Part 12
The church is finished. Above the altar towers the cross from the Felsenthal; it stands here as unpretentiously and almost as harmoniously as yonder in its loneliness. Among the people remarks are heard to the effect that this is the true cross of the Saviour. If they find comfort and exaltation in this thought, then it is as they say.
The canopy for the altar is a present from the Baron; the candlesticks and the credence were carved by Ehremvald. But who has given the two beautiful altar windows with the painted glass? I am asked. It is well that the windows are so high, otherwise it must be seen that only coloured paper is pasted over the panes. The two windows represent the Commandments of Moses, within a green crown of thorns mingled with red and white roses. Over the altar and the cross is a round window representing the eye of God, with the words: "I am the Lord thy God, who frees thee from bondage. Make thyself no graven image, to worship it."
The priest from Holdenschlag, who was here to perform the service of consecration, informed me that the above words were not suitable. "Thou shalt believe in one God!" it should say. I replied that the words here employed, I had read in a very old Bible.
The schoolmaster from Holdenschlag played the organ, which has a pure, sympathetic tone. "The gladness and woe, which the lips cannot tell, from music they flow, as rivulets run in the light of the sun," says the old forest singer.
In the same way that I have hitherto practised on the zither, I now practise on the organ. Each sweet sound sinks into the heart of the worshipper to lift his soul to the altar of God.
The priest from Holdenschlag preached a sermon on the significance of the consecration and the parish church, and on the life of man from the baptismal font to the grave. It then occurred to me that we had no graveyard. No one has thought of it or wishes to think of it, even though the font has been spoken of so often. I can no longer worship, and afterwards, during the mass while the veil of incense is rising, I cannot help wondering where we shall locate the burial-ground. After the high mass, when they all come out upon the square and approach the pedlars' booths to look at the treasures and works of art which the world is now beginning to send in to the new parish in the Winkel, I climb up the slope to the first gentle rise over which the dark high forest extends toward the cliffs. There I lay myself upon the pine-needles with which the ground is strewn. I am nearly exhausted from the unusual excitement of recent events, and with the graveyard still on my mind, I try this couch to see how one would rest up here.
I hear the cries of the market people and the humming of the crowd below.
Many are dissatisfied with the church because no well-regulated inn stands near it. However, Brandy Hannes is there; he has set up a little table under the ash-trees and placed upon it some large bottles and small glasses. "What a dry consecration that would be with nothing to drink!" the people say, and the young men like to treat their sweethearts to a tiny glass as well. The devil is a pious fellow, he counterfeits each new church, but a tavern is always the result. The bar is his high altar, the gay hostess his priest, the tinkling of the glasses his bells and organ music, the purse of the host the offering, the playing-cards his prayer-book; and if a man is overcome with drunkenness and fighting, he is then his sacrificial lamb.
The tavern is the shadow of the church. And after the heat of the week, the workman is only too willing to rest within this shadow.
At the midday meal, which we ate together in the Winkel-warden's house, the master wood-cutter told us that Grassteiger wished permission granted to erect a tavern for dispensing brandy.
"We already have the tavern-keeper, but where is our priest?
"One would not care to come to this corner of the world, fastened in with boards," says the priest from Holdenschlag.
"That 's true, your highness!" interrupts the Winkel-warden's wife in a loud voice. "Indeed, I 'll say it a hundred times over, I should like to leave this wilderness myself, and the sooner the better. There 's nothing to do in this Winkel. What a good thing it would have been for us now, if we could have sold a little brandy of a Sunday, and I consider Grassteiger a lucky fellow!"
"Ha," laughs the priest, "taverns! It will yet become a lively place, this Winkel--Winkel--ah, the parish has no name!"
