Part 1

Produced by Al Haines.

The Forest Schoolmaster

By Peter Rosegger

Authorized Translation by Frances E. Skinner

G. P. Putnam's Sons New York and London The Knickerbocker Press 1901

COPYRIGHT, 1900 BY FRANCES E. SKINNER

The Knickerbocker Press, New York

For the use of the following autobiographical sketch, I am indebted to the courtesy of Herr Staackmann, the author's publisher in Leipzig.

THE TRANSLATOR.

*PREFACE*

The author of the following work is a man well on in the fifties and lives--as he should--on his native soil. Born in Steiermark, Austria, in a lonely mountain region, he led the life of a forest peasant until he reached the age of eighteen, when he became apprenticed to a travelling peasant tailor. On the expiration of this apprenticeship, which covered a period of four years, he spent other four years as charity scholar in the commercial school at Graz.

After these experiences, and after having mastered such a variety of subjects, he began to work at something which he not only had not mastered but with which he was wholly unfamiliar--literature. He had always had a passion for books, but having no money with which to buy them, he had made them for himself.

In the peasant hut and in the workshop had been brought forth no less than twenty-four magnificent volumes, closely written with ink made from soot, illustrated with lead-pencil, and painted in water-colours with a brush made from his own hair--_edition de luxe_! But worthy to be printed!--not a single line.

Thus this youth had worked for ten long years, every Sunday, every holiday, and often late into the night, by the light of a pine torch and in the midst of the noise of his house companions, who occupied the same room. The intellectual and spiritual life of the poor lad was a very lonely one.

He did not write for print; the innocent boy scarcely knew that books were already being printed in this age, for the most of those which he had seen were old folios. He simply wrote to make two out of one, to place himself before himself, in his thoughts, in poems, in all kinds of yarns and tales, that in his great loneliness he might at least have a comrade. Beyond this he did not think or strive, was happy rather than unhappy, cherishing a vague hope that his life would at some time change. Whenever he asked himself what this change might be, he would calmly answer:--"Probably death."

But at this point things took a strange turn. The young man was completely transformed; not only from boy to youth, from youth to man; he changed not his coat alone, but in his fustian jacket, in his workman's blouse or student's garb, there appeared each time another being, which during all these transformations had not once died.

It finally seemed to him as though three or four different natures were dwelling in him, and as the original one had formerly tried to express itself, so now, in great confusion, they all struggled with one another to do the same. He was twenty-six years old, he had seen something of life, had read many books and had seen how they were made. Thus he was inspired to write afresh, and this time--_for print_.

I should envy him his good fortune were I not the man myself. So nothing remains for me but to thank Heaven for the pleasant paths over which I have been led. I have not deserved it, for I was not conscious of any definite aim, being satisfied to fill my days with work which appealed to me. I could now write to my heart's content. That which was written with the least effort was always the most successful, but if I attempted anything great, which it seemed to me might even prove itself immortal, it was usually a failure.

It was finally decided by one of my friends that for the future I should neither do tailoring nor handle the plough or the yard-stick, but instead become an author. My youth had not spoiled me, far from it, but such an aim as this seemed beyond my reach.

I married and had children. I wrote, and my books found friends. And now the time had come when one might truly say, "_Augenblick verweile!_" But the moment did not stay, it flew and with it took from me my dearest, my all,--my wife. In the _Waldheimath_ and in _Mein Weltleben_ those events have been depicted.

But my work was my salvation, and another transformation took place. In the neighbourhood of my forest home I built myself a little house and after a number of years I married a second time. More children came, and as my hair whitened, I was surrounded by a lively circle of gay young people.

In the meantime I had seen something of the world, wandering from the north to the south, visiting friends over in the dear German Empire, being invited to various cities to give readings from my works in _steierisch_ dialect.

