Part Third Winter, 1830
During all the sixteen years since I have been in the Winkel forests, I have seen no such snow as we have this winter. For days not a single child has come to school. The windows of my room resemble targets. Should this state of things last much longer, we shall all be snowed in together. From here to the parsonage a path is shoveled twice a day, passing by Grassteiger’s house, where we, the priest and I, take our midday meal. Each prepares his own breakfast at home. In the evening we always meet either at the parsonage or at the schoolhouse. I wonder how the people are faring over at Karwässer and Graben! There the snow-storms are much more furious than in the Winkel. Just now many poor souls are lying sick in their huts, and it is impossible to keep the paths open, so that the people may help one another. And crossing the Lauterhöhe is quite out of the question. The signposts which stand by the cliffs are nearly buried in the snow; the branches and trunks of trees are torn off and broken by the heavy burden. There is no end to the snow. It falls no longer in flakes; it is like a heavy, dense whirlwind of dust. The caps upon the branches and sign-posts and upon the gables of the roofs are growing higher every moment.
If the wind should rise, it might perhaps save the forest, but it would be our destruction. One hour of wind over the loose banks of snow, and we should be buried.
The priest has engaged all the workmen that are accessible to make paths in Lautergräben, Karwässer, and even from one hut to another. They succeeded in breaking the path in one direction, but were obliged to perform their labour a second time on their return. However, the snow-bound people over there will not suffer; their world is within their huts. In a cabin in Karwässer the corpse of an old man is said to have been lying for five days.
To-day the priest bound snow-shoes on his feet in order to make visits among the sick. But the snow was too soft, and he was obliged to turn back. Now he is making up little bundles from our landlord’s pantry, and some sturdy wood-cutters are to carry them to the sick people in Lautergräben.
These are short days and yet so long. I have my zither, I have the new violin given to me by the priest on my last birthday, I have other things with which to distract myself. But now nothing interests me. For hours at a time I walk up and down the room and wonder what the result of this winter will be. There are many huts in Graben where the men have not been with their shovels. We are anxious about the condition of things over there.
In order to relieve myself from the oppressive inactivity, I opened to-day the chest which is under the bench by the stove, and took out the leaves of my old journal, to see what had been the fortunes of this parish since its beginning.
And I find that nothing has been written for ten years. There may have been two reasons for this interruption in my records. In the first place, I no longer felt the need of writing out my thoughts and feelings, for in our priest I have found a friend in whom I can confide unreservedly, as he has confided in me, telling me the strange story of his life before we were even acquainted. He is one of the few who, refined by suffering, have emerged from the entanglements and mistakes of the world pure and noble. The woodspeople love him devotedly; he leads them not by words alone but by his deeds. His Sunday sermons he puts into practice during the week. He sacrifices himself, he is everything to the people. His hair is no longer black, as at that time in the Felsenthal; his face is earnest, and bright as the gleam of a rainbow. Those who are sorrowful gaze into his eyes and find comfort there.
When we are all sitting together, he likes to tell us of the distant, beautiful world—of strange foreign countries, of the wonders of nature. Pipes grow cold while he talks, for everyone listens with the greatest eagerness. Only the old woman from the Winkelwarden’s house declares that the priest’s stories are silly fables; a proper priest, she thinks, should talk of heaven and purgatory, and not always of the world. Nevertheless she listens and smiles.
A number of years ago the church authorities brought up the question of our parish, and refused to recognise our Father Paulus, wishing to install a new priest in his place. Oh! but the Winkelstegers rebelled against such a change and the attempt was finally abandoned. To offset this, however, Winkelsteg is not acknowledged outside as parish and curacy, but simply as a settlement of half-savage, ruined men, such as it was in former times.
At first this was a great trial to me, we would so gladly have united with the main body; but since they repulse us, I am finally reconciled and say: All the better; then they will leave us in peace.
The second cause of neglecting my journal is the great amount of work which my calling imposes upon me.
At first it was the building of the schoolhouse, which gave me no rest. For everything has been built exactly as I considered most suitable for an important project like this. The house is made of wood, for that retains heat better than stone, and allows of freer ventilation. It was important that I should erect an appropriate and tasteful wooden building as a model for the people. To my joy, the light, graceful, and yet solid design of my schoolhouse, with its convenient arrangement, has already been copied many times. My windows, doors, masonry, and locksmith’s work are considered as models by the entire population.
About the schoolhouse is an extensive playground fitted out with implements for physical exercise. The building is provided with a broad, projecting roof to guard against injury from storms, but in such a way that the interior is in no way darkened. In the schoolroom, before everything else, thought has been taken for the health of the children.
As to my apartment in the schoolhouse, it is not large but cosey. And it is made a thousand times cosier by the memory of that winter march through Russia, which comes back to me sometimes like a wild dream. Since that dream, however, I have grown many years younger; even as the storms of the world crushed me to the earth, have I risen again in the primeval freshness of the forest.
A far more difficult office than that of keeping the school, and a much greater duty, is the supervision of the spiritual health of those confided to my care. Easily enough they learn prudence, and how to think and act to their own advantage; but it is far more difficult for them to learn to adjust themselves to the whole, and to make their existence harmonious with that of their fellows and with the outside world in general. It is a fact, that self-love is the first sign of life which is revealed in the budding soul of the young child. Whether love for humanity or selfishness be the result, the education decides.
I have my special ideas in regard to dealing with children and the conception of the world which should be presented to them. I am not thinking of the little ones in the Winkel parish alone, but of the children who are obliged to dwell in cities, where the happiness of their childhood and the pure pleasures of this world are often embittered.
REFLECTIONS1
THE EDITOR.
The child is a book from which we read, and in which we should write.
Once upon a time a magician wandered about in these woods creating no little excitement among the peasants. He carried a book containing blank pages, which upon being held to his lips were immediately covered with legible script, as though his breath had been a pen. I then discovered that the words had previously been written with a colourless liquid which left no trace and became visible only when he had breathed upon it.
Children are like this book. Indifferent eyes discern nothing worthy of notice in them, and not until they are touched by the warm breath of love do the traits appear which frequently surprise, delight, or alarm us. And it rests largely with us which traits shall be called forth.
That is to say, the personal peculiarities must be taken into account. In children this individuality is perhaps not great, but it nevertheless exists. Up to a certain point we enjoy the pliant natures which appeal to our own, but when the real character once discloses itself, we must give it due regard. It may be absurd, yet I must say that I have a certain dislike for many of the educational institutions which now exist in the world outside, where all the pupils are cast in the same mould and then polished off, in the end producing but ordinary men. These, to be sure, constitute the best building material for society and the state, even as houses are most conveniently constructed with bricks. But characters, sturdy types which develop under unusual circumstances, sometimes seem to me preferable. A grindstone does not suit all knives; many scholars learn more in life than in school.
We should first test that which we intend to employ with the child, the physical care, games, moral and mental instruction, in order to be sure that they harmonise with his nature and with the conditions and demands of his future life. Cherish childhood tenderly; it is quite different from our riper age; thoughtlessly forgetting our own childish happiness, we regard as unreasonable and foolish much of that which is in reality of great benefit to the little ones, and which they lose all too soon, never to find again.
I do not share the opinion of that philosopher who maintains that parents should allow themselves to be brought up by their children, although I acknowledge that we might learn much from them that is to be found in no book of worldly wisdom. Children seem to be born for a heaven, their young minds being constituted solely for happiness. We have to educate them for this earth, to which they must now adapt themselves, but not prematurely. Let the little hearts strengthen themselves with childish pleasure, warm themselves with faith in God and the world, for they may need this warmth and strength when, in later years, many things turn cold and fall in ruins about them. Their faith in God will change and become more spiritual, but if you—oh, teacher of a new school—do not instil this faith into the growing mind, then in the matured intellect there will be no room for belief in the divine, the ideal. Whoever has once prayed with all his heart before the cross, will never forget the image of love and self-sacrifice. Whoever has once been thrilled by the sweet worship of the Mother of God, whoever has been awed by the resurrection of the dead and the eternal glory of heaven, he, I think, must be armed for all time against the demon of unbelief and have unshaken faith in the final victory of the good and beautiful.
Each fortunate man upon whom nature has bestowed in his children the prospect of an earthly future, will wish that they may be as happy as he himself now is, or happier.
Human content and discontent depend greatly upon our view of the world. As the world enters our souls through our minds, such it is to us. It is not a question of truth for truth’s sake, but of happiness, or rather of contentment. Only those pursue the truth for itself who either find or fancy they find in the search or in its results contentment.
We cannot greatly alter our own view of the world; our eyes are accustomed to their spectacles, be they dark or rosy. But the child who calls us father, although he does not yet know why we are responsible to him, with clear eyes gazes questioningly into the bright world and questioningly looks at us. Which glasses shall we give him—rosy, dark, magnifying, or diminishing?
Children wear no spectacles! In regard to this, the schoolmaster from Holdenschlag recently said to me that one should allow children to gaze upon the world with their natural eyes.
Here again I think differently. The gypsy boy on the heath looks at the world with his natural eye. Is he hungry, he takes what lies nearest him; he knows nothing of mine or thine. Our children must have instruction and education, the former to show them what the world is according to our experience, the latter to teach them how to bear themselves towards it and how far they are to yield to its influence. The objection might be urged that the nature of the world itself determines one’s conception of it, and a thing cannot be taken for other than it is. I answer: The contemplation of an object depends entirely upon the observer’s point of view. It is not to be expected of man that, forgetting self, he should rise above himself and the world at large, for the eye with which he sees and the brain with which he thinks is far too human.
Our point of view is optional; the colour through which we look at the world is for the most part also optional; but the choice must be made sufficiently early. Children, as soon as they are conscious of their existence and their surroundings, consider their parents and teachers faultless beings; as a matter of course everything is good and perfect to them. They joyously gravitate towards all things as the flowers of the field turn towards the sun. Their first look into the world is full of trust.
Thinking over the numerous books of the modern school, which I occasionally receive from the owner of the forest, I often ask myself: What conception of the world should we teach children?
Should we say to them: The plan of the world is by no means good; mankind is imperfect, miserable; existence is aimless; life is a misfortune?
Should we show them the bad and good sides, and soberly explain everything to them, just as it seems to us?
Or should we acquiesce in their belief and strengthen them in their view, that everything is desirable and for the best?
A teacher who had neither sense nor heart would do the first; one who had sense alone, the second; one who had both sense and heart, the third.
The youngsters in ragged clothing, who run about under our feet in the streets, carrying their bags of books to school, are often a very saucy brood. They banter, chaff, sneer, and think themselves far wiser than their elders. We meet with this principally in cities. In their homes they are accustomed to bitter words. Many methods of education aim to transform the little ones rapidly into cool-headed, sensible men. The children must know and think, only this; all warm feeling is stifled, and then one wonders why there is so little ability and creative power! When such a youth has sated himself with the works of art and nature, which have become for him merely toys and objects of derision, he grows disheartened, fretful, and young men and maidens of twenty are weary of the world. They have soon convinced themselves that their own abilities and ambitions are no higher than those which they have so often scorned—nor scarcely so high; they become impotent and lose faith in themselves; and now they are fully convinced of that which they have so often heard, and in their inexperience have so often maintained: The world is thoroughly bad—and they are unhappy. This element of pessimism, to which they have accustomed themselves, so disturbs their power of action that they have not even sufficient courage to take that step which seems to them the most desirable: suicide.
The second method is not inexpedient, indeed for progress in life it is often really necessary. We might show the children the world as it appears to us; relate to them our own experiences, that they may profit by them. Still this way, although perhaps necessary, is not the best; it too soon disturbs the ideals of youth which warm the child-heart like a breath of God and can never be replaced in later years. Therefore we must not initiate children into the hardships of life prematurely. Then again, this method is not always as useful as one would think; indeed, every day we see children who give no heed to the precepts which are the results of their parents’ experiences and who pay for their carelessness and learn wisdom only by their own failures. Even were they able to profit by the trials of their parents, how shall they instruct their children, if not forced to undergo any experiences of their own? Such things cannot be handed down; only where they originate and grow, do they bear fruit.
My opinion is, that we should guard the fresh rosebud called “child-heart” as long as we are able. Let us interfere as late as possible with the intellectual life and vocation of the child. For indeed, even three-year-old children have often already chosen their life work. They hunt up and make toys for themselves, they hammer, they dig, they draw, plane, and build and are as much in earnest as we elders in our efforts. It is a great disadvantage to the children of the rich to receive their playthings ready made, the result of which is, that they simply destroy them; and this often happens even in the case of well-disposed children. How can the little ones become inventive and ingenious, how can they practise the art of acquiring and saving, of patience and perseverance, when everything which their hearts desire and which they often do not really desire, comes to them as if by the aid of a wishing-rod? It may partly account for the fact—and this is within my own knowledge—that children of the poor, who from their earliest youth must seek and make everything that they wish to have, are often intellectually superior to the children of the rich. But we should encourage and guide the little ones in their occupations and small creations.
