son, mankind is saved; to whom wilt thou give the last drop of thy red blood?” Then Christ, the Lord, answered: “To my beloved mother, who stands at the cross; that her pain may be soothed.” “Oh no, my child Jesus,” the Mother Mary replied, “if thou wilt suffer the bitter death for the souls of men, then can I also bear the pain of a mother’s heart, e’en though the agony were so great that the sea could not quench it, and the whole earth a grave which could not bury it. I give the last drop of thy blood to the forgotten souls in purgatory, that they may have one day in the year, when they are freed from the fire.”
And thus—according to the legend—originated All Souls’ Day. On this day even the most abandoned and forgotten souls are delivered from their pain and they stand in the outer courts of heaven, until the stroke of the last hour in the day summons them back into the flames.
Such is the idea and meaning of the feast of All Souls in the forest, and many a good deed is performed with the thought of soothing the fiery anguish of departed souls.
But over the lonely graves the late autumn mists are gathering, and the remainder of the hill is concealed by newly fallen snow, upon which the claws of a jay may have traced a little chain—the only sign of life which still reigns here above—symbol of the indissoluble band: About life and death an eternal chain is wound.
To-day I am reminded of Lucas, a charcoal-burner, who lies buried in Lautergräben. One night a goat was stolen from the wood-cutter Luger, and afterwards, not far from Lucas’s hut, they found the animal’s skin and entrails. Thus it was clear Lucas was the thief, and as slothfulness rules everywhere in the forest, they did not prosecute the charcoal-burner, and so he could not clear himself. He noticed, however, how he was suspected, and once he called out: “Had you cut off my hands, or put out my eyes, I should be content. But you have robbed me of my honour—now my life is ruined.” Still the people said: “Let him turn and twist as he will, he stole the goat all the same.” And this nearly crazed the poor man. “Thieves must be hanged,” he said,—and afterwards he was found suspended from the branch of a fir-tree. From time immemorial suicides have chosen their own graves; so they buried the man among the roots of the fir.
It was not until a few weeks ago, that an unemployed wood-cutter made the confession on his death-bed, that it was he who had taken the goat from Luger. I shall go to-day to Lucas’s grave in Lautergräben.
There is still another grave in the Winkel forests, known and despised by the people. On this anniversary day, however, it was not deserted. For here, upon her father’s grave, the little daughter of Black Mathes again discovered a bit of paper with the words:
“I am well. I think of my mother and sister and father. “LAZARUS.”
That is the message, the only news from the vanished boy for many days. The handwriting is the same as before.
No footsteps excepting those of the girl lead to the grave, none away from it. Paths for foxes, and deer, and other animals wind zig-zag through the wintry woods.
THE FEAST OF ST. CATHARINE, 1817.
A letter has been written begging the lad to return home for his mother’s sake. It has been carefully fastened upon the little cross above the grave. It is still there; no one has opened it.
CHRISTMAS, 1817.
To-day I am homesick for the sound of bells, for the sad, melting tones of an organ. I sit in my room and play manger songs on the zither. My zither has but three strings; a more perfect one I did not know how to make.
The three strings are enough for me; one is my mother, the other my wife, the third my child. One always spends Christmas with one’s family.
Only a few of the forest people go with pine-torches to the midnight service in Holdenschlag. The distance is too great. The rest remain in their huts, yet, having no desire to sleep, they sit together and tell stories, for to-day they have a peculiar impulse to leave their commonplace life and create a world of their own. Many a one carries out old pagan customs, hoping thereby to satisfy an unspeakable longing of the heart. Many a one strains his eyes and gazes over the dark forests, confidently expecting to see the heavens illumined. He listens for the ringing of festival bells and soft angel voices. But only the stars gleam above the forest hills, to-day as yesterday and always. A cold breeze stirs among the tree-tops; there is a glitter of ice, and now and then a branch shakes off its burden of snow.
But on this night the glistening and falling of the snow affect one in an unusual way, and the hearts of men tremble in longing expectation of the Redeemer.
I have trimmed a simple little Christmas-tree, such as they have in northern countries, and have sent the same to Anna Maria Russ in Lautergräben. I think the light of the candles will be reflected in a friendly way in the eyes of the little one. Perhaps a bit of the brightness will sink into the young heart never to be extinguished.
In the widow’s hut, there can be no Christmas-tree. Mathes’s grave is buried deep in snow; the branch which served as letter-box wears a tall cap. The pleading letter from the mother to the child will be destroyed without having been opened or read.
MARCH, 1818.
Over in one corner of Karwässer Berthold has earned himself a hut. He has joined the wood-cutters.
Yesterday a child was born to Aga. It is a girl. They did not carry her to Holdenschlag, but sent for me to christen the little one. I am no priest and may not steal a name from the church calendar. I have called the girl Waldlilie and have baptised her with the water of the woods.
EASTER, 1818.
When will the angel come to roll away the stone?
“Alas, alas, our Lord is dead! But as I have already said, one hardly knows anything in this back country. Well, well, He cannot have been very young, for I have heard of Him all my life. But all the same His time has come at last. Ah, who can escape!...” Thus spoke old Schwammelfuchs, when he learned that on Good Friday it had been proclaimed from the chancel in Holdenschlag that our Lord had died for the sins of the world.
The old man meant it seriously and in the greatest reverence, although every evening at his prayers he repeats the words: “Suffered under Pontius Pilate, crucified, dead.”
It is a prayer of the lips. True prayer, the heart offers only in its need, in its joy, but these people are not conscious of this. Deeply buried is that which we call true worship or religious feeling.
The people hasten Easter eve or in the morning out into the open woods, where they kindle fires, discharge their guns, and gaze into the air for the papal blessing, which from the pinnacle of St. Peter’s at Rome is scattered to the four winds on Easter morning.
There is always present the unconscious longing and struggle. One sees that something lies hidden in the heart which is not dead. But when will the angel come to roll away the stone?
THE FEAST OF ST. MARK, 1818.
The snow is melted. Yonder in the gorge the avalanches still thunder. A year ago we planted a few fruit-trees; these are now becoming quite green and the cherry-tree bears five snow-white blossoms.
The building of the church has commenced again. The masons have also gone to work on the parsonage. That is to be a stately house, built after plans from the owner of the forest. Why then must the parsonage be larger than the schoolhouse? The latter is for an entire family and a troop of young guests; the parsonage harbours one or a few single people, whose world does not extend outwards, but is absorbed within.
But the parsonage is the home and refuge for all those needing help or advice; an asylum for the persecuted and defenceless—the centre of the parish.
As in the changing seasons the old is constantly reappearing in the new, so these people continue the occupations, and in their ignorance and poverty repeat the lives of their ancestors.
I no longer have time to wander about in the forest, watching the people and studying nature. I must oversee the building constantly; the workmen and foremen depend upon my advice. It requires much thought, and I am obliged to call to my aid books and the experiences of others, so that nothing may go wrong.
But I enjoy this active life and I am becoming younger and stronger.
Yesterday the roof of the church was raised. Many people were present, each one wishing to contribute his mite to the church. The widow of Mathes and her daughter were also working on the building. Not long ago the woman brought a little stone from her hut, saying: “I should like to have this pebble lie under the altar.”
It is the stone which the lad threw at his mother.
PENTECOST, 1818.
The first celebration of the new church. Not inside however, but in front of it. Yesterday the cross was placed on the tower. It is made of steel and gilded—a present from the Baron.
A great crowd of people assembled; there are many inhabitants in the forest after all.
From Holdenschlag there was no one present, not even the priest. Can it be that they begrudge us the new church? But the Einspanig has been seen on the other side of the Winkel brook, lurking about listening. He draws his grey mantle over his disordered hair, and hastens along by the brook, finally disappearing in the thicket. He is a strange creature; he avoids the people more and more, and is only seen on special days. No one knows who he is or whence he comes, and what he is weaving no weaver can tell.
The master wood-cutter also takes part in the celebration; he has arrayed himself in gala attire and has even combed his red beard. He carries a knotted stick, and I notice at once that something unusual is about to take place. I am not mistaken, for he proceeds to make a speech in which he says that in the name of the master of the forest he to-day delivers over the new church to the new parish.
A stalwart man carries up the cross, bound to his left arm. It is Paul, the young head journeyman from Lautergräben. From the tower window, through which he climbs, a very simple staging is placed upon the almost perpendicular shingle roof, reaching to the summit. Calmly the bearer of the cross climbs along the beam. Having reached the top, he stands upright, loosening the cross from his arm. The crowd below is silent, and round about there is not a sound; it is as if it were still a wilderness on the banks of the Winkel. Each one holds his breath, as if fearing to disturb the equilibrium of the man on the dizzy height.
Paul avoids looking about him, and his movements are slow and regular. I am seized with terror as I fancy that he makes an unnecessary start and turn—then the cross sinks into its resting-place and stands firmly. In the same moment the man stumbles—a cry resounds in my vicinity. But Paul is still standing on the summit.
The cry proceeds from Anna Maria. She is deathly pale, and without uttering another sound she seats herself upon a stone.
And now the merry-making begins. Paul takes out a glass and, raising it to his lips, drains it, then hurls it upon the ground. It breaks into a thousand pieces, and the people struggle with one another for the bits, that they may preserve them for their descendants and be able to say: “See, this is a part of the glass which was used at the raising of the cross on the church tower.”
Paul still stands upon the pinnacle, arm in arm with the cross; in the tower window the grey head of our rhymster Rüpel now appears. Contracting his white eyebrows so violently that it can be seen even from below, the man begins thus to speak: “As the dizzy spire I cannot reach, so from this window I ’ll make my speech. On the highest point a youth doth stand, with handsome looks and glass in hand. But aged ones like me should teach, yet sermons I will never preach. For that below a chancel’s given, to honest priests, who guide to heaven. And the font baptismal stands near by—of no more use to such as I—but some folks in the parish here, need this wash-trough every year. The font should be both wide and long—in forest lands it must be strong; near by the confessional stands for all, where sins are left both great and small, which God forgives; though the priest his ears may close, the sins from his own heart he knows. Then there ’s the altar, where one leaves one’s woes, refreshed and young one homeward goes. And God twelve angels here will send, to guard this parish from end to end. Methinks I hear our bells ring clear: I see our sunlit cross in place, a sacred sign that by God’s grace we all together at last may wend our way to heaven when life shall end. But I must be the bell to-day, to tell abroad what you fain would say, and send it forth o’er mountain and wood to the town where dwells our master good—a message of thanks from this parish new, for the house of God which he builds for you. May angels guide us to heaven’s door,—this is my greeting, and still more—before above we have a happy birth, may we rejoice a little while on earth.”
These words warmed the hearts of the people, and I would gladly have sent my own guardian angel to the Baron in the city with a most loving message of thanks.
As Paul has now safely descended from the tower to firm ground, his wife receives him with open arms: “God gives thee back to me from His own hands!”
They then approach the house which to-day has become a noisy tavern. Behold the fatality, here is Paul, now standing with less security upon the smooth, firm floor of the inn than he did a few hours ago above on the tower.
But the lofty cross is graciously stretching out its arm above the church and the tavern.
A FEW DAYS LATER.
That must be a false report which is circulating about the Baron’s son. He is said to have become dissipated. Too much wealth was awaiting him when he came into this world. But with an illustrious name and an abundance of money, no wonder life is full of attractions!
