Part 10

While thus dreaming, I hear a rustling in the thicket. It is no deer, it is no doe; it is a human being; a young, blooming woman, excited and frightened, like a hunted creature. It is Aga, the Alm maiden. She hastens up to me, seizes my hands and cries: "Oh, I am so glad it is you!"

Then she looks at me and stops for breath, unable to overcome her excitement. "It is a horrible fate!" she cries again; "but I know no other way. The evil one follows us both, and now we fear the people; but I 'm not afraid of you, for you are good and learned! I 'm sure you will help us out of our trouble, Berthold and me! We should so like to live a decent life; pray give us the marriage blessing!"

At first I do not understand, but, comprehending her at last, I say: "If you are honest in your purpose, the church will not withhold its blessing."

"_Mein Gott im Himmel!_" cries the girl; "with the church we will have nothing more to do; it refuses us marriage because we have no money. But if God should be angry with us, that would be terrible indeed. My conscience gives me no peace, and I beg you a thousand times, give us the blessing which every man may bestow. You are still young yourself, and if you have a sweetheart, then you must know there is no parting or leaving one another. And so we live together in the wilderness; we have n't a single soul to be our friend and wish us happiness. We should so like to hear one good word, and if someone would only come and say: 'By God's will and with His blessing remain together until death!' Just a single word, and we should be freed from the sin, and a wedded pair before God in heaven!"

This longing for deliverance from their sin, this struggling for the right, for human sympathy, for peace of heart--who would not be moved by that!

"You true-hearted people!" I cry. "May the Lord God be with you."

The lad has already knelt beside the maiden. And so, with my words I have done something for which I am not responsible in heaven or on earth. I have consummated a marriage in the midst of the green woods.

THE FEAST OF ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL, 1817.

Strange,--what is the matter with this lad, Black Mathes's son! He has his mother's heart and his father's blood. No, he has a still larger heart than his mother's, and blood three times as savage as his father's. This boy will become either a saint or a terrible murderer.

Old Russ-Kath has been ill for months. The people say she lacks young blood. Little Lazarus, hearing of it, came to me yesterday with a small wooden bowl and his father's huge pocket-knife, and asked me to draw some blood from his hand to send to Russ-Kath.

His face was flushed, otherwise he was quiet. I remonstrated with him for making such a request. He darted away, and soon afterwards in the Winkelwarden's yard he was wringing a pigeon's neck: for anger, for love--I cannot tell which.

I went out to the dead creature. "Lazarus," I said; "now thou hast deprived a mother of her life. Seest thou the poor, helpless young yonder? Dost thou hear how they cry?"

The boy stood there trembling, pale as marble, struggling for breath, and biting his underlip until the blood trickled down his chin. Loosening his clenched fist, I poured water on his forehead and led him back into his hut. There he fell exhausted upon the moss, and sank into a deep sleep.

Something must be done to save the child. How would it be if I should take him, be father and brother to him, curb and guide him according to my strength, teach him and keep him at work, seeking in every way to kill his passion?

But perhaps the boy has too much blood ... the people say.

DOG-DAYS, 1817.

Like Sturmhanns's little dog, friendly one moment and the next snapping at one's calf, are these uncertain dog-days. In the morning all promises well, and the skies are bright and clear. And the sun caresses and kisses thee, embracing the world with passionate love--who would not then stroll out into the comforting shade of the woods? Thou wanderest freely about and gazest on the green earth thinking: Beloved, beautiful day! Then, all at once, the dark clouds are over thee, and the storm tears thy hat from thy head, and the rain madly beats thee in the face; find a shelter for thyself quickly--the hail comes rushing down.

The dog-days. Can Nature be unfaithful also? It is man who accuses her of evil, because his thoughts are unreasonable and his wisdom is lacking. There is nothing evil and nothing good, excepting in the heart of man, the one being to whom is given free-will.

If we could lay aside our free-will, we should then have no conscience. In the forest there are many to whom that would be very agreeable.