It is wiser to check speech than action in children. And if they have done something wrong, or produced something faulty, then give them the opportunity to do it again and better.
Many parents and teachers have the custom of speaking disparagingly and critically of their children before strangers; that is almost more dangerous than pushing them forward and praising them in the presence of others. An embittered disposition is apt to follow wounded ambition.
Instead of analysing the excellences and defects in the works and standards of mankind, I consider it better to recognise their worth unconditionally, that the children may learn to honour and admire them. Critical knowledge of one’s ideal has never been sufficient to inspire a man to strive to imitate it, although it may have caused respect and enthusiasm. The critical, fault-finding element means only too often repudiation—it is the chief characteristic of incapable natures and never imparts strength, but rather impedes the creative power. Whatever works upon the reason, chills; that which works upon the heart, warms; especially with children.
Children should hear only of the beautiful, the good, and the great. Our own ideals, the bright visions of our youth and our guiding star, even though they be now extinct, let us rekindle them in the children’s hearts; or if Nature has herself performed this work, then let us feed and fan the flame; at such a fire we shall warm ourselves again. Human history is exceedingly rich in great deeds—I do not mean the campaigns and destruction wrought by victorious generals, nor the intrigues of land-greedy princes, with which one ordinarily seeks to improve our youth—I mean the blessed, beautiful deeds of noble men. Let us surround the child with these, and with them we shall plant in him a garden full of roses and glorious fruits!
And when the high and noble things in the earthly kingdom are exhausted, then let us with confidence open the gates to those eternal regions whence mankind for a thousand years has drawn courage and inspiration. The true man of culture, familiar with all the successes and failures of the human intellect, the man acquainted with the world, who knows that tolerance is a chief characteristic of noble minds, will not hesitate to portray to the child the great ideals of poetic souls.
But there are certain people in the world outside against whom I would make the charge that they are as lenient toward the weaknesses and sins of mankind as they are intolerant of religious opinions. These people are adherents to a doctrine asserting the animal supremacy in man, and make freedom of will and action wholly dependent on natural or accidental outward circumstances—modern fatalists, who are still more dangerous than those of the romantic school. They believe that they are satisfying their love for mankind, if they excuse the criminals and fallen ones according to prescribed precepts, thus justifying the crime to their children. That means making the criminal interesting to the children. However, we should instil into their minds neither hatred nor pharisaical pride, although the mistakes and crimes themselves cannot be too severely censured before the little ones. Even as nobility should be represented to them as worthy of their entire respect, so should evil be unconditionally condemned. One only confuses children with such subtle reasoning and philosophical explanations—everything must be distinct, clear, and tangible.
One more word in regard to the love of fatherland.
Child and home—how natural! We well know that the little ones long to go forth into the world, but still stronger is their desire to return home. So we might add, teach them love of home. A hearth of one’s own, a family; here man is guarded from the greatest evils; here industry, self-sacrifice, self-confidence, and contentment are developed; here love for the parish and fidelity to the fatherland thrive. The attitude which many people in the outside world are now assuming toward the fatherland is said to be becoming somewhat revolutionary. This must be followed by results which I do not like to mention to the children here! I am consequently obliged to counteract these reports by telling them that it is difficult to remain on friendly terms with people who are always discontented and unthankful. How shall one demand of a citizen of the state that he shall work for the perfection, the strengthening, and freedom of his native land, when he is perfectly indifferent towards it! And the continual denunciations of the conditions of the country, of its rulers and laws, all combine to undermine gradually the love for the fatherland. I do not care for that patriotism which sends our sons upon the battle-field, chosen for them by leaders of the state, but rather for that which teaches how to live for the fatherland. Resist hostile invasions, for that is manly and right. But patriotism often springs from prejudice; the children should therefore be taught where it ceases to be a virtue.
Besides the love of one’s native land, there is fortunately in mankind room for love of the whole world. Instead of inspiring children with admiration for the warrior heroes of history, it were better to instil into them the greatest horror for the profession of war. The idea that, for any reason whatever, we may kill innocent people must gradually be eradicated from the human race.
The school alone cannot of course do everything; it teaches youth but is unable to educate it. With which organs does the young tree absorb the more nourishment and life, with its branches and leaves from the free air, or with its roots from the ground, whence it springs? What the child acquires at school must be carefully digested, but the example and guidance of the parents are involuntarily absorbed into the flesh and blood. It remains then with the parents to lay in the child the foundation for a sound conception of the world.
I was once acquainted with the father of a family, who so strictly carried out the principle of presenting to his children a bright conception of the world, that he kept them away from all existing evil. That I do not consider necessary. It is not so much what they see as how they see it. Children seldom tremble in the presence of danger. One should call their attention to it, not in a startling manner, which only disheartens, but rather in a tone of calm self-reliance which rests on the consciousness of its own power. And after unfortunate accidents, where man is powerless, one should never show despair or apathetic discouragement before children, but always the open countenance full of resignation and hope; everything will be well again! These are magic words for us as well. There is a constant interchange of light and shadow everywhere in life, and each misfortune brings us new expectation of good; he who lives in this hope already enjoys the interest of a capital not yet due.
The five-year-old daughter of the stone-cutter, when her only brother was buried, whom she loved so dearly that it was thought she could not live an hour without him, gazed down into the deep little grave surrounded by the mourning bystanders and said: “God keep thee, Hans, we will meet in heaven,” and hastened away over the flowery meadow. Yes, thus should it be and thus should it continue among us men.
And that boy from Schirmtanner’s house, who built a little hut, a mill, and a variety of things on the hillside, working at it one whole summer, when an avalanche destroyed his playthings, cried: “It’s gone! It did not please God that I should build on the hill, now I will go and build my house down by the barn fence.” He might just as well have clenched his fist and snarled: “Why did it not please God?” But it has been said to him: “God is far stronger and wiser; against Him thou canst do nothing, but He does not mean ill by thee.” And sometime in later years of life, when the heart is broken and faith is dead, that which is best and most enduring in such a conception of life shall still remain by us,—resignation.
I have nothing against knowledge, but I like wisdom better. Wisdom does not come so much from the head as from the heart. Let childishness and confidence in the world be fostered as long as possible; childishness is fruitful soil for the beautiful, confidence in the world for the good. I do not mean that a generation of idealists should be developed, who cannot think and work practically. But they should have confidence in the world and in themselves, for that is the most fruitful ground for right thinking and practical deeds. A simpler and happier race must arise than could ever be imagined by the crabbed philosophers, who are so vain of their lofty reasoning and so hopeless in their human mission.
However, the heart of man is good; from generation to generation he approaches perfection. There are indeed periods which are not favourable to him; often the blossoms grow too luxuriant, the fruit becomes too large. In the midst of the most auspicious May, frosts, blights, insects, and plagues of all kinds arrive—-but gradually—gradually the day shall dawn of which all nations have dreamed and which all prophets have foretold.
WALDLILIE IN THE SNOW
WINTER, 1830.
We are relieved of a great anxiety. The storm has subsided. A light wind has arisen and gently released the trees from their burden. There have been a few mild days, during which the snow has settled and with snow-shoes we can now walk where we please.
But during this time a curious incident has taken place over in Karwässer. Berthold, whose family increases from year to year, while their supply of food grows less, has become a poacher. The Holdenschlag priest, although a weak-hearted hypocrite, pretends to understand life better than we, and says, poor people should not marry. According to conventional ideas and customs, Berthold and Aga are not married, but they have knelt before me in the woods... and—now the whole family are starving. Am I responsible? Alas, the blessing which I gave them is of no avail! Oh, my God, Thine is the power; as in my youth I have already committed one crime, grant that this may not prove to be one as well.
So Berthold has become a poacher. The profits of wood-cutting do not reach far in a house full of children. I have sent him what I can in the way of food. Whenever he wishes a nourishing broth for his sick wife and a bit of meat for the children, he shoots the deer that come in his way. And as misfortune often changes one’s character, Berthold, who as shepherd was such a good and happy lad, has, through poverty, spite, and love for his family, grown to be a lawbreaker.
I have already begged the forester, for God’s sake, to look after the poor man a little, assuring the former that Berthold would certainly improve and that I would stand bail for him. But up to the present time there has been no change for the better; and that which has happened during these wild winter days has made him weep aloud, for he loves his Waldlilie above everything.
It is a dark winter evening. The windows are covered with moss; outside, the fresh flakes fall upon the old snow. Berthold is staying with the children and the sick Aga, until the eldest daughter, Lili, shall return with the milk, which she has gone to beg from a hermit near by in Hinterkar; for the goats in the house have been killed and eaten; and as soon as Lili arrives, it is Berthold’s intention to go up into the forest with his gun. In such weather one need not seek far to find the deer.
But it grows dark and Lili has not yet returned. The fall of snow becomes heavier and denser; night approaches, and still no Lili. The children are already crying for the milk; the father is eager for the game; the mother raises herself in bed. “Lili!” she cries. “Child, where art thou straying in this pitch-dark forest? Come home!”
How can the weak voice of the invalid reach the ear of the wanderer through the wild snow-storm?
The darker and stormier the night becomes, the stronger is Berthold’s longing for the game and the deeper his anxiety for his Waldlilie. She is a delicate twelve-year-old girl; to be sure she knows the paths and the ravines, but the former are covered with snow, the latter concealed by the darkness.
Finally, the man leaves the house to seek for his child. For hours he wanders about calling through the storm-swept wilderness; the wind blows the snow into his eyes and mouth; he is obliged to use his entire strength to regain the hut.
And now two days pass; the storm abates and Berthold’s hut is nearly snow-bound. They comfort themselves with the thought that Lili is surely with the hermit. This hope is destroyed on the third day, when, after a long struggle through the drifts, Berthold at last succeeds in reaching the hermitage.
Lili had indeed been there three days ago and had started in good time on her homeward way with her jug of milk.
“So my Waldlilie lies buried in the snow!” Berthold cries. He then goes to the other wood-cutters and begs, as no one has ever heard this man beg before, that they will come and help him seek for his dead child.
On the evening of the same day they find Waldlilie.
In a wooded ravine, in a dark tangled thicket of young firs and pines, through which no flake of snow can force itself and above which the mass of snow has piled and drifted, so that the young trees groan with the weight, upon the hard pine-needles on the ground, surrounded by a family group of six deer, sits the sweet, pale Waldlilie.
It was a most remarkable circumstance. The child had lost herself in the ravine on her way home, and, as she could no longer resist the drifting snow, she crept into the dry thicket to rest. But she was not long alone. Her eyes had scarcely begun to close, before a herd of deer, old and young, joined her; they sniffed about the girl and gazed at her with their mild eyes full of intelligence and sympathy, for of this human being they were not afraid. They remained with her, laid themselves upon the ground, nibbled the trees, licked one another, apparently undisturbed by her presence; the thicket was their winter home.
The next day the snow had enveloped them all. Waldlilie sat in the dim light and drank the milk which she was to have carried to her family, nestling against the good creatures to keep from freezing in the chilling air.
Thus the terrible hours passed by. And just as Waldlilie was about to lay herself down to die and in her simplicity was begging the deer to remain faithfully by her side in the last hour, they suddenly began sniffing in a most curious manner, raising their heads and pricking up their ears, then with wild leaps and startled cries they burst through the thicket, scattering in all directions.
The men forced their way through the snow and underbrush and with a shout of joy discovered the child, while old Rüpel, who was also there, called out: “Did I not say, come here, come here, for we may find her with the deer!”
Thus it happened; and when Berthold heard how the creatures of the forest had saved his little daughter and had kept her from freezing, he cried out wildly: “I will never do it again as long as I live!” And his gun with which he had been shooting the game for many years he dashed in pieces against a stone.
I saw it myself, for the priest and I were in Karwässer, assisting in the search for the child.
This Waldlilie is very gentle and as white as snow, and her eyes are like those of the deer.
WINTER, 1830.
The reports about our master’s son do not cease. If only the half were true which is told concerning him, then he is indeed a bad man. No sensible being would act thus.
I will make a note of it and write to his father soon. Hermann should visit our forest and see how poor people live.
Such a journey into the mountains is sometimes very beneficial.
THE WINTER SEASON.
Lazarus Schwarzhütter is often seen casting loving glances at Grassteiger’s little daughter, and the girl is growing fond of the lad; so they coquette with one another although the priest has forbidden the young people to do this. Certainly it is his privilege to preach, but they continue in their gazing all the same and think they have the right, a right which Lazarus declares they will never relinquish.
“Very good,” says the priest, “they shall be united even though they afterwards regret it.”
CHRISTMAS, 1830.
On holy Christmas eve the people come hither from all directions. The sparks from the lighted torches glide over the crust like shooting stars.