I used to tell my good Hermann what it meant to work for one’s daily bread. But there was one thing about him which did not please me: he never noticed the labourer in the field, or the flowers of spring, or the leaves of autumn.
Still, Hermann, thou canst not go very far astray. By thy side stands the holiest, truest guardian angel ever born in heaven or on earth.
Ah, if thou wouldst only come into our beautiful, silent forest!
MORGENROTH AND EDELWEISS, SUMMER, 1818.
It is sometimes very lonely for me here in the Winkel. But I know one remedy for this; at such times I go to still lonelier parts of the forest; I have been there even at night, have watched sleeping nature, and have found rest.
Night lies over the woodland. The last breath of the day that has passed has died away. The birds are resting and dreaming, at the same time composing songs for the future. The screech-owl hoots, and the branches sigh. The world has closed her eyes, yet her ear she opens to the eternal laments of mankind. To what purpose? Her heart is of stone and impossible to warm. Ah, but she warms us with her peaceful aspect. Above, constellation presses against constellation, dances its measure and rejoices in the everlasting day. The morning returns to the forest also, the branches are already beckoning to it.
The young king approaches from the east upon his steeds of cloud and with his flaming lance pierces the heart of night; with faint sobs she falls, and from the rocky height streams the blood.
Alpine glow the people call it, and if I were a poet I would celebrate it in song.
At this season it would be beautiful on the Graue Zahn. At night, while below in the dark valley man rests from misery, dreams of misery, and strengthens himself for new misery—the eternal spires tower aloft, silently glowing, and at midnight one day reaches its hand to the next across the Zahn.
“Oh, what a beautiful light is that!” old Rüpel once exclaimed. “To distant lands it sends its ray, its rosy splendour fills my heart, to God above it lights my way.”
A strange yearning sometimes fills my soul; it is not a longing for space, for infinity; thirst for light would better express it. My poor eyes can never satisfy the thirsting soul; they will yet perish in the sea of light and the thirst will still be unquenched.
A short time since I was on the Graue Zahn again. Soon I shall be tied to the bell-rope when other people are taking a holiday. The bell-rope may be compared to a long-drawn breath, always praising God and proclaiming good-will to man.
From the high mountain I gazed below, but I did not behold the sea. I looked toward the north to the farthest horizon, whence one might perhaps see the plain and the city, the turret of the house, and the gleam of the windows.... And how far my gaze must wander to find the grave in Saxon-land!...
A sharp wind interrupted my thoughts. Then I once more made my descent.
Beside an overhanging cliff I found something very beautiful.
On the banks of the distant lake I had already heard from the lips of my parents, and I have repeatedly been informed by the people of these woodlands, that in the midst of the sun the holy Virgin Mary sits at the spinning-wheel. She spins wool from a snow-white lamb, like those pastured in paradise. Once while spinning, she fell asleep and dreamed of the human race, and a bit of the wool falling to the earth remained clinging to a high cliff. The people found it and called it Edelweiss.
I picked two of the little stars and placed them on my breast. One of them, which has a slightly reddish tinge, shall be called Heinrich-roth, the other, snow-white, that... I will leave its old name.
As towards evening I descend to the forest and the wood-cutting, I chance upon something unspeakably lovely. There, not far from my path, I see a bed of fresh green grass; its perfume is so inviting, that I think I will rest my weary limbs upon it for a little. And as I approach the grassy couch, I behold a child sleeping thereon. A flower-like, tender child wrapped in linen. I remain standing and hold my breath, that I may not cry out in astonishment and thus waken the little creature. I can scarcely imagine how it happens that this helpless, extremely young child should be in this isolated place at such an hour. Then it is explained. Up from the Thalmulde a load of grass comes swaying towards me, and under it Aga is panting. She is gathering fodder for her goats, and the child is her little daughter—my Waldlilie.
The woman now loads the grass on her back and the child on her arm, and together we proceed down the valley.
The same evening I entered her hut and drank goat’s milk. Berthold came home late from his wood-cutting. The people lead a hard life; but they are of good courage, and the young Waldlilie is their happiness.
As Berthold sees the Edelweiss on my breast he says, with a warning gesture: “Take care, that is a dangerous weed!” As I fail to understand, he adds: “Edelweiss nearly killed my father and Edelweiss poisons my love for my dead mother.”
“How so, how so, Berthold?” I ask.
He then related the following story to me: On the other side of the Zahn, beyond the abyss, lived a young forester, who loved a herdsmaid. She was a proud lass and one day she said to the young man; “I love thee and wish to be thine, but one proof of thy true love thou must give to me. Thou art a nimble climber, wilt thou refuse, if I ask for an Edelweiss from the high cliff?”
“My life, an Edelweiss thou shalt have!” exclaimed the lad, but he forgot that the high cliff was called the Devil’s Mountain, because it was impossible to climb, and that at its foot stood tablets, telling of root-diggers and chamois-hunters who had fallen there. And the herdsmaid did not realise that she was demanding a new tablet.
But it is very true that love drives one mad. The young forester started on the same day.
He climbs the lower cliff, over which the woodcutter is still obliged to walk with his axe; he ascends crags where the root-digger digs his spikenard; he swings himself over ravines and rocks where the chamois-hunter scarcely dares to venture. And finally he reaches that horrible place on the Devil’s Mountain, with the yawning abyss below and the perpendicular rocks above.
Upon a neighbouring crag a chamois is standing, which spiritedly raises its head and looks mockingly across at the lad. It does not flee, up here the game becomes the hunter and man the helpless game. The chamois scrapes the ground with its fore-foot, and flaky bits fly into the air... Edelweiss.
The lad well knows that he must shade his eyes to keep from becoming dizzy. He well knows that if he looks up the rocky wall above, it will be farewell to the light of heaven; and if his eye glances downwards it will gaze into his grave.
Not the chamois, but the ground upon which it stands, is the object of his quest to-day. He thrusts his alpenstock into the earth and turns and swings himself. A blue mist rises before his eyes. Sparks appear, circle, and fade away. He no longer sees aught but the smile of the herdswoman. Now he throws his stick away, now he jumps and makes long leaps. With a start the chamois springs wildly over his head and the young man sinks upon the white bed of Edelweiss.
On the second day after this, the head forester sent to ask the people if the lad had been seen. On the third day they saw the herdsmaid running in the woods with flowing hair. And on the evening of the same day the young forester walked through the valley leaning upon a staff.
How he came down from the Devil’s Mountain, he told no one, perhaps he could not tell. He had Edelweiss with him—a bunch on his breast—a wreath on his head; his hair had become snow-white—Edelweiss.
And the herdswoman, who in her arrogance had caused this to happen to the brown curly head, now loved and cherished the white locks until years later her own had become white as well.
Berthold told the story almost beautifully and finally he added that he was the child of the young forester and the herdswoman.
AUTUMN, 1818.
After wandering through other parts of the forest among the people both old and young, learning from the former, teaching the latter, I am always glad to return to the Winkel. Here in these last years, the people have been labouring with axe and hammer about the Winkel-warden’s house and I have sometimes even lent a hand to the work myself. And now as I look around me I realise that we have a village.
Near the house a few huts have been erected originally intended for the builders but now being converted into permanent dwellings. Martin Grassteiger, a charcoal-burner, from Lautergräben, has recently bought two such little huts for a considerable sum, and to the astonishment of the people he paid at once for them in cash. From pitch-black coal, shining thalers are made, old Russ-Kath once said. And with gleaming thalers Grassteiger has paid for the huts and has become a man of influence.
The parsonage is approaching completion, likewise the church and next must come the schoolhouse;—Mein Gott, what a great joy I am experiencing in these forests!
Yesterday evening we locked the church for the first time. The architect, the carpenter from Holdenschlag, and the master wood-cutter were present, but I do not know how it came about that as we separated the key remained in my hand. I am hardly aware of it myself, yet the Baron has recently written that he was quite satisfied with my work as schoolmaster in the forest. But what am I accomplishing? I tell the children stories and show them many little things in the woods, which no person here has ever before noticed, but which fascinate these young people.
The windows in the church, on either side of the altar, do not quite satisfy me. The dazzling panes weary my eyes, and the wooded slopes and the wood-cutting stare in upon one. But, alas, the Sunday worshipper might be quite content with that, for then, instead of offering his poor soul humbly before the dear God, he would be constantly chopping wood, counting the felled trunks, the sticks, the piles of brushwood, which on a week-day would not otherwise trouble him. Prayer would stream from the heart like a fountain of blood, if one’s thoughts did not wander, but since they cannot always be controlled, we must guard the church like a fortress, so that the Sabbath may not leave it nor the work-day enter.
The two windows must be provided with paintings; so I have sent for red, yellow, blue, and green paper, and for a number of days I have been working as designer behind closed doors.
About the saint for the church the people are not yet united. But I have my ideas in regard to it. “My friends,” I said, “we will not set up any saint. Let each one think of his own as he will. The saints are invisible in heaven, and ours could only be made from ordinary wood, which might simply arouse their anger.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” answered a few of the people to this proposal, “and it would surely cost us less.”
A wood-chopper from Karwasserschlag made the altar table. He is a poor man, blessed with many children; but for the work in the church he took no pay. “For a good reason I do it,” said he; “I do it for my family, that none of its members may die, or any more be added to it.”
The dear God cannot have rightly understood; scarcely is the altar table finished, when the wood-chopper’s ninth boy comes into the world.
In order to show that it is an honour to the forest when such a poor man renders a public service we call the wood-chopper, as he is also one who does not know his name, Franz Ehrenwald (honour to the forest). The name will suffice for his nine boys and more.
Franz Ehrenwald has a clever, ambitious head. Having succeeded with the altar table, he now decides to change his business entirely to that of carpenter and cabinet-maker. He has already collected a number of tools, and furnished himself with two baskets full of planes, draw-knives, augers, saws, axes, chisels, and other things, which he does not in the least know how to handle, and which he will not use as long as he lives. But the tools are his pride; and his boys cause him no greater annoyance than when, in their own attempts at carpentry, they take possession of one of the augers or nick a knife. He is quite willing to have them learn to work correctly, the two baskets will indeed be their legacy some time.
I have drawn a number of plans for dwelling-houses, showing how they should be built, so that they may be durable, light, airy, easily heated, tasteful, and suited to the people’s mode of life.
According to such plans, Franz Ehrenwald has already commenced a number of houses. One of them belongs to the master workman Paul in Lautergräben. The buildings are not expensive, since the owner of the forest gives the timber free; besides, it is said that they are to remain exempt from taxes.
So Master Ehrenwald’s business is beginning well; he is obliged to have assistants in addition to his sons. He has also made plans for his own house. As I was recently standing down by the brook fishing for trout, he suddenly came up to me, I have no idea from where, and whispered mysteriously into my ear: “Believe me, my new house will be devilish fine, devilish fine!” No one else was near us, and the fish in the Winkel were deaf. “But devilish fine,” he whispered softly; “magnificent will be my house!” The man is really childish in his happiness; he is in his element; formerly it did not occur to anyone that fine houses could ever be built in the Winkel forests.
UPON THE ROAD TO THE CROSS, AUTUMN, 1818.
Above, in the wastes of the Felsenthal, stands a wooden cross. It is the same which is said to have grown from the seed of the little bird that flies into the valley every thousand years.
