Part 14

As morning approached I found myself among wooded hills; a brook gurgled towards me. I drank from the water and rested upon a stone. I observed a woodsman coming down the path, who doffed his hat to me in honour of my priestly dress. I arose and asked him to show me the way, for I wished to go far in among the mountains, to the dwelling-place of the very last man.

"The very last man, that must indeed be the charcoal-burner, Russ-Bartelmei," he answered.

"Then show me the way to Russ-Bartelmei and put on your hat."

"Have you business with the charcoal-burner?" he asked me more boldly, when we were already on our way. "The charcoal-burner is most likely black, both body and soul; you can never wash him white. But then he 's no worse than others. What do you want with him?"

I believe I said something to my questioner about a distant relationship. He then stopped and looked at me:

"Relationship! I should be very glad! For I 'm Russ-Bartelmei myself."

I walked with the man over hills and through ravines. By noon we had reached his house.

I remained three days with his family. Black they were, indeed. Among the people of the Orient black is the colour of virtue and of departed spirits; and, on the contrary, they paint the devil white. With the idea of telling him something agreeable, I said this to the charcoal-burner. But he gazed at me in a peculiar way from under the brim of his hat and replied, "Then the priest would be a devil in the church and an angel on the street."

On the third day, after Bartelmei and I had discussed many things and both of us had related parts of our life history (his was coal-black and mine blacker yet), I asked him if he would be my friend. It was my intention to live in the wilderness and to work for my soul. My earnest desire was to strive to do good in solitude, since among men, even with the best intentions, one does not always advance the cause of righteousness. As a friend, he was, for a remuneration, to provide me with a few necessary articles, but for the rest to keep my secret.

The man considered a long time; then he said: "So you wish to become a hermit? And I am to be the raven that brings you the bread from heaven?"

I explained that I would seek for my own bread, but one needed also clothing and other little things; however, I would not fail to repay him from my small possessions.

He was ready to serve me. Only I had to promise to do a favour for him sometime, and perhaps a very peculiar one. He had his desires as well.

I left the charcoal-burner's house and Bartelmei led me still farther into the wilderness. I came up as far as the Felsenthal; here no man dwelt, here was only the primeval forest and the solid walls of rock. And here I was content; in a hidden cave, by which flows a gurgling stream, I took up my abode. In the Felsenthal stood a wooden cross, which a lost woodsman may have erected in his day. This was my altar of reconciliation. A cross without a Saviour, like the one I had formerly held up before the needy souls, had finally come to be my own.

And so, young friend, I have lived in solitude, have worked with root-diggers and pitch-makers. And thus year after year has passed. I will say nothing of renunciation; harder for me has been the feeling of abandonment, and the longing for human society has often tormented me unspeakably. Only the thought that renunciation is my expiation has comforted me. I have often gone out into the valleys, where people live in pleasant companionship. I have refreshed myself with the knowledge of their peace of conscience and of their contentment, and I have then returned to my cave in the ever-lonely Felsenthal and to the silent cross upon the stony ground.

But the struggle within me, instead of growing less, has become greater, and sometimes the thought comes to me: What kind of a life is this, led in unprofitable idleness, in which one is of use to no man, and which consumes itself? Can that be the will of God?

To return to the Order would be impossible. To live in the open world as an apostate priest would be too great a reproach to the holy calling itself. What else remains to me but to work with all my power for the good of this little people in the forest? But I know not where to begin. With dry sermons one does not always establish truth. I have called on the devil so long, that he comes of himself. Teach God and Christian love? I had poor success at that in India. So I have no longer any inclination to serve mankind with words.

When I see children I approach them that I may show them a friendliness; but they are afraid of me. I am avoided, and the sight of me nowhere causes pleasure, not even in Bartelmei's hut. Besides, I am so strange, so weird; at last I begin to fear myself. An exile I live in the Felsenthal, thirsting to do good deeds. Then once more I wander out towards the streams.