Many of the woodsmen, in their anxiety to see the midnight celebration, have arrived much too early. As the church is not yet open and it is cold out-of-doors, they come to me in the schoolhouse. I strike a light and the room is soon filled with people. The women have tied white shawls, folded like sashes, about their chins and over their ears. They huddle around the stove, blowing their fingers to soothe the pain caused by chilblains.
The men stand closely wrapped in their fustian jackets. Without removing their hats they sit upon the tables or benches and observe with an air of important deliberation the school apparatus, which the children explain to their elders. Some of them walk up and down, knocking their frozen boots against each other at every step, with a clattering sound. Nearly all are smoking their pipes. The primeval forest may be exterminated, but the smoking of tobacco—never.
I hastily put on my coat, for it is my duty to be the first one in the church.
Suddenly there is a loud knocking at the door. An old wrinkled face crowned with snowy locks, covered by a white sheep’s wool cap peers in, and I recognise the forest singer. He wears a long coat reaching below the knees and fastened with brass hooks. Over it hangs a knapsack and a flute, and the old man leans upon a shepherd’s staff, holding in his hand his capacious brown hat. This is his house and his home and his whole world. A good hat, he thinks, is the best thing in life, and he adds, “the earth’s hat is the sky.”
“Why do you idle your time away?” cries Rüpel in a loud, exultant tone; “long have the stars been shining without. Praised be the Lord, for upon this day, wonderful news I bring you about that which in Bethlehem happened of late. Hear ye no music, no joyful sound? Look from the windows, haste, do not wait, bright rays of light the houses surround.”
And the people hasten to the windows; but there is nothing to be seen except the dark forest and the starry heaven. Why should there be anything else?
The old man gazes smilingly about him, counting his listeners, then taking his place in the middle of the room, he knocks several times on the floor with his stick and thus begins to speak:
“Alone and heavy-eyed with sleep, out on the heath I stood and gazed about, while gathering in my sheep; and watched the flock, among which grazed a sacrificial lamb. Then heard I echoing in the heavens high, a sound, while tones of music stirred the air. I heard, but knew not why these strains, nor who such joy expressed. The whole flock leaped about and when it heard the wonder, with the rest, the lamb most sweetly bleated. Then saw I—it must a vision be, I thought—child angels fly about high in the air. Straight down to me one cherub came, whom I, in doubt, asked, ‘What is happening to-day?’ Then cried he, joyous, ‘Gloria in Excelsis Deo!’ by my fay, to say I understood, were sin. ‘Come, lad, thou must to German keep; an unlearned parish shepherd, I, nor aught of Latin know the sheep.’ He answered, ‘Quickly rise and hie to Bethlehem, and thou shalt find a new-born infant lying there among the cattle and their kind, a child most beautiful and fair. Not in a kingly palace high, but in an ox-stall mean and poor, in swaddling-clothes our Lord doth lie, whose help is in our need most sure.’”
This is the old singer’s “message” which he proclaims in all the houses during the Christmas season.
We give him a small remuneration, whereupon he repeats a few more cheering words and hobbles out at the door again.
The people have become quite silent and reverent; and not until the church bells begin to ring, do they regain their merry mood and with awkward words and gestures leave the room.
I extinguish the candles, close the house and enter the church. This is the night, when from the Orient to the Occident is heard the ringing of bells, and a cry of joy re-echoes throughout the world, while lights are shining like a diamond girdle around the terrestrial globe. In our church, also, it is as bright as day, and only through the windows stares the black night. Each person has brought a bit of candle, or even a whole taper, for on Christmas eve everyone must be armed with his faith and his light. The people crowd about the little manger, which to-day has been erected in place of the confessional. A number of years ago I carved the numerous tiny figures out of linden- and oak-wood, and set them up as a representation of the birth of Christ. Here are the stall and the manger with the Child, Mary and Joseph, the ox and the ass, the shepherds with the lambs, the wise men with the camels; there are a few other droll figures and groups which are designed to express joy, goodness, and love for the Christ child according to the conception of the people, and in the background are the stars and the town of Bethlehem.
That which Rüpel understands putting into words, I will suggest by means of these images. And the people are really edified by this representation. But they take it, thank God, merely as a symbol, and they know that, save as a reminder, it is both meaningless and useless.
It would be otherwise with the image of a saint upon the altar; that would be before their eyes daily and on every occasion, until they came to look upon it as God Himself.
In the choir there was an unfortunate occurrence to-night. The priest had already begun the Te Deum, while I at the organ, in celebration of the joyous festival, turned on all six stops—when suddenly the bellows burst, the organ creaked and groaned, and ceased to give forth a single resounding tone. In my whole life I have never been in a more embarrassing situation. I was the schoolmaster, the leader of the choir, and as such was expected to provide the music, for this is really the essential part of the celebration, and without it there can be no Christmas eve in the church. Just as all hearts were palpitating, all ears awaiting the melodious tones, the devil took it upon himself to render the bellows useless. I covered my face with my hands and felt like hiding my head in mortification. In vain my fingers wandered over the keys; the instrument was dumb and lifeless.
Paul Holzer, his wife, and Adelheid from the black hut, were sitting with me in the choir and, noticing my annoyance, they moved about in their seats, coughed, cleared their throats and with loud voices began to sing “We praise Thee, oh, God!”
That was like balm to my spirit.
The chant was soon over and the high mass was to follow, where music, choral music, was absolutely necessary.
Old Rüpel came stumbling up the stairs, saying: “Schoolmaster! if the organ be silent to-day, then why not on the fiddle play?”
“Mein Gott, Rüpel, it is in Holdenschlag being repaired!”
“And if then the fiddle be away, the hymns on the zither would I play.”
For this suggestion I embraced the old man so violently that he was completely overwhelmed. I hastened to my room, fetched the zither, and during high mass, tones from a stringed instrument filled the church, the like of which were never before heard in this or in any other house of God. The people listened, and even the priest turned a little, casting a quiet glance up in my direction.
So the Christmas festival was celebrated during the long winter night in Winkelsteg. The music trembled and vibrated softly; it sang the cradle song for the newly born child Jesus and proclaimed peace to mankind. It called and awakened the sleeping child, warning it against the coming of the false Herod; and it trilled a Wanderlied for the flight into Egypt.
I played the music for the mass, played the songs which my mother and my foster-father, the good umbrella-maker, used to sing to me, and which in the Baron’s house the daughter——
And at last I scarcely knew what, in my excited mood, I was playing for the Holy Child and for the parish on that Christmas eve.
The Winkelstegers will think me as insane as Rhyme-Rüpel.
After the midnight mass the priest asked me to invite the old, the deserted, the poorest and most unfortunate people of the parish to the parsonage.
Here it is even brighter than in the church! In the middle of the room stands a tree, gleaming in all its twigs and branches with points of light.
The old men and women gaze at it in amazement; giggle and rub their eyes, thinking it only a foolish dream. That real tapers should be growing on a tree from the forest, is something which in all their days they have never seen before.
“That wonder-bird, which appears every thousand years,” says the priest, “has flown through the forest again, and planted a seed in the ground, whence this tree with its flaming blossoms has sprung. This is the third tree of life. The first was the tree of knowledge in paradise; the second, the tree of sacrifice on Golgotha; and this, the third, is the tree of human love, which has transformed the Golgotha of this earth into paradise once more. In the burning bush God once proclaimed the law, and He repeats it in this burning bush to-day: ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself!’”
The priest now distributes the food and clothing to those for whom it is intended, saying: “Do not thank me; the Christkind brought it.”
“How wonderful!” the people exclaim. “Now the Christ child even comes down to us in the woods! That is because we have a church and such a good priest!”
Rüpel, also one of the recipients, is more childish than all the rest. He runs around the tree as though searching for the Christ child among the branches. “Ah!” he finally cries, “e’en though the sun be wroth with me, I could not name, I do not know, a light upon the earth below, that shines so brightly as this tree. Be quiet, list, do you not hear the rustling branches, and on high, how like the birds the cherubs fly; they ’re building for the Christ child dear a nest, in which to celebrate the holy feast. And yonder, see that cherub white; no wings has he, he nearly fell. Child, do not wait, but hasten for thy feet to find some climbing-irons, for which I’ll pay, for see, I have received to-day, a jacket warm and thalers line each pocket. Angels haste to all the other trees within our wood and let your light so pure and good, upon their myriad branches fall.”
Old Rüpel does not eat a mouthful while the others are enjoying a warm soup provided by Grassteiger. And when straw is brought into the room and a resting-place prepared, that the people may not be obliged to return in the night to their distant huts, old Rüpel goes out under the open sky, and counts the stars, giving to each one a name. And the rising morning star he calls “Father Paul.”
The priest has several times, applied to the owner of the forest, asking that the peasants here—who, with much exertion have made the poor soil productive—might without payment receive this land as their own property. But no decisive answer has come. It is said that the old Baron is travelling and the son is in the capital, and the world is so wide and the city so noisy that such a message from the forest could not be heard there.
So we Winkelstegers remain vassals.
JANUARY 14, 1831.
To-day I have received news of the death of my relative, Aunt Lies. She has made me her heir. Old acquaintances, who have not troubled themselves about me for twenty years, congratulate me upon my inheritance. But I have heard no further particulars. How much can the old lady have had? I know she was rich, but she wasted everything in games of chance.
And should it be only one groschen, or, indeed, nothing at all—by my soul, I am pleased that she thought of me. She always meant well by me. Now my last relative is dead.
EASTER, 1831.
In the Winkel forest the church festivals must take the place of that which in the outside world they call art.
As, according to my poor ability, I set up a manger for the Christmas celebration, so Ehrenwald and his sons have now made a sepulchre for Easter.
In the side aisles of the church stand, as entrance gates, four high wooden arches, covered with pictures from the story of the Passion. The innermost arches are narrower than the outer ones, and in a niche in the shadowy background is the grave of Jesus. Above it is the table for the sacred utensils, surrounded by a circle of bright-coloured lamps. On either side of the grave stand two Roman slaves as sentinels. During the celebration of the Resurrection, the dead Christ disappears, and within the circle of lamps rises the scarred body of the risen Saviour with the palm of victory in His hand.
There is a great charm in the whole celebration. It is preceded by the period of fasting which, day by day, increases in solemnity; for weeks there is no music, the pictures are veiled. Good Friday approaches. First the imposing Palm Sunday, then the mysterious Maundy Thursday, the gloomy, sad Good Friday, and the quiet Saturday. In this calm one feels a foreboding and longing and the word of the Prophet gently reminds us: His grave shall be glorious!
Once more the house of God is obscured like Golgotha in the darkness; then the red and green lamps gleam, and the festival tapers sparkle—and suddenly the joyful cry is heard: “He is risen!” Now the bells are rung, guns are fired and the air is filled with joyous melodies, the flaming red banners are waved, and the people go forth into the open air, their lanterns glowing in the twilight as they disappear in the woods.
In the cities the celebration is much greater and far more imposing. But where is the feeling, the true, hopeful joy in the Resurrection, which inspires the believing poor! Seeking for inward peace, the dwellers in the city turn away from the churchyard, murmuring: “In truth we hear the message.”
SPRING, 1831.
I am already beginning to design houses which are to be built from the proceeds of my inheritance. In Winkelsteg I shall erect a large, beautiful mansion, larger than the parsonage. I have the plans all completed. But as long as I remain schoolmaster, I have no desire to live in it myself. Sometime I shall give a little room in this house to the invalid Reutmann from Karwasserschlag; and I shall ask the old, childless Frau Brünnhütter, and the sick Aga from Karwässer, and Markus Jager, who is blind, and Joseph Ehrenwald, who has been injured by a falling tree. And I shall welcome many others, until, by degrees, the great house is filled. There are a number of wretched creatures wandering about in the Winkel woods.
I shall place a doctor and medicine at the disposal of these people, that is, if the money goes far enough. Then I will invite in jesters and musicians who understand providing all kinds of entertainment. An almshouse is dreary enough, without sad and lonesome surroundings in addition; the merry world should look in at all the windows and say: “You still belong to me, and I will not let you go!”
I do not need to pay for the land now, as at present I am merely building my castle in the air. The inheritance has not yet arrived. But the report is that my aunt won large sums of money at play.
I shall give the pleasantest room in the new alms-house to old Rüpel. The poor man is really quite deserted. For his rhymes the people pay him now with scarcely a bit of bread. They have forgotten how, in former times, they have been edified by his cheering and uplifting songs on festive occasions, how they have laughed and wept, often saying to one another: “It is as though the Holy Ghost were speaking through him.”
To be sure the old man has not much to offer now, and he has already become quite childish. He has bent a piece of wood, across which he has stretched straws for strings, and this is his harp. He rests it against his breast, and his fingers wander over the strings as he murmurs his songs.
He is a strange old figure, as he sits upon a stone in the dark forest, wrapped in his wide, faded cloak, with his long, luxuriant, snow-white beard and shimmering hair, which falls unkempt about his shoulders. He raises his tearful eyes toward the tree-tops and sings to the birds, from whom he once learned his songs.