The name of the parish has already been decided upon. The settlement of this question would have been a welcome occasion for the people to assemble at the new tavern to christen the parish with _Schnapps_. But we baptise with water. Our water is called the Winkel; since time immemorial a bridge has led across this stream. The square about the Winkel-warden's house is briefly called _Am Steg_ (by the bridge). Here stands the new church, and Winkelsteg shall it and the parish be called. Our master, Baron von Schrankenheim, has endorsed it.
As the bells were rung at the beginning of our church consecration, so they rang again at its close. On this day another very exciting occurrence has taken place. The gentlemen from Holdenschlag and the forester had left; it was quiet once more in Winkelsteg. Twilight comes on early now and the mist lay over the high mountains. It was already dark when I went to my bells. To-day for the first time the little red lamp was burning before the altar, which from now on shall be called the everlasting light, and which shall never be extinguished as long as the house of God remains standing. It is the watch before the Lord.
As I entered the church I beheld a figure in the shadow by the credence. A man still knelt there praying. If one must live so long in the misery of the day, the Sunday which follows, when one is communing with the dear God or with one's self, is much too short. These were my thoughts, and I remained silent for a while, but finally advanced to remind the worshipper that the church was being closed. But as the figure became aware of my presence, it rose and sought to escape. After all it is no worshipper, I thought, seizing the fugitive and looking him in the face. It was a young lad.
"You rascal, you may well blush!" I cried.
"I am no rascal," he replied, "and you are blushing too; that comes from the lamp." Then I looked at him closely. Who should it prove to be but Lazarus, Adelheid's lost son.
Striking my hands together, I uttered a cry, as I stood there in the church.
"Boy, for God's sake tell me where thou hast been! We have hunted for thee, thy mother would even have overturned the Alps to find thee. And how dost thou come here to-day, Lazarus? Indeed this is beyond all belief!"
The boy stood there and to my questions he answered nothing--not one word.
Then I rang the bells. Lazarus was standing near me; his garment was composed of a woollen blanket, his hair fell over his shoulders, and his countenance was very pale. He watched me, for he had never seen bells rung before. And what a glad heart was mine! Now, with a clear ringing tongue, I could proclaim the event even as far as the mountains.
Finally my housekeeper came asking what was then the meaning of the ringing of the bells; a half dozen times she had already repeated the Ave Maria and still I did not stop.
I let go of the bell-rope and pointed to the boy. "See, he has finally come back. Did you not understand the ringing? Lazarus is found."
A woman is better than any bell to spread such news. Scarcely had the Winkel-warden's wife gone out screaming, when Lazarus was already surrounded by people. I hardly knew how to tell the story, and the lad murmured now and then, "Paulus," besides which he uttered not a word.
We asked him who Paulus might be? Instead of answering the question, he said with a peculiarly shy look: "He led me here to the cross." Then loudly and anxiously he called out, "Paulus!" His speech was awkward, his voice strange.
We led him into the house; the housekeeper placed something to eat before him. Sadly he gazed at the omelet, turned his head in all directions, and always back again to the food which he did not touch.
We all of us urged him to eat. He stretched his thin hands out from his rough mantle towards his plate but drew them back again. The boy trembled and began to sob. Later he asked for a piece of bread, which he swallowed with ravenous appetite. His black locks fell over his eyes and he did not brush them aside. Finally he dipped the bread into the water-jug and ate with increasing greed and drained the water to the last drop.
We stood around watching him, and we shook our wise heads, asking many questions; the lad heard nothing and stared at the pine-torch which gleamed on the wall, or out of the window into the darkness. The same night Grassteiger and I took the boy to his mother in the upper woods. A few times he sought to escape from us and to climb up the slopes of the dark forest. He was as dumb as a mole and as shy as a deer.
We reach Mathes's house, which is called the Black Hut. Profound peace reigns everywhere. The little stream is murmuring before the door; the branches of the pine-trees groan above the roof. In the night one listens to such things; in the daytime there is, if one might so express it, the continuous noise of the light, so these other sounds are seldom noticed.
