Part 17

Ruepel, also one of the recipients, is more childish than all the rest. He runs around the tree as though searching for the Christ child among the branches. "Ah!" he finally cries, "e'en though the sun be wroth with me, I could not name, I do not know, a light upon the earth below, that shines so brightly as this tree. Be quiet, list, do you not hear the rustling branches, and on high, how like the birds the cherubs fly; they 're building for the Christ child dear a nest, in which to celebrate the holy feast. And yonder, see that cherub white; no wings has he, he nearly fell. Child, do not wait, but hasten for thy feet to find some climbing-irons, for which I'll pay, for see, I have received to-day, a jacket warm and thalers line each pocket. Angels haste to all the other trees within our wood and let your light so pure and good, upon their myriad branches fall."

Old Ruepel does not eat a mouthful while the others are enjoying a warm soup provided by Grassteiger. And when straw is brought into the room and a resting-place prepared, that the people may not be obliged to return in the night to their distant huts, old Ruepel goes out under the open sky, and counts the stars, giving to each one a name. And the rising morning star he calls "Father Paul."

The priest has several times, applied to the owner of the forest, asking that the peasants here--who, with much exertion have made the poor soil productive--might without payment receive this land as their own property. But no decisive answer has come. It is said that the old Baron is travelling and the son is in the capital, and the world is so wide and the city so noisy that such a message from the forest could not be heard there.

So we Winkelstegers remain vassals.

JANUARY 14, 1831.

To-day I have received news of the death of my relative, Aunt Lies. She has made me her heir. Old acquaintances, who have not troubled themselves about me for twenty years, congratulate me upon my inheritance. But I have heard no further particulars. How much can the old lady have had? I know she was rich, but she wasted everything in games of chance.

And should it be only one groschen, or, indeed, nothing at all--by my soul, I am pleased that she thought of me. She always meant well by me. Now my last relative is dead.

EASTER, 1831.

In the Winkel forest the church festivals must take the place of that which in the outside world they call art.

As, according to my poor ability, I set up a manger for the Christmas celebration, so Ehrenwald and his sons have now made a sepulchre for Easter.

In the side aisles of the church stand, as entrance gates, four high wooden arches, covered with pictures from the story of the Passion. The innermost arches are narrower than the outer ones, and in a niche in the shadowy background is the grave of Jesus. Above it is the table for the sacred utensils, surrounded by a circle of bright-coloured lamps. On either side of the grave stand two Roman slaves as sentinels. During the celebration of the Resurrection, the dead Christ disappears, and within the circle of lamps rises the scarred body of the risen Saviour with the palm of victory in His hand.

There is a great charm in the whole celebration. It is preceded by the period of fasting which, day by day, increases in solemnity; for weeks there is no music, the pictures are veiled. Good Friday approaches. First the imposing Palm Sunday, then the mysterious Maundy Thursday, the gloomy, sad Good Friday, and the quiet Saturday. In this calm one feels a foreboding and longing and the word of the Prophet gently reminds us: His grave shall be glorious!

Once more the house of God is obscured like Golgotha in the darkness; then the red and green lamps gleam, and the festival tapers sparkle--and suddenly the joyful cry is heard: "He is risen!" Now the bells are rung, guns are fired and the air is filled with joyous melodies, the flaming red banners are waved, and the people go forth into the open air, their lanterns glowing in the twilight as they disappear in the woods.

In the cities the celebration is much greater and far more imposing. But where is the feeling, the true, hopeful joy in the Resurrection, which inspires the believing poor! Seeking for inward peace, the dwellers in the city turn away from the churchyard, murmuring: "In truth we _hear_ the message."

SPRING, 1831.