The creatures of the forest do not fear him; a squirrel often hops down upon his shoulder from the branches and, standing on its hind-legs, whispers something into the old man’s ear.
His words, like his songs, are becoming more and more incomprehensible. They are no longer in keeping with the people or with the circumstances. He sings foolish love songs and children’s ditties, as though dreaming of his youth. When in summer the white-bearded man is sitting motionless upon some hill-top, he looks from the distance like a bunch of Edelweiss.
The beetles and ants run over his coat and scramble up his beard; the bees fly about his head as though seeking wild honey there.
The priest has confided something to me which seems to cause him anxiety.
He says it is possible that I may become a rich man, and as such I would probably go forth into the world, to fulfil all the wishes which I have formed and nourished in the wilderness. No one is entirely unselfish.
This communication has cost me a restless night. I have searched my heart and in truth I have found there one desire, which is far away from the Winkel forest. But it could not be fulfilled with money. She is married.
Why should I demur? My wish is fulfilled. She is happy.
MARCH 24, 1831.
To-day Sturmhanns from Wolfsgrubenhohe was found dead in Lautergräben. His beard was badly singed. The people say that a blue flame which issued from his mouth was the cause of his death. They explain it thus: Sturmhanns had been drinking a great quantity of gin, then, as he was lighting his pipe, his breath had taken fire instead of the tobacco, and thus the man’s soul was burned out of him. There is probably some truth in the story.
APRIL 1, 1831.
To-day my inheritance has been officially forwarded to me. It consists of three groschen and a letter from my Aunt Lies, which is as follows:
“DEAR ANDREAS:
“I am old, sick, and helpless. Thou art in the mountains, God only knows where. During my illness I have been thinking over everything. I have undoubtedly done thee a wrong and I beg thy pardon. This money weighs upon my mind more than all else; it is thy christening-money, which thou wouldst have sent to thy father in heaven. I took it from thee, but now I beg thee to take it back and to forgive me; for I wish to die in peace. God bless thee, and I must say one more word: if thou art in the mountains, then do not come away from there. All is vanity. In prosperous days my friends remained true to me; now they leave me to die in poverty.
“Many thousand kisses for thee, my dear, my only kinsman. When God takes me to Himself in heaven, I will greet thy parents for thee.
“Until death “Thy loving aunt “ELISE.”
THE FEAST OF CORPUS CHRISTI, 1831.
For three years we have been collecting money for a baldachin. But we Winkelstegers have not yet been able to buy one; we must make it ourselves.
Old Schwamelfuchs has made a portable canopy from green birch-boughs, that in celebrating this festival, we may carry the sacred relics out of the church in a fitting manner.
The procession in the bright sunshine is a festive one. And the people, finally freed from the hard winter, sing joyful hymns. We rest in the woods and the priest pronounces the benediction, sending the holy blessing to all parts of the world.
It is unusual that in the midst of the service a layman should raise his voice, but old Rüpel is an exception, and this is his Corpus Christi song:
“Let all the bells ring, let all the birds sing, the Lord cometh forth from His heavenly gates. In green woods He walks, and upon the fresh grass, where the young deer doth graze, sweet rest He awaits. His first mighty word He speaks, and when heard, all the flowers spring up from the earth where they lie. Again He doth speak with re-echoing sound, each seed in the valley is wakened thereby. And when the third word He utters is heard, the thunder is silent, the lightning obeys; with the touch of His breath deadly hail doth He melt. To Thee, mighty Lord, be both honour and praise. And with Thy last word all nature is stirred; the mountains shall tremble, the rocks shall be hurled, the heavens shall crash and waken the dead, and fire shall descend to destroy all the world.”
The strange old man understands reaching the heart with his words. Impressed and exalted we return to the church. And the green birch baldachin with its white poles shall stand over the altar until its thousand tender leaves are withered.
AUTUMN, 1831.
The answer in reference to the granting of land in our parish has finally arrived.
The Baron has given the priest to understand that such a conscientious pastor as he should not, in addition to his other anxieties, burden himself with worldly cares.
Further particulars we do not know.
A DYING SON OF THE FOREST
WINTER, 1831.
Who in former times would have thought that the hermit from the Felsenthal could have become what he now is? The inactivity after such a stirring life, the isolation from people might well have made him insane.
It has come about in a wonderful way. Only the great cares and petty troubles of a forest priest, only the monotonous, yet many-sided and significant life of a forest parish in its infancy and loneliness could have saved him.
He has now adapted himself to the place, is intimately acquainted with each one of his parish children, and leads them by his example.
A terrible epidemic is raging in the Winkel woods; our graveyard is becoming too small and we are unable to secure the services of the grave-diggers; the powerful men are themselves ill.
The priest is away from home night and day, sitting with the sick people in the most distant huts, caring for their bodies as well as for their souls, even though the Baron has advised him not to trouble himself with worldly cares.
At last, as he is sleeping one night in his own warm bed, there comes a sudden knock on the window.
“It ’s too bad, sir!” calls a voice from the darkness without. “There ’s trouble over in Lautergräben. We don’t know what to do. Will you help us? My brother Bartelmei is dying.”
“Who is it out there?” asks the priest.
“I am Anna Maria Holzer; Bartelmei is going to leave us.”
“I am coming,” says the priest. “But wake up the schoolmaster that he may make ready the lanterns and the sacrament. He need not toll the bells, for everyone is asleep.”
However, the woman begs me to ring the bells, so that others may pray for the dying man. And as the priest now comes out and walks away among the houses, preceded by the woman with her lantern and little bell, men, heavy with sleep, are kneeling before their doors praying.
It is a stormy winter night; the wind blows in gusts across the cliffs and whistles through the bare, frozen branches of the trees. A fine snow whirls about us, blocking the path and drifting into all the folds of our clothing.
The woman hastens on ahead, and the reflection from the red glass of the lantern dances up and down upon the snowy ground, while the little bell which she carries rings incessantly, although the tones are lost in the storm, and the people in the village have gone to their rest once more. I, too, after watching the pair for a while, return to my room.
But I will write down that which happened to the priest on this night; for the story which was told him was not under the seal of the confessional.
As our Father Paul stands by the bed of the sick man, the latter says: “Does the Priest remember still how he came into Karwässer? Does he remember? It ’s long ago; we both have experienced much since then, and, by my faith, we have both grown grey!”
The priest warns the old charcoal-burner not to excite himself by exhausting conversation.
“And can he remember what I said to him then: that I had my own desires and that sometime a priest could do me a great service? That time has now come. I am lying on my death-bed. I have already arranged with Ehrenwald-Franz to make a coffin for me. My body will be properly cared for;—but my soul! Priest, God pardon me, but that is as black as the devil.”
The priest seeks to soothe and comfort the man.
“Why do you do that?” asks Bartelmei, “I’m not at all discouraged. I ‘m sure that everything will come out all right.—-Why is the Priest putting on his white robe? No, I don’t want that; let us finish up the affair as quickly as possible. When a man is nearing his end, he does n’t want to do anything unnecessary. I beg you to sit down, sir.—I ’ll say at once, that all is not well with my religious faith; to tell the truth, I believe in nothing any longer. God Himself is to blame for my having been brought so low. He denied me something, which, by my soul, in His almighty power He might have done so easily! I should like to tell you about it. When Marian Sepp, who in a way belonged to me, was dying, I said to her at her death-bed, ‘Marian,’ I said, ’if thou must die now, thou poor young thing, and I have to remain alone all my days, then God in heaven is doing a most cruel thing. But I should like to know, Marian, and I should like to know it before my death, how it is with eternity, which, they say everywhere, has no end, and in which the soul of man lives on forever. Nothing definite can be learned about it, and even though we may believe what other people say, it is not at all sure that they know anything about it either. And now, Marian,’ said I, ’when thou hast to leave us and if thou shouldst enter the everlasting life as soon as we have buried thee, then do me the favour and, if thou canst, come back to me sometime, if only for a few moments, and tell me about it, that I may know what to believe; Marian promised, and if she could have come I know she would have done so. After she died, I could not sleep for many nights and I was always—always thinking, now, now the door will open and Marian will appear and say: ‘Yes, Bartelmei, you may indeed believe it, it is all right, there is an eternity over yonder and you have an immortal soul!’
“What does the Priest think? did she come?—She did not come, she was dead and gone. And since then—I cannot help it—I believe in nothing any more.”
He is silent and listens to the roaring of the winter storm. For a while the priest gazes into the flickering flames and finally says:
“Time and eternity, my dear Bartelmei, are not divided by a hedge, which we may cross at will. The entrance into eternity is death; in death we lay aside all that is temporal, for eternity is so long, that nothing temporal can exist there. Therefore thy importunate request to the dying girl was forgotten and all memory of this earthly life extinguished. Freed from the dust of this earth she went to God.”
“Never mind, Priest,” interrupts the sick man, “it does n’t trouble me any more. Be that as it may, it will all be right. But there is another difficulty; I ’m not at peace with myself. I ’ve not been what I should have been; however, I should like to arrange my affairs properly, even as other people do. I ’ve not much more time, that I well know, and so I had you frightened out of your warm bed, and now, Priest, I earnestly beg you to intercede for me. Well—it has been a secret, but I will out with it: I have been a wicked poacher; I have stolen many deer from the master of the forest.”
Here the charcoal-burner stops.
“Anything else?” asks the priest.
“What! Is n’t that enough!” cries the old man; “truly, Priest, I know of nothing else. I was going to ask you to beg the Baron’s forgiveness. I should have done it myself, long ago, but I always kept thinking I would wait a little while; I might perhaps need something more from the forest, and to ask pardon twice, would be unpleasant. Better wait and do it all at once. But I have waited much too long; I can never do it now. The Baron is, who knows how far away. But no matter, the Priest will be so good and make everything all right, telling him in a Christian speech that I have indeed repented, but not until too late to alter matters.
“Now, this is the way it was: to be sure the charcoal business yields a bit of bread, but when on a feast day a man wants a bite of meat with it, then he has to go straight out into the woods with his gun. He can’t leave it alone, no matter how long he may resist the temptation, ’t is a great pity, but he can’t leave it alone. If the hunters had once arrested me, then this conversation would not have been necessary and I should not be obliged to ask such a painful favour of the Priest.—Ah! but I ’m tired now. I already feel the death pangs.”
They revive him with cold water. The priest takes his hand and promises him, in a few kind words, to obtain pardon from the Baron. He then pronounces absolution to the sick man.
“Thank you, thank you very much,” says Bartelmei with a weak voice; “soon I shall be done for, and—Priest, now, by my soul, I should be glad myself, if it were true, that about eternity, and if, after my restless life and bitter death, I might quietly slip into heaven. ’T would be such a pleasant thing to do!”
Thus does the deep need and the longing for faith and hope express itself in the poor, sick man. Our priest now asks him if he wishes to receive the holy sacrament.
“It’s no use,” is the answer.
“But thou must, brother, thou must,” says Anna Maria; “a priest who returns home with the sacrament untouched will be followed by devils as far as the church door!”
“Thou foolish woman, thou!” cries Bartelmei; “now thou art telling child’s fables fit to make the priest laugh at thee. After all it ’s the same to me, and to keep the priest from being molested on his way home, I would gladly swallow the wafer, but I don’t care about it, and then, I have often heard it was a terrible sin to partake of the sacrament unworthily.”
Hereupon the priest fervently presses the hand of the sick man, saying: “You must not be proud in your old age, Bartelmei, but this I say to you, you have the right idea. You are virtuous, you believe in God and in the immortality of the soul, whether you acknowledge it to yourself or not. Your heart is pure and the happiness of heaven shall be yours!”
The old man now raises himself, stretches out his hands, and with moist eyes he smiles, saying: “At last I have heard the right words. Will the Priest be so good as to administer the sacrament to me? Then the King of Terrors may come—Mein Gott! What is that? Marian!” suddenly cries Bartelmei. He turns his eyes toward the light, and whispers: “Yes, girl, why art thou wandering about here in the dark night? Marian! Dost thou bring me the message?—the message?”
He raises himself still higher, always repeating the word: “Message!” until he finally sinks back upon his bed and falls asleep.
After a while he opens his eyes, and with a weak voice says: “Was I childish, sister? I had such a strange dream! My head is so hot! I know that I can’t last long; I feel such a burning in my heart.—I must say, God bless you, all of you. Take care of thy children, sister, and see that they do not run into the woods with the gun.—I ’ve already paid Ehrenwald for the coffin.—And be sure and wash me thoroughly; as coal-black Russ-Bartelmei I should not like to enter heaven.”
When the morning glow shimmered through the little window, the man was dead. They dressed him in his Sunday garments, and laid him in the coffin. His sister’s children sprinkled him with water from the woods.
Yesterday we buried him.
CARNIVAL, 1832.
There is a great commotion. The people are turning Grassteiger’s house upside down; then they race across the church square, perpetrating all sorts of mischief.