I have taken the load of wood from the back of the old and feeble woman, to carry it for her into her hut. I have led the flocks away from the dangerous cliffs for the shepherd. And in winter, when there is no man far or near, I have fed the birds and deer with dried seeds and wild fruit. I have wept over this, my pitiable sphere of activity, and before the cross I have prayed,--"Lord, forgive! grant that I may yet perform one good deed!"

And so, with the intention of achieving something worthy, I took the boy from the Upper Winkel to live with me. I had heard that he had inherited his father's fiery temper, and I reflected that, since this had led Mathes to his ruin, Lazarus would probably meet with the same fate, if the evil could not be averted by discipline correspondingly severe. I also reflected that a weak, tender-hearted woman would never be fitted to give the imperilled boy the strict guidance that was necessary. One day in the woods I met the lad by the grave of his father. He was weeping bitterly and did not flee from me like the other children. When I asked the cause of his trouble he replied that he had thrown a stone at his mother and now he wished to die.

I tried to comfort him; I also had once thrown a stone at mankind, but I had now come into the wilderness to do penance and to make of myself a better man, and I asked him if he would like to do the same. The boy looked beseechingly at me and said--Yes.

So I took him with me up to the Felsenthal and into my hut. I kept him with me over a year, endeavouring to hold him to strict rules, that he might overcome his fiery temper. Together we daily performed our devotions before the cross. I told him the story of the Crucified One; with all the warmth of my soul I depicted the love, patience, and gentleness of the Saviour, and I noticed how the heart of the boy was touched by it all. He is indeed a good lad.

We worked together, gathered wild fruits, herbs, and mushrooms for our nourishment. We did not shoot the deer, as Lazarus once proposed. We wove chairs and mats for our rocky dwelling and for the brandy-distiller, who knows how to dispose of them. We collected a pile of fire-wood before our entrance. If I went to Lautergraeben or out into the Winkel forests, the boy willingly remained in the stone hut and worked alone. He liked to tell me about his little sister, but never a word of his mother, although he spoke of her often enough in his dreams. I noticed how his conscience tormented him for the deed which he had done.

That the boy might practise patience and gentleness, I discovered a means, which, curious and absurd as it may seem, still yielded valuable results. I made a rosary from grey beads, and every evening Lazarus was obliged to pray through the whole chaplet before he went to bed. He did not tell them with his lips, however, but with his fingers and eyes. He first stripped off all the beads from the string, so that they rolled away on the floor; and then his task was carefully to search for and pick up the pebbles which were scattered in all the corners. At first, his temper would indeed overcome him; but as he thereby hindered rather than hastened his work, he gradually accomplished it with more and more self-control, even though the search often lasted for many hours, until he found the last bead. And finally he acquired a calmness and self-mastery which were admirable. "Child," I once said, "that is the most beautiful prayer that thou canst make to show thy love for God and for thy mother, and thereby dost thou save thy father." Then the boy looked at me with ecstasy in his great eyes.

We did not talk much with one another, but so much the more important and well considered was each word spoken. He seemed to love me, he tried to fulfil my every wish. According to my direction he called me Brother Paulus.

The manner in which I had taken and instructed the boy was indeed daring; but I hope that he has been happily led into a better way. O my friend, how often have I said to myself: "Of all the spiritual gifts which are at the disposal of a priest, if I succeed in bestowing that of self-control upon one being only, then am I saved."

In the course of the year I often looked after the mother of the boy; and no matter how much I had become accustomed to him, I still longed for the day when I might return the lost child to the poor woman like a piece of pure gold after its refining.

One evening we found the cross no longer on the rock. It had been our altar and the symbol of resignation and self-mastery. And now the mouldy hole from which it had soared aloft stared us in the face.