I consulted with the forester and a few of the older men, and I afterwards asked the old bearded story-teller Rüpel, who had no other important business, if he would go with me to Karwässer and into the Felsenthal to help bring down the moss-covered cross into the Winkel.
And so we start one bright autumn morning. We are both unspeakably happy. We thank the shady Winkel brook for its splashing and gurgling. We thank the green meadow for its verdure; we thank the dew, the birds, the deer, and the whole forest. We ascend the slippery floor of the woods, we clamber over mouldering trunks and mossy stones. The trees are old and wear long beards, and our story-teller stands on a brotherly footing with each one. Among the webs of moss we find beetles, ants, and lizards; we greet them all, and we invite airy, glittering butterflies to accompany us to the cross. The gay little world cares nothing about it.
My companion is a queer fellow. One has to know him to appreciate him. But among the woodspeople there are sometimes the strangest characters. Outside in the cultured and polished world, such men are called geniuses; here they are fools or imbeciles.
Rüpel is an imbecile of this sort. They also call him Story-teller, because he always has some kind of a tale to tell, and Rhyme-Rüpel, because—and that is the peculiarity—he cannot say ten words without rhyming. It is an absurd habit. On the way he told me the whole story of his life in rhyme. To be sure the rhymes stumble disgracefully, but who could avoid stumbling on such stony forest ground? “A chorus boy was I, as none who read in Holdenschlag the record will deny. I pulled the rope and made the bells ring out, and as they rung, I sang, and keeping time, I mocked the clapper with my tongue. Into the chalice for the priest at service I poured wine, but the sight of water made him shrink, one drop, in fine, and he would haste away displeased. The water and the wine together, even as flesh and blood, our highest good combine, but too much water in the cup, Christ’s rosy blood profanes, so I left the church and the blacksmith’s trade I plied for honest gains. I heard the bellows’ rhythmic sound, the merry anvil’s ring; the hammer joined it, keeping time, the sparks flew, everything combined in perfect harmony, the whole world seemed to sing. But this my master did not please, so still in rhythmic tide, he seized me by the hair—and lo! through ringing, singing, side by side, the forge brought forth an endless rhyme, and though ’t was born in peaceful eve, I still am keeping, keeping time. The forge produces only rhymes, there are no spades or horseshoes there, the blacksmith chased the rhymster out, to forest glades and open air. Within the woods I plucked the moss, I bounded with the deer, and pulled up tangled roots and herbs, the birds my voice could hear—light as a plume, and, joyous, gay, I singing passed the time away. A cousin forester of mine feared, with such idle life, I could but starve, so he transformed my pleasure into strife. A hunter, shouldering my first gun, the forest was aglee, I shot the game and hit the air, the deer he looked at me. Then after him in rhythm I ran, he paused, had I desired, I might have leaped upon his back, but ever I aspired to keep my life in rhythmic tune, and such uneven gait my progress would impede I knew, so I preferred to wait. This made my master sad, the hunter’s craft for man like me, he looks upon as bad. Then for a while I wandered round, attempting more or less, with various gentlemen I lived, but never won success. Sometimes to leave their service, they kindly gave me word, sometimes they chased me out of doors, nor was a protest heard. And so it goes, behold me now, my story I have told, back to the woods I ’ve come again, my home is here—I ’m old. I sing for merry folks and kind, where happy words are said, at holy service, wedding-feasts, I sing for crumbs of bread. God bless it unto me! Though it be dry and black, if I am well and my tongue still moves, for nothing do I lack. And when at last Sir Death doth come, I ’ll go, for ripe the time, and learn, when I have travelled home, the sweetest of all rhyme. And when the singing I do hear, and trumpet, sounding long, I ’ll rise again—and that’s the life of Rüpel and his song.”
I should like to name the man the wild harpist or forest singer, or the sparrow of the New Testament; he sows not, he reaps not, and he does not beg, yet the good Winkel foresters nourish him, while without in the wide land singers starve.
After many hours we finally arrive in the Felsenthal. As we walk along the jagged walls, where in the clefts fear slumbers, and as we see the cross towering in the midst of the mouldering trunks, my companion imagines that he sees a human figure disappearing among the stones. But with the exception of our two selves I notice no one.
Before the cross we pause. It towers upon the boulder as it towered years ago, as according to the legend of the people, it has stood since time immemorial. Storms have passed over it and have loosened the bark from the wood, though they have done it no further injury. But the warm sunny days have made fissures in the beam. The blue sky arches even over this remote corner of the world. The sinking sun shines aslant from behind the rocks, touches the bare, ancient runes, lighting up the right arm of the cross. A little brown worm crawls over the beam towards the sunny arm, but has scarcely reached it when the glow disappears. A beetle runs along the upright beam and hastens under the remaining bit of bark, perhaps to snatch away the pupa of an ant. To the one the gleaming cross is a paradise; to the other the battle-ground of his struggles and pleasures.
For our parish may it be the former!
It is well that no one knows who made and erected the cross, for the hands that have carved a symbol of divinity may never be folded in worship before it. From Mount Sinai, Moses brought the tables of the law down to the people as true image of God. The idol was not created until the Israelites formed one from their own ornaments and with their own hands.
As we climb upon the rock to remove the cross, Rüpel covers his face with both hands. “We are destroying the altar in Felsenkar,” he cries excitedly. “Where shall the tree in the storm now pray, and the hunted deer that roams astray, on the forest’s edge, with the cross away?”
My own hand trembles as we take up our burden. I place it so that the horizontal beam rests upon my neck like a yoke, Rüpel carrying the upright beam behind.
And so we go on amid the boulders and the ancient trees. As we come to the precipice, the shadows of evening are closing in.
The whole night we walk through the forest. In the ravines and narrow defiles the darkness is appalling, and our cross crashes against many an old tree-trunk. When our path leads over rising ground, the moonlight shimmers through the branches, revealing the white mosaics and hearts which lie upon the earth.
Many times we lay down our burden and wipe the sweat from our brows; we speak very little with one another. Only once Rüpel breaks the silence with the words: “The cross is heavy—hard, I ’ll bear it till I die, and o’er my grave a tree shall rise, when they bury me by and by; and green it shall grow to greet the sun, nor o’er my bones decay, but heavenward ever soar, increasing day by day.”
Once, while we are thus resting, a dark figure glides by us across the way. It stretches out one hand, pointing to a broad stone, and then disappears. We both notice this apparition, but do not speak until on the meadow of the Karwässer we place the cross upright on the ground, its dark shadow peacefully resting upon the dewy grass, and then the old man utters these words: “He bore the cross unto the mount—our Lord—in bitter grief, and stopped to rest upon a stone, and, resting, found relief. A Jew stepped out and said: ‘This stone belongs to me.’ The Saviour staggered on in pain, the Jew must ever flee; he cannot die, but e’en to-day, there is no rest at hand—from age to age, in fiery shoes, he roams from land to land.” After a little Rüpel continues: “Because we ’ve borne the cross to-night, we ’ve seen the Wandering Jew—he begged us rest upon the stone, ’t were peace for him, but not for me and you.”
At the coal-pit in upper Lautergräben, four men await us. Taking the cross, they lay it upon a bier of green branches and proceed with it towards the Winkel.
As we approach our valley the day is breaking. And a tone resounds and trembles through the air, which is not to be compared with song of man, lute, or any earthly music. It is many years since I have heard a sound like that, and I scarcely recognise it. We all stop and listen; it is the bell of our new church. While we were in the Felsenthal, the bells arrived and were hung.
As I hear them this morning, I cannot refrain from calling out: “My friends, now we shall never be alone! The parishes outside ring their bells at this hour; we have the same morning greeting as they, the same thoughts. We are no longer dumb, we have our united voice in the tower, which, in joy and in trouble, will proclaim what we feel but are unable to convey in words. And the eternal thought of God, which everywhere exists, but which is nowhere truly comprehended, and which no image or word can ever quite express, assumes form for our senses and becomes intelligible to our hearts only in the resounding circle of the bell. And so thou bringest to us, thou sweet music of bells, a comforting message from without and from within and from above!” The men gaze at me, wondering at my words and surprised that it is possible to say so much about the ringing of church bells, which one may hear every day over in Holdenschlag. Only the good Rüpel hastens away behind the alder-bushes so that, undisturbed by my hoarse voice he may listen to the pure tones.
Before the church many people are assembled to hear the bells and see the cross,—that cross, which sprang from the seed brought by the little bird, which once in every thousand years flies through the forest.
CONSECRATION OF THE CHURCH, 1818.
It is Sunday—the first Sunday in the Winkel forests. The bells announced it at dawn, and the people have come from the Upper Winkel, from Miesenbach, from Lautergräben, from Karwässer, and from every hermitage and cave of the wide woods. To-day they are no longer wood-cutters and charcoal-burners as ordinarily, to-day for the first time they fuse into one, into one body, and are called the parish.
The church is finished. Above the altar towers the cross from the Felsenthal; it stands here as unpretentiously and almost as harmoniously as yonder in its loneliness. Among the people remarks are heard to the effect that this is the true cross of the Saviour. If they find comfort and exaltation in this thought, then it is as they say.
The canopy for the altar is a present from the Baron; the candlesticks and the credence were carved by Ehremvald. But who has given the two beautiful altar windows with the painted glass? I am asked. It is well that the windows are so high, otherwise it must be seen that only coloured paper is pasted over the panes. The two windows represent the Commandments of Moses, within a green crown of thorns mingled with red and white roses. Over the altar and the cross is a round window representing the eye of God, with the words: “I am the Lord thy God, who frees thee from bondage. Make thyself no graven image, to worship it.”
The priest from Holdenschlag, who was here to perform the service of consecration, informed me that the above words were not suitable. “Thou shalt believe in one God!” it should say. I replied that the words here employed, I had read in a very old Bible.
The schoolmaster from Holdenschlag played the organ, which has a pure, sympathetic tone. “The gladness and woe, which the lips cannot tell, from music they flow, as rivulets run in the light of the sun,” says the old forest singer.
In the same way that I have hitherto practised on the zither, I now practise on the organ. Each sweet sound sinks into the heart of the worshipper to lift his soul to the altar of God.
The priest from Holdenschlag preached a sermon on the significance of the consecration and the parish church, and on the life of man from the baptismal font to the grave. It then occurred to me that we had no graveyard. No one has thought of it or wishes to think of it, even though the font has been spoken of so often. I can no longer worship, and afterwards, during the mass while the veil of incense is rising, I cannot help wondering where we shall locate the burial-ground. After the high mass, when they all come out upon the square and approach the pedlars’ booths to look at the treasures and works of art which the world is now beginning to send in to the new parish in the Winkel, I climb up the slope to the first gentle rise over which the dark high forest extends toward the cliffs. There I lay myself upon the pine-needles with which the ground is strewn. I am nearly exhausted from the unusual excitement of recent events, and with the graveyard still on my mind, I try this couch to see how one would rest up here.
I hear the cries of the market people and the humming of the crowd below.
Many are dissatisfied with the church because no well-regulated inn stands near it. However, Brandy Hannes is there; he has set up a little table under the ash-trees and placed upon it some large bottles and small glasses. “What a dry consecration that would be with nothing to drink!” the people say, and the young men like to treat their sweethearts to a tiny glass as well. The devil is a pious fellow, he counterfeits each new church, but a tavern is always the result. The bar is his high altar, the gay hostess his priest, the tinkling of the glasses his bells and organ music, the purse of the host the offering, the playing-cards his prayer-book; and if a man is overcome with drunkenness and fighting, he is then his sacrificial lamb.