THE FEAST OF ST. JAMES, 1817.

To-day I was in the Hinter Winkel again, in Mathes's house. The woman is inconsolable. Two days ago the boy Lazarus disappeared.

Something horrible has happened. In his rage he hurled a stone at his mother. Then, with a wild cry, he ran away. Upon Mathes's grave the fresh imprints of two knees were discovered yesterday.

We have summoned people to hunt for the boy. He is not in any of the huts. They will also search along the ravines and streams.

"He did n't mean to hit me!" sobs the mother; "and it was only a _little_ stone, but a large one lies upon my heart. He could never have thrown a greater one at me than by running away."

THE FEAST OF ST. PETER IN CHAINS, 1817.

The following story has spread like wild-fire through the forest. Early this morning as the little daughter of Mathes was on her way to plant wild-rose trees upon her father's grave, she saw the gleam of something white. Upon the mound had been placed a staff from which a piece of paper was fluttering. The girl ran home to her mother, and the latter hastened to me, begging me to come and explain it to her.

It is most remarkable. It is news from the boy. On the paper in strange handwriting were the words:

"My mother and my sister! Bear me no ill-will and do not worry. I am in the school of the Cross.

"LAZARUS."

They all looked to me for an explanation. The boy could neither read nor write, as can hardly anyone in the forest. They think that I, being learned, ought to know everything.

I know nothing.

THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS, 1817.

The people come and go in silence.

A little drop collects on the high branch of a tree, travels along out to the farthest needle, trembles, glistens, and sparkles, now grey like lead, now red like a carbuncle. It has hardly reflected the glorious colour of the woods and sky, when a breath of wind stirs and the little drop frees itself from the swaying pine-branch and falls upon the ground. The earth sucks it in, and there is no longer a trace of the tiny, sparkling star.

Thus lives the child of the forest and thus it dies.

Outside it is otherwise. There the drops congeal in the frosty breath of conventionality, and the icicles tinkle against each other, tinkling even as they fall and rest upon the ground, reflecting for a while the glory of the world until they dissolve and melt, like our thoughts of a dear departed one.

Outside, the churchyards are not for the dead, but for the living. There we pay honour to the memory of our forefathers and to our own future resting-place. The flowers and the inscriptions are for us, and we feel peace in our hearts as we think of the sleeper who is freed from trial. We realise the dissolution of the departed but hope for him the resurrection. No one walks upon burial-ground unrewarded; these clods cool the passions and warm the heart, and not only is the peace of death written on the flowery mounds, but also the worth of life.

The forest brings rest to whom rest belongs. There the dead sleeper has no candle, nor has the living one had one. May the _everlasting_ light give them light! is our only petition. The faint autumn sun smiles gently, promising eternal brightness, and the coming spring will care for the flowers and wreaths.

In the forest our thoughts are not for the bodies of the dead, but for the agony of the living souls of those who, having died in sin, are languishing in purgatory!

When the starving Hans stole the piece of bread from his starving neighbour in the field and then died, the primeval forest was not yet standing. The body has decayed. Hans is forgotten, the soul lies in purgatory. The meadow has become a forest, the forest a wilderness; the wolves howl and there is no man far or near. On the mountain sides blow summer breezes and winter storms, and with each moment a grain of sand; and with each century a mass of mountain plunges into the depths of the ravines. And the poor soul lies in the fire. Again man comes into the wilderness, the high forests fall, huts and houses appear and a parish is founded--the soul belonging to olden times and to days long past lies in the flames of purgatory, is abandoned and forgotten.

But there is one day in the year for the consolation of such forgotten souls.

When Christ, the Lord, died upon the cross and but one drop of blood was left in His heart, His Heavenly Father asked Him: "My dear Son, mankind is saved; to whom wilt thou give the last drop of thy red blood?" Then Christ, the Lord, answered: "To my beloved mother, who stands at the cross; that her pain may be soothed." "Oh no, my child Jesus," the Mother Mary replied, "if thou wilt suffer the bitter death for the souls of men, then can I also bear the pain of a mother's heart, e'en though the agony were so great that the sea could not quench it, and the whole earth a grave which could not bury it. I give the last drop of thy blood to the forgotten souls in purgatory, that they may have one day in the year, when they are freed from the fire."