Who has taken this, my one comfort, away from me? Is it to be used for charcoal or for a hearth-fire in the cabin? Does the great forest then no longer suffice, that they must lay a hand on the cross? What has it done to them? Or is someone carving a Saviour for it? Or has some sick or dying man sent for it that he might pray before it?

So I asked and wondered about it. Later in the evening I was still hastening through the stony valley, thinking that my symbol of God must surely be lying somewhere. I ran down into the woods, to the footpath, and there I saw two men carrying the cross on their shoulders.

Then it occurred to me that it was to go to the new church _Am Steg_; the foresters wished to place it on the altar. They honour it, as I do; they also wish to learn of resignation and sacrifice; they are also beings who, like myself, are striving and struggling for the right. Then a joy was awakened within me and my heart was full almost to bursting. I longed to embrace you,--you and the whole parish. For, indeed, I belonged to you--a child of the parish.

And now there was no longer any time for idle thoughts, the hermit continued. Soon after that I sent Lazarus away from this Felsenthal, out to the new church, that he might pray before the cross. I gave him my heartfelt blessing, for I well knew that he would not return to me in my rocky abode.

I lived on alone, more abandoned than ever, but calmer, and my heart was lightened as though the ban were about to be removed. More and more often I went out to the new church where my cross stood. And the people avoided me no longer; they gave me alms that I might pray to God for the healing of their souls. Thereby I perceived with shame that they considered me better than themselves.

I went again to Bartelmei's house, where they know more about me than in the other huts. The charcoal-burner's mother, Kath, who has been ill now for years, begged me for God's sake to read a mass for her, that she might die a happy death. This I promised the old woman gladly, and thus I came to read mass before my cross in the church _Am Steg_.

With this the man ended his story.

We were both silent for a while. Finally I said: "As things sometimes happen strangely in this life, that may not have been your last mass in our church."

"I have given you the answer that was due you," replied the Einspanig. "What the result of it for you, for me may be, cannot be discussed to-day."

With these words he arose from the tree-trunk. And as he stood upright before me, he seemed taller and younger than usual. He drew a long breath, and suddenly seized my hands eagerly, and with a trembling voice cried, "I thank you, I thank you."

He then hastily took his departure.

He walked up the slope towards the Felsenthal; I, down to Lautergraeben towards Winkelsteg.

I often stumbled against stones and fallen trees. A dark misty night enveloped the forests.

So my misgivings concerning the hermit were happily dispelled.

When a man renounces the world, let it be to him what it may, and lives for years in the wilderness, enduring unspeakable privations, and with an iron will subdues the longings of his heart--he is supremely in earnest. For what other reason would he have come into the forests, long before even a stone had been laid for the church _Am Steg_; for what other reason would he have caused himself to be avoided by the people or have sought to satisfy in solitude his impulse to do good? And before me, a poor man, he has torn away the very fibres of his heart, that I might look into the depths of his innermost soul, as it stands there in its sin.

I have often thought to myself, the first priest in Winkelsteg should not be a righteous, but a penitent man. Let him not be one who has never fallen, but one who has risen from his fall. In the depths and darkness of the forests he must be able to stand and find his way, that he may lead these people to the shining heights.

SUMMER, 1819.

How strange! How absurd! I have laughed and cried the whole day.

It can be nothing but a humorous report, but it is told seriously everywhere. And combined with what we have already heard, it may indeed be possible.

The wicked man is said to have gambled us all away,--the whole Winkel forest, with every stick and stone, every man and mouse, together with Andreas Erdmann,--gambled us away at the green table in one single night. And he lost us to a Jew.

A FEW DAYS LATER.

Be that as it may, we will proceed with our daily work. To-day I was in the Miesenbach woods to look at the trees which are destined for the school-building.

As I passed by the black hut, the Einspanig came out. He had been to visit Lazarus, but the boy was not at home. He is now goatherd with the wood-cutters in the Upper Winkel. Adelheid reproached the Einspanig bitterly at first; but then she hid her face in her apron and sobbing, said: "I know it well, you deserve the Kingdom of Heaven for what you have done for my child!"