For twenty-three years I edited a monthly magazine in Graz, called "_Der Heimgarten_," where my various writings were placed on trial. Those which were worthy to endure but a day died with the day, those which struck a deeper chord appeared in books. During the last thirty years forty volumes have gone out into the world. Their merits must be judged by the reader. They are not so impassioned as formerly; but the little forest springs are clearer than the greater ones. I shall be proud if my critics will only call them: "_Frisch Wasser_."

PETER ROSEGGER.

KRIEGLACH, Autumn, 1899

*CONTENTS*

INTRODUCTORY

THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY:

PART FIRST

PART SECOND

PART THIRD

THE LAST PAGE

*The Forest Schoolmaster*

*INTRODUCTORY*

"ROAD TO WINKELSTEG."

These words are on the sign-post. But the rain has nearly washed out the old-fashioned letters, and the post itself totters in the wind.

Round about stretches a rugged pine-forest; on the heights above are a few ancient larches, their bare branches reaching out to the sky. In the depths of a defile is a roaring torrent which the old mountain road frequently crosses by means of half-sunken wooden bridges, leading to an opening where the wanderer from peopled regions catches the first glimpse of the glaciers.

Here the Wildbach comes rushing down, and the road, after having traversed wastes and wildernesses, turns toward more peaceful woodlands, at last leading to the habitations of man. Along the river-bed extends a dry rocky ravine, across which storms have thrown pine-trunks, bleached from long exposure to the sun.

At the parting of the ways, upon a high rock stands a tall wooden cross, with triple cross-bars, upon which are carved the instruments of martyrdom of the holy passion: spear, sponge, reed, pincers, hammer, and the three nails. The wood is weather-beaten and overgrown with moss. Close by is the post with the arm and the inscription: "Road to Winkelsteg."

This sign points to the neglected stony path leading toward the narrow valley, beyond which lie the snow-fields. On the farthest heights, above the gently rising, snow-covered peaks, towers a grey cone, about whose summit cloud flakes love to gather.

I seated myself upon a block of stone near the cross and gazed up at the grey peak. While sitting there, my soul was possessed with that vague feeling, the source and meaning of which no one can tell, nor why it so oppresses the heart; clothes it, as it were, with the armour of resignation, preparing it against a something which must come. We call this strange experience of the soul, foreboding.

I might have rested for some time on the stone, listening to the roar of the wild waters, had it not seemed to me that the wooden arm was stretching itself out longer and longer, while the words grew into a pressing reminder: "Road to Winkelsteg."

On rising I perceived that my shadow was already lengthening, and it was uncertain how great a distance still lay between me and that remotest and smallest of all villages, Winkelsteg.

I walked rapidly, taking little heed of my surroundings. I only noticed that the wilderness became more and more imposing. I heard deer belling in the forest, I heard vultures whistling through the air. The sky darkened, although too early for nightfall. A storm was gathering over the rocky peaks. First a half smothered rumbling was heard, then a thundering and rolling, as if all the rocks and masses of ice in the high mountains were crashing a thousand times against each other. The great trees swayed, and in the broad leaves of a maple already rattled the big icy drops.

With these few drops the storm passed. Farther in it must have been more severe, for suddenly through the gorge a wild torrent, bringing with it earth, stones, ice, and bits of wood, rushed toward me. I saved myself from falling by clambering up the slope, and with great difficulty made my way forward. The whole country was now wrapped in fog, which descended from the branches of the pines to the damp heather on the ground.

As twilight approached and the defile widened a little, I reached a narrow valley, the length of which I could not measure on account of the fog. The grass was covered with hailstones. The brook had overflowed its banks and torn away the bridge which led to the opposite shore, where through the grey mist shone the wooden roofs of a few houses and a little white church. The air was frosty and cold. I called across to the men who were trying to catch the blocks of wood and regulate the current. They shouted back that they could not help me, and that I must wait until the water had lowered again.