I am already beginning to design houses which are to be built from the proceeds of my inheritance. In Winkelsteg I shall erect a large, beautiful mansion, larger than the parsonage. I have the plans all completed. But as long as I remain schoolmaster, I have no desire to live in it myself. Sometime I shall give a little room in this house to the invalid Reutmann from Karwasserschlag; and I shall ask the old, childless Frau Bruennhuetter, and the sick Aga from Karwaesser, and Markus Jager, who is blind, and Joseph Ehrenwald, who has been injured by a falling tree. And I shall welcome many others, until, by degrees, the great house is filled. There are a number of wretched creatures wandering about in the Winkel woods.

I shall place a doctor and medicine at the disposal of these people, that is, if the money goes far enough. Then I will invite in jesters and musicians who understand providing all kinds of entertainment. An almshouse is dreary enough, without sad and lonesome surroundings in addition; the merry world should look in at all the windows and say: "You still belong to me, and I will not let you go!"

I do not need to pay for the land now, as at present I am merely building my castle in the air. The inheritance has not yet arrived. But the report is that my aunt won large sums of money at play.

I shall give the pleasantest room in the new alms-house to old Ruepel. The poor man is really quite deserted. For his rhymes the people pay him now with scarcely a bit of bread. They have forgotten how, in former times, they have been edified by his cheering and uplifting songs on festive occasions, how they have laughed and wept, often saying to one another: "It is as though the Holy Ghost were speaking through him."

To be sure the old man has not much to offer now, and he has already become quite childish. He has bent a piece of wood, across which he has stretched straws for strings, and this is his harp. He rests it against his breast, and his fingers wander over the strings as he murmurs his songs.

He is a strange old figure, as he sits upon a stone in the dark forest, wrapped in his wide, faded cloak, with his long, luxuriant, snow-white beard and shimmering hair, which falls unkempt about his shoulders. He raises his tearful eyes toward the tree-tops and sings to the birds, from whom he once learned his songs.

The creatures of the forest do not fear him; a squirrel often hops down upon his shoulder from the branches and, standing on its hind-legs, whispers something into the old man's ear.

His words, like his songs, are becoming more and more incomprehensible. They are no longer in keeping with the people or with the circumstances. He sings foolish love songs and children's ditties, as though dreaming of his youth. When in summer the white-bearded man is sitting motionless upon some hill-top, he looks from the distance like a bunch of _Edelweiss_.

The beetles and ants run over his coat and scramble up his beard; the bees fly about his head as though seeking wild honey there.

The priest has confided something to me which seems to cause him anxiety.

He says it is possible that I may become a rich man, and as such I would probably go forth into the world, to fulfil all the wishes which I have formed and nourished in the wilderness. No one is entirely unselfish.

This communication has cost me a restless night. I have searched my heart and in truth I have found there one desire, which is far away from the Winkel forest. But it could not be fulfilled with money. She is married.

Why should I demur? My wish is fulfilled. She is happy.

MARCH 24, 1831.

To-day Sturmhanns from Wolfsgrubenhohe was found dead in Lautergraeben. His beard was badly singed. The people say that a blue flame which issued from his mouth was the cause of his death. They explain it thus: Sturmhanns had been drinking a great quantity of gin, then, as he was lighting his pipe, his breath had taken fire instead of the tobacco, and thus the man's soul was burned out of him. There is probably some truth in the story.

APRIL 1, 1831.

To-day my inheritance has been officially forwarded to me. It consists of three groschen and a letter from my Aunt Lies, which is as follows:

"DEAR ANDREAS:

"I am old, sick, and helpless. Thou art in the mountains, God only knows where. During my illness I have been thinking over everything. I have undoubtedly done thee a wrong and I beg thy pardon. This money weighs upon my mind more than all else; it is thy christening-money, which thou wouldst have sent to thy father in heaven. I took it from thee, but now I beg thee to take it back and to forgive me; for I wish to die in peace. God bless thee, and I must say one more word: if thou art in the mountains, then do not come away from there. All is vanity. In prosperous days my friends remained true to me; now they leave me to die in poverty.

"Many thousand kisses for thee, my dear, my only kinsman. When God takes me to Himself in heaven, I will greet thy parents for thee.

"Until death "Thy loving aunt "ELISE."