The Einspanig and I walked together toward Winkelsteg. The people whom we met were laughing over the story that we had been gambled away. Old Ruepel said: "In honour of Moses my beard I 'll retain, and as long as I live, I 'll not cut it again."

"Yes, yes," I said to my companion. "So now we are Jewish, and we shall have a Polish Rabbi in our temple. Our young master, Judas Schrankenheim, has betrayed us so neatly!"

The Einspanig stopped and stared at me in astonishment, finally saying: "I did not think you so stupid, Erdmann." And after a little he added: "A respectable man should not believe such foolish reports. How then could young Schrankenheim have gambled us away? He is not yet master of his father's possessions, and has not even reached his majority."

I looked at him quickly.

My heart was freed from a great burden; but the next moment I was troubled. Only yesterday, within the hearing of everyone, I had called the young Baron a wicked man.

But as I am a man of honour I will make amends. Of course he may be a wild fellow; still thou art honest and kind-hearted, Hermann, and the people must know it. For three Sundays in succession I will proclaim it from the chancel: "Our young future master, Hermann von Schrankenheim, is honest and good. May God preserve him!" And until death will I beg his pardon for my slanderous words.

The Einspanig entered my house with me. One of my windows opens towards the church and the parsonage. Sitting down by it, we fell into a conversation which lasted two hours.

We are now able, when the weather is fine, to measure the time by the hour; Franz Ehrenwald has painted a sun-dial on the southern side of the tower.

When the Einspanig had gone my housekeeper cried: "_Wie naerrisch_, now the _Kukuk_ has brought _him_ into the house again!"

"The _Kukuk_?" I answered gaily. "Yes, indeed, this man is himself like the cuckoo; he has no nest and must restlessly flutter from tree to tree, is avoided everywhere, and is at home nowhere. But all the same we are glad to see him in the spring, for he brings it with him; he is a soothsayer who can count our years for us."

"Yes," screamed the woman, "and tell us all sorts of extravagant tales, as he did me once; and if for him perhaps the world is not fastened in with boards, his own head surely is. Get away with your Einspanig!"

If the good Winkel-warden's wife could only have known what kind of a letter I wrote to the Baron an hour later!

MAY, 1820.

Here in the woods are day and night, winter and summer, peace and suffering, care and sometimes a little comfort in resting from our toil. And so it drags along. Our Chariot of Time has lost its fourth wheel, and it often goes badly and unevenly, but it goes.

Outside, they say, they are trying to overturn the world again. There are rumours of war. No one troubles himself any longer about us Winkelstegers. But I am pleased with one thing. Many of our young men wish to enlist and become soldiers. That is a sign of their awakened consciousness that they have a home and a fatherland which they must defend. It is the first good fruit of the young parish.

For a time the destruction of the forest has ceased; the foundries outside are closed. Many are now beginning to remove the stumps from the cleared land and to convert it into fields for planting. The wood-cutters and charcoal-burners are becoming tillers of the soil. That is right; the wood-cutter disappears, but the peasant arises in his place.

In reply to an appeal from me, a letter has come from the Baron. Now is no time for churches and priests; we must help ourselves.

That is very wise advice. But the people will no longer go to church. "When there is no mass and no sermon," they say, "one can pray for one's self under the green trees." However, they do not remain under the green trees, but in the tavern. The flock is scattered when there is no shepherd.

The forester is also away, for he has other regions to look after. So I am alone with my Winkelstegers, as Moses was alone with the Israelites in the wilderness.

The commandments have been proclaimed, but the people are again working at the golden calf. And manna falls no longer from heaven.

PENTECOST, 1820.

To-day the hermit from the Felsenthal stood before the altar of our church and read mass.

The church vestments and sacred utensils we had from Holdenschlag, as they were lying there in the vestry unused. The mice had eaten holes in the robe, but the spiders had woven them together again.