One might wait the whole night for such a torrent to subside; so, taking the risk, I attempted to wade through the stream. But those on the other side motioned to me warningly. Soon a tall, black-bearded man appeared with a long pole, by means of which he swung himself across to me. Close to the bank he piled a few stones, and upon these laid a board which the others had shoved to him. Then taking me by the hand, he cautiously led me over the tottering bridge to the opposite shore.

While we were swaying over the water, the sound of the Ave-bells reached our ears, and the men reverently removed their hats.

The tall, dark man walked with me over the crackling hailstones up to the village. "So it goes," he grumbled on the way. "If God lets anything grow, the devil strikes it down into the ground again. The cabbage plants are gone to the last stump, and the last stump is gone also. The oats are lying on their backs now with their knees raised toward heaven."

"Has the storm done so much harm?" I asked.

"You see that," he replied.

"And farther out there it hardly sprinkled."

"I can well believe it. It is always meant only for us Winkelstegers. From to-day on not one of us will dare eat his fill all summer, unless we wish to hang our stomachs up in the chimney flue for the winter." Such was his answer.

The village consisted of three or four wooden houses, a few huts, some smoking charcoal-pits, and the little church.

In front of one of the larger houses, before the door of which lay a broad stepping-stone, worn by many feet, my companion paused and said: "Will you stop here, sir? I am the Winkel innkeeper." With these words he pointed to the house, as if that were his real self.

Entering the guest-room, I was met by the landlady who took my travelling-bag and damp overcoat and, bringing me a pair of straw shoes, said: "Off with the wet leather and on with the slippers; be quick; a wet shoe on the foot runs for the doctor." Very soon I was sitting dry and comfortable by the large table under the _Haus Altar_ and some shelves, upon which stood a row of gaily painted earthen- and china-ware. Upon a rack were a number of bottles, and I was asked at once if I would take some brandy.

On requesting some wine mine host replied: "There has n't been a drop in the cellar since the house was built, but I can give you some excellent cider."

As I accepted his offer, he started for the cellar, but his wife stepped hastily up to him and, taking the key out of his hand, said: "Go, Lazarus, and snuff the candle for the gentleman; and be quick about it, Lazarus; you'll get your little drop soon enough."

He came back to the table grumbling, snuffed the wick of the tallow candle, looked at me for awhile, and finally asked: "The gentleman is possibly our new schoolmaster?--No? Then your way leads up the Graue Zahn? That you will hardly do to-morrow. No one has climbed it this summer. That must be done in the early autumn; at other times there's no depending on the weather. Indeed, how one does speculate about things; now I thought you might be the new schoolmaster. Hardly anyone finds his way up here who does n't belong to the place, and we are expecting him every day. The old one has run away from us;--have you heard nothing about it?"

"So, Lazarus, you 're having a fine chat with the gentleman," said the landlady in a coaxing tone to her husband, as she set the cider and at the same time the evening soup before me.

The woman was no longer young, but was what the foresters call "round as a ball." She had a double chin, from under which about the full throat, a silver chain peeped out. Her little eyes had a shrewd and gentle expression as she spoke or moved about, cheerfully presiding in the house, each corner and nail of which was familiar to her and had almost grown to be a part of herself. In a merry mood she directed everything, joked with the guests, and laughed with the servants in the kitchen. That the storm had ruined the crops was indeed no joke, she said; but it was far better that ice should fall from heaven upon the earth than that it should fall into heaven and break everything to pieces there. Then indeed one would have nothing more to hope for. And as she talked she fairly bubbled over with fun, and the whole circle about her was cheered, each one seeming simply to follow his own bent in whatever he did, felt, and said; yet all went on in perfect order.

"You have an excellent little wife," I said to my landlord.

"Yes, indeed, yes, indeed," he answered with animation; "she is good, my Juliana, yet--yet----" the word seemed to choke him, or rather he ground it between his teeth and forced it down; springing up, with his hands clinched behind him, he strode across the room and back again, finally draining a glass of water at one draught.