In the parsonage lies a peasant lad whose chin they have shattered.
It is Carnival Sunday. The people think no longer of the epidemic. They assemble in the tavern and drink brandy; they are hilarious, laugh, and tease one another. Their faces redden, and each one is ready to taunt and joke the others, but none are willing to be teased themselves. An untimely word, a sidelong glance, or a dispute about some pretty girl is enough to raise a quarrel. They strike at each other’s cheeks with the palms of their hands—that does not suffice; they hit one another with their fists—nor does that satisfy them; they break the legs of chairs, and, swinging them with both arms in their fury, hurl them down upon the heads of their comrades. That is enough. One of them lies stretched upon the floor. The fight is over.
“Be careful, people,” I say to those assembled at Grassteiger’s; “if you are so hilarious on the days of rest, your work will yield no blessing, and bad times will come to Winkelsteg again.”
Here a master workman from Schneethal speaks: “It ’s just because we are such savage people that we remain nothing but poor devils! I verily believe it, and the schoolmaster is right; there should be no more fighting, and I tell you, landlord Grassteiger, if another quarrel takes place in your house, then I will come with a fence-bar and split open all your skulls!”
This spirit is in the people. But the fact that Lazarus never takes part in such broils is a comfort to me. They try hard to urge him on, but he makes his escape. Sometimes his blood rises, but he bravely calms himself. He is a man through and through. And Juliana is his guardian angel, faithfully helping him to control his fiery temper.
The forester has tried to persuade Lazarus to go out to the plains; when one has shown so much ability as this young man, he thinks something extraordinary might be made of him. But Lazarus will not leave the forest. He is becoming a good man, and better than that he could not do outside, though the emperor should place him upon his throne.
It is a favourable sign that he drinks no brandy. Brandy is like oil in the fire, and thus the unfortunate fights arise.
We heads of the parish never touch a drop of it. But, if we do not, there remains so much the more for the others.
The priest has many times sternly warned the people against this habit of drinking. Finally in his indignation he has with a loud voice denounced the brandy as a fountain of hell, a poison for body and soul, and the brandy-distiller as a poisoner.
Old Grassteiger looks at the priest askance and not long afterwards lets it be known that some fresh cider has arrived at the tavern.
But Kranabethannes does not allow the matter to drop so easily. With a much larger stick than he ordinarily carries, he appears before the door of the parsonage.
He raps, and even after the priest has twice distinctly called, “Come in,” he raps still a third time. He is not hard of hearing, but he wishes to show that, although a “wood-devil,” he knows how to behave in the proper manner with a gentleman, and even with his enemy, whom he to-day intends to annihilate.
Having finally entered the room, he remains standing close by the door, crushing his hat brim in his fist and murmuring through his rough, yellow beard: “I have a word to say to the priest.”
The latter politely offers him a seat.
“I have a little affair,” says the man, not stirring from the spot where he is standing; “I am the brandy-distiller from Miesenbach forest, a poor devil, who must earn my bread with the sweat of my brow. I am willing to work as long as God gives life to a poor old man like me, no matter how much the people may oppress me and deprive me of my customers.”
“Sit down,” says the priest. “You are warm; have you been walking fast?”
“Not at all, but I have come a good distance, and on the way I thought to myself that there was no more justice in the world, or in any man—no matter how saintly he may look. What kind of a priest is he who deprives a poor father of a family in his parish of the last bit of bread? When honest work yields no profit, then one must steal and rob; and this, I suppose, is better than that a poor, worn-out man should taste a drop of brandy;—for it is the ‘fountain of hell!’”
The man breathes hard; the priest is silent; he knows that he must allow the storm to pass if he wishes to sow in peaceful weather.
“And he who brews this ‘fountain of hell’ must indeed be the devil’s friend. The people look at me as if I were such a one. They are right perhaps. But if I am bad, it is not I who made myself so. And he who has destroyed my business had better look out for me. Priest, I am not here for nothing!”
The brandy-distiller entirely forgets his customary suavity and assumes a threatening attitude.
“If you are the brandy-distiller from Miesenbach forest,” says the priest composedly, “then I am glad to see you. As you so seldom come over to Winkelsteg, I have wanted to go to you. We must talk with one another. You are giving the Winkelstegers brandy no longer, and you are a man of honour, a great benefactor to the parish. I thank you, friend! And your forethought is very praiseworthy. It is true, is it not, that you are now going into the business of herbs and resin? I hope so, and I am entirely of your opinion, that you will earn more if you prepare medicines, oils, and costly balsams from them and then seek a market in the outside country. I will give you all the assistance in my power. Yes indeed, that is a good turn which you have made, and in a few years you will be a well-to-do man.”
The brandy-distiller has no idea what is befalling him. He has made no turn, has never thought of producing oil and balsam; but it now seems so sensible and feasible that he does not contradict the priest, and with a smirk the prospective producer of oil bows his head.
“And should you temporarily need something for wife and child—mein Gott, at first one manages as best one can—then I should be pleased to assist with a trifle. I beg of you to regard me as entirely your friend!”
Hannes grunts some incomprehensible reply and, stumbling out of the house, throws his cudgel over the hedge.
LENT, 1832.
The church authorities are beginning to trouble us again. Our priest is not sufficiently orthodox; they wish to close his church.
The church which we have built with the sweat of our brows!
It is quiet enough there now; Father Paul conducts the service in the sick-rooms and in the cemetery. The people are coming to the parish church in coffins. The epidemic is now called “the death.” The school has been closed for months.
The report is going about that the priest is to blame for the sickness, on account of having forbidden the brandy, for that is the surest means of preventing contagion.
Hannes is on the alert, and now his pride is aroused against the priest, whose cunning and gentleness so entirely vanquished him a few weeks ago.
It is an everlasting combat with fate and evil. He who perseveres in the struggle and satisfies his inner conviction, shall reach the goal.
MARCH 22, 1832.
Our priest died to-day.
THREE DAYS LATER.
No one has ever redeemed himself as this man has done—this strange man, who has ruled at the court of a prince, preached in India, and done penance in the cave of the Felsenthal.
He traversed all the crooked paths of priesthood until he discovered the true one: to be friend and helper to the poor in spirit.
He contracted his last illness while ministering to the sick. He had pronounced the betrothal blessing of Lazarus Schwarzhütter and Juliana Grassteiger. A slight indisposition called him from the festivities to his room, which he never left again. And as a good, faithful shepherd, he taught us in his last hours the most important of all things—how to die. Like a smiling child he fell asleep. Not one of us who saw it has any further fear of death; and we have vowed to ourselves to strictly fulfil our duty in accordance with his example.
I cannot believe it. Restlessly I gaze out of the window to see if he is not coming down the road in his brown cloak. He was already obliged to lean upon a staff; he was bent with age and his hair was white.
Restlessly I walk by the parsonage; there is no more rapping on the window-panes, no friendly face smiles out at me. I pause a moment, and feel that I must call his name aloud. And I cannot believe that he is gone.
The priest from Holdenschlag was here for the funeral. He was greatly astonished at the general mourning that prevails in the Winkel forests.
Even the brandy-distiller Hannes came up to the grave and shovelled in a clod of earth. Only old Rüpel was nowhere to be seen. He was probably singing the funeral hymn in the peace of the primeval forest. In Winkelsteg the bells spoke most eloquently. And when at last these were also silent, the people quietly returned to their poor, scattered dwellings.
I alone remain and gaze down at the yellow pine coffin. Eighteen years ago I saw this man for the first time. He was standing by the grave in the Wolfsgrube, where the “eater of broken glass” had just been buried. He has been priest in Winkelsteg for twelve years. The people do not know or realise how much they are indebted to him. To-day I look down upon his coffin; yes, that is the end of the Einspanig’s “answer.”
While I am still reflecting thus, the old housekeeper from the Winkel-warden’s, my former hostess, comes limping up to me. She also gazes into the grave, passes her hand over her face, nudges my arm and says: “God give him everlasting peace! He was a good man, although a story-teller. His thoughts flew like a bird over the wide world, which he said was nowhere fastened in with boards. And now—just look down there, Schoolmaster! Down there it is—-God give him everlasting peace—down there it is fastened in with boards.”
Having pronounced these words she hastily hobbles away again on her crutches.
The old woman is right. However limitless may be the flight of the human spirit in space, man’s final resting-place is within the boards of the coffin. Happy sleeper, to thee thy coffin is now boundless space, and but lately the infinite universe was too small for thee!2 Great poet, forgive, that I transform your cradle song into an epitaph.
EASTER, 1832.
The epidemic is over. There are many people going about with pale, haggard countenances.
Since we are not to commemorate the resurrection in the church, the parish is eager to celebrate the Easter festival in some other manner.
The Saturday preceding Easter is over; the cross on the church tower shimmers in the evening glow more brightly than usual. This night is to be transformed into day. A new life is beginning. The people emerge from their homes in gala attire, and the glare of innumerable bonfires is seen on the hills. Are any of the dwellers of the forest aware that at this season the old Germans also lighted festal fires to the Goddess of Spring?
Who could have conceived the idea? Up there on the height stands a solitary, ancient fir-tree, which has been wound to the top with dry branches, moss, and straw.
A short distance away the people have gathered around a little fire, where they are singing songs. The women are there with baskets, and the children are playing with gaily coloured eggs.
It is already late in the night; Lazarus is about to light the Easter torch, when old Rüpel glides through the dark forest and, tearing his rush cap from his head, cries: “May Jesus Christ be praised, Who on the cross was raised!”
We are all surprised to see the old man among us once more, and I urge him to sit down with us and drink a mug of cider.
“Thanks for the honour!” says Rüpel, taking his straw harp from under his coat; and gazing into the fire, he thus begins to speak: “I come from far Jerusalem. On Calvary stand the crosses three, but they are empty now, I see; and in a tomb, just newly made, Christ’s body they have gently laid—His soul has entered into hell. Our ancient sires have waited long, amid the flames so fierce and strong, till singed is Abram’s hoary hair. And here in this fiery flue is where Moses has sat for many years, his laws forgotten, through burning fears. Adam, the curious, and lovely Eve, who wore no clothes, by your good leave, to horrible torments were exposed. To these has Paradise long been closed. But through Christ’s death, ’t is opened now. The thief on the right told this to me; as for him on the left, I ’d not allow the truth of whatever his words might be.”
“Oh, Rüpel!” the people cry, “if you have nothing else to say, your words are not inspired to-day.” Undisturbed by this sneer the old man continues: “To view the sepulchre at early dawn, our well-beloved women forth have gone. A young man sitting by the door they find, and Magdalen, filled with wonder in her mind, while gently toying with her golden tresses, his name and age and country idly guesses. He spake: ‘If you ’ll allow, fair dames, I ’ll say, the dear Lord Jesus rose at break of day.’ Then would they, for the honour of their Lord, a Trinkgeld give him for this gladsome word. But he has hastened back to heaven’s door; I ’d follow him had I my strength of yore.”
Again Rüpel is silent. But since no one has understood his reference to the Trinkgeld, he continues: “In the woods does Jesus walk to rest from sorrow and pain most deep. On the quiet heath a shepherd-lad is watching by his white sheep. He weeps as he watches, bitterly, and seeing his deep despair, ‘My child, why weepest thou’ Jesus asks, ‘while the sun shines bright and fair?’ Ah, yes, it shines upon the green sod that covers my father’s grave, and yesterday did the Saviour die on the cross, and there ’s none to save. For who will bid my father arise?’ ‘See the rocks tremble,’ Jesus said; ‘the Lord has ascended, my child, to wake to eternal life the dead.’”
The old man is silent and he gazes into the flames. His hair and beard are red, like the Alpine glow, in the reflection of the fire. And this light falls in bands through the trees upon the fresh graves in the neighbouring churchyard.
A deep silence rests upon the assembled people as if on this Easter eve they already awaited the resurrection of the dead. Suddenly the old man raises his head again and his fingers glide gently over his harp-strings of straw; something like mischief lurks in his face, and as if desiring to complete his speech, he says with almost a bold voice: “The simple shepherd shook his head, incredulous was he. The Lord stretched forth to him His hand, within which he could see the sacred scar—’t was just the size a groschen piece would be.”
Persuasively enough the old man stretches out his empty hand and many a one lays a scar therein—a pfennig or a groschen piece.
He thanks the people politely for the little presents which they bestow upon him, and then disappears in the forest.
Grassteiger sends a messenger to seek for the poor singer, that he may invite him to his table for Easter. But Rüpel is not to be found.
So the night wears on; fortunately it is mild and warm, for no one, not even the convalescents, can be persuaded to return home.
The position of a constellation shows that it is midnight, the beginning of Easter day. A flame shoots up from the straw-bound tree and the towering Easter torch sends its light over the forest valley up to the starry heavens.
Now the men, women, and children shout for joy; but still farther than the sound can reach may be seen the glare of the pillar of fire, proclaiming the glorious day to the surrounding forest land.