The tavern is the shadow of the church. And after the heat of the week, the workman is only too willing to rest within this shadow.
At the midday meal, which we ate together in the Winkel-warden’s house, the master wood-cutter told us that Grassteiger wished permission granted to erect a tavern for dispensing brandy.
“We already have the tavern-keeper, but where is our priest?
“One would not care to come to this corner of the world, fastened in with boards,” says the priest from Holdenschlag.
“That ’s true, your highness!” interrupts the Winkel-warden’s wife in a loud voice. “Indeed, I ’ll say it a hundred times over, I should like to leave this wilderness myself, and the sooner the better. There ’s nothing to do in this Winkel. What a good thing it would have been for us now, if we could have sold a little brandy of a Sunday, and I consider Grassteiger a lucky fellow!”
“Ha,” laughs the priest, “taverns! It will yet become a lively place, this Winkel—Winkel—ah, the parish has no name!”
The name of the parish has already been decided upon. The settlement of this question would have been a welcome occasion for the people to assemble at the new tavern to christen the parish with Schnapps. But we baptise with water. Our water is called the Winkel; since time immemorial a bridge has led across this stream. The square about the Winkel-warden’s house is briefly called Am Steg (by the bridge). Here stands the new church, and Winkelsteg shall it and the parish be called. Our master, Baron von Schrankenheim, has endorsed it.
As the bells were rung at the beginning of our church consecration, so they rang again at its close. On this day another very exciting occurrence has taken place. The gentlemen from Holdenschlag and the forester had left; it was quiet once more in Winkelsteg. Twilight comes on early now and the mist lay over the high mountains. It was already dark when I went to my bells. To-day for the first time the little red lamp was burning before the altar, which from now on shall be called the everlasting light, and which shall never be extinguished as long as the house of God remains standing. It is the watch before the Lord.
As I entered the church I beheld a figure in the shadow by the credence. A man still knelt there praying. If one must live so long in the misery of the day, the Sunday which follows, when one is communing with the dear God or with one’s self, is much too short. These were my thoughts, and I remained silent for a while, but finally advanced to remind the worshipper that the church was being closed. But as the figure became aware of my presence, it rose and sought to escape. After all it is no worshipper, I thought, seizing the fugitive and looking him in the face. It was a young lad.
“You rascal, you may well blush!” I cried.
“I am no rascal,” he replied, “and you are blushing too; that comes from the lamp.” Then I looked at him closely. Who should it prove to be but Lazarus, Adelheid’s lost son.
Striking my hands together, I uttered a cry, as I stood there in the church.
“Boy, for God’s sake tell me where thou hast been! We have hunted for thee, thy mother would even have overturned the Alps to find thee. And how dost thou come here to-day, Lazarus? Indeed this is beyond all belief!”
The boy stood there and to my questions he answered nothing—not one word.
Then I rang the bells. Lazarus was standing near me; his garment was composed of a woollen blanket, his hair fell over his shoulders, and his countenance was very pale. He watched me, for he had never seen bells rung before. And what a glad heart was mine! Now, with a clear ringing tongue, I could proclaim the event even as far as the mountains.
Finally my housekeeper came asking what was then the meaning of the ringing of the bells; a half dozen times she had already repeated the Ave Maria and still I did not stop.
I let go of the bell-rope and pointed to the boy. “See, he has finally come back. Did you not understand the ringing? Lazarus is found.”
A woman is better than any bell to spread such news. Scarcely had the Winkel-warden’s wife gone out screaming, when Lazarus was already surrounded by people. I hardly knew how to tell the story, and the lad murmured now and then, “Paulus,” besides which he uttered not a word.
We asked him who Paulus might be? Instead of answering the question, he said with a peculiarly shy look: “He led me here to the cross.” Then loudly and anxiously he called out, “Paulus!” His speech was awkward, his voice strange.
We led him into the house; the housekeeper placed something to eat before him. Sadly he gazed at the omelet, turned his head in all directions, and always back again to the food which he did not touch.
We all of us urged him to eat. He stretched his thin hands out from his rough mantle towards his plate but drew them back again. The boy trembled and began to sob. Later he asked for a piece of bread, which he swallowed with ravenous appetite. His black locks fell over his eyes and he did not brush them aside. Finally he dipped the bread into the water-jug and ate with increasing greed and drained the water to the last drop.
We stood around watching him, and we shook our wise heads, asking many questions; the lad heard nothing and stared at the pine-torch which gleamed on the wall, or out of the window into the darkness. The same night Grassteiger and I took the boy to his mother in the upper woods. A few times he sought to escape from us and to climb up the slopes of the dark forest. He was as dumb as a mole and as shy as a deer.
We reach Mathes’s house, which is called the Black Hut. Profound peace reigns everywhere. The little stream is murmuring before the door; the branches of the pine-trees groan above the roof. In the night one listens to such things; in the daytime there is, if one might so express it, the continuous noise of the light, so these other sounds are seldom noticed.
Grassteiger holds the boy by the hand. I place myself at a little window and call in through the paper pane: “Adelheid, wake up a bit!”
Then follows a slight noise and a timorous request to know who is without.
“Andreas Erdmann from Winkelsteg is here and two others!” I say. “But do not be frightened. In the new church a miracle has been performed. The Lord has awakened Lazarus!”
In the hut a red gleam dances up and down the walls, like a feeble flash of lightning. The woman has blown a bit of wood into a blaze at the fire on the hearth.
She lights us in at the door, but as she sees the boy, the torch falls to the floor and is extinguished.
When I finally procure a light, the woman is leaning against the door-post and Lazarus is lying on his face. He is crying. Grassteiger lifts him to his feet and brushes the hair from his brow. Adelheid stands almost motionless in her worn night-dress; but in her breast there is a great commotion. Pressing both hands against her heart, she turns towards the wall struggling for breath, until I fear she is about to faint. At last she looks at the boy and says: “Art thou really here, Lazarus?” And to us: “Sit down on the bench yonder, I will make some soup directly!” And again to the boy: “Take off thy wet shoes, my lad!”
But he has no shoes; instead he wears nothing but soles made from the bark of trees.
The woman goes to the bed, wakes the little girl, telling her to rise quickly for Lazarus has come. The child begins to weep.
The soup stands ready; the boy stares with his large eyes at the table and at his mother. Now at last her maternal love bursts forth: “My child, thou dost not know me! Yes, I have grown old, more than a hundred years! Where hast thou been this endless time! Jesu Maria!” Seizing the child, she presses him to her breast.
Lazarus gazes downwards; I notice how his lips quiver, but he does not weep and he utters not a word. He must have had some strange experience; his soul lies under a ban.
As he now removes his coarse blanket, to climb upon the freshly made bed, he takes out from under this rough mantle a handful of grey pebbles and with one movement strews them all over the floor. Hardly has he done this before he stoops and begins to collect them again. He counts them in his hand, then seeking in all the cracks and corners, he carefully picks up each pebble, counts them once more and hunts further, looking with great calmness a long time at the floor of the hut, until he finds the last one and has the full number in his hand. And now we see the lad smile for the first time. Then replacing the little stones in the pocket of his cloak he goes to bed, where he soon falls asleep.
We stand a long time by the hearth near the torch discussing the miraculous change which has taken place in this boy.
CHRISTMAS MONTH, 1818.
The boy Lazarus must have been in a very strict school. There is scarcely a trace left of his fiery temper; only, when he is excited, a quiver, short and quick as lightning, passes over him. He is also becoming cheerful and happy. Concerning his life during his year of absence he will tell but little. Paulus had forbidden him to repeat more than was necessary. Still occasionally he says something about it, but his words are vague and confused, almost like those of one talking in a dream. He tells of a stone hut, of a kind, grave man, of penances and of a crucifix.
His words become excited and definite only when he is placed in a position where he is obliged in any way to defend his own and the grave man’s honour.
In the parish much is said about the Wonder-boy. Some believe that Lazarus has been apprenticed to a magician and will yet perform great things.
The old forest singer is of the opinion that the Messiah must soon appear; and that Lazarus is the forerunner, a new John the Baptist, who has nourished himself in the wilderness with locusts and snails.
May God grant it! An active, warm-hearted priest would be the Messiah for Winkelsteg. But it is as the priest from Holdenschlag has said. No one will come into this remote forest valley.
I am the only one to take charge of the church, ring the bells, play the organ, sing, and read the prayers on Sunday. The christenings and funerals must go to Holdenschlag now as before.
FEBRUARY, 1819.
How does it concern me? It does not concern me in the least, yet I cannot cease thinking of what the forester has told about our young Baron.
The trouble began with a weakening of his constitution and was aggravated by loose and careless play, extravagance, drinking bouts, and sprees. Bah! I am a baron, a millionaire, a handsome young man, so, go ahead! Thus the forester explained it. Ah, but he cannot be so sure that the story is true.
Hermann is said to be in the capital, far from home and his sister. Yes, under such circumstances anything might indeed be possible. God protect thee, Hermann! It would be a reproach to me, the schoolmaster, if my first pupil should be a——
Away, ugly word! Hermann is a good young man. What does the forester know about it?
SPRING, 1819.
The region is changing rapidly. The mountains are becoming grey and bare; the forest is being burned over and there are smoking charcoal-pits in all the valleys.
With a great effort I have induced them to leave a little plot of ground up there on the knoll.
This is the last bit of the primeval forest, and in its shade the dead Winkelstegers shall rest.
The parsonage is finished. The parish has advertised for a priest. When this notice is read it will cause amusement: “That will be a fine sort of a curacy in this Winkelsteg: the communion wine is cider, the bread is made of oat-flour. Well, if the priest starves in Winkelsteg, it is his own fault, for he can at least eat the bark of trees! Even the wild-cats manage to keep alive on that.”
Winkelsteg is terribly maligned; but it is not so bad here after all. For caring for the church and occasionally mounting the pulpit to read something for the edification of the people, I receive a plentiful supply of meal and game. They say it is a pity that I am not a priest.
From the owner of the forest money has been sent as a thank-offering to establish a service in the church at Winkelsteg and to celebrate mass. The daughter of the house is married.
Thank God that my body and my brain find such an abundance of occupation here. This Einspanig is the cause of much speculation.
More and more often he is seen in this place; bent like a living interrogation point, bent and crooked he goes about. But he still avoids the people; and yet when one has the courage to ask him a question he gives an answer that would suffice for three. He has also been seen in the church, in the farthermost corner, where the confessional is to stand.
Old Rüpel is quite sure that he is the Wandering Jew. That the Einspanig is so in part I can well believe. According to my theory, there are many million Wandering Jews.
SUMMER, 1819.
Now, all at once, we have a priest, and such a strange one, one as mysterious as our altar-piece the cross from the Felsenthal.
At noontide the last day of July, I entered the church to ring the bells. There, on the upper step of the altar, stood the Einspanig, reading mass.
I watched him for a while. Even the priest from Holdenschlag could have done it no better. But when he finished, solemnly descended the steps, and with downcast eyes walked towards the door, I then felt it my duty to intercept him and call him to account. “Sir,” I said, “you enter this house of God, as anyone with an upright heart may do; but you ascend to the holiest place and do those things which are not fitting for everyone. I am the keeper of this church, and must ask you what your action means.”