Then he seated himself upon the bench and was quiet. But he was by no means himself. He had doubled his fists and was staring hard at the table.... I once saw at a fair an Arab, a tall, powerful figure, haggard, rough, brown as leather, with a full black beard, gleaming eyes, a long hooked nose, snow-white teeth, thick eye-brows, and soft woolly hair.... Thus appeared the man now brooding so gloomily before me.

"There is n't another little wife so good-hearted and faithful," he murmured suddenly; he finished the sentence with a sullen growl.

Observing his painful mood, I tried to help him out of it.

"So you say the old schoolmaster has run away?" At this the landlord raised his head: "One can't exactly say he has run away; he had nothing to complain of here. I should think one who had been school-teacher, and I-don't-know-what-all, in Winkelsteg for fifty years, would n't run away like a horse-thief in the fifty-first."

"School-teacher here fifty years!" I exclaimed.

"He was school-teacher, doctor, bailiff, and awhile even our pastor."

"And half a fool in the bargain!" called a man from a neighbouring table, where a number of swarthy fellows, mostly wood-cutters and charcoal-burners, were sitting before their brandy-glasses. "Aye! aye!" cried the same voice; "he would sit outside there by the juniper bush muttering to himself, hours at a time; he must have been trying to teach the bullfinches to sing by note. Whenever he spied a gay butterfly, he would flounder after it the livelong day;--a baby in arms could n't have been more childish. Maybe some such creature has enticed him away now, so that the old man can never find his way home again, but is lost out in the woods somewhere."

"There are no butterflies about at Christmas-time, Josel," said the landlord, half correctingly, half reprovingly; "and that he was lost on Christmas eve, you know very well."

"The devil has taken him, the old sinner!" growled another voice from the darkest corner of the room, by the big stove.

As I looked in that direction, I saw in the darkness sparks from a tinder-box.

"You mustn't, you mustn't talk so!" said one of the charcoal men. "You should remember that the old man had snow-white hair!"

"Yes, and horns under it," was called from the corner by the stove; "perhaps no one knew him so well, the old sneak, as Schorschl! Do you think he did n't connive with the great men so that none of us could win in the lottery? How then did Kranabetsepp make a _tern_ the second week after the schoolmaster went away? To be sure, the hunch-backed hypocrite had money enough, but he buried it, so that if he did n't need it himself the poor could n't use it either. Oh--perhaps one might tell other stories, too, if certain people were not in the room."

The voice was silent; nothing could be heard but the sound of lips puffing smoke, and the shutting of a pipe-lid.

The landlord arose, threw aside his fustian jacket, and, with flowing shirt-sleeves, walked a few steps toward the stove. In the middle of the room he paused.

"So there are certain people in the room, are there," he said under his breath. "Schorschl, I thought so myself; but they don't sit at an honest table before everybody's eyes; they cower in the pitch-dark corner, like good-for-nothing rascals, like--like----"

He stopped, and it could be seen how he forced himself to be calm; he pulled himself together with a jerk, but remained standing in the middle of the room.

"Oh, of course the brandy-distillers could n't endure the old man," said one of the charcoal-burners. Then turning to me: "My dear sir, he meant well! God comfort his poor soul! He played the organ Christmas eve, but Christmas morning there were no bells rung for prayers. In the night he had told Reiter-Peter--he is our musician, you know--to take charge of the music on Christmas day;--that was his last word, and the schoolmaster was seen no more. By St. Anthony, how we hunted for the man! It was impossible to trace him; the snow was as hard as stone everywhere, even in the forest. All Winkelsteg was up searching the woods far and near, and even the roads in the country outside."

The man was silent; a shrug of the shoulders and a motion of the hand indicated that they had not found him.

"And so we Winkelstegers have no schoolmaster," said the landlord.

"As for myself, I don't need one; I never have learned anything, and never shall now. I manage anyway. But I see very well that there must be a schoolmaster. Therefore, we peasants of the parish and the wood-cutters have agreed that we must have a new----"

At this moment I raised the cider glass to my lips, to swallow the rest of the excellent drink, and the action seemed to check the man's power of speech. Staring at the empty glass, he tried to go on with his story, which apparently was entirely driven from his mind.