And thus--according to the legend--originated All Souls' Day. On this day even the most abandoned and forgotten souls are delivered from their pain and they stand in the outer courts of heaven, until the stroke of the last hour in the day summons them back into the flames.

Such is the idea and meaning of the feast of All Souls in the forest, and many a good deed is performed with the thought of soothing the fiery anguish of departed souls.

But over the lonely graves the late autumn mists are gathering, and the remainder of the hill is concealed by newly fallen snow, upon which the claws of a jay may have traced a little chain--the only sign of life which still reigns here above--symbol of the indissoluble band: About life and death an eternal chain is wound.

To-day I am reminded of Lucas, a charcoal-burner, who lies buried in Lautergraeben. One night a goat was stolen from the wood-cutter Luger, and afterwards, not far from Lucas's hut, they found the animal's skin and entrails. Thus it was clear Lucas was the thief, and as slothfulness rules everywhere in the forest, they did not prosecute the charcoal-burner, and so he could not clear himself. He noticed, however, how he was suspected, and once he called out: "Had you cut off my hands, or put out my eyes, I should be content. But you have robbed me of my honour--now my life is ruined." Still the people said: "Let him turn and twist as he will, he stole the goat all the same." And this nearly crazed the poor man. "Thieves must be hanged," he said,--and afterwards he was found suspended from the branch of a fir-tree. From time immemorial suicides have chosen their own graves; so they buried the man among the roots of the fir.

It was not until a few weeks ago, that an unemployed wood-cutter made the confession on his death-bed, that it was he who had taken the goat from Luger. I shall go to-day to Lucas's grave in Lautergraeben.

There is still another grave in the Winkel forests, known and despised by the people. On this anniversary day, however, it was not deserted. For here, upon her father's grave, the little daughter of Black Mathes again discovered a bit of paper with the words:

"I am well. I think of my mother and sister and father. "LAZARUS."

That is the message, the only news from the vanished boy for many days. The handwriting is the same as before.

No footsteps excepting those of the girl lead to the grave, none away from it. Paths for foxes, and deer, and other animals wind zig-zag through the wintry woods.

THE FEAST OF ST. CATHARINE, 1817.

A letter has been written begging the lad to return home for his mother's sake. It has been carefully fastened upon the little cross above the grave. It is still there; no one has opened it.

CHRISTMAS, 1817.

To-day I am homesick for the sound of bells, for the sad, melting tones of an organ. I sit in my room and play manger songs on the zither. My zither has but three strings; a more perfect one I did not know how to make.

The three strings are enough for me; one is my mother, the other my wife, the third my child. One always spends Christmas with one's family.

Only a few of the forest people go with pine-torches to the midnight service in Holdenschlag. The distance is too great. The rest remain in their huts, yet, having no desire to sleep, they sit together and tell stories, for to-day they have a peculiar impulse to leave their commonplace life and create a world of their own. Many a one carries out old pagan customs, hoping thereby to satisfy an unspeakable longing of the heart. Many a one strains his eyes and gazes over the dark forests, confidently expecting to see the heavens illumined. He listens for the ringing of festival bells and soft angel voices. But only the stars gleam above the forest hills, to-day as yesterday and always. A cold breeze stirs among the tree-tops; there is a glitter of ice, and now and then a branch shakes off its burden of snow.

But on this night the glistening and falling of the snow affect one in an unusual way, and the hearts of men tremble in longing expectation of the Redeemer.

I have trimmed a simple little Christmas-tree, such as they have in northern countries, and have sent the same to Anna Maria Russ in Lautergraeben. I think the light of the candles will be reflected in a friendly way in the eyes of the little one. Perhaps a bit of the brightness will sink into the young heart never to be extinguished.