Grassteiger holds the boy by the hand. I place myself at a little window and call in through the paper pane: "Adelheid, wake up a bit!"
Then follows a slight noise and a timorous request to know who is without.
"Andreas Erdmann from Winkelsteg is here and two others!" I say. "But do not be frightened. In the new church a miracle has been performed. The Lord has awakened Lazarus!"
In the hut a red gleam dances up and down the walls, like a feeble flash of lightning. The woman has blown a bit of wood into a blaze at the fire on the hearth.
She lights us in at the door, but as she sees the boy, the torch falls to the floor and is extinguished.
When I finally procure a light, the woman is leaning against the door-post and Lazarus is lying on his face. He is crying. Grassteiger lifts him to his feet and brushes the hair from his brow. Adelheid stands almost motionless in her worn night-dress; but in her breast there is a great commotion. Pressing both hands against her heart, she turns towards the wall struggling for breath, until I fear she is about to faint. At last she looks at the boy and says: "Art thou really here, Lazarus?" And to us: "Sit down on the bench yonder, I will make some soup directly!" And again to the boy: "Take off thy wet shoes, my lad!"
But he has no shoes; instead he wears nothing but soles made from the bark of trees.
The woman goes to the bed, wakes the little girl, telling her to rise quickly for Lazarus has come. The child begins to weep.
The soup stands ready; the boy stares with his large eyes at the table and at his mother. Now at last her maternal love bursts forth: "My child, thou dost not know me! Yes, I have grown old, more than a hundred years! Where hast thou been this endless time! _Jesu Maria!_" Seizing the child, she presses him to her breast.
Lazarus gazes downwards; I notice how his lips quiver, but he does not weep and he utters not a word. He must have had some strange experience; his soul lies under a ban.
As he now removes his coarse blanket, to climb upon the freshly made bed, he takes out from under this rough mantle a handful of grey pebbles and with one movement strews them all over the floor. Hardly has he done this before he stoops and begins to collect them again. He counts them in his hand, then seeking in all the cracks and corners, he carefully picks up each pebble, counts them once more and hunts further, looking with great calmness a long time at the floor of the hut, until he finds the last one and has the full number in his hand. And now we see the lad smile for the first time. Then replacing the little stones in the pocket of his cloak he goes to bed, where he soon falls asleep.
We stand a long time by the hearth near the torch discussing the miraculous change which has taken place in this boy.
CHRISTMAS MONTH, 1818.
The boy Lazarus must have been in a very strict school. There is scarcely a trace left of his fiery temper; only, when he is excited, a quiver, short and quick as lightning, passes over him. He is also becoming cheerful and happy. Concerning his life during his year of absence he will tell but little. Paulus had forbidden him to repeat more than was necessary. Still occasionally he says something about it, but his words are vague and confused, almost like those of one talking in a dream. He tells of a stone hut, of a kind, grave man, of penances and of a crucifix.
His words become excited and definite only when he is placed in a position where he is obliged in any way to defend his own and the grave man's honour.
In the parish much is said about the _Wonder-boy_. Some believe that Lazarus has been apprenticed to a magician and will yet perform great things.
The old forest singer is of the opinion that the Messiah must soon appear; and that Lazarus is the forerunner, a new John the Baptist, who has nourished himself in the wilderness with locusts and snails.
May God grant it! An active, warm-hearted priest would be the Messiah for Winkelsteg. But it is as the priest from Holdenschlag has said. No one will come into this remote forest valley.
I am the only one to take charge of the church, ring the bells, play the organ, sing, and read the prayers on Sunday. The christenings and funerals must go to Holdenschlag now as before.
FEBRUARY, 1819.
How does it concern me? It does not concern me in the least, yet I cannot cease thinking of what the forester has told about our young Baron.
The trouble began with a weakening of his constitution and was aggravated by loose and careless play, extravagance, drinking bouts, and sprees. Bah! I am a baron, a millionaire, a handsome young man, so, go ahead! Thus the forester explained it. Ah, but he cannot be so sure that the story is true.