He stood there looking at me with great calmness.
“Good friend,” he then replied, with a voice which rattled and grated as if rusty; “the question is short and easy, the answer long and difficult. But since you have the right to demand it, it is my duty to give it. Name the day when you will go up to the three pines in the Wolfsgrube.”
“For what purpose?” I asked.
“The answer is not to be found on the way. Under the pine-trees you may learn it.”
“Very well,” I said; “then next Saturday at three o’clock I will appear at the pines in the Wolfsgrube.”
He bowed and walked away.
For the present I will not mention this incident to the people. He is a madman! would be the universal cry.
That may be. I shall go to the pines and perhaps learn something more definite about him. If I find in him a lunacy as singular and charming as in old Rüpel, I shall be satisfied. Even though nothing should come of the parsonage and schoolhouse in Winkelsteg, I shall be able at least to found a lunatic asylum.
And that would also be a good deed.
THE EINSPANIG’S ANSWER
MORNING.
Despair broods o’er the forest pines—death’s cry, or terrors of the tomb—it pierces through the wall of trees, and all about is grief and gloom. Stretched on the ground at the forest’s edge—a mossy, soft death-bed—behold the oldest of the trees, a giant fallen, dead. O see! the slayer madly flees o’er the heath, in wild despair; pursued by the avenging horde, he raves, with flying hair. Poor murderer! Ah! let him go—destruction he must spread—but new and brightest life shall spring from ashes of the dead.
It is not old Rüpel who infects me, causing me, even in the early morning, to write such lines as these, but rather an inward emotion, which fills me on hearing of the storm, and which finds its escape in words.
A storm has been raging during the night. We have not noticed it in Winkelsteg; we have heard only a loud crashing in the north. Within the graveyard not a twig has been injured.
EVENING.
But as I now go over the Lauterhöhe, having business in the new clearing on the other side, my path is barricaded by fallen trees, lying about in wild confusion, split and criss-crossed in every direction.
Many a desolate gap has been made in the forest, and when, in the afternoon, I approach the pines in the Wolfsgrube, I see that the middle tree has fallen. Of the three this is the largest and probably the oldest.
Upon the trunk, which has buried its branches deep in the earth, sits the Einspanig.
He has wrapped a woollen cloak about his shoulders, over which fall his black locks with their many silvery threads. The man sits with his knees crossed, resting his elbows upon them, while with his hands he supports his head with its pale face.
As I approach he rises.
“You have come after all,” he says, “and I was almost prevented from coming. The storm barred my dwelling-place in the night; it hurled a rock against the entrance.” And after a deep breath, which reminds me of the sighing of the wind, he pronounces these gloomy words: “Perhaps it would have been better if last night had buried me for all time in the rocky cave, than that I should give you the answer to-day. But since I give it, I would rather give it to you than to anyone. I have heard good things of you and am glad of the opportunity to know you better. My answer, young man, is a heavy burden; help me to bear it, just as you have laden yourself with the sorrows of the other dwellers in the forest. I well know that you understand filling the office of priest; so be my father confessor, and free me from a secret, concerning which I do not know if it be a black dove or a white raven. But what if you should be incapable of comprehending——”
He stops; in his glance is something like suspicion.
I answer that I wish to ask him about nothing excepting the cause of his action at the altar of our church.
“In that one question you ask me about everything!” he replies, laughing painfully; “you ask me about my life’s history, about the torment of my soul, about my devil and about my God. Well, well, come here and sit down beside me on this fallen tree. No place could be better suited to my answer than a wreck like this. So, sit down with me on this ruin!”
A nervous dread almost overcomes me. It is so quiet among the pines, that one can hear the monotonous sighing of the branches; overhead clouds are flying from crag to crag.
I seat myself near the man, whose eyes and words express much more force than one would have imagined possible in the bent and weary Einspanig.
Yes, he is called Einspanig—single—because he has never been seen in the company of another. Now the Zweispan—the pair—sit upon the tree-trunk: the question and the answer.
Turning upon me suddenly, the man begins his story: Do you know what it is to be a child of the nobility? Born in a palace, rocked in a golden cradle; the rough floor covered with soft rugs; the burning sunbeams and threatening clouds concealed from view by heavy silken curtains; for the slightest wish a troop of servants; the present full of peace and tenderly guarded happiness; the future full of pleasure and high dignities; this is the childhood of the nobility. Such a child was I, yet poorer than a beggar-boy. But at that time I did not know it, and not until I was twelve or fourteen years of age did the sorrowful question arise within me: Boy, where is thy mother?—My mother gave me life and the light of the sun—the life which she gave me was her own—she died at my birth.
My father I seldom saw; he was either hunting or travelling, or in the great city of Paris or at the Baths. The love in my heart designed for father and mother, I lavished upon my tutor, who was always with me as teacher and companion and who was deeply attached to me. He was a priest belonging to the Order of Jesus, a kindly, cheerful man, of great piety. I still remember how, when reading mass in our chapel, his countenance would often become glorified like that of Saint Francis Xavier in the picture above the altar; and how he confided to me that sometimes during the service he was filled with ecstasy, being continually inspired with the idea that I, his dear young friend, had been chosen for great and sacred things. By this I became aware of his extraordinary love for me.
And now the day arrives when I must lose him, my only friend. At this time an unjust law is made and the Order of Jesus is driven from the country. My good tutor must leave me, he weeps bitterly as he bids me farewell. But in a moment of inspiration he expresses the assurance that after trials overcome, we shall meet again.
And lo, the priestly word is, beyond all expectation, quickly fulfilled. After a few months my tutor is again in our house. He has left the Order of Jesus and now belongs to the “Fathers of the Faith,” and thus he receives protection once more in our country.
I have grown to young manhood. I love my tutor as I would an elder brother. In secret I have often envied him his cheerful peace and the serene happiness of his soul. At the same time I begin to be tormented by a spirit of restlessness. It is too narrow for me within the house, nor is there space enough without; if it is quiet, I wish for noise, and if there is noise, I long for silence. My impulse is like that of a blind, hungry man who has lost his way on the heath.
Then my tutor says to me; “That, dear young friend, is the curse of the children of the world. It is the wild longing which, in spite of all the possessions and pleasures of the earth, can find nothing to satisfy it, unless one takes refuge in the fortress which Christ has founded upon earth, in God’s Kingdom of the Holy Church.”
“If you are speaking to me, you well know that I am a Catholic,” I answer.
“You are that only in your intellectual life”—he replies—“but it is your body, your heart that so thirsts to be satisfied. Your body, your heart you must lead into God’s Kingdom on earth. My dear friend, each day I pray God that He may make you as happy as I am, that you may become a brother of Jesus Christ, like myself, for the healing of your soul and for the good of the holy Faith.”
From that day when my priestly tutor spoke thus to me, the burden and the unrest grew to be doubly tormenting; but, on examining myself seriously, I perceived that it would be impossible for me to renounce the world.
“You have not understood me,” said my tutor, “and I am astonished, that after the many years of instruction, you can so misunderstand your friend. Who tells you that you should renounce the joys of the world? The pleasures of the world are a gift of God; to enjoy them, not for their own sake, but for the glory of God, that is what brings us true satisfaction.”
Thus a new life begins for me; my moral feeling, which has hitherto restrained me, now urges me on to satisfy all the cravings of my nature. In pleasure and enjoyment I shall serve the Lord—so there no longer exists any conflict in this life.
My friend smiles and does not interfere. The world is beautiful when one is young, and it is also good when one is rich. I make it very good for myself; and I drain its sweetest cups before drinking the sacred sacrificial-blood at the altar.
And after a few years I have emptied the cup of pleasure to its dregs. I am disgusted. I am sated, more than sated. And the world bores me.
Now, as I have become of age, my friend again speaks to me, and upon his advice I decide to devote my life to the service of God and the salvation of man. I enter the Order of the “Fathers of the Faith,” and willingly I now take the oath of patience, chastity, and poverty. My entire property passes into the hands of the Order and I swear to absolute obedience.
And then—one day a young woman comes to me with whom I have had much to do in my former life. Now I dare not know her. She implores me not to abandon her with her child; she implores me for God’s sake. But I am as poor as a beggar, and cannot apply to anyone else in her behalf; I have to live exclusively for my Order—and it enjoins obedience.
A few days later the girl is taken from a pond—a corpse. Bitterly I weep on the breast of my priestly friend, but he pushes me gently away, saying, “God has done all things well!”
After speaking thus, the man whom they called the Einspanig started as if in fear. A jay was flying over our heads.
He then quickly seized my hand and cried:
Even to-day I am married to her. That night she stood with the child before my bed. My Order has one beautiful gleaming star, but only one—that is the worship of Mary.
Many a youth, forced into the Order by external circumstances, thus renouncing everything, gazes eagerly and passionately up to the Virgin and the child Jesus. I always saw in it the betrayed girl.
I am consecrated as priest, and in exchange for my worldly title and honours receive simply the name of Paulus. But my rank enables me to skip one degree, and from novice I am advanced at once to holy orders.
I have sacrificed nature and property and my own will; only one thing do I still possess—the fatherland, and of that I am also deprived. Our Order is accused of being, by whatever name it may be called, nothing but masked Jesuitism, whose aims it serves in everything. And, as such, according to the existing law, it is deprived of a foothold in the land. My courage almost fails me at the thought of leaving my home and aged father; but here there is no rest for the soul. We are martyrs for the greater glory of God; and I am so much of an enthusiast that this thought sustains me, and I resolve to tear myself from everything.
We move to Italy. In Rome lives Pius the Seventh, the friend of our Order. I visit the graves of apostles and martyrs; I hope to lead a quiet, contemplative life in this blessed land. But prayer and edifying meditation are not always the affairs of the Society of Jesus. We are soon sent out to hard work in the Vineyard of the Lord. I scarcely know by what means, but, with the name of the Order changed, I find myself all at once transferred to the court of the king, in the western part of the country. It may be my ancestry or the good training which I have received, or perhaps even my scholarly attainments and a certain cleverness which by degrees I have acquired, or it may be my physique, which has been called fine—whether it is this or something else which advances me I do not know. I am soon appointed to an influential position in the State chancery. And my motto is: Be a secret wheel in the great workshop of the State and lead the people according to the will of God,—the will of God, that is indeed only known to His vicegerent at Rome.
Tact, gentleness, cheerfulness, and patience are the virtues which I have to adopt. Thus I become the friend at court, the desired companion, the counsellor much sought after; and when I read mass in the royal chapel, the whole world of aristocratic women are on their knees before the altar. Finally I become father confessor to the king.
About this time a commendatory written acknowledgment comes to me from Rome, charging me to persevere in my subtle policy—Subtle? Surely I do nothing secretly, but act as my head and heart dictate. It is a beautiful life for me. The world smiles, and her smiles please me. Easily I bear the oath of poverty, for I dwell in the king’s palace. I remain true to my oath of renunciation, for that which I enjoy I do not enjoy for myself but for the love of God. Even the image of Mary and the Child in the royal chapel, I am able once more to worship devoutly.