THE FEAST OF CORPUS CHRISTI, 1831.

For three years we have been collecting money for a baldachin. But we Winkelstegers have not yet been able to buy one; we must make it ourselves.

Old Schwamelfuchs has made a portable canopy from green birch-boughs, that in celebrating this festival, we may carry the sacred relics out of the church in a fitting manner.

The procession in the bright sunshine is a festive one. And the people, finally freed from the hard winter, sing joyful hymns. We rest in the woods and the priest pronounces the benediction, sending the holy blessing to all parts of the world.

It is unusual that in the midst of the service a layman should raise his voice, but old Ruepel is an exception, and this is his Corpus Christi song:

"Let all the bells ring, let all the birds sing, the Lord cometh forth from His heavenly gates. In green woods He walks, and upon the fresh grass, where the young deer doth graze, sweet rest He awaits. His first mighty word He speaks, and when heard, all the flowers spring up from the earth where they lie. Again He doth speak with re-echoing sound, each seed in the valley is wakened thereby. And when the third word He utters is heard, the thunder is silent, the lightning obeys; with the touch of His breath deadly hail doth He melt. To Thee, mighty Lord, be both honour and praise. And with Thy last word all nature is stirred; the mountains shall tremble, the rocks shall be hurled, the heavens shall crash and waken the dead, and fire shall descend to destroy all the world."

The strange old man understands reaching the heart with his words. Impressed and exalted we return to the church. And the green birch baldachin with its white poles shall stand over the altar until its thousand tender leaves are withered.

AUTUMN, 1831.

The answer in reference to the granting of land in our parish has finally arrived.

The Baron has given the priest to understand that such a conscientious pastor as he should not, in addition to his other anxieties, burden himself with worldly cares.

Further particulars we do not know.

*A DYING SON OF THE FOREST*

WINTER, 1831.

Who in former times would have thought that the hermit from the Felsenthal could have become what he now is? The inactivity after such a stirring life, the isolation from people might well have made him insane.

It has come about in a wonderful way. Only the great cares and petty troubles of a forest priest, only the monotonous, yet many-sided and significant life of a forest parish in its infancy and loneliness could have saved him.

He has now adapted himself to the place, is intimately acquainted with each one of his parish children, and leads them by his example.

A terrible epidemic is raging in the Winkel woods; our graveyard is becoming too small and we are unable to secure the services of the grave-diggers; the powerful men are themselves ill.

The priest is away from home night and day, sitting with the sick people in the most distant huts, caring for their bodies as well as for their souls, even though the Baron has advised him not to trouble himself with worldly cares.

At last, as he is sleeping one night in his own warm bed, there comes a sudden knock on the window.

"It 's too bad, sir!" calls a voice from the darkness without. "There 's trouble over in Lautergraeben. We don't know what to do. Will you help us? My brother Bartelmei is dying."

"Who is it out there?" asks the priest.

"I am Anna Maria Holzer; Bartelmei is going to leave us."

"I am coming," says the priest. "But wake up the schoolmaster that he may make ready the lanterns and the sacrament. He need not toll the bells, for everyone is asleep."

However, the woman begs me to ring the bells, so that others may pray for the dying man. And as the priest now comes out and walks away among the houses, preceded by the woman with her lantern and little bell, men, heavy with sleep, are kneeling before their doors praying.

It is a stormy winter night; the wind blows in gusts across the cliffs and whistles through the bare, frozen branches of the trees. A fine snow whirls about us, blocking the path and drifting into all the folds of our clothing.

The woman hastens on ahead, and the reflection from the red glass of the lantern dances up and down upon the snowy ground, while the little bell which she carries rings incessantly, although the tones are lost in the storm, and the people in the village have gone to their rest once more. I, too, after watching the pair for a while, return to my room.

But I will write down that which happened to the priest on this night; for the story which was told him was not under the seal of the confessional.

As our Father Paul stands by the bed of the sick man, the latter says: "Does the Priest remember still how he came into Karwaesser? Does he remember? It 's long ago; we both have experienced much since then, and, by my faith, we have both grown grey!"