I played the organ. The church is not so large but that from the choir one can see if tears are standing in the eyes of the priest at the altar.

The people prayed little and whispered, much. This Einspanig,--he must indeed be a second St. Jerome.

After the service the forest singer said these words to me: "Have you seen the Wandering Jew? For the suffering Christ he has borne to-day the heavy cross to Golgotha's heights. Hosanna, he thus casts his sins away!"

I repeated the words to the hermit, adding: "May they make you happy; the man is filled with the Holy Ghost!"

THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS, 1820.

I have urged the people to choose a chief officer from among themselves, that there may be someone to issue orders, settle disputes, and keep the parish united.

They have chosen Martin Grassteiger, and he is now called Judge.

At this same meeting the new Judge introduced the future schoolmaster of the Winkelsteg parish, who had been acknowledged as such by the master of the forest.

I then am this schoolmaster. The people declare that I might have known it for a long time, but Grassteiger says that everything must be done according to legal form.

A few days after the above occurrence the Judge ordered me to call a parish meeting to elect a priest. Everyone laughed over this. "Shall we choose him from among the pitch-makers and charcoal-burners? But there is n't one that would be fit for it. There is just one man who is learned enough for us Winklers, but our men have such foolish notions, that they would be scandalised at the idea of a priest being his own housekeeper."

So they make their jokes, knowing very well for whom they are meant.

And they have chosen him, too.

We must help ourselves, the owner of the forest has said; and that we have done.

The hermit from the Felsenthal is the priest of Winkelsteg.

THE FEAST OF ST. MARTIN, 1820.

Russ-Kath is dead. She was ninety years old. Her last wish was that after her death strong, nailed shoes should be put on her feet; she would be obliged to traverse the road back to earth many times, to see how her children and grandchildren were faring. And the road was full of sharp thorns.

Russ-Kath is the first one who will rest in our new forest burying-ground.

Two men brought her over from Lautergraeben on a bier consisting of two poles. The white pine-board coffin, still fragrant with resin, was fastened upon the bier with strips of alder-boughs. Russ-Bartelmei and his brother-in-law, Paul Holzer, accompanied by a little boy, walked behind the bearers. They prayed aloud, at the same time looking out for the roots of the trees which lay across their pathway. The bearers were also obliged to walk cautiously, for the ground was already slippery with the late autumn hoar-frost.

There is a story that years ago as some men were carrying a shepherd to the Holdenschlag cemetery, one of the bearers stumbled on the narrow path and the coffin rolled over the precipice, plunging into the abyss, so that no splinter of it was ever seen again. This was exceedingly trying for the people, they say, for the grave-digger had to be paid all the same.

We Winkelstegers have no grave-digger. We could not maintain one, and besides no one dies here until his last groschen is spent. So a few wood-cutters are obliged to come and do this work. They charge nothing for it. They are glad if they can crawl out of the grave again, well and hearty.

During the mass for the dead the coffin stood quite alone upon the hard ground before the church. A little bird flew hither, hopped upon the coffin-lid and pecked and pecked and then fluttered away again.

When Ruepel saw it he was almost sure that it was the bird that flies into the forest once in every thousand years.

After the mass we carried Russ-Kath up to the grave which had been prepared for her. The family stood about gazing fixedly into it.

When the burial service was over, the priest spoke briefly. The words which impressed me the most were these: "By the death of our dear ones we gain fortitude to bear the adversities of this life, and a calm, perhaps even a joyous, anticipation of our own death. Each hour is one step towards our meeting again; and until that gate of reunion is opened for us, our departed ones live on in the sacred peace of our hearts."

He is well able to expound it. Indeed, we all feel it also, but do not know the words by which to express it. He has not forgotten his vocation, although he has lived for years up in the Felsenthal.

But now another man appears. Ruepel comes quietly forward, and the people make way for him: "Let us see what Ruepel knows to-day."