Hermann is said to be in the capital, far from home and his sister. Yes, under such circumstances anything might indeed be possible. God protect thee, Hermann! It would be a reproach to me, the schoolmaster, if my first pupil should be a----
Away, ugly word! Hermann is a good young man. What does the forester know about it?
SPRING, 1819.
The region is changing rapidly. The mountains are becoming grey and bare; the forest is being burned over and there are smoking charcoal-pits in all the valleys.
With a great effort I have induced them to leave a little plot of ground up there on the knoll.
This is the last bit of the primeval forest, and in its shade the dead Winkelstegers shall rest.
The parsonage is finished. The parish has advertised for a priest. When this notice is read it will cause amusement: "That will be a fine sort of a curacy in this Winkelsteg: the communion wine is cider, the bread is made of oat-flour. Well, if the priest starves in Winkelsteg, it is his own fault, for he can at least eat the bark of trees! Even the wild-cats manage to keep alive on that."
Winkelsteg is terribly maligned; but it is not so bad here after all. For caring for the church and occasionally mounting the pulpit to read something for the edification of the people, I receive a plentiful supply of meal and game. They say it is a pity that I am not a priest.
From the owner of the forest money has been sent as a thank-offering to establish a service in the church at Winkelsteg and to celebrate mass. The daughter of the house is married.
Thank God that my body and my brain find such an abundance of occupation here. This Einspanig is the cause of much speculation.
More and more often he is seen in this place; bent like a living interrogation point, bent and crooked he goes about. But he still avoids the people; and yet when one has the courage to ask him a question he gives an answer that would suffice for three. He has also been seen in the church, in the farthermost corner, where the confessional is to stand.
Old Ruepel is quite sure that he is the Wandering Jew. That the Einspanig is so in part I can well believe. According to my theory, there are many million Wandering Jews.
SUMMER, 1819.
Now, all at once, we have a priest, and such a strange one, one as mysterious as our altar-piece the cross from the Felsenthal.
At noontide the last day of July, I entered the church to ring the bells. There, on the upper step of the altar, stood the Einspanig, reading mass.
I watched him for a while. Even the priest from Holdenschlag could have done it no better. But when he finished, solemnly descended the steps, and with downcast eyes walked towards the door, I then felt it my duty to intercept him and call him to account. "Sir," I said, "you enter this house of God, as anyone with an upright heart may do; but you ascend to the holiest place and do those things which are not fitting for everyone. I am the keeper of this church, and must ask you what your action means."
He stood there looking at me with great calmness.
"Good friend," he then replied, with a voice which rattled and grated as if rusty; "the question is short and easy, the answer long and difficult. But since you have the right to demand it, it is my duty to give it. Name the day when you will go up to the three pines in the Wolfsgrube."
"For what purpose?" I asked.
"The answer is not to be found on the way. Under the pine-trees you may learn it."
"Very well," I said; "then next Saturday at three o'clock I will appear at the pines in the Wolfsgrube."
He bowed and walked away.
For the present I will not mention this incident to the people. He is a madman! would be the universal cry.
That may be. I shall go to the pines and perhaps learn something more definite about him. If I find in him a lunacy as singular and charming as in old Ruepel, I shall be satisfied. Even though nothing should come of the parsonage and schoolhouse in Winkelsteg, I shall be able at least to found a lunatic asylum.
And that would also be a good deed.
*THE EINSPANIG'S ANSWER*
MORNING.
Despair broods o'er the forest pines--death's cry, or terrors of the tomb--it pierces through the wall of trees, and all about is grief and gloom. Stretched on the ground at the forest's edge--a mossy, soft death-bed--behold the oldest of the trees, a giant fallen, dead. O see! the slayer madly flees o'er the heath, in wild despair; pursued by the avenging horde, he raves, with flying hair. Poor murderer! Ah! let him go--destruction he must spread--but new and brightest life shall spring from ashes of the dead.