The priest warns the old charcoal-burner not to excite himself by exhausting conversation.

"And can he remember what I said to him then: that I had my own desires and that sometime a priest could do me a great service? That time has now come. I am lying on my death-bed. I have already arranged with Ehrenwald-Franz to make a coffin for me. My body will be properly cared for;--but my soul! Priest, God pardon me, but that is as black as the devil."

The priest seeks to soothe and comfort the man.

"Why do you do that?" asks Bartelmei, "I'm not at all discouraged. I 'm sure that everything will come out all right.---Why is the Priest putting on his white robe? No, I don't want that; let us finish up the affair as quickly as possible. When a man is nearing his end, he does n't want to do anything unnecessary. I beg you to sit down, sir.--I 'll say at once, that all is not well with my religious faith; to tell the truth, I believe in nothing any longer. God Himself is to blame for my having been brought so low. He denied me something, which, by my soul, in His almighty power He might have done so easily! I should like to tell you about it. When Marian Sepp, who in a way belonged to me, was dying, I said to her at her death-bed, 'Marian,' I said, 'if thou must die now, thou poor young thing, and I have to remain alone all my days, then God in heaven is doing a most cruel thing. But I should like to know, Marian, and I should like to know it before my death, how it is with eternity, which, they say everywhere, has no end, and in which the soul of man lives on forever. Nothing definite can be learned about it, and even though we may believe what other people say, it is not at all sure that they know anything about it either. And now, Marian,' said I, 'when thou hast to leave us and if thou shouldst enter the everlasting life as soon as we have buried thee, then do me the favour and, if thou canst, come back to me sometime, if only for a few moments, and tell me about it, that I may know what to believe; Marian promised, and if she could have come I know she would have done so. After she died, I could not sleep for many nights and I was always--always thinking, now, now the door will open and Marian will appear and say: 'Yes, Bartelmei, you may indeed believe it, it is all right, there is an eternity over yonder and you have an immortal soul!'

"What does the Priest think? did she come?--She did _not_ come, she was dead and gone. And since then--I cannot help it--I believe in nothing any more."

He is silent and listens to the roaring of the winter storm. For a while the priest gazes into the flickering flames and finally says:

"Time and eternity, my dear Bartelmei, are not divided by a hedge, which we may cross at will. The entrance into eternity is death; in death we lay aside all that is temporal, for eternity is so long, that nothing temporal can exist there. Therefore thy importunate request to the dying girl was forgotten and all memory of this earthly life extinguished. Freed from the dust of this earth she went to God."

"Never mind, Priest," interrupts the sick man, "it does n't trouble me any more. Be that as it may, it will all be right. But there is another difficulty; I 'm not at peace with myself. I 've not been what I should have been; however, I should like to arrange my affairs properly, even as other people do. I 've not much more time, that I well know, and so I had you frightened out of your warm bed, and now, Priest, I earnestly beg you to intercede for me. Well--it has been a secret, but I will out with it: I have been a wicked poacher; I have stolen many deer from the master of the forest."

Here the charcoal-burner stops.

"Anything else?" asks the priest.

"What! Is n't that enough!" cries the old man; "truly, Priest, I know of nothing else. I was going to ask you to beg the Baron's forgiveness. I should have done it myself, long ago, but I always kept thinking I would wait a little while; I might perhaps need something more from the forest, and to ask pardon twice, would be unpleasant. Better wait and do it all at once. But I have waited much too long; I can never do it now. The Baron is, who knows how far away. But no matter, the Priest will be so good and make everything all right, telling him in a Christian speech that I have indeed repented, but not until too late to alter matters.

"Now, this is the way it was: to be sure the charcoal business yields a bit of bread, but when on a feast day a man wants a bite of meat with it, then he has to go straight out into the woods with his gun. He can't leave it alone, no matter how long he may resist the temptation, 't is a great pity, but he can't leave it alone. If the hunters had once arrested me, then this conversation would not have been necessary and I should not be obliged to ask such a painful favour of the Priest.--Ah! but I 'm tired now. I already feel the death pangs."