And at the same time the women uncover their baskets, that the blessed breath of Easter may fan the gifts of God therein: bread, eggs, and meat. Thus our festival bread receives the consecration which Father Paul cannot administer to it on this day.
Not until nearly morning does the burning tree, with its soaring flame, which might have been seen in Miesenbachgraben, crumble and fall.
We now return to our huts from this celebration on Easter eve.
From this time on, Andreas, thou art not growing younger. Younger? Who has taught thee to prate thus foolishly? Count the silver threads in thy hair, count them if thou canst, thou old man!
I feel as though the priest had taken me with him.
MAY, 1832.
Strange reports are being again circulated about our young master. And this time they are officially confirmed. Hermann has taken possession of his father’s estates and thus he has come to be our chief.
As a present he has given the Winkelstegers a respite of ten years for all outstanding liabilities for work and land. This is a good beginning. The Winkelstegers know no other way to express their thanks than by holding a twelve-hour service in the church to pray for the health of the young gentleman.
Hermann is said to be an invalid.
Yesterday Berthold came to see me. Since that time when he found his lost child with the creatures of the forest he poaches no longer, but works industriously at wood-cutting, while his children earn their bread by picking wild berries.
He brought me a bundle of dried leaves, which grow only over in the defile and possess a wonderful healing power, which has restored Aga’s health, who for so many years has been an invalid. Lili had gathered and dried the leaves, and then it occurred to the family to send them to the young Herr von Schrankenheim; there was no doubt that by using the herbs he would regain his health. He requested me to forward the medicine, which I gladly agreed to do.
ALPINE GLOW
CORPUS CHRISTI, 1832.
And now the old forest singer also is silent. His life and death have been like a beautiful wild-rose in the wilderness.
It has given me much pleasure to write out his strange sayings, and I will here record his end.
Up on the Breitsteinalm Kropfjodel owns a herdsman’s hut. And here during the summer live two of his irrepressible sons, who look after the cattle and, to pass away the time, perpetrate all sorts of mischief. Rüpel had been staying with the lads of late, and had entertained them greatly with his songs and his straw harp. The old man had now become entirely demented and, with his failing sight, was pitiable indeed.
This was just what amused the lads, who made him the butt of all their jests; and he did not dislike it, being glad to make himself serviceable in any way, realising that he was no longer of use to other people.
In the evening he always returned to the hut, where he was given food and allowed to sleep upon the hay-mow.
Early one morning old Rüpel was sitting before the door upon a stone, damp with dew, playing upon his straw harp, at the same time turning his weary eyes up toward the morning glow on the rocks. Suddenly a wild yell resounded in his ears. He started in terror, and saw the two boys standing beside him, laughing. The old man looked at them with a good-natured smile.
“Have you been threshing straw, Rüpel?” Veit asks, pointing to the strange harp-strings.
“And so early!” adds Klaus.
The old man turns, and holding his hand to his lips, he whispers confidentially: “Don’t you know the proverb old? The morning’s mouth is filled with gold.”
“You don’t mean it!” Klaus replies sneeringly. “Then its teeth will not last long!” The shepherd-lads shout with laughter at this foolish joke.
“Up there is gold, up there!” And the old man tremblingly points to the glowing cliffs.
“Yes, Rüpel, you are right!” Veit answers seriously; “that is really gold; why don’t you climb up and scrape it off?”
Rüpel looks at them in surprise.
“You might get a whole basketful, and perhaps more!” Klaus urges; “then you would be able to build yourself a golden castle, and buy a golden table, and golden wine, a golden harp, and a golden wife!”
“A golden harp!” murmurs Rüpel, his eyes glittering. He passes his hand over his brow. He himself had first spoken of the golden morning, but only in the figurative sense of the proverb—and now, could it really be true?
“And this straw you can put in the manger for Grassteiger’s donkey!” cries the impudent Veit.
This contempt for his harp causes a shadow to fall upon the countenance of the old man.
“My harp, leave that alone, I say; do not make fun of it, I pray.”
These words only irritated the youthful tormentors. “I ’ll show you how to play upon this harp!” Veit answered, passing his hand over the strings, and breaking them in pieces with a rattling noise. The lads then darted away.
The old man sat a while motionless. He stared at the broken harp, wiped his eyes with both hands, and endeavoured to arouse himself from his dream; he could not believe that it was true. His only possession, his all, they had ruined—his harp.
Not until the sun was shining brightly on the rocks above did he raise his white head. He hung the bent branch with the broken straw over his shoulder, gazed up at the cliffs, all radiant with light, and with faltering steps tottered away toward the precipice, over which the water fell and rippled, looking in the sunshine like liquid gold.
On the evening of the same day the two shepherd-lads were once more merrily performing their household tasks before the hearth of their hut. They made themselves flour dumplings, which they called foxes, because they fried them until they were brown. The herd had been gathered in from the fields, and was now safe in the stalls.
The lads were always gay, but particularly so on holiday nights. When the old harpist was at home, they teased him; if he was not there, they teased each other. On this day Rüpel was still absent, so Klaus sprang like a monkey upon Veit’s shoulders, rode upon his neck, his legs hanging down in front, and cried: “Donkey, who is riding?” and Veit retorted: “One donkey rides another.”
Thus the lads amused themselves. Then they ate their dumplings, and with the soot from the pan painted mustaches on their faces. They already aspired to whiskers, and if they only could kiss some young girl, that, according to the proverb, would encourage the growth. Rüpel, they think, might spin silver strings for the harp from his long beard.
The old man had not yet arrived; could the joking in the morning have offended him?—The boys did not like to talk about it. They felt a slight remorse, and so, putting a piece of dumpling into a wooden bowl, they placed it upon Rüpel’s bed in the hay-mow. In doing this, they were again seized with a mischievous idea; they barricaded the place with rakes and pitchforks. Now, when the old man returned, he would bump his nose and grumble until at last he came upon the dumpling, which would requite him for all the rest.
On this night the boys slept particularly well. And when they awoke the bright sunbeams were already peeping through the cracks in the wall.
But the old man’s bed was still barricaded with rakes and pitchforks, and the food remained untouched.
Klaus went to the herd in the stall; Veit left the house. And what a glorious day it was! The fields and the woods were fresh, bright, and laden with dew, and the morning air had kissed the clouds from the sky. A bird was warbling gaily upon the gable of the hut, and the brook splashed merrily into the trough.
Veit went to the spring. The mountaineers like so well to bathe their hands and faces in the cold water, which causes all drowsiness to disappear and the eyes and heart to become bright—bright as the young day. Veit industriously combed his dishevelled locks with his fingers, and held both hands under the spout.—How comforting is the cool, trickling water, Veit!—But in the stream a blood-red thread was spinning itself, which swam and curled, forming little rings in the hollow of his hand. Frightened, the lad withdrew his hands and gazed into the water, until more threads and filaments appeared, twined and merged into one another, then separated and scattered.
Veit hastened into the stall: “Klaus, come quick; there is something strange in the water to-day!”
Klaus ran to the spot, looked, and said in an undertone: “’T is blood!”
“A chamois must have fallen into the stream above,” added Veit.
“But Rüpel hasn’t come home yet!” Klaus declared, and a little later he continued: “It will be easy enough to find out if it is chamois’ blood.”
Veit was as pale as death. “Klaus,” he said, “come up the ravine with me!”
They walked along the little stream; the water had now become clear again.
Lower and lower the sunbeams penetrated among the silent rocks; higher and higher, and hurrying more with every step, the two lads climbed, forcing themselves through narrow, gloomy defiles, which had been torn asunder by the water in violent storms, or hollowed out in peaceful seasons. The lads spoke not a word to one another; they struggled through raspberry-bushes and underbrush, wet with dew; they clambered up the steep precipice; they heard a roaring sound, for they were approaching the spot where the water fell like a golden band over the sunny cliff.
“Here is something; look!” Klaus cried suddenly. They discovered two straws fastened together, and near them the bow made from the pine-bough. On the bushes of the cliff hung a number of torn and broken straws, and below, in the depths of the abyss—in the depths of the abyss lay the old man.
His head was crushed; in his left hand he rigidly held the branch of an Alpine rose-bush. Over his right hand the water was trickling.
So they found him. Who could tell how he came to his death? Perhaps he was searching up there for the gold of the Alpine glow, with which to make himself a new harp, and while doing this, the poor old man had plunged over the cliff into the defile below. While falling, he had evidently tried to hold himself by the rose-bush, and the branch, with its one brilliant blossom, had remained in his hand.—Thus ended the life of the forest singer.
On this Corpus Christi festival we laid him in the ground. There were not many people present. But the birds in the tree-tops sang a melodious slumber song to their brother.
No one in the Winkel forests seemed so poor as this man, and yet no one was so rich. The all-powerful, mysterious, sacred gift of folk-song found its embodiment in this strange being.
Upon Father Paul’s grave stands a cross, made from the wood of an ancient pine. Upon the singer’s mound I plant a young, living tree.
JULY, 1832.
We are having trouble with Kropfjodel’s two boys. They refuse to remain in the Alm hut, insisting that in the night they hear a ceaseless rapping and gnawing upon the hay-mow. Even though it is mid-summer, Kropfjodel is obliged to close the hut and drive down the herd. Veit will no longer wash himself at a spring. He sees in every brook drops of blood, which cling reproachfully to his hands—the same hands which destroyed the old man’s harp.
AUTUMN, 1834.
The school has been closed for a few weeks. The children are assisting at the harvest; this has ripened late and must now be garnered before the frosts. The rocky heights are already covered with snow.
I should like once more to climb the Graue Zahn that I might look out over the world. I am living a very retired and solitary life. The old people have died; the younger ones I have educated, but not to be my companions. I am their instructor, but now they desert me, and when, old and grey, I shall sit upon my lonely bench, they will consider my solitude the natural lot of a schoolmaster.
The new priest is a young man, who is better suited to the people; he enters into the sports in the tavern and the bowling-alley. When ordering the new prayer-book from the capital, a short time ago, he also sent for some playing-cards.
Lazarus and his wife Juliana have become owners of the Grassteiger inn; they carry on the business, and sell tobacco and all kinds of trifles. They also keep cloths of foreign manufacture, for there are those in the parish who, no longer content with fustian and ticking jackets, wish to have something especially fine to wear; just for the novelty of it, they say. But I notice this desire soon receives another name.
As in former times, bailiffs occasionally roam about in our woods looking for smugglers and deserters.
SUMMER, 1835.
I relate these things only to the patient leaves of my journal; they will remember the events longer than I, or than all Winkelsteg. I have come to look upon it as a duty to record our fortunes. Other generations will follow who should know our history.
We are sometimes visited by hail-storms and inundations which destroy the harvests, interrupting for years the struggling peasants in the development of their prosperity.
It has happened again this year. The people are now drying straw and bringing it to the mills—there are a half dozen of them in the valley—and this will be the bread for the winter.
In my life there are no storms and there is no sunshine. But at all events I intend to have my spring and my summer, for I have now added a contrivance to my clock. I have taken out the metal bells from the striking-apparatus and made instead, out of a spring and two bits of wood, something which every hour imitates the call of a quail. In this region the bird is rarely heard, but in my room it is now summer at all seasons. The children and I are enjoying it greatly.
Over in the Holdenschlag defile through which a road has been recently constructed, on the borderline of the Winkelsteg parish, the peasants have set up a weather-cross. It has triple cross-bars, with carvings representing the instruments of our Lord’s martyrdom, and is reverently regarded as a protection against inclement weather. The aged Schwamelfuchs says, however, that it is more harmful than useful; it prevents the storms, which all have their origin on the Zahn, from proceeding farther, consequently they descend upon Winkelsteg.
As a result of this remark, the peasants have torn down the cross. To offset this the Holdenschlagers have built a similar one near the same place, that the storms may be confined here and not reach their fields.
Now the Winkelstegers are doubly embarrassed, and I, their schoolmaster, with them.
Notwithstanding all my teaching, I have been unable to destroy the superstitions bred under these felt hats. Teaching school is a hard enough life, although I seem to spend much of my time in idleness. What a change from those first years when we founded the parish! There remains enough to be done, but the old priest is dead, and the new one ignores me.
I am not yet so advanced in years and I am still at work. I teach a few hours, rule the writing-books, cut the pens, split a little kindling-wood, and perform a number of small duties in the church; this fills neither my time nor my thoughts.
I spend many sleepless nights, and while lying idly in my bed, I am haunted by maddening memories—old times, delicate blooming faces and deathly pale ones. And then I hear a voice saying: “Thou hast mistaken thy way; thou mightest have lived in splendour and happiness.”... I spring from my couch, tear the violin from the wall and scrape the strings that the ghosts may disappear.
And the strings whisper comforting words, telling me that I may be content, I have had the happiness to work profitably for the common weal, to strive constantly for the perfection of my own character. I am surrounded by the glory of nature, and I have learned to know the minds of great men through my books, and I shall still achieve much, according to my strength, and then, content, close my eyes.