"I know what I think," answered one of the charcoal-burners, "and I say the same, just exactly the same, as Wurzentoni. The old schoolmaster, says he, knew a bit more than other people; a good bit more. Wurzentoni--not only once, ten, nay a hundred times,--has seen the schoolmaster praying out of a little book in which were all sorts of sayings, magic and witchcraft signs. If the schoolmaster had died anywhere in the woods, says Wurzentoni, then someone would have found the body; if the devil had taken him, then his cloak would have been left behind; for the cloak, says Wurzentoni, is innocent; the devil has no power over that, not the least! Something altogether different has happened, my friends! The schoolmaster has bewitched himself, and so, invisible, he wanders around day and night in Winkelsteg--day and night at every hour. That's because he 's curious to see what the people are doing, and to hear what stories they are telling about him, and because----. I 'm not saying anything bad about the schoolmaster, not I; I should n't know what to say, indeed I should n't!"

"Oh, if the devil was n't any wiser than the black charcoal-burner!" coughed the voice behind the stove. "The old scoundrel still leads the Winkelstegers around by the nose!"

An enraged lion could not have started up more angrily than did the rough and sullen landlord. Fairly groaning with impatience, he plunged behind the stove, from whence issued alarming cries.

Hastening forward, the landlady cried: "Come, Lazarus, don't mind that stupid rascal there! It is n't worth while that you should lift a finger on his account. Come, be sensible, Lazarus; see, here I have poured out your drink of cider for you."

He yielded at last, and Schorschl sneaked out through the door like a dog, leaving Lazarus with bits of hair in his fist. Grumbling, he walked towards the chest upon which his wife had placed a mug of cider. Almost choking, he tremblingly seized it and, carrying it to his lips, took a long draught. With staring eyes he stopped a moment, then, beginning again, he drained the mug to the last drop! That must have been a terrible thirst! The hand holding the empty mug sank slowly; with a deep breath the landlord glowered straight before him.

So the time passed, until the landlady came to me and said: "We can give you a good bed up in the attic; but I will tell you at once, sir, that the wind has carried away a few shingles from the roof to-day, and so it drips through a little. In the schoolhouse above here, is a very nice, comfortable room, which has already been arranged for the new teacher; it heats well, too, and we have the key; for my old man is Winkel Magistrate, and has charge of it. Now, if you would n't mind sleeping in the schoolhouse, I would advise you to do it. Indeed it's not in the least gloomy, and it 's very quiet and clean. I think I should like to live there the year round."

So I chose the schoolhouse instead of the attic. Not long afterwards, a maid with a lantern accompanied me out into the dark, rainy night, through the village to the church beyond the graveyard, on the edge of which stood the schoolhouse. The hall was bare, and the shadows from the lantern chased each other up and down the walls.

Then we entered a little room, where, in the tile stove, a bright fire was crackling. My companion placed a candle on the table, threw back the brown cover of the bed, and opened a drawer of the bureau, that I might put away my things. All at once she exclaimed: "No, really, we should all of us be ashamed of ourselves; here are these scraps still scattered about!" She hastily seized an armful of sheets of paper, which were lying in confusion in the drawer. "I 'll take care of you soon enough, you bits of trash; the stove is the place for you!"

"Stop, stop," I interrupted, "perhaps there are things there that the new teacher can use."

She threw the papers back into the drawer with an impatient gesture. In her frenzy for cleaning up, it would doubtless have given her great pleasure to burn them; just as indeed many ignorant people are possessed with a desire to destroy everything which seems to them useless.

"The gentleman can put on the old schoolmaster's night-cap," said the girl roguishly, laying a blue striped night-cap on the pillow. She then gave me some advice in regard to the door-key, and said: "So, _in Gottesnamen_, now I will go!" and with this she left me.