Then we enter upon stirring times. The revolution is raging in the world; in our land an insurrection is also spreading. More frequently than usual the king assembles the great and rich about him, and his monthly confession increases in importance. One day an order comes to me from Rome, fastened with a great seal. After reading and considering it, something rebels within me and asks aloud: How have I the right to force myself between the king and the people and to tear down the law from the altar of the fatherland? I then suddenly perceive what a power is given into my hands, and for the first time I understand why I have been urged to persevere in my subtle policy. My conscience warns me; at first I listen to its voice irresolutely, then I become bold and stifle it.
I might have taken the step and history would perhaps tell to-day of a second St. Bartholomew’s Eve;—just at this time I receive news of my father’s death. This arouses me. Filial love, sorrow, longing, homesickness, guilt, and remorse cut me to the heart and prey upon my mind. I write to Rome that I am incapable of that which they require of me.
What is the answer to this? It is an order to ask for my dismissal at court, as I must sail at once for India.
This commission crushes me completely. Instead of going to my fatherland, whither my heart leads me, I must travel to a distant part of the world. Why? For what purpose? Who asks? The first law of the Order is blind obedience!
Here the man made a pause in his story. He passed his fingers over his pale, thin cheeks down to the coal-black beard. His eyes, which had a restless, weary look, gazed sadly upwards. Above, the dark clouds were no longer flying, but had begun to settle upon the rocky cliffs. Deep silence and twilight reigned in the wooded ravine of the Wolfsgrube.
Finally the Einspanig continued: Four endless summers I lived with a few companions in hot India. The hardships were great, but still greater was the inward trouble, the awakened consciousness of an unsuccessful life. Only in the strict fulfilment of the priestly calling did I find some comfort, for now my service had become pure and unselfish. We no longer worked for the special advantage of an alliance, but for the great, common, and divine good of mankind, for civilisation. We preached to the Hindoos European customs, thought, and worship. We gave them the plough for their fields, upon the mountains we planted the cross. We preached the teachings of God, self-sacrifice and love. At first they regarded us with disfavour and suspicion, but finally they opened their hearts. As messengers from heaven they honoured us, and they had great respect for the people of the West, whose God had become man, in order to teach love by His life and sacrifice by His death.
We had already organised a Christian parish in the Deccan, when troops of Westerners, English and French, arrived, made war upon a part of the land and subjugated the people. Now it was no longer a question of Christian love, but of rice and spices. And that put an end to the Hindoos’ faith in our teachings. They would have murdered us. We fled to a French ship and returned to Europe.
At last I see my fatherland once more. The times have changed and our Order has a foothold and protection in the land. But the people have been greatly influenced by the trend of thought in recent years, and some have even threatened to leave the Catholic Church. Thus a new and difficult task begins for us. According to a systematic arrangement, we are sent to the towns and country places, and I receive the commission of missionary to the people. With three companions I wander from region to region, to hold the services in certain churches. Our priesthood is now compelled to reveal a new phase of character. With the great and powerful we have been suave and indulgent; among savage nations, apostles of civilisation, the strict but loving teachers of the Christian faith. But here, before the hardened, lazy, frivolous country folk, already influenced by the new ideas, we are obliged to appear as earnest remonstrators, as powerful judges of crime. With God, heaven, and love one accomplishes nothing amongst such people. The local curate has already exhausted himself with the effort. We preach a devil and everlasting punishment.
At first they come to the church full of arrogance and curiosity, to see the wandering priest; but when they hear our solemn words on life, death, and the judgment, they are soon prostrate; crushed and trembling before the black draped altar, they soon force their way to our confessional. They deny themselves bread until the setting of the sun, they put sand into their shoes and go on pilgrimages to distant churches and isolated chapels to pray for pardon.
Before each church we erect a high, bare cross. Christ has been crucified for you, now crucify yourselves in mortification and expiation.
I am filled with a new zeal which inspires me for my work. Like a flaming revelation from God it stands before my soul: Penance alone can save us.
However gay the life of the village we enter, the streets are soon silent and the fields and meadows deserted. God’s house has become the refuge. The inhabitants show their readiness to exchange the earthly for the heavenly, for the fruits of the earth spoil through neglect, while the people pray in the churches.
And even the government perceives the necessity of a general conversion in the land. Should a man be found idling in the village square on a Sunday, he would be driven into the church at the point of the bayonet.
That was a time of rejoicing for our Order, which became powerful and established in the land to a degree never before known.
But for myself, I was not happy. When the hours of inspiration were over, I felt within me a void and a demon, constantly seeking to turn me away from my holy calling, which imposes the great task of taming rebellious human nature and leading it into the unity and universality of our church. I fought against this demon with work and prayer, for I considered it the devil. But I must have been mistaken.
“Night is now nearing, is it not?”
The man looked at me in an almost confused way, as if he expected me to answer his question.
“It cannot yet be night,” I answered; “it is the dark mist hanging over the forest.’
“Yes, yes,” continued the strange narrator, as if dreaming. “The night is nearing, young friend; you shall see, the dark night will come.”
It was now so silent for a time, that one seemed to hear the mist weaving itself among the branches of the pines. Then the man proceeded with his story:
We were in a large village. Late one evening I am still sitting in the confessional. The church is empty at last and the lamp on the altar already casts its soft, rosy light on the walls. A single man remains standing near the confessional and seems undecided whether to approach or leave the church.
I beckon to him; he starts in terror, draws near and falls upon his knees before the window of the confessional. He crosses himself merely with a nervous movement of his right hand over his face. He does not repeat the customary prayer; in confused and hasty words he makes his confession. With tightly clasped and trembling hands, he stammers his request for pardon. My heart rises to my lips and I long to console the terrified one. But indignantly I banish my own feelings; for the law, in this case, requires unrelenting severity. The crime is no uncommon one. We will say, for example, the man has stolen property from his neighbour.
And as he kneels there, silent, I answer calmly that he may not be pardoned for the wrong until it is wholly redressed.
“Redress it, I cannot do that,” he replies; “my neighbour has gone away; I do not know where to find him.”
“Then wander over the world and seek him; better wear out your feet than allow your own precious soul to be everlastingly lost.”
“But my wife, my young children!” he cries, passing his hand over his brow.
“Just so many souls you plunge with yourself into destruction, if you do not atone for the sin.”
“For God’s sake, yes, I will fast, I will pray! I will give alms, ten times more than that which I have stolen.”
“All in vain. You must make atonement to the one whom you have deceived; if he forgives, then God will strike it out.”
“And I must go away now and seek, seek through the whole world?” he screams excitedly. “Did not the Lord die upon the cross that He might take upon Himself the sins of the world? Murder and death are pardoned, and my error may not be forgiven for the sake of Christ’s blood?”
“Do not find fault with a just God in heaven!” I cry, indignant that one should rebel against the Highest. “Each drop of Christ’s red blood becomes a flaming tongue of hell-fire to the criminal. Heaven is thrice as high, since it has been bought by the sacrifice on the cross; and hell is nine times as deep, since the men drove three nails through Christ’s hands and feet.”
At these words of mine I hear a groan, a curse, and the echo of hastily retreating footsteps. I am now alone in the dark church.
I leave the confessional, kneel before the high, towering altar and pray long for the hardened one. And as I gaze up at the image of the Queen of Confessors, she seems to step suddenly out of the niche—she and the Child—into the ruddy glow. I hasten toward the door, that I may reach the refreshing night air outside. But lo, the entrance is locked!
I had not noticed the hour of closing. The church is some distance from the town; close by is the charnel-house, but no one there will hear, call I ever so loudly.
So I am locked in the gloomy building where I have so often preached a personal devil and the everlasting pains of hell. Yonder under the holy canopy the eternal God is throned in reality and truth; now am I alone with Him; now shall I give account to Him, how, as His substitute, I have taught His holy doctrines among the people.
I dare not gaze upon the altar; the terrifying image stands there as if suspended in the air; the red light sways towards me. Hastening on tiptoe from one corner to the other, I finally steal into the confessional again and draw the curtain.
And there I sit in the greatest excitement. Now, now I fancy the curtain is moving and a cold hand is reaching in after my faithless heart. But all is quiet, only the clock on the tower from time to time strikes the quarter-hour—and before the high window, through which the moon is now shining, a bat occasionally flies. I lean back against the wall and close my eyes; sleep does not come to me,—but thoughts.
Yes, usually they kneel outside there at the confessional, the poor sinners, and search their consciences; and to-day the confessor searches his own. I look back over my whole life. How agitated it has been, how poor and lonely I myself have been! I left my father, even as he left me; my tutor was estranged from me when he thrust me out among the snares of the world; and in the pond a heart ceased to beat. I no longer possess a single friend in the wide, wide world. Like a toy I have been tossed over land and sea. What has been the meaning of my empty deeds? For what have I been striving? Have I done well? I am a priest; have I honoured God with my heart? I am a mediator; have I reconciled God with man and man with himself? When I stand before God’s judgment seat, when the scales are weighed down with my evil deeds, is there one soul who will cry, “He has saved me”?
And while this struggle is going on within me, I suddenly hear a pitiful groan before the window of the confessional, as if that man were still kneeling there with his sin. I start, but I am deceived; all is quiet and the bright moonlight is streaming through the window.
And so my years—the golden years—have run to waste in the sand. Good friend, such a misfortune you could never comprehend. At last I begin to weep painfully.
In my influential position I surely could have loved and served mankind. But I was led astray; and my only friend was not my friend. How many years will still be given to me to misuse? O God, lead me away from Thy altar, where I have been an unworthy servant; lead me forth from Thy temple, wherein I have taken Thy name in vain. And lead me away from men, to whom I have so wickedly misinterpreted Thee. Lead me to a still, lonely place where I can work out my own salvation!
This longing is like dew to my spirit; I become calmer and close my eyes.
But now I suddenly hear a voice without, calling: “Pater Paulus!” and a second voice: “What if something should have happened to him!” “Pater Paulus!” it calls again. Released at last!—I think; and I am about to rise that I may answer. At the same moment I hear a terrible screaming: “Jesu Maria! there he is; he is hanging there by a rope!”
I utter one cry, which terrifies me as it resounds through the nave of the church. Then, without, I hear another wail and the people hastily making their escape. The cry in the church, my call for help, has frightened them. I am alone and so agitated that I almost cease to breathe. It strikes midnight. What? Outside someone is hanging by a rope. That is what they called out. Were they not seeking me and then did they not cry: “There he is; he is hanging there by a rope”?
I fall upon my face,—Holy God, preserve me from suicide!
Suddenly a foreboding arises within me. What if it should be the man to whom I so lately refused the comfort of absolution, whose despairing soul, struggling for forgiveness, I repulsed? What if he should have gone away and taken his life? Who is his murderer, O God in heaven!—In that hour, my good friend, I endured torments.—In my feverish condition I hear the rattling of dead men’s bones; I see the suicide swinging by the churchyard wall, and how he stares at me with his fixed eyes! From the depths of the pond rises a woman with her child, and her damp locks become serpents which wind themselves about my limbs. And all the lost souls appear to whom I have preached damnation. In the midst stands the high cross, and I hear a voice calling: “Thou hast crucified the Saviour in the hearts of men; thou hast burdened them with a heavy cross—the cross without a Saviour, thou murderer of God.”
With a sigh the man sank upon the branch of the tree. I was scarcely able to raise him again. I picked fern leaves wet with mist and laid them upon his burning forehead.
“Tell me the rest another time,” I said, “and to-day we will return to our homes; night is now really approaching.”
He straightened himself, and with the edge of his mantle he wiped his eyes.