WALDLILIE IN THE LAKE
FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION, 1835.
An unexpected event has recently occurred.
A few days ago I received a letter from my former pupil, our present master.
Hermann wrote that he had used the herbs, which I had sent him from the wood-cutter, and since then the condition of his health was somewhat improved. This had suggested to him the advisability of visiting the mountains, with which he was not yet acquainted, and of spending a few days here in the mild early autumn. His intention would be to travel alone, for people, especially those of the city, were unspeakably repulsive to him, that being probably a peculiarity of his nervous state, which he was unable to overcome. Weary of the world, he wished to seek restoration in the wilderness and in the primeval freshness of the Alps. He still remembered me, his former tutor, as well as my services in the Winkel forests, and he begged me to be his guide in the mountains and on a certain day to meet him in the village of Grabenegg.
Grabenegg, a good day’s journey from here, is not a village, but consists only of a few stone-cutters’ huts which stand near the Ziller road and receive their name from the mountain defile which begins at this point.
On the day mentioned I arrived at the appointed place and there awaited the master of the forest, who also came as agreed, having driven over in a hired carriage. I then proceeded with him toward the high mountains. Hermann’s appearance thoroughly alarmed me; I should not have recognised him, but he, on the contrary, at the first glance addressed me as Andreas. His greeting was polite, although the poor man showed plainly that he was surfeited with life.
The road extended as far as the rocky mountain-pass. Here Herr von Schrankenheim sent back the carriage and over the rough paths, trodden by the deer, we entered the wilderness, where, upon the heights, gleaming glaciers were lodged. My companion walked ahead, sometimes gloomily and defiantly, sometimes with the eagerness of the hunter on the track of the deer. I did not know where the man wished to go, or what he desired; he himself did not know. I was seized with anxiety lest we should not find shelter for the night, but on my communicating my fears to him, he burst into a laugh and strode onward.
Suddenly the idea occurred to me, what if I should be wandering with a lunatic! Had the Graue Zahn fallen at my feet, my heart could not have beaten more quickly than at this thought.
I begged and warned the Baron, but I was unable to stop him; he would pause only for a moment at the edge of the precipices, cast one glance into the abyss below and then hasten forward. His limbs trembled and great drops stood upon his forehead, as at last in the gathering twilight he fell exhausted beside a mountain spring.
In that hour I promised the dear God everything, everything if He would but lead us to a shelter. He heard my prayer. Not far from the spring, between the two walls of the defile, I discovered a hut, such as are erected by the chamois-hunters.
And under this roof, in the midst of the terrors of the wilderness, I made a fire and from moss and shrubs prepared a bed for the Baron.
We ate the food which we had brought with us and drank the water from the spring. When the meal was over, my companion leaned back against the mossy wall murmuring: “How refreshing! How refreshing!”
And after a while he looked at me and said: “Friend, I thank you for being with me. I am ill. But here I shall be healed. This is the water which the hunted deer drinks, is it not? I have led a wild life—very wild! I have found that man is not a toy! And now at last I have fortunately escaped the doctors. I have no desire to lie in a metallic coffin; it savours of pomp, of gold and silk, of artificial tears—pfui!”
To my relief he soon fell asleep. I watched the whole night, endeavouring to devise a means of taking the poor, sick man to some human habitation. We were in a remote place and, to reach Winkelsteg, we should be obliged to cross the mountains.
The next morning, after I had made a new fire and the sun was already shining through the chinks in the wall, the man awoke, and looking about him in astonishment, said: “Good-morning, Andreas!”
He then began to prepare for the journey.
“I wish to climb the high mountain which they call the Graue Zahn,” he said; “I should like once to look down upon this world from a high place. Can you not accompany me and arrange to take one or two men with us? Have no anxiety on my account. Yesterday was a bad day. I wandered, restless and forlorn and without aim, through the wilderness, endeavouring to escape from myself as I had escaped from men in the world without. I was overcome with all the pain of my misery. But this air is healing me—oh, this pure, blessed air!”
On leaving the hut, we were obliged to shade our eyes with our hands, the light was so dazzling. The branches of the pines were a golden red and in the shadow of the thicket trembled dew-drops, which already reflected the sunlight through the trees. The birds were holding a jubilee and squirrels were frisking about looking for their mates and their breakfast. The dry leaves of a young beech were gently swaying in the mild morning air.
Hermann smiled and we proceeded on our way. A thin mist shimmered through the branches, and a cool breeze fanned our cheeks. Suddenly a flood of light filled the forest, and each tree stretched out its arms—silently and reverently pointing to a wonderful picture.
A peaceful lake lies at our feet, stretching far into the distance, blue, green, black—who can tell the colour? On the banks of the eastern side, the dark mountain forest, softly veiled in bright sunbeams, slopes upward from the grey, pebbly beach. On the opposite shore towers a massive wall of rock, behind which are piled crag upon crag, precipice upon precipice up to the highest peaks and cones and spires which pierce the blue sky above. The mountains, ever varying in form, stretch away in a great half circle, glorious beyond all description. Here below are grassy slopes dotted with tufts of juniper-bushes, green as velvet. In the distance are waterfalls, milk-white and slender as a thread, their roaring heard by no human ear, for the sound is lost in space; beyond on the mountain sides are rocky wastes and dry river-beds, each little stone clearly outlined in the crystalline air; farther on deep gorges, their dark recesses filled with snow; and above all tower the massive weather-beaten rocks, silent and sinister in their eternal repose.
An eagle soars into the blue ether: now like a black spot, now like a silvery leaf the bird circles about the rocky peaks. And on the distant heights, shining glaciers softly lean against the red gleaming sides of precipices, on which the chisel of Time is constantly cutting, engraving thereon the never-ending history and the inflexible laws of nature.
I see it still, see everything clear and distinct before my eyes,—the lake in the valley, above which towers the Graue Zahn.
I had already beheld similar scenes, nevertheless the glory of this one quite overcame me. But the Baron stood there like a statue. He gazed, absorbed in the endless picture; his trembling lips inhaled the air of the lake.
We then descended to the shady banks, where the water was splashing over the worn stones.
“This lake so smooth to-day, must be very wild at times,” my companion remarked. “Just see how far up the precipice the stones have been washed smooth by the waves.”
By these words I perceived that Hermann had an intelligent eye for nature. “Yes indeed, this lake can become a boisterous companion, although now it looks so mild and peaceful.”
A remarkable incident then suddenly occurred. Below, where the bushes dipped into the lake, a human head emerged. The water dripped from the long, brown curls and blooming face. The neck and throat were somewhat sunburnt, but the softly moulded, undulating shoulders were like snow-white marble. A young, beautiful woman, a mermaid! Mein Gott, it was enough to make one a poet!
The Baron, being shorter-sighted than I, approached the apparition, and in the same moment the figure sank out of sight and the alders, swayed over the water as before.
Hermann gazed at me. I gazed into the lake, the surface of which moved in soft rings and bubbles and dark lines, here smooth as a mirror, yonder trembling and rippling. But the head of the maiden did not appear again. Several minutes elapsed while with a beating heart I looked for the bather, for who knew if she were able to swim, and the thought suddenly flashed through my mind: What if the girl out of modesty had sought a grave for herself beneath the waves!
After much anxiety and alarm I at last drew the unconscious child from the water. With our small experience, we finally restored her to life—to her life of seventeen years. And thereupon the shy creature, scarcely revived and having been clothed by our assistance, sprang to her feet and darted away through the forest, her fright giving her strength.
The Baron, holding his head with both hands, cried: “Andreas! my malady is returning; I have visions, I have seen a fairy!”
“That is no fairy,” I answered; “it is the daughter of the wood-cutter who sent you the herbs.”
It was Waldlilie.
A FEW DAYS LATER.
To-day the Baron rode away from Winkelsteg on Grassteiger’s white horse.
Nothing came of the proposed ascent of the Zahn. After Waldlilie had escaped from us there by the lake, Hermann said to me: “My fate is sealed; I shall not climb the mountain. Take me to your Winkelsteg, Andreas.”
And here he remained three days, inspecting our arrangements and drinking a great deal of our water. The people could hardly believe that he was the owner of the forest, and one old woman said that she expected the owner of the forest to wear a coat of gold, while this man’s coat was only plain brown cloth. His face was an ashen grey, but under the pallor I discovered signs of vitality. I recently remarked that he was surfeited with life; now I believe he is hungry for life. He is in a very strange condition. Yesterday he sent for Berthold, that he might pay him for the herbs.
Old Rothbart died some time ago, so Berthold has now become forester and lives with his family in the Winkel-warden’s house. In a few days the marriage ceremony of Berthold and Aga will be quietly celebrated in the church. The Baron has arranged it. This has made me very happy. Hermann has a thoroughly sound heart; a sick man could not act so promptly and with so much assurance. But he is a peculiar man notwithstanding. Before he left, he came to me in the schoolhouse and, drawing me down beside him on a bench, said: “Schoolmaster! She prized her maidenhood more than her life; could I have believed that such a woman existed on earth? The shameless coquettes who dwell in palaces, how recklessly have they played with me! You, Erdmann, have had the experience of looking up at the world from a lower station in life, have become acquainted with it and had your fill. I have viewed it from above, which is quite a different side, full of splendour and beauty, but as contemptible as the other. Nothing extraordinary has befallen me, Erdmann, I have merely lived and have been unhappy. I, too, belong to this forest—Andreas—I, too, belong here! But I must now return to my old father.... God forbid that I should take her with me! Happily she does not know the world. I leave her in your care, Schoolmaster. Should she feel the want of learning, then teach her; if not, then cherish and guard her as a wild-lily of the woods. And keep my secret, Schoolmaster. When I have recovered, I will come again.”
By these significant words, having shown that a great change had taken place in his feelings, he rode away towards Holdenschlag on Grassteiger’s horse, a workman from this place accompanying him.
Others would have been ruined by the kind of life our young master has led; it has made him a peculiar man. His deep nature has indeed been shaken, but not destroyed.
On the day of his departure, three search-warrants arrived, saying that the young Herr von Schrankenheim, who had long been suffering from melancholia, had strayed away and disappeared. He had probably gone to the mountains, for he had dressed himself like a mountain traveller. And then the clothing, as well as every detail concerning my dear pupil Hermann, was as minutely described as that of an escaped convict. It is all right, he will return. He has merely visited his forest possessions. Must he then travel in the exact manner of the rich? May a Schrankenheim never step beyond his barriers?
Thank God, he is the master for Winkelsteg!
And how relieved I am, for now Berthold and his family are saved. They have weighed so heavily upon my conscience.
The obscure words of the Baron, which he said to me at parting, are partially explained. Waldlilie now comes to school and we practise reading, writing, and everything connected therewith as far as I understand these subjects myself. She is very industrious and apt, can think independently and is becoming lovelier every day.
Her name is more and more suited to her, for there is something lily-like about the girl; she is so slender, white, and gentle, and yet there are traces of the sun’s kiss upon her round cheeks and fresh lips. There is also something still clinging to her which she caught from the deer on that long winter night, the graceful alertness and the eyes.
Oh, Andreas! Dost thou look at all thy pupils so closely?
But then she pleases everyone.
She is beloved by the poor, for she knows how to help them. She has comforted many a sad heart by her warm friendly words; she has cheered many a discouraged one by her tender singing. And it is beautiful how all the children in Winkelsteg know Waldlilie and cling to her. If the priest were only living, what great pleasure he would take in such a nature!
And the girl is courageous; regardless of wild animals and vicious people, she climbs the mountains to gather fruit and plants. But then it is written on her forehead: “All evil is powerless before thee!”
She recently brought me a blue gentian with bright red stripes, such as grow only over in the glen.
“Have you been by the lake again, Lili?” I asked. Turning as red as the stripes on the flower, she hastened away.
Perhaps she never knew that I was one of the men who had surprised her at her bath in the lake, and had so alarmed her that she would have gone to her destruction had not one of us brought her to dry land.
The occurrence must be like a dream to her; let it never be mentioned again.
But of the fine young master of the forest, who has rescued her family from distress and poverty, she speaks with pleasure and enthusiasm.
SUMMER, 1837.
It is fulfilled at last. The signs of it have been in the air since one day in the spring, when Hermann, as though newly awakened to powerful manhood, arrived again in Winkelsteg and at once asked me concerning Waldlilie.
He no longer takes pleasure in the noisy, rioting circle called by many the world, although the term is entirely misapplied. Hermann has fortunately passed the dangerous crisis. He has now entered mature life, where one longs for the glories of nature and the inner worth of man. Waldlilie has become a wonderfully beautiful young woman, and the pains which I have taken in the development of her intellectual powers have been richly rewarded.
And thus it is fulfilled. A Schrankenheim has burst his barriers. Two days ago, on the festival of our Lord’s Ascension, the master of the forest and Waldlilie were united in the church.
