The Last Page
.... and to-morrow....
With these words the story closes.
I had read two long rainy days. I had read the experiences of a strange life, covering a period from the last century up to the preceding Christmas festival.
.... and to-morrow....
My head was heavy and hot. I gazed towards the door, fully expecting the man would enter and go on with his writing and tell us what happened the next morning, as well as what afterwards occurred. For this is no ending and no leave-taking; it is a hopeful look into the future, a long breath of relief, a morning star.
I felt almost convinced that the schoolmaster was still living. He was surely wandering somewhere in unknown parts, this poor man with his great, nameless longing, such as all feel more or less, the longing for the whole, the infinite, the true—incomprehensible though it be—wherein our striving, weary souls hope to find repose and deliverance.
A feeling possessed me that I must hasten forth and seek everywhere for the good, old, childlike man.—And what a terrible struggle and effort he had made! A vain endeavour after the pursuits of society, a painful crushing of his rising youthful passion, a despairing plunge into the entanglements of life, an adventurous journey over the world, a fearful awakening and disappointment, a flight into the barren wilderness, a quiet continuous toiling in humility and sacrifice, a great success, a deep contentment. Old age approaches, a young generation and new conditions no longer offer opportunity for work; a sad withdrawal into himself, desertion and loneliness, vague doubts and dreams and a quiet resignation and peace. In his old age, in his helplessness and simplicity he becomes a child; a smiling, happy, visionary child. But the longing and imagination of his youth still remain. And he has received a great reward, a compensation which reconciles us to his fate, and which the world can never give, for it only comes to one after the true fulfilment of life; it is the peace of the soul.
The quail’s call on the clock sounded eight. I carefully locked the sheets of paper in the drawer and went down towards the tavern. It was already growing dark; a chilling melancholy brooded over everything, and through the fine dripping rain a sharp breeze was blowing.
Lazarus was standing before the door. He turned his face skyward, saying: “There is going to be a change.” He was speaking to himself. He certainly had no idea that the young stranger now approaching him knew his whole history.
On this same evening the host was very sociable, but I was silent and soon retired to my schoolhouse to rest.
How changed was my view of everything here from that of two days before. I felt almost at home in this Alpine village where I, like the schoolmaster, had grown old.
And the man who had founded and developed the parish with his life’s blood was now to be cast aside and forgotten?
No, there were traces of him everywhere. “Invisible he wanders around day and night in Winkelsteg, at every hour!”—the charcoal-burner had said.
The next morning was so dazzling that the light penetrated through my closed eyelids. On opening the window I saw that it was a bright, clear winter day.
I sprang to my feet. It had snowed, and the white covering lay over the whole valley and upon all the roofs and trees.
I was soon ready for my Alpine climb.
“To-day, mein Herr,” said the hostess, “to-day it will indeed be fine on the mountain, if you do not lose your way in the snow. He who has patience may hope for everything in this world, even beautiful weather in Winkelsteg. But you must take someone with you.” Then turning to her husband she said: “Dost thou not think that Reiter-Peter would like to earn a nice little fee for acting as guide?”
“Reiter-Peter,” I said, “yes, he will suit me; for I do not care to talk on the way.”
“Ah, you already know that Peter cannot talk; yes, he is quiet enough, when he has n’t his violin with him.”
Peter was the same dumb lad who two days before had met me by the church door after mass. So, provided with the necessary equipment, I climbed the mountain with the schoolmaster’s godchild.
The snow was soft and glistened in the morning sunlight. Soon the prostrate plants and flowers were again standing erect, and the birds sang and hopped from branch to branch, shaking the flakes from the trees. The grass showed itself fresh and green through the rose-tinted whiteness of the ground, and the mountains stood out in bold relief against the sky. Summer and winter were blended in a most wonderful manner.
We walked by the burial-ground. Peter removed his hat, carrying it in his hand until we had passed the sacred spot. The old trees interwove their tops and branches over the few mounds, forming an arch like that of a Gothic temple. A veil of snow covered it, but beneath its shadow upon the graves flourished fresh grass and a tangle of moss, which climbed over and clung to the trunks, or lay in confusion upon the grey, bare, nameless wooden crosses.
I wished to see the resting-places of Father Paul and Rhyme-Rüpel. Peter looked at me inquiringly; the young man knew nothing of them.
A little later we came out upon a mountain ridge.
“Are we on the Lauterhöhe?” I asked my silent companion. He nodded assent. I thought of the cow that ate the Alpine nosegay, of the pine-trees in the background, and of old Schirmtanner, then I suddenly turned and asked Peter: “You know little Rose Schirmtanner, do you not?”
He grew as red as the Alpine flower of the same name.
From this elevation quite a new region disclosed itself toward the north; valleys and wooded hills were clearly outlined before me; to the left rose the cliffs, forming a rough, broken wall far over the forest. In this direction I fancied were the regions of Lautergräben, Karwässer, Wolfsgrube, and the Felsenthal.
The path led down toward the valley; but we turned to the left and climbed through forests of fir-trees and underbrush, higher and higher until we reached the clearing, which extended upwards toward the towering masses of rock.
The snow here was somewhat harder and more crusty, but it did not especially interfere with our walking. A few huts stood on this spot, the smoke issuing from their chimneys, while in the stalls the tinkling of cow-bells was heard. The cattle must eat hay to-day, but after the snow has gone there will be warm pleasant weather again. I should like to know from which of these windows the master workman Paul was found suspended!