“To-day I am at peace,” he said, calmly, “but whenever I think of that hour, my blood is hot like the flames of hell. There, I feel better now.” After a little he continued:
When I opened my eyes again, the glow of dawn was shining in at the church windows. Like a gentle smile it rested upon the altar and the image of the Mother of God. I arose and made a vow, whereupon a feeling awoke within me, that everything, everything must end well.
Soon afterwards the keys rattled in the church door; the schoolmaster entered with one of the Brothers of the Order, and others. They uttered a cry of joy when they saw me, and, taking me by the hand, they led me out. They related how they had sought for me, how they had heard a scream in the church, but in their confusion had imagined it to be the voice of a spirit. They led me away from the graveyard, for yonder the suicide was hanging from an iron cross.
Afterwards I locked myself in my room, where I remained the whole day. I was to have preached a sermon that morning on repentance and the mercy of God. One of my companions did it for me. There was a report among the people that I had purposely remained all night in the church and had received revelations, for I was considered the most pious of the four priests.
Late in the evening, when all were asleep, I wrote these words on a sheet of paper: “Farewell, my Brothers. Do not search for me. My new mission is self-redemption.” And then I took what was mine, and left the house and village, and walked the entire night.
My wandering was without plan. I gave myself up to chance. I had nothing to lose. Endeavouring to escape from the more crowded regions, I turned in the direction of the mountains.
As morning approached I found myself among wooded hills; a brook gurgled towards me. I drank from the water and rested upon a stone. I observed a woodsman coming down the path, who doffed his hat to me in honour of my priestly dress. I arose and asked him to show me the way, for I wished to go far in among the mountains, to the dwelling-place of the very last man.
“The very last man, that must indeed be the charcoal-burner, Russ-Bartelmei,” he answered.
“Then show me the way to Russ-Bartelmei and put on your hat.”
“Have you business with the charcoal-burner?” he asked me more boldly, when we were already on our way. “The charcoal-burner is most likely black, both body and soul; you can never wash him white. But then he ’s no worse than others. What do you want with him?”
I believe I said something to my questioner about a distant relationship. He then stopped and looked at me:
“Relationship! I should be very glad! For I ’m Russ-Bartelmei myself.”
I walked with the man over hills and through ravines. By noon we had reached his house.
I remained three days with his family. Black they were, indeed. Among the people of the Orient black is the colour of virtue and of departed spirits; and, on the contrary, they paint the devil white. With the idea of telling him something agreeable, I said this to the charcoal-burner. But he gazed at me in a peculiar way from under the brim of his hat and replied, “Then the priest would be a devil in the church and an angel on the street.”
On the third day, after Bartelmei and I had discussed many things and both of us had related parts of our life history (his was coal-black and mine blacker yet), I asked him if he would be my friend. It was my intention to live in the wilderness and to work for my soul. My earnest desire was to strive to do good in solitude, since among men, even with the best intentions, one does not always advance the cause of righteousness. As a friend, he was, for a remuneration, to provide me with a few necessary articles, but for the rest to keep my secret.
The man considered a long time; then he said: “So you wish to become a hermit? And I am to be the raven that brings you the bread from heaven?”
I explained that I would seek for my own bread, but one needed also clothing and other little things; however, I would not fail to repay him from my small possessions.
He was ready to serve me. Only I had to promise to do a favour for him sometime, and perhaps a very peculiar one. He had his desires as well.
I left the charcoal-burner’s house and Bartelmei led me still farther into the wilderness. I came up as far as the Felsenthal; here no man dwelt, here was only the primeval forest and the solid walls of rock. And here I was content; in a hidden cave, by which flows a gurgling stream, I took up my abode. In the Felsenthal stood a wooden cross, which a lost woodsman may have erected in his day. This was my altar of reconciliation. A cross without a Saviour, like the one I had formerly held up before the needy souls, had finally come to be my own.
And so, young friend, I have lived in solitude, have worked with root-diggers and pitch-makers. And thus year after year has passed. I will say nothing of renunciation; harder for me has been the feeling of abandonment, and the longing for human society has often tormented me unspeakably. Only the thought that renunciation is my expiation has comforted me. I have often gone out into the valleys, where people live in pleasant companionship. I have refreshed myself with the knowledge of their peace of conscience and of their contentment, and I have then returned to my cave in the ever-lonely Felsenthal and to the silent cross upon the stony ground.
But the struggle within me, instead of growing less, has become greater, and sometimes the thought comes to me: What kind of a life is this, led in unprofitable idleness, in which one is of use to no man, and which consumes itself? Can that be the will of God?
To return to the Order would be impossible. To live in the open world as an apostate priest would be too great a reproach to the holy calling itself. What else remains to me but to work with all my power for the good of this little people in the forest? But I know not where to begin. With dry sermons one does not always establish truth. I have called on the devil so long, that he comes of himself. Teach God and Christian love? I had poor success at that in India. So I have no longer any inclination to serve mankind with words.
When I see children I approach them that I may show them a friendliness; but they are afraid of me. I am avoided, and the sight of me nowhere causes pleasure, not even in Bartelmei’s hut. Besides, I am so strange, so weird; at last I begin to fear myself. An exile I live in the Felsenthal, thirsting to do good deeds. Then once more I wander out towards the streams.
I have taken the load of wood from the back of the old and feeble woman, to carry it for her into her hut. I have led the flocks away from the dangerous cliffs for the shepherd. And in winter, when there is no man far or near, I have fed the birds and deer with dried seeds and wild fruit. I have wept over this, my pitiable sphere of activity, and before the cross I have prayed,—“Lord, forgive! grant that I may yet perform one good deed!”
And so, with the intention of achieving something worthy, I took the boy from the Upper Winkel to live with me. I had heard that he had inherited his father’s fiery temper, and I reflected that, since this had led Mathes to his ruin, Lazarus would probably meet with the same fate, if the evil could not be averted by discipline correspondingly severe. I also reflected that a weak, tender-hearted woman would never be fitted to give the imperilled boy the strict guidance that was necessary. One day in the woods I met the lad by the grave of his father. He was weeping bitterly and did not flee from me like the other children. When I asked the cause of his trouble he replied that he had thrown a stone at his mother and now he wished to die.
I tried to comfort him; I also had once thrown a stone at mankind, but I had now come into the wilderness to do penance and to make of myself a better man, and I asked him if he would like to do the same. The boy looked beseechingly at me and said—Yes.
So I took him with me up to the Felsenthal and into my hut. I kept him with me over a year, endeavouring to hold him to strict rules, that he might overcome his fiery temper. Together we daily performed our devotions before the cross. I told him the story of the Crucified One; with all the warmth of my soul I depicted the love, patience, and gentleness of the Saviour, and I noticed how the heart of the boy was touched by it all. He is indeed a good lad.
We worked together, gathered wild fruits, herbs, and mushrooms for our nourishment. We did not shoot the deer, as Lazarus once proposed. We wove chairs and mats for our rocky dwelling and for the brandy-distiller, who knows how to dispose of them. We collected a pile of fire-wood before our entrance. If I went to Lautergräben or out into the Winkel forests, the boy willingly remained in the stone hut and worked alone. He liked to tell me about his little sister, but never a word of his mother, although he spoke of her often enough in his dreams. I noticed how his conscience tormented him for the deed which he had done.
That the boy might practise patience and gentleness, I discovered a means, which, curious and absurd as it may seem, still yielded valuable results. I made a rosary from grey beads, and every evening Lazarus was obliged to pray through the whole chaplet before he went to bed. He did not tell them with his lips, however, but with his fingers and eyes. He first stripped off all the beads from the string, so that they rolled away on the floor; and then his task was carefully to search for and pick up the pebbles which were scattered in all the corners. At first, his temper would indeed overcome him; but as he thereby hindered rather than hastened his work, he gradually accomplished it with more and more self-control, even though the search often lasted for many hours, until he found the last bead. And finally he acquired a calmness and self-mastery which were admirable. “Child,” I once said, “that is the most beautiful prayer that thou canst make to show thy love for God and for thy mother, and thereby dost thou save thy father.” Then the boy looked at me with ecstasy in his great eyes.
We did not talk much with one another, but so much the more important and well considered was each word spoken. He seemed to love me, he tried to fulfil my every wish. According to my direction he called me Brother Paulus.
The manner in which I had taken and instructed the boy was indeed daring; but I hope that he has been happily led into a better way. O my friend, how often have I said to myself: “Of all the spiritual gifts which are at the disposal of a priest, if I succeed in bestowing that of self-control upon one being only, then am I saved.”
In the course of the year I often looked after the mother of the boy; and no matter how much I had become accustomed to him, I still longed for the day when I might return the lost child to the poor woman like a piece of pure gold after its refining.
One evening we found the cross no longer on the rock. It had been our altar and the symbol of resignation and self-mastery. And now the mouldy hole from which it had soared aloft stared us in the face.
Who has taken this, my one comfort, away from me? Is it to be used for charcoal or for a hearth-fire in the cabin? Does the great forest then no longer suffice, that they must lay a hand on the cross? What has it done to them? Or is someone carving a Saviour for it? Or has some sick or dying man sent for it that he might pray before it?
So I asked and wondered about it. Later in the evening I was still hastening through the stony valley, thinking that my symbol of God must surely be lying somewhere. I ran down into the woods, to the footpath, and there I saw two men carrying the cross on their shoulders.
Then it occurred to me that it was to go to the new church Am Steg; the foresters wished to place it on the altar. They honour it, as I do; they also wish to learn of resignation and sacrifice; they are also beings who, like myself, are striving and struggling for the right. Then a joy was awakened within me and my heart was full almost to bursting. I longed to embrace you,—you and the whole parish. For, indeed, I belonged to you—a child of the parish.
And now there was no longer any time for idle thoughts, the hermit continued. Soon after that I sent Lazarus away from this Felsenthal, out to the new church, that he might pray before the cross. I gave him my heartfelt blessing, for I well knew that he would not return to me in my rocky abode.
I lived on alone, more abandoned than ever, but calmer, and my heart was lightened as though the ban were about to be removed. More and more often I went out to the new church where my cross stood. And the people avoided me no longer; they gave me alms that I might pray to God for the healing of their souls. Thereby I perceived with shame that they considered me better than themselves.
I went again to Bartelmei’s house, where they know more about me than in the other huts. The charcoal-burner’s mother, Kath, who has been ill now for years, begged me for God’s sake to read a mass for her, that she might die a happy death. This I promised the old woman gladly, and thus I came to read mass before my cross in the church Am Steg.
With this the man ended his story.
We were both silent for a while. Finally I said: “As things sometimes happen strangely in this life, that may not have been your last mass in our church.”
“I have given you the answer that was due you,” replied the Einspanig. “What the result of it for you, for me may be, cannot be discussed to-day.”
With these words he arose from the tree-trunk. And as he stood upright before me, he seemed taller and younger than usual. He drew a long breath, and suddenly seized my hands eagerly, and with a trembling voice cried, “I thank you, I thank you.”
He then hastily took his departure.
He walked up the slope towards the Felsenthal; I, down to Lautergräben towards Winkelsteg.
I often stumbled against stones and fallen trees. A dark misty night enveloped the forests.
So my misgivings concerning the hermit were happily dispelled.
