Part 18

This spirit is in the people. But the fact that Lazarus never takes part in such broils is a comfort to me. They try hard to urge him on, but he makes his escape. Sometimes his blood rises, but he bravely calms himself. He is a man through and through. And Juliana is his guardian angel, faithfully helping him to control his fiery temper.

The forester has tried to persuade Lazarus to go out to the plains; when one has shown so much ability as this young man, he thinks something extraordinary might be made of him. But Lazarus will not leave the forest. He is becoming a good man, and better than that he could not do outside, though the emperor should place him upon his throne.

It is a favourable sign that he drinks no brandy. Brandy is like oil in the fire, and thus the unfortunate fights arise.

We heads of the parish never touch a drop of it. But, if we do not, there remains so much the more for the others.

The priest has many times sternly warned the people against this habit of drinking. Finally in his indignation he has with a loud voice denounced the brandy as a fountain of hell, a poison for body and soul, and the brandy-distiller as a poisoner.

Old Grassteiger looks at the priest askance and not long afterwards lets it be known that some fresh cider has arrived at the tavern.

But Kranabethannes does not allow the matter to drop so easily. With a much larger stick than he ordinarily carries, he appears before the door of the parsonage.

He raps, and even after the priest has twice distinctly called, "Come in," he raps still a third time. He is not hard of hearing, but he wishes to show that, although a "wood-devil," he knows how to behave in the proper manner with a gentleman, and even with his enemy, whom he to-day intends to annihilate.

Having finally entered the room, he remains standing close by the door, crushing his hat brim in his fist and murmuring through his rough, yellow beard: "I have a word to say to the priest."

The latter politely offers him a seat.

"I have a little affair," says the man, not stirring from the spot where he is standing; "I am the brandy-distiller from Miesenbach forest, a poor devil, who must earn my bread with the sweat of my brow. I am willing to work as long as God gives life to a poor old man like me, no matter how much the people may oppress me and deprive me of my customers."

"Sit down," says the priest. "You are warm; have you been walking fast?"

"Not at all, but I have come a good distance, and on the way I thought to myself that there was no more justice in the world, or in any man--no matter how saintly he may look. What kind of a priest is he who deprives a poor father of a family in his parish of the last bit of bread? When honest work yields no profit, then one must steal and rob; and this, I suppose, is better than that a poor, worn-out man should taste a drop of brandy;--for it is the 'fountain of hell!'"

The man breathes hard; the priest is silent; he knows that he must allow the storm to pass if he wishes to sow in peaceful weather.

"And he who brews this 'fountain of hell' must indeed be the devil's friend. The people look at me as if I were such a one. They are right perhaps. But if I am bad, it is not I who made myself so. And he who has destroyed my business had better look out for me. Priest, I am not here for nothing!"

The brandy-distiller entirely forgets his customary suavity and assumes a threatening attitude.

"If you are the brandy-distiller from Miesenbach forest," says the priest composedly, "then I am glad to see you. As you so seldom come over to Winkelsteg, I have wanted to go to you. We must talk with one another. You are giving the Winkelstegers brandy no longer, and you are a man of honour, a great benefactor to the parish. I thank you, friend! And your forethought is very praiseworthy. It is true, is it not, that you are now going into the business of herbs and resin? I hope so, and I am entirely of your opinion, that you will earn more if you prepare medicines, oils, and costly balsams from them and then seek a market in the outside country. I will give you all the assistance in my power. Yes indeed, that is a good turn which you have made, and in a few years you will be a well-to-do man."

The brandy-distiller has no idea what is befalling him. He has made _no_ turn, has never thought of producing oil and balsam; but it now seems so sensible and feasible that he does not contradict the priest, and with a smirk the prospective producer of oil bows his head.

"And should you temporarily need something for wife and child--_mein Gott_, at first one manages as best one can--then I should be pleased to assist with a trifle. I beg of you to regard me as entirely your friend!"

Hannes grunts some incomprehensible reply and, stumbling out of the house, throws his cudgel over the hedge.