It is not old Ruepel who infects me, causing me, even in the early morning, to write such lines as these, but rather an inward emotion, which fills me on hearing of the storm, and which finds its escape in words.
A storm has been raging during the night. We have not noticed it in Winkelsteg; we have heard only a loud crashing in the north. Within the graveyard not a twig has been injured.
EVENING.
But as I now go over the Lauterhoehe, having business in the new clearing on the other side, my path is barricaded by fallen trees, lying about in wild confusion, split and criss-crossed in every direction.
Many a desolate gap has been made in the forest, and when, in the afternoon, I approach the pines in the Wolfsgrube, I see that the middle tree has fallen. Of the three this is the largest and probably the oldest.
Upon the trunk, which has buried its branches deep in the earth, sits the Einspanig.
He has wrapped a woollen cloak about his shoulders, over which fall his black locks with their many silvery threads. The man sits with his knees crossed, resting his elbows upon them, while with his hands he supports his head with its pale face.
As I approach he rises.
"You have come after all," he says, "and I was almost prevented from coming. The storm barred my dwelling-place in the night; it hurled a rock against the entrance." And after a deep breath, which reminds me of the sighing of the wind, he pronounces these gloomy words: "Perhaps it would have been better if last night had buried me for all time in the rocky cave, than that I should give you the answer to-day. But since I give it, I would rather give it to you than to anyone. I have heard good things of you and am glad of the opportunity to know you better. My answer, young man, is a heavy burden; help me to bear it, just as you have laden yourself with the sorrows of the other dwellers in the forest. I well know that you understand filling the office of priest; so be my father confessor, and free me from a secret, concerning which I do not know if it be a black dove or a white raven. But what if you should be incapable of comprehending----"
He stops; in his glance is something like suspicion.
I answer that I wish to ask him about nothing excepting the cause of his action at the altar of our church.
"In that one question you ask me about everything!" he replies, laughing painfully; "you ask me about my life's history, about the torment of my soul, about my devil and about my God. Well, well, come here and sit down beside me on this fallen tree. No place could be better suited to my answer than a wreck like this. So, sit down with me on this ruin!"
A nervous dread almost overcomes me. It is so quiet among the pines, that one can hear the monotonous sighing of the branches; overhead clouds are flying from crag to crag.
I seat myself near the man, whose eyes and words express much more force than one would have imagined possible in the bent and weary Einspanig.
Yes, he is called _Einspanig_--single--because he has never been seen in the company of another. Now the _Zweispan_--the pair--sit upon the tree-trunk: the question and the answer.
Turning upon me suddenly, the man begins his story: Do you know what it is to be a child of the nobility? Born in a palace, rocked in a golden cradle; the rough floor covered with soft rugs; the burning sunbeams and threatening clouds concealed from view by heavy silken curtains; for the slightest wish a troop of servants; the present full of peace and tenderly guarded happiness; the future full of pleasure and high dignities; this is the childhood of the nobility. Such a child was I, yet poorer than a beggar-boy. But at that time I did not know it, and not until I was twelve or fourteen years of age did the sorrowful question arise within me: Boy, where is thy mother?--My mother gave me life and the light of the sun--the life which she gave me was her own--she died at my birth.
My father I seldom saw; he was either hunting or travelling, or in the great city of Paris or at the Baths. The love in my heart designed for father and mother, I lavished upon my tutor, who was always with me as teacher and companion and who was deeply attached to me. He was a priest belonging to the Order of Jesus, a kindly, cheerful man, of great piety. I still remember how, when reading mass in our chapel, his countenance would often become glorified like that of Saint Francis Xavier in the picture above the altar; and how he confided to me that sometimes during the service he was filled with ecstasy, being continually inspired with the idea that I, his dear young friend, had been chosen for great and sacred things. By this I became aware of his extraordinary love for me.