When a man renounces the world, let it be to him what it may, and lives for years in the wilderness, enduring unspeakable privations, and with an iron will subdues the longings of his heart—he is supremely in earnest. For what other reason would he have come into the forests, long before even a stone had been laid for the church Am Steg; for what other reason would he have caused himself to be avoided by the people or have sought to satisfy in solitude his impulse to do good? And before me, a poor man, he has torn away the very fibres of his heart, that I might look into the depths of his innermost soul, as it stands there in its sin.
I have often thought to myself, the first priest in Winkelsteg should not be a righteous, but a penitent man. Let him not be one who has never fallen, but one who has risen from his fall. In the depths and darkness of the forests he must be able to stand and find his way, that he may lead these people to the shining heights.
SUMMER, 1819.
How strange! How absurd! I have laughed and cried the whole day.
It can be nothing but a humorous report, but it is told seriously everywhere. And combined with what we have already heard, it may indeed be possible.
The wicked man is said to have gambled us all away,—the whole Winkel forest, with every stick and stone, every man and mouse, together with Andreas Erdmann,—gambled us away at the green table in one single night. And he lost us to a Jew.
A FEW DAYS LATER.
Be that as it may, we will proceed with our daily work. To-day I was in the Miesenbach woods to look at the trees which are destined for the school-building.
As I passed by the black hut, the Einspanig came out. He had been to visit Lazarus, but the boy was not at home. He is now goatherd with the wood-cutters in the Upper Winkel. Adelheid reproached the Einspanig bitterly at first; but then she hid her face in her apron and sobbing, said: “I know it well, you deserve the Kingdom of Heaven for what you have done for my child!”
The Einspanig and I walked together toward Winkelsteg. The people whom we met were laughing over the story that we had been gambled away. Old Rüpel said: “In honour of Moses my beard I ’ll retain, and as long as I live, I ’ll not cut it again.”
“Yes, yes,” I said to my companion. “So now we are Jewish, and we shall have a Polish Rabbi in our temple. Our young master, Judas Schrankenheim, has betrayed us so neatly!”
The Einspanig stopped and stared at me in astonishment, finally saying: “I did not think you so stupid, Erdmann.” And after a little he added: “A respectable man should not believe such foolish reports. How then could young Schrankenheim have gambled us away? He is not yet master of his father’s possessions, and has not even reached his majority.”
I looked at him quickly.
My heart was freed from a great burden; but the next moment I was troubled. Only yesterday, within the hearing of everyone, I had called the young Baron a wicked man.
But as I am a man of honour I will make amends. Of course he may be a wild fellow; still thou art honest and kind-hearted, Hermann, and the people must know it. For three Sundays in succession I will proclaim it from the chancel: “Our young future master, Hermann von Schrankenheim, is honest and good. May God preserve him!” And until death will I beg his pardon for my slanderous words.
The Einspanig entered my house with me. One of my windows opens towards the church and the parsonage. Sitting down by it, we fell into a conversation which lasted two hours.
We are now able, when the weather is fine, to measure the time by the hour; Franz Ehrenwald has painted a sun-dial on the southern side of the tower.
When the Einspanig had gone my housekeeper cried: “Wie närrisch, now the Kukuk has brought him into the house again!”
“The Kukuk?” I answered gaily. “Yes, indeed, this man is himself like the cuckoo; he has no nest and must restlessly flutter from tree to tree, is avoided everywhere, and is at home nowhere. But all the same we are glad to see him in the spring, for he brings it with him; he is a soothsayer who can count our years for us.”
“Yes,” screamed the woman, “and tell us all sorts of extravagant tales, as he did me once; and if for him perhaps the world is not fastened in with boards, his own head surely is. Get away with your Einspanig!”
If the good Winkel-warden’s wife could only have known what kind of a letter I wrote to the Baron an hour later!
MAY, 1820.
Here in the woods are day and night, winter and summer, peace and suffering, care and sometimes a little comfort in resting from our toil. And so it drags along. Our Chariot of Time has lost its fourth wheel, and it often goes badly and unevenly, but it goes.
Outside, they say, they are trying to overturn the world again. There are rumours of war. No one troubles himself any longer about us Winkelstegers. But I am pleased with one thing. Many of our young men wish to enlist and become soldiers. That is a sign of their awakened consciousness that they have a home and a fatherland which they must defend. It is the first good fruit of the young parish.
For a time the destruction of the forest has ceased; the foundries outside are closed. Many are now beginning to remove the stumps from the cleared land and to convert it into fields for planting. The wood-cutters and charcoal-burners are becoming tillers of the soil. That is right; the wood-cutter disappears, but the peasant arises in his place.
In reply to an appeal from me, a letter has come from the Baron. Now is no time for churches and priests; we must help ourselves.
That is very wise advice. But the people will no longer go to church. “When there is no mass and no sermon,” they say, “one can pray for one’s self under the green trees.” However, they do not remain under the green trees, but in the tavern. The flock is scattered when there is no shepherd.
The forester is also away, for he has other regions to look after. So I am alone with my Winkelstegers, as Moses was alone with the Israelites in the wilderness.
The commandments have been proclaimed, but the people are again working at the golden calf. And manna falls no longer from heaven.
PENTECOST, 1820.
To-day the hermit from the Felsenthal stood before the altar of our church and read mass.
The church vestments and sacred utensils we had from Holdenschlag, as they were lying there in the vestry unused. The mice had eaten holes in the robe, but the spiders had woven them together again.
I played the organ. The church is not so large but that from the choir one can see if tears are standing in the eyes of the priest at the altar.
The people prayed little and whispered, much. This Einspanig,—he must indeed be a second St. Jerome.
After the service the forest singer said these words to me: “Have you seen the Wandering Jew? For the suffering Christ he has borne to-day the heavy cross to Golgotha’s heights. Hosanna, he thus casts his sins away!”
I repeated the words to the hermit, adding: “May they make you happy; the man is filled with the Holy Ghost!”
THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS, 1820.
I have urged the people to choose a chief officer from among themselves, that there may be someone to issue orders, settle disputes, and keep the parish united.
They have chosen Martin Grassteiger, and he is now called Judge.
At this same meeting the new Judge introduced the future schoolmaster of the Winkelsteg parish, who had been acknowledged as such by the master of the forest.
I then am this schoolmaster. The people declare that I might have known it for a long time, but Grassteiger says that everything must be done according to legal form.
A few days after the above occurrence the Judge ordered me to call a parish meeting to elect a priest. Everyone laughed over this. “Shall we choose him from among the pitch-makers and charcoal-burners? But there is n’t one that would be fit for it. There is just one man who is learned enough for us Winklers, but our men have such foolish notions, that they would be scandalised at the idea of a priest being his own housekeeper.”
So they make their jokes, knowing very well for whom they are meant.
And they have chosen him, too.
We must help ourselves, the owner of the forest has said; and that we have done.
The hermit from the Felsenthal is the priest of Winkelsteg.
THE FEAST OF ST. MARTIN, 1820.
Russ-Kath is dead. She was ninety years old. Her last wish was that after her death strong, nailed shoes should be put on her feet; she would be obliged to traverse the road back to earth many times, to see how her children and grandchildren were faring. And the road was full of sharp thorns.
Russ-Kath is the first one who will rest in our new forest burying-ground.
Two men brought her over from Lautergräben on a bier consisting of two poles. The white pine-board coffin, still fragrant with resin, was fastened upon the bier with strips of alder-boughs. Russ-Bartelmei and his brother-in-law, Paul Holzer, accompanied by a little boy, walked behind the bearers. They prayed aloud, at the same time looking out for the roots of the trees which lay across their pathway. The bearers were also obliged to walk cautiously, for the ground was already slippery with the late autumn hoar-frost.
There is a story that years ago as some men were carrying a shepherd to the Holdenschlag cemetery, one of the bearers stumbled on the narrow path and the coffin rolled over the precipice, plunging into the abyss, so that no splinter of it was ever seen again. This was exceedingly trying for the people, they say, for the grave-digger had to be paid all the same.
We Winkelstegers have no grave-digger. We could not maintain one, and besides no one dies here until his last groschen is spent. So a few wood-cutters are obliged to come and do this work. They charge nothing for it. They are glad if they can crawl out of the grave again, well and hearty.
During the mass for the dead the coffin stood quite alone upon the hard ground before the church. A little bird flew hither, hopped upon the coffin-lid and pecked and pecked and then fluttered away again.
When Rüpel saw it he was almost sure that it was the bird that flies into the forest once in every thousand years.
After the mass we carried Russ-Kath up to the grave which had been prepared for her. The family stood about gazing fixedly into it.
When the burial service was over, the priest spoke briefly. The words which impressed me the most were these: “By the death of our dear ones we gain fortitude to bear the adversities of this life, and a calm, perhaps even a joyous, anticipation of our own death. Each hour is one step towards our meeting again; and until that gate of reunion is opened for us, our departed ones live on in the sacred peace of our hearts.”
He is well able to expound it. Indeed, we all feel it also, but do not know the words by which to express it. He has not forgotten his vocation, although he has lived for years up in the Felsenthal.
But now another man appears. Rüpel comes quietly forward, and the people make way for him: “Let us see what Rüpel knows to-day.”
And as the forest singer stands upon the mound, supporting himself by the handle of the spade, so as not to make a misstep upon the loose earth, and as he looks down upon the coffin, he begins to speak: “Born ninety years ago; on her own feet o’er vales and mountains she has walked to meet those who in sorrow and in troublous ways might need her succour; for in all her days a horse she never rode, and thus outwore a hundred pair of shoes. And yet a hundred more in earning children’s bread she wore, and other hundreds still, alas, she rent upon the paths of pain o’er which she went. But ne’er for dancing and like mirth, forsooth, was used a single pair, e’en in her youth. Then, when her whole long, weary life was o’er, she put her last shoes on her feet once more, and went away into eternal rest. The holy angels, at the Lord’s behest, will lead her soul through purgatory straight, then on and up unto the heavenly gate. Beneath the ground shall the poor body rest within its wooden coffin, calm and blest. Sleep well, Kathrin, within thy cradle new; soon by thy side shall we be sleeping, too. Till to His heavenly hosts we hear God’s call, and we may enter heaven, soul, body, all.”
“Rüpel would be the right priest for the Winkelstegers!” said the man whom they have called the Einspanig.
Yes, if he had not grown up among them!
When we, the priest and I, had thrown a few clods of earth upon the coffin, Russ-Bartelmei, very sad, came to us and asked what then had his mother done, that we should fling dirt after her. We then explained to him that it signified a last act of love, and that the earth was the only offering which one could bestow upon the dead.
Thereupon Bartelmei began to shovel in the earth until not a trace of the white coffin could be seen, and the people took the spade from him to fill the grave.
After the funeral they retired to Grassteiger’s inn, where they refreshed themselves with brandy, just as the ancients offered libations after laying their dead to rest.
God counts His people, even in Winkelsteg, and not one escapes Him.
The little grave in the burying-ground was scarcely closed when the baptismal font in the church was opened. The first death and the first baptism in one day—in one family.
Over the same forest path where a few hours before the coffin was carried, two women brought a newly born babe from Lautergräben.
The child is a granddaughter of Russ-Kath and belongs to Anna Maria.
Someone knocks at the church door, requesting baptism, and the name of the child is to be Katharina. Her grandmother’s name shall not be denied her, although we have the choice of all the saints in heaven.