LENT, 1832.

The church authorities are beginning to trouble us again. Our priest is not sufficiently orthodox; they wish to close his church.

The church which we have built with the sweat of our brows!

It is quiet enough there now; Father Paul conducts the service in the sick-rooms and in the cemetery. The people are coming to the parish church in coffins. The epidemic is now called "the death." The school has been closed for months.

The report is going about that the priest is to blame for the sickness, on account of having forbidden the brandy, for that is the surest means of preventing contagion.

Hannes is on the alert, and now his pride is aroused against the priest, whose cunning and gentleness so entirely vanquished him a few weeks ago.

It is an everlasting combat with fate and evil. He who perseveres in the struggle and satisfies his inner conviction, shall reach the goal.

MARCH 22, 1832.

Our priest died to-day.

THREE DAYS LATER.

No one has ever redeemed himself as this man has done--this strange man, who has ruled at the court of a prince, preached in India, and done penance in the cave of the Felsenthal.

He traversed all the crooked paths of priesthood until he discovered the true one: to be friend and helper to the poor in spirit.

He contracted his last illness while ministering to the sick. He had pronounced the betrothal blessing of Lazarus Schwarzhuetter and Juliana Grassteiger. A slight indisposition called him from the festivities to his room, which he never left again. And as a good, faithful shepherd, he taught us in his last hours the most important of all things--how to die. Like a smiling child he fell asleep. Not one of us who saw it has any further fear of death; and we have vowed to ourselves to strictly fulfil our duty in accordance with his example.

I cannot believe it. Restlessly I gaze out of the window to see if he is not coming down the road in his brown cloak. He was already obliged to lean upon a staff; he was bent with age and his hair was white.

Restlessly I walk by the parsonage; there is no more rapping on the window-panes, no friendly face smiles out at me. I pause a moment, and feel that I must call his name aloud. And I cannot believe that he is gone.

The priest from Holdenschlag was here for the funeral. He was greatly astonished at the general mourning that prevails in the Winkel forests.

Even the brandy-distiller Hannes came up to the grave and shovelled in a clod of earth. Only old Ruepel was nowhere to be seen. He was probably singing the funeral hymn in the peace of the primeval forest. In Winkelsteg the bells spoke most eloquently. And when at last these were also silent, the people quietly returned to their poor, scattered dwellings.

I alone remain and gaze down at the yellow pine coffin. Eighteen years ago I saw this man for the first time. He was standing by the grave in the Wolfsgrube, where the "eater of broken glass" had just been buried. He has been priest in Winkelsteg for twelve years. The people do not know or realise how much they are indebted to him. To-day I look down upon his coffin; yes, that is the end of the Einspanig's "answer."

While I am still reflecting thus, the old housekeeper from the Winkel-warden's, my former hostess, comes limping up to me. She also gazes into the grave, passes her hand over her face, nudges my arm and says: "God give him everlasting peace! He was a good man, although a story-teller. His thoughts flew like a bird over the wide world, which he said was nowhere fastened in with boards. And now--just look down there, Schoolmaster! Down there it is---God give him everlasting peace--_down there it is fastened in with boards_."

Having pronounced these words she hastily hobbles away again on her crutches.

The old woman is right. However limitless may be the flight of the human spirit in space, man's final resting-place is within the boards of the coffin. Happy sleeper, to thee thy coffin is now boundless space, and but lately the infinite universe was too small for thee![#] Great poet, forgive, that I transform your cradle song into an epitaph.

[#] Schiller's _Cradle Song_.

EASTER, 1832.

The epidemic is over. There are many people going about with pale, haggard countenances.

Since we are not to commemorate the resurrection in the church, the parish is eager to celebrate the Easter festival in some other manner.

The Saturday preceding Easter is over; the cross on the church tower shimmers in the evening glow more brightly than usual. This night is to be transformed into day. A new life is beginning. The people emerge from their homes in gala attire, and the glare of innumerable bonfires is seen on the hills. Are any of the dwellers of the forest aware that at this season the old Germans also lighted festal fires to the Goddess of Spring?