In the widow's hut, there can be no Christmas-tree. Mathes's grave is buried deep in snow; the branch which served as letter-box wears a tall cap. The pleading letter from the mother to the child will be destroyed without having been opened or read.

MARCH, 1818.

Over in one corner of Karwaesser Berthold has earned himself a hut. He has joined the wood-cutters.

Yesterday a child was born to Aga. It is a girl. They did not carry her to Holdenschlag, but sent for me to christen the little one. I am no priest and may not steal a name from the church calendar. I have called the girl _Waldlilie_ and have baptised her with the water of the woods.

EASTER, 1818.

When will the angel come to roll away the stone?

"Alas, alas, our Lord is dead! But as I have already said, one hardly knows anything in this back country. Well, well, He cannot have been very young, for I have heard of Him all my life. But all the same His time has come at last. Ah, who can escape!..." Thus spoke old Schwammelfuchs, when he learned that on Good Friday it had been proclaimed from the chancel in Holdenschlag that our Lord had died for the sins of the world.

The old man meant it seriously and in the greatest reverence, although every evening at his prayers he repeats the words: "Suffered under Pontius Pilate, crucified, dead."

It is a prayer of the lips. True prayer, the heart offers only in its need, in its joy, but these people are not conscious of this. Deeply buried is that which we call true worship or religious feeling.

The people hasten Easter eve or in the morning out into the open woods, where they kindle fires, discharge their guns, and gaze into the air for the papal blessing, which from the pinnacle of St. Peter's at Rome is scattered to the four winds on Easter morning.

There is always present the unconscious longing and struggle. One sees that something lies hidden in the heart which is not dead. But when will the angel come to roll away the stone?

THE FEAST OF ST. MARK, 1818.

The snow is melted. Yonder in the gorge the avalanches still thunder. A year ago we planted a few fruit-trees; these are now becoming quite green and the cherry-tree bears five snow-white blossoms.

The building of the church has commenced again. The masons have also gone to work on the parsonage. That is to be a stately house, built after plans from the owner of the forest. Why then must the parsonage be larger than the schoolhouse? The latter is for an entire family and a troop of young guests; the parsonage harbours one or a few single people, whose world does not extend outwards, but is absorbed within.

But the parsonage is the home and refuge for all those needing help or advice; an asylum for the persecuted and defenceless--the centre of the parish.

As in the changing seasons the old is constantly reappearing in the new, so these people continue the occupations, and in their ignorance and poverty repeat the lives of their ancestors.

I no longer have time to wander about in the forest, watching the people and studying nature. I must oversee the building constantly; the workmen and foremen depend upon my advice. It requires much thought, and I am obliged to call to my aid books and the experiences of others, so that nothing may go wrong.

But I enjoy this active life and I am becoming younger and stronger.

Yesterday the roof of the church was raised. Many people were present, each one wishing to contribute his mite to the church. The widow of Mathes and her daughter were also working on the building. Not long ago the woman brought a little stone from her hut, saying: "I should like to have this pebble lie under the altar."

It is the stone which the lad threw at his mother.

PENTECOST, 1818.

The first celebration of the new church. Not inside however, but in front of it. Yesterday the cross was placed on the tower. It is made of steel and gilded--a present from the Baron.

A great crowd of people assembled; there are many inhabitants in the forest after all.

From Holdenschlag there was no one present, not even the priest. Can it be that they begrudge us the new church? But the Einspanig has been seen on the other side of the Winkel brook, lurking about listening. He draws his grey mantle over his disordered hair, and hastens along by the brook, finally disappearing in the thicket. He is a strange creature; he avoids the people more and more, and is only seen on special days. No one knows who he is or whence he comes, and what he is weaving no weaver can tell.

The master wood-cutter also takes part in the celebration; he has arrayed himself in gala attire and has even combed his red beard. He carries a knotted stick, and I notice at once that something unusual is about to take place. I am not mistaken, for he proceeds to make a speech in which he says that in the name of the master of the forest he to-day delivers over the new church to the new parish.