We proceeded on our way; I soon noticed that my companion was not familiar with the path.
Approaching the rocks, we climbed through the defile, as I remembered the schoolmaster had done, and at last we reached the summit.
The picture was beyond comparison. The schoolmaster has described it.
We walked along the ridge, rested a little to refresh ourselves with bread and meat and bind on our climbing-irons, then, slowly crossing the glacier, we advanced toward the cone.
The air was remarkably clear, still, and frosty; and so invigorating that I felt like shouting for the very joy of living. The nearer we approached the summit, the more we hastened our footsteps; Peter, too, became jubilant.
And now we were above, standing on the summit of the Zahn. It seemed to me as if I had already been a number of times on these heights. Surrounding us in an endless circle—as the schoolmaster has said—was the kingdom of the Alps.
Even beyond the great forests, in the sunlit south, towered, clear and distinct, the spires and peaks of another mountain range, and farther on, stretched straight before me a shimmering band—the sea!
I felt almost impelled to hasten down from rock to rock and on over hill and valley to seek the schoolmaster and say to him: “Come, look upon the sea!”
Deeply thrilled and absorbed, I gazed a long time. Then we descended a few steps under the jutting rocks where the man had sat and dreamed fifty years ago.
Here the sun was shining warmly and the snow had already melted from some of the stones. Seating ourselves upon one of them, we ate our dinner. Peter played in the snow with his stick, tracing letters; I thought perhaps he was trying to express to me his thoughts and sensations. But he erased the characters and it proved to be only play.
My eyes wandered from one mountain to another, on to the most distant Italian heights; they gazed out over the sunny waters, they drank in the sea, where upon the waves I could catch the gleaming rays of the midday sun. A blue shadow suddenly passed before my eyes, which had become dazzled by the brilliant light.
All at once a cry resounded near me. The lad had sprung to his feet and was pointing with both hands toward the rough snow-covered ground.
Starting up in alarm, I first noticed where the snow had been displaced by the letters traced in it, and then to my horror I saw—the white covering having been partially removed—the head of a man which was thus exposed to view.
The lad, rigid with terror, stood motionless but for a few seconds, then, hastening to the spot, he worked with feverish haste to free the buried form from its snowy shroud. When the whole body was lying stretched before him, he covered his face with his hands and sank sobbing into my arms.
There lay an old man, wrapped in a brown cloak his features withered and sunburnt, his deep-set eyes closed, his scanty locks disordered and white as the snow.
My sensations at that hour were beyond description.
“Do you know him?” I asked the lad.
He sorrowfully nodded,
“Is it the schoolmaster?” I cried.
Peter bowed his head.
At last, when we had somewhat regained our composure, we began to examine the dead man more closely. He was carefully wrapped in the cloak, climbing-irons were bound to his feet and near by lay an alpenstock.
In the half-opened leather bag I discovered some dried bread-crumbs and a bit of paper rolled together. Seizing this I opened it, and found a few words, written with a pencil in crooked irregular lines and by a trembling uncertain hand.
The writing, which was legible, was as follows:
“Christmas day. At the setting of the sun I beheld the sea and lost my eyesight” —— ——
So he had reached his goal. As a blind man he had written the page, the last page of his story. Then laying himself down on the hard ground, he had awaited death in the freezing winter night.
We built a wall of stones about the dead man and covered it over as best we could. Then we descended to the meadows, taking the shorter path by the way of Miesenbach to Winkelsteg.
The next morning, at an early hour, a number of people began the ascent of the Graue Zahn, I accompanying them. Old Schirmtanner was also with us, and he had much to tell us about the schoolmaster, his story entirely corresponding with the records.
And so we bore the aged Andreas Erdmann, who in the dry cold Alpine air had become almost a mummy, down to the valley of the Winkel to the parish church, which had been built through his efforts; we carried him to the burial-ground which he himself had planned in the shadow of the forest.
The news that the old schoolmaster had been found had already spread through the Winkel woods, and everyone came to the funeral and praised the good, brave man. The Winkel landlord wept like a child. “He blessed my poor abandoned father upon his death-bed!” he cried. Schirmtanner was obliged to lead Peter away from the bier.
The forester from the manor-house was there. Close by the grave grew a wood-lily.
The brandy-distiller Schorschl, speaking to a few people who were standing by the entrance to the burial-ground, said that he had had nothing at all against the schoolmaster, but all the same the latter was an obstinate man. And there was one thing to be remembered, if the schoolmaster had only had a little flask of gin with him, he would not have been frozen.
In the evening by the light of torches the good old man was laid in the ground.
The old manuscript which had fallen into my hands in such a peculiar way, I begged from the parish of Winkelsteg, so that I might give it to the world as a legacy—as the witness of a poor, yet rich and fruitful and unselfish life lived in the solitude of the forest. With deep emotion have I added the last few pencilled words to “The Schoolmaster’s Story.” Ponder it, Reader, and a rare experience shall be thine. The first page is addressed by a child to Heaven; and from this same child, after the fulfilment of time, the last page is sent down from Heaven to the struggling ones of earth—a seal of the legacy—bearing this inscription:
RESIGNATION AND RENUNCIATION!