Who could have conceived the idea? Up there on the height stands a solitary, ancient fir-tree, which has been wound to the top with dry branches, moss, and straw.

A short distance away the people have gathered around a little fire, where they are singing songs. The women are there with baskets, and the children are playing with gaily coloured eggs.

It is already late in the night; Lazarus is about to light the Easter torch, when old Ruepel glides through the dark forest and, tearing his rush cap from his head, cries: "May Jesus Christ be praised, Who on the cross was raised!"

We are all surprised to see the old man among us once more, and I urge him to sit down with us and drink a mug of cider.

"Thanks for the honour!" says Ruepel, taking his straw harp from under his coat; and gazing into the fire, he thus begins to speak: "I come from far Jerusalem. On Calvary stand the crosses three, but they are empty now, I see; and in a tomb, just newly made, Christ's body they have gently laid--His soul has entered into hell. Our ancient sires have waited long, amid the flames so fierce and strong, till singed is Abram's hoary hair. And here in this fiery flue is where Moses has sat for many years, his laws forgotten, through burning fears. Adam, the curious, and lovely Eve, who wore no clothes, by your good leave, to horrible torments were exposed. To these has Paradise long been closed. But through Christ's death, 't is opened now. The thief on the right told this to me; as for him on the left, I 'd not allow the truth of whatever his words might be."

"Oh, Ruepel!" the people cry, "if you have nothing else to say, your words are not inspired to-day." Undisturbed by this sneer the old man continues: "To view the sepulchre at early dawn, our well-beloved women forth have gone. A young man sitting by the door they find, and Magdalen, filled with wonder in her mind, while gently toying with her golden tresses, his name and age and country idly guesses. He spake: 'If you 'll allow, fair dames, I 'll say, the dear Lord Jesus rose at break of day.' Then would they, for the honour of their Lord, a _Trinkgeld_ give him for this gladsome word. But he has hastened back to heaven's door; I 'd follow him had I my strength of yore."

Again Ruepel is silent. But since no one has understood his reference to the _Trinkgeld_, he continues: "In the woods does Jesus walk to rest from sorrow and pain most deep. On the quiet heath a shepherd-lad is watching by his white sheep. He weeps as he watches, bitterly, and seeing his deep despair, 'My child, why weepest thou' Jesus asks, 'while the sun shines bright and fair?' Ah, yes, it shines upon the green sod that covers my father's grave, and yesterday did the Saviour die on the cross, and there 's none to save. For who will bid my father arise?' 'See the rocks tremble,' Jesus said; 'the Lord has ascended, my child, to wake to eternal life the dead.'"

The old man is silent and he gazes into the flames. His hair and beard are red, like the Alpine glow, in the reflection of the fire. And this light falls in bands through the trees upon the fresh graves in the neighbouring churchyard.

A deep silence rests upon the assembled people as if on this Easter eve they already awaited the resurrection of the dead. Suddenly the old man raises his head again and his fingers glide gently over his harp-strings of straw; something like mischief lurks in his face, and as if desiring to complete his speech, he says with almost a bold voice: "The simple shepherd shook his head, incredulous was he. The Lord stretched forth to him His hand, within which he could see the sacred scar--'t was just the size a groschen piece would be."

Persuasively enough the old man stretches out his empty hand and many a one lays a _scar_ therein--a pfennig or a groschen piece.

He thanks the people politely for the little presents which they bestow upon him, and then disappears in the forest.

Grassteiger sends a messenger to seek for the poor singer, that he may invite him to his table for Easter. But Ruepel is not to be found.

So the night wears on; fortunately it is mild and warm, for no one, not even the convalescents, can be persuaded to return home.

The position of a constellation shows that it is midnight, the beginning of Easter day. A flame shoots up from the straw-bound tree and the towering Easter torch sends its light over the forest valley up to the starry heavens.

Now the men, women, and children shout for joy; but still farther than the sound can reach may be seen the glare of the pillar of fire, proclaiming the glorious day to the surrounding forest land.