They revive him with cold water. The priest takes his hand and promises him, in a few kind words, to obtain pardon from the Baron. He then pronounces absolution to the sick man.

"Thank you, thank you very much," says Bartelmei with a weak voice; "soon I shall be done for, and--Priest, now, by my soul, I should be glad myself, if it were true, that about eternity, and if, after my restless life and bitter death, I might quietly slip into heaven. 'T would be such a pleasant thing to do!"

Thus does the deep need and the longing for faith and hope express itself in the poor, sick man. Our priest now asks him if he wishes to receive the holy sacrament.

"It's no use," is the answer.

"But thou must, brother, thou must," says Anna Maria; "a priest who returns home with the sacrament untouched will be followed by devils as far as the church door!"

"Thou foolish woman, thou!" cries Bartelmei; "now thou art telling child's fables fit to make the priest laugh at thee. After all it 's the same to me, and to keep the priest from being molested on his way home, I would gladly swallow the wafer, but I don't care about it, and then, I have often heard it was a terrible sin to partake of the sacrament unworthily."

Hereupon the priest fervently presses the hand of the sick man, saying: "You must not be proud in your old age, Bartelmei, but this I say to you, you have the right idea. You are virtuous, you believe in God and in the immortality of the soul, whether you acknowledge it to yourself or not. Your heart is pure and the happiness of heaven shall be yours!"

The old man now raises himself, stretches out his hands, and with moist eyes he smiles, saying: "At last I have heard the right words. Will the Priest be so good as to administer the sacrament to me? Then the King of Terrors may come--_Mein Gott_! What is that? Marian!" suddenly cries Bartelmei. He turns his eyes toward the light, and whispers: "Yes, girl, why art thou wandering about here in the dark night? Marian! Dost thou bring me the message?--the message?"

He raises himself still higher, always repeating the word: "Message!" until he finally sinks back upon his bed and falls asleep.

After a while he opens his eyes, and with a weak voice says: "Was I childish, sister? I had such a strange dream! My head is so hot! I know that I can't last long; I feel such a burning in my heart.--I must say, God bless you, all of you. Take care of thy children, sister, and see that they do not run into the woods with the gun.--I 've already paid Ehrenwald for the coffin.--And be sure and wash me thoroughly; as coal-black Russ-Bartelmei I should not like to enter heaven."

When the morning glow shimmered through the little window, the man was dead. They dressed him in his Sunday garments, and laid him in the coffin. His sister's children sprinkled him with water from the woods.

Yesterday we buried him.

CARNIVAL, 1832.

There is a great commotion. The people are turning Grassteiger's house upside down; then they race across the church square, perpetrating all sorts of mischief.

In the parsonage lies a peasant lad whose chin they have shattered.

It is Carnival Sunday. The people think no longer of the epidemic. They assemble in the tavern and drink brandy; they are hilarious, laugh, and tease one another. Their faces redden, and each one is ready to taunt and joke the others, but none are willing to be teased themselves. An untimely word, a sidelong glance, or a dispute about some pretty girl is enough to raise a quarrel. They strike at each other's cheeks with the palms of their hands--that does not suffice; they hit one another with their fists--nor does that satisfy them; they break the legs of chairs, and, swinging them with both arms in their fury, hurl them down upon the heads of their comrades. That is enough. One of them lies stretched upon the floor. The fight is over.

"Be careful, people," I say to those assembled at Grassteiger's; "if you are so hilarious on the days of rest, your work will yield no blessing, and bad times will come to Winkelsteg again."

Here a master workman from Schneethal speaks: "It 's just because we are such savage people that we remain nothing but poor devils! I verily believe it, and the schoolmaster is right; there should be no more fighting, and I tell you, landlord Grassteiger, if another quarrel takes place in your house, then I will come with a fence-bar and split open all your skulls!"