Over in the glen by the lake, Hermann wished to erect a summer villa, where he and his wife might spend a few weeks every year in the early autumn. But Waldlilie begged him to abandon the idea. She was very fond of that region, but she could not visit the lake.
They have left us and gone to the beautiful town of Salzburg.
WINTER, 1842.
The years pass by in monotony and solitude; why does no one call me the Einspanig?
The young wife afterwards changed her mind and the summer villa now stands in the glen by the lake. It is very lively there for a few weeks in the early autumn, and the happy home of our master’s family is watched over by the grim mountains.
The forester, now a grandfather, lives with his wife the entire year in this house, and the brothers and sisters of Frau von Schrankenheim may hope for a better lot than was prophesied at their cradle.
The old Herr von Schrankenheim was blessed with two grandchildren before he died in Salzburg in the winter of 1840.
Winkelsteg has gained nothing by the house in the glen. A good road has been built to it, and it has now become the headquarters for superintending the forest. Strangers visit the place, and there the great hunting-parties are organised. In the glen, formerly so lonely and neglected, now stands the manor-house; but Winkelsteg remains the same poor parish for peasants and wood-cutters, and the condition of things here is not improving, and the schoolmaster—let us not think about that, Andreas.
I recently sewed a number of sheets of paper together for a writing-book, the cover of which I have made from white linden-wood. In this book I now lead a secret life, unknown to anyone.3
AUGUST 1, 1843.
To-night a little boy was born to Reitbauer in Karwässer. They brought him here to be baptised, but, as the priest had gone away for a few days and the child was feeble, I administered a private baptism. At the father’s request I also stood godfather. The three beloved groschen inherited from my aunt and formerly my christening present, shall now go to the little Peter.
SUMMER, 1847.
When I came into these forests, I found the people scattered, starving, and uncounted. To-day I see before me a new generation.
A village surrounds the church. And about the village stand apple- and pear-trees bearing fruit; an endeavour has been made throughout Winkelsteg to cultivate the wild fruit-trees, and for the most part it has succeeded.
On Sundays people dressed in gala attire come from all directions, the men, wearing black leather knee-breeches, the women, padded velvet spencers and droll-looking wired caps, decorated with gilt and ribbons. Their clothing is no longer of home-made material. Formerly they wore the linen from their own flax, the wool from their sheep, the shoe leather from their cattle, the skins and furs from the game which they shot. To-day peddlers go about in the Winkel forests, exchanging garments and frippery for the valuable raw material.
The young people have wider views than the older ones, but they are far more pretentious; besides, they show too little respect for the past from which they themselves have sprung. But they still smoke tobacco and drink brandy, as their ancestors have done before them.
What can the old schoolmaster do alone? Ah, if my priest were only living!
The little Reiter-Peter, my godchild, is a sweet lad; but a great misfortune has overtaken him—by a fall from his bed he has lost his voice.
How gladly would I give him mine, for it is no longer of use to me! It has become quite hoarse, and no one listens to it now.
SPRING, 1848.
How this is going to affect me I do not know. Perhaps it would be best to take a few weeks’ vacation and go away from here.
Outside in the cities the troops are playing havoc; they are breaking into palaces and barricading streets. For that reason she is coming. The general’s wife, Hermann’s beautiful sister, whom I have so foolishly adored, is coming.
In the house by the lake there is no more room, so she flees with her children to us. Thank God that our Winkelsteg is able to offer her a refuge in these times!
And I will not go away after all. I will remain and be strong and not betray myself. I will look straight into her eyes once before I die.
I feel that God means well by me. The light of her eyes will illumine the dark wooded hills, her breath will soften and consecrate the Alpine air. And even though she goes away again, Winkelsteg, where she has dwelt, will be my home.
We have built a beautiful high arch of pine-boughs before the house and decorated the altar in the church with wreaths.
Everything is ready, but no one has thought to have the stones removed from the road. Such women have tenderer feet than those dwelling in the mountains.
For a day and two nights I have been digging the stones out of the road. The people may laugh, but I am only thankful that the moon was shining.
A FEW DAYS LATER.
Now they are here. She, the two children, and the servants. I need not have removed the stones, for they drove in carriages. Nearly all Winkelsteg was assembled on the square when they arrived. The priest made an address of welcome; I crept into the schoolhouse. But I was thoroughly alarmed, for they alighted directly in front of my window, and I thought they were about to enter.
I saw her very plainly; she has grown younger. She was hardly out of her carriage before she was chasing a butterfly. But that was her youngest daughter. She herself——
By my faith, I should not have recognised her.
Of all her old mirrors with golden frames, not one is so true or has so faithfully retained her glorious image to the present day as my heart has done.
Now the image has disappeared and my youth has vanished like a mist.
JUNE, 1848.
Yesterday I wandered the whole day among the mountains, and even ascended the Zahn. On the way I asked myself a dozen times: Why art thou climbing up here, thou old child? Upon the summit I shall find the answer, I thought. I saw the kingdom of the Alps. I gazed into the blue depths of the glen below where by the black sheet of water stands the manor-house. I strained my eyes toward the south, my eyes already weak, but—it was all in vain. As often as I have climbed up there, I have never, never yet beheld the sea.
They say it is visible on a clear winter day. Besides this sight, I have nothing more to wish for now; but that one thing I still desire.
In descending I gathered a bunch of Alpine roses, Edelweiss, spikenard, arnica, and other flowers and plants and pinned them on the front of my hat, like a love-sick lad. For whom art thou taking home the nosegay? For wife and child? Ah, thou stupid old man!
But when I am away from her, as I was up there on the Alm, I see that she is still lovely. She will surely accept a bouquet of Alpine roses from me. I will be polite and not force it upon her. Had I but a single drop of old Rüpel’s blood in my veins, I would recite a poem appropriate to the flowers! These were my thoughts; it is astonishing that I am still so daring!
When I reached Lauterhöhe, I seated myself under a tree to rest. My meditations were suddenly interrupted by something pulling at my hat; I turned to see what had disturbed me. A brown cow stood there chewing my mountain nosegay.
I started up, about to strike the stupid animal with my stick, when it occurred to me: Good creature, perhaps my flowers have given you more pleasure than they would afford her, so God bless them to you! She will drink your nourishing milk as a recompense.
As, late in the evening, I came down to the village, her windows were brightly lighted.
One of the lady’s servants, Jacob, is a jack-at-all-trades. He is exceedingly clever, can play on musical instruments, do tailoring, make shoes and draw, and finally he has even made a drawing of me. I did not wish to sit for it, but he contrived, until at last, dressed in all my finery, I took my seat on the block of wood yonder. After having made the sketch, he then painted it in colours, the result being most remarkable. The red neckerchief was particularly well done.
He has given me the picture, which I look at in the privacy of my room; but the school children must not see it!
I think I will hide it.
I thought I should make the acquaintance of her children, but they speak a foreign tongue which I do not understand. The young gentleman is off with the horses and dogs; the girl would like to spend her time in the meadows with the flowers and beetles, but she is forbidden to do this. She is already too old to be allowed childish pleasures.
A day or two ago Hermann—God forgive me for still calling him by this name—came over from the glen to visit his sister. She excused herself on the plea of illness. Jacob told me that the two were not on very friendly terms, for she would recognise no sister-in-law who carried about with her the odour of pitch.
To-day the lady gave a dinner to which the priest and Grassteiger were invited. A slice from the roast and a glass of wine were sent to me. Fortunately a beggar was just passing the house, and the food was not wasted. So to-day two beggars have been fed.
At the dinner, Jacob said, they spoke of me. The lady then related to them how, as a poor student, I had once lived on charity for a time in her father’s house, how I had then left the school and returned a vagabond, whereupon her father, out of pity, had sent me to the forest, where he had since supported me.
Now thou knowest all, Andreas Erdmann; but not a grey hair on that account, for it would only contaminate the white ones.
AUGUST, 1848.
They have gone away. Jacob has left here for me a pair of black trousers and a white glove.
JULY, 1852.
The title-deeds to the land have at last been conferred, and now most of the peasants in Winkelsteg are their own masters. They are to be heartily congratulated. But their eyesight seems to have become very dim, for none of them recognise me when I pass them on the road.
This summer I was once more on the mountain. I thought I could almost catch a glimpse of the sea towards the south. But it was only mist.
By this excursion, either from the dazzling light in the distance or the extreme change from heat to cold, I have again brought on the serious trouble with my eyes, which has lasted for many weeks and hindered me in my work.
I think the dumb Reiter-Peter should be taught a little music. He must have some way of expressing his feelings. It is hard to realise the suffering caused by keeping everything to one’s self.
Peter is clever; he already plays on the zither and the violin. Later I must teach him the organ. The Winkelstegers will need music for their mass in the future as well as now. I shall not always be here.
Lazarus, or, as they now call him, the Winkel landlord, is kind to me and to everyone; all Winkelsteg have a friend in him. But his old trouble recurs now and then. If, for example, something excites him, he has a hard struggle to control himself. I have suggested that he should try picking up the beads from the rosary again; but perhaps that would no longer avail; then there is great danger that he will fall to drinking. He would be ruined if he had not such a good wife, and Juliana knows how to manage him; for her sake he will endure the keenest thirst.
The brandy-distiller Schorschl—Hannes is no longer living—occasionally breaks my windows. He considers me his greatest enemy, because I warn the children against brandy.
I mend the windows by pasting paper over them. But as long as I live I shall teach the young people to shun this evil.
Our priest has been changed for a very young one. The latter says that the curacy has been sadly neglected, but he will now endeavour to improve matters. He has ordered prayers, penances, and pilgrimages. His sermons are as cutting as lye; and there are so many sore hearts.
Since the new priest arrived I am quite superfluous in the school. He fills the hours with teaching religion.
The children are capable of more than they thought—they know the whole catechism by heart.
The emperor and the pope are said to have issued a special edict for the salvation of souls, and in Winkelsteg the devil has never been so much talked about as at present.
AUGUST 24, 1856.
To-day a public examination took place in the school. The dean from the capital was here. He seemed well satisfied with the religious teaching; as to the rest, he shook his head. On arriving, he greeted me politely; on leaving, he did not see me.
I often sit a long time up in the burial-ground under the old trees. This grove has been preserved from the great forest, and here the parish is being gathered, thus making another link in the chain of human history. I may sit here as long as I please, no one will call me. Would that the dead did not sleep so soundly!
I am an old spy. My eyes are weak and weary, yet I sometimes see what is taking place. Through the board fence I have just been observing Reiter-Peter seize the hand of Schirmtanner’s daughter and refuse to let it go. By a thousand gestures he was telling her something; the blood mounted to his cheeks, but the girl continually said: “No, Peter, no!”
Then the lad suddenly took his violin and played for Rosa, something which I had never taught him. It was wonderful, and I did not suppose that he could play like that.
He continued until Rosa finally threw herself into his arms, crying: “Stop, it pains me so! Peter, I do like you!”
Young people are exceedingly demonstrative. If a lad has no voice with which to speak, he declares his love on the violin.
WINTER, 1857.
A diary is a faithful friend. No matter what one confides to it, it forgets nothing and discloses nothing. When I look through these records, I cannot realise that I have experienced and written all this. It is a strange history.
And who have I been! From the old man that I felt myself to be when I entered these forests, I became a younger one, from a young man I have grown to be a poor old creature, before whose half-blind eyes the notes dance up and down on the page, when I play the organ for mass in the church. The people have pushed me aside.
Mein Gott, others fare no better, and I desire nothing; I have done my part and am content.
For fifty years I have not been out of these forests.
The woodspeople come into existence, live and die and not once in their lives do they climb the mountain, from where one can behold the glorious picture and, on clear winter days, the sea.
The sea! How my heart swells at the thought! Yonder moves a boat, and within stands a youth beckoning—
Heinrich! What is it?
How foolish of me to have spent my whole life in the Winkel, when I should have been a sailor!
CHRISTMAS EVE, 1864.
The track is a short one, but the young people are sliding upon their sleds and boards over the frozen snow, from the Winkel-warden’s house down to the churchyard wall. And how eager they are, as with glowing eyes and cheeks they shout at their sport!—I am waiting for Reiter-Peter; he is coming with his violin to try the new manger song with me. In the meantime I am looking at the happy children and writing.
The little ones wear fur caps, and they stumble and puff before they reach the top with their sleds—and they are down in ten seconds. Much exertion and a short pleasure! I only hope none of them will bump their heads against the wall!—Would that I might glide down to it on my sled—and never return!
Peter is coming. “Sleep sweetly, sleep in holy peace!” The song is so lovely, and to-morrow——
Notes
1 Under this title an essay was found in the manuscript, the pages of which were neither dated nor numbered. It had probably been written in the winter of 1830, and since it bears upon the subject in hand I insert it here.
2 Schiller’s Cradle Song.
3 This writing-book was not discovered among the records.—The Editor.