And at the same time the women uncover their baskets, that the blessed breath of Easter may fan the gifts of God therein: bread, eggs, and meat. Thus our festival bread receives the consecration which Father Paul cannot administer to it on this day.

Not until nearly morning does the burning tree, with its soaring flame, which might have been seen in Miesenbachgraben, crumble and fall.

We now return to our huts from this celebration on Easter eve.

From this time on, Andreas, thou art not growing younger. Younger? Who has taught thee to prate thus foolishly? Count the silver threads in thy hair, count them if thou canst, thou old man!

I feel as though the priest had taken me with him.

MAY, 1832.

Strange reports are being again circulated about our young master. And this time they are officially confirmed. Hermann has taken possession of his father's estates and thus he has come to be our chief.

As a present he has given the Winkelstegers a respite of ten years for all outstanding liabilities for work and land. This is a good beginning. The Winkelstegers know no other way to express their thanks than by holding a twelve-hour service in the church to pray for the health of the young gentleman.

Hermann is said to be an invalid.

Yesterday Berthold came to see me. Since that time when he found his lost child with the creatures of the forest he poaches no longer, but works industriously at wood-cutting, while his children earn their bread by picking wild berries.

He brought me a bundle of dried leaves, which grow only over in the defile and possess a wonderful healing power, which has restored Aga's health, who for so many years has been an invalid. Lili had gathered and dried the leaves, and then it occurred to the family to send them to the young Herr von Schrankenheim; there was no doubt that by using the herbs he would regain his health. He requested me to forward the medicine, which I gladly agreed to do.

*ALPINE GLOW*

CORPUS CHRISTI, 1832.

And now the old forest singer also is silent. His life and death have been like a beautiful wild-rose in the wilderness.

It has given me much pleasure to write out his strange sayings, and I will here record his end.

Up on the Breitsteinalm Kropfjodel owns a herdsman's hut. And here during the summer live two of his irrepressible sons, who look after the cattle and, to pass away the time, perpetrate all sorts of mischief. Ruepel had been staying with the lads of late, and had entertained them greatly with his songs and his straw harp. The old man had now become entirely demented and, with his failing sight, was pitiable indeed.

This was just what amused the lads, who made him the butt of all their jests; and he did not dislike it, being glad to make himself serviceable in any way, realising that he was no longer of use to other people.

In the evening he always returned to the hut, where he was given food and allowed to sleep upon the hay-mow.

Early one morning old Ruepel was sitting before the door upon a stone, damp with dew, playing upon his straw harp, at the same time turning his weary eyes up toward the morning glow on the rocks. Suddenly a wild yell resounded in his ears. He started in terror, and saw the two boys standing beside him, laughing. The old man looked at them with a good-natured smile.

"Have you been threshing straw, Ruepel?" Veit asks, pointing to the strange harp-strings.

"And so early!" adds Klaus.

The old man turns, and holding his hand to his lips, he whispers confidentially: "Don't you know the proverb old? The morning's mouth is filled with gold."

"You don't mean it!" Klaus replies sneeringly. "Then its teeth will not last long!" The shepherd-lads shout with laughter at this foolish joke.

"Up there is gold, up there!" And the old man tremblingly points to the glowing cliffs.

"Yes, Ruepel, you are right!" Veit answers seriously; "that is really gold; why don't you climb up and scrape it off?"

Ruepel looks at them in surprise.

"You might get a whole basketful, and perhaps more!" Klaus urges; "then you would be able to build yourself a golden castle, and buy a golden table, and golden wine, a golden harp, and a golden wife!"

"A golden harp!" murmurs Ruepel, his eyes glittering. He passes his hand over his brow. He himself had first spoken of the golden morning, but only in the figurative sense of the proverb--and now, could it really be true?

"And this straw you can put in the manger for Grassteiger's donkey!" cries the impudent Veit.

This contempt for his harp causes a shadow to fall upon the countenance of the old man.