A stalwart man carries up the cross, bound to his left arm. It is Paul, the young head journeyman from Lautergraeben. From the tower window, through which he climbs, a very simple staging is placed upon the almost perpendicular shingle roof, reaching to the summit. Calmly the bearer of the cross climbs along the beam. Having reached the top, he stands upright, loosening the cross from his arm. The crowd below is silent, and round about there is not a sound; it is as if it were still a wilderness on the banks of the Winkel. Each one holds his breath, as if fearing to disturb the equilibrium of the man on the dizzy height.

Paul avoids looking about him, and his movements are slow and regular. I am seized with terror as I fancy that he makes an unnecessary start and turn--then the cross sinks into its resting-place and stands firmly. In the same moment the man stumbles--a cry resounds in my vicinity. But Paul is still standing on the summit.

The cry proceeds from Anna Maria. She is deathly pale, and without uttering another sound she seats herself upon a stone.

And now the merry-making begins. Paul takes out a glass and, raising it to his lips, drains it, then hurls it upon the ground. It breaks into a thousand pieces, and the people struggle with one another for the bits, that they may preserve them for their descendants and be able to say: "See, this is a part of the glass which was used at the raising of the cross on the church tower."

Paul still stands upon the pinnacle, arm in arm with the cross; in the tower window the grey head of our rhymster Ruepel now appears. Contracting his white eyebrows so violently that it can be seen even from below, the man begins thus to speak: "As the dizzy spire I cannot reach, so from this window I 'll make my speech. On the highest point a youth doth stand, with handsome looks and glass in hand. But aged ones like me should teach, yet sermons I will never preach. For that below a chancel's given, to honest priests, who guide to heaven. And the font baptismal stands near by--of no more use to such as I--but some folks in the parish here, need this wash-trough every year. The font should be both wide and long--in forest lands it must be strong; near by the confessional stands for all, where sins are left both great and small, which God forgives; though the priest his ears may close, the sins from his own heart he knows. Then there 's the altar, where one leaves one's woes, refreshed and young one homeward goes. And God twelve angels here will send, to guard this parish from end to end. Methinks I hear our bells ring clear: I see our sunlit cross in place, a sacred sign that by God's grace we all together at last may wend our way to heaven when life shall end. But I must be the bell to-day, to tell abroad what you fain would say, and send it forth o'er mountain and wood to the town where dwells our master good--a message of thanks from this parish new, for the house of God which he builds for you. May angels guide us to heaven's door,--this is my greeting, and still more--before above we have a happy birth, may we rejoice a little while on earth."

These words warmed the hearts of the people, and I would gladly have sent my own guardian angel to the Baron in the city with a most loving message of thanks.

As Paul has now safely descended from the tower to firm ground, his wife receives him with open arms: "God gives thee back to me from His own hands!"

They then approach the house which to-day has become a noisy tavern. Behold the fatality, here is Paul, now standing with less security upon the smooth, firm floor of the inn than he did a few hours ago above on the tower.

But the lofty cross is graciously stretching out its arm above the church and the tavern.

A FEW DAYS LATER.

That must be a false report which is circulating about the Baron's son. He is said to have become dissipated. Too much wealth was awaiting him when he came into this world. But with an illustrious name and an abundance of money, no wonder life is full of attractions!

I used to tell my good Hermann what it meant to work for one's daily bread. But there was one thing about him which did not please me: he never noticed the labourer in the field, or the flowers of spring, or the leaves of autumn.

Still, Hermann, thou canst not go very far astray. By thy side stands the holiest, truest guardian angel ever born in heaven or on earth.

Ah, if thou wouldst only come into our beautiful, silent forest!

MORGENROTH AND EDELWEISS, SUMMER, 1818.

It is sometimes very lonely for me here in the Winkel. But I know one remedy for this; at such times I go to still lonelier parts of the forest; I have been there even at night, have watched sleeping nature, and have found rest.