"My harp, leave that alone, I say; do not make fun of it, I pray."

These words only irritated the youthful tormentors. "I 'll show you how to play upon this harp!" Veit answered, passing his hand over the strings, and breaking them in pieces with a rattling noise. The lads then darted away.

The old man sat a while motionless. He stared at the broken harp, wiped his eyes with both hands, and endeavoured to arouse himself from his dream; he could not believe that it was true. His only possession, his all, they had ruined--his harp.

Not until the sun was shining brightly on the rocks above did he raise his white head. He hung the bent branch with the broken straw over his shoulder, gazed up at the cliffs, all radiant with light, and with faltering steps tottered away toward the precipice, over which the water fell and rippled, looking in the sunshine like liquid gold.

On the evening of the same day the two shepherd-lads were once more merrily performing their household tasks before the hearth of their hut. They made themselves flour dumplings, which they called _foxes_, because they fried them until they were brown. The herd had been gathered in from the fields, and was now safe in the stalls.

The lads were always gay, but particularly so on holiday nights. When the old harpist was at home, they teased him; if he was not there, they teased each other. On this day Ruepel was still absent, so Klaus sprang like a monkey upon Veit's shoulders, rode upon his neck, his legs hanging down in front, and cried: "Donkey, who is riding?" and Veit retorted: "One donkey rides another."

Thus the lads amused themselves. Then they ate their dumplings, and with the soot from the pan painted mustaches on their faces. They already aspired to whiskers, and if they only could kiss some young girl, that, according to the proverb, would encourage the growth. Ruepel, they think, might spin silver strings for the harp from his long beard.

The old man had not yet arrived; could the joking in the morning have offended him?--The boys did not like to talk about it. They felt a slight remorse, and so, putting a piece of dumpling into a wooden bowl, they placed it upon Ruepel's bed in the hay-mow. In doing this, they were again seized with a mischievous idea; they barricaded the place with rakes and pitchforks. Now, when the old man returned, he would bump his nose and grumble until at last he came upon the dumpling, which would requite him for all the rest.

On this night the boys slept particularly well. And when they awoke the bright sunbeams were already peeping through the cracks in the wall.

But the old man's bed was still barricaded with rakes and pitchforks, and the food remained untouched.

Klaus went to the herd in the stall; Veit left the house. And what a glorious day it was! The fields and the woods were fresh, bright, and laden with dew, and the morning air had kissed the clouds from the sky. A bird was warbling gaily upon the gable of the hut, and the brook splashed merrily into the trough.

Veit went to the spring. The mountaineers like so well to bathe their hands and faces in the cold water, which causes all drowsiness to disappear and the eyes and heart to become bright--bright as the young day. Veit industriously combed his dishevelled locks with his fingers, and held both hands under the spout.--How comforting is the cool, trickling water, Veit!--But in the stream a blood-red thread was spinning itself, which swam and curled, forming little rings in the hollow of his hand. Frightened, the lad withdrew his hands and gazed into the water, until more threads and filaments appeared, twined and merged into one another, then separated and scattered.

Veit hastened into the stall: "Klaus, come quick; there is something strange in the water to-day!"

Klaus ran to the spot, looked, and said in an undertone: "'T is blood!"

"A chamois must have fallen into the stream above," added Veit.

"But Ruepel hasn't come home yet!" Klaus declared, and a little later he continued: "It will be easy enough to find out if it is chamois' blood."

Veit was as pale as death. "Klaus," he said, "come up the ravine with me!"

They walked along the little stream; the water had now become clear again.

Lower and lower the sunbeams penetrated among the silent rocks; higher and higher, and hurrying more with every step, the two lads climbed, forcing themselves through narrow, gloomy defiles, which had been torn asunder by the water in violent storms, or hollowed out in peaceful seasons. The lads spoke not a word to one another; they struggled through raspberry-bushes and underbrush, wet with dew; they clambered up the steep precipice; they heard a roaring sound, for they were approaching the spot where the water fell like a golden band over the sunny cliff.