Part 20

I recently sewed a number of sheets of paper together for a writing-book, the cover of which I have made from white linden-wood. In this book I now lead a secret life, unknown to anyone.[#]

[#] This _writing-book_ was not discovered among the records.--The Editor.

AUGUST 1, 1843.

To-night a little boy was born to Reitbauer in Karwaesser. They brought him here to be baptised, but, as the priest had gone away for a few days and the child was feeble, I administered a private baptism. At the father's request I also stood godfather. The three beloved groschen inherited from my aunt and formerly my christening present, shall now go to the little Peter.

SUMMER, 1847.

When I came into these forests, I found the people scattered, starving, and uncounted. To-day I see before me a new generation.

A village surrounds the church. And about the village stand apple- and pear-trees bearing fruit; an endeavour has been made throughout Winkelsteg to cultivate the wild fruit-trees, and for the most part it has succeeded.

On Sundays people dressed in gala attire come from all directions, the men, wearing black leather knee-breeches, the women, padded velvet spencers and droll-looking wired caps, decorated with gilt and ribbons. Their clothing is no longer of home-made material. Formerly they wore the linen from their own flax, the wool from their sheep, the shoe leather from their cattle, the skins and furs from the game which they shot. To-day peddlers go about in the Winkel forests, exchanging garments and frippery for the valuable raw material.

The young people have wider views than the older ones, but they are far more pretentious; besides, they show too little respect for the past from which they themselves have sprung. But they still smoke tobacco and drink brandy, as their ancestors have done before them.

What can the old schoolmaster do alone? Ah, if my priest were only living!

The little Reiter-Peter, my godchild, is a sweet lad; but a great misfortune has overtaken him--by a fall from his bed he has lost his voice.

How gladly would I give him mine, for it is no longer of use to me! It has become quite hoarse, and no one listens to it now.

SPRING, 1848.

How this is going to affect me I do not know. Perhaps it would be best to take a few weeks' vacation and go away from here.

Outside in the cities the troops are playing havoc; they are breaking into palaces and barricading streets. For that reason she is coming. The general's wife, Hermann's beautiful sister, whom I have so foolishly adored, is coming.

In the house by the lake there is no more room, so she flees with her children to us. Thank God that our Winkelsteg is able to offer her a refuge in these times!

And I will not go away after all. I will remain and be strong and not betray myself. I will look straight into her eyes once before I die.

I feel that God means well by me. The light of her eyes will illumine the dark wooded hills, her breath will soften and consecrate the Alpine air. And even though she goes away again, Winkelsteg, where she has dwelt, will be my home.

We have built a beautiful high arch of pine-boughs before the house and decorated the altar in the church with wreaths.

Everything is ready, but no one has thought to have the stones removed from the road. Such women have tenderer feet than those dwelling in the mountains.

For a day and two nights I have been digging the stones out of the road. The people may laugh, but I am only thankful that the moon was shining.

A FEW DAYS LATER.

Now they are here. She, the two children, and the servants. I need not have removed the stones, for they drove in carriages. Nearly all Winkelsteg was assembled on the square when they arrived. The priest made an address of welcome; I crept into the schoolhouse. But I was thoroughly alarmed, for they alighted directly in front of my window, and I thought they were about to enter.

I saw her very plainly; she has grown younger. She was hardly out of her carriage before she was chasing a butterfly. But that was her youngest daughter. She herself----

By my faith, I should not have recognised her.

Of all her old mirrors with golden frames, not one is so true or has so faithfully retained her glorious image to the present day as my heart has done.

Now the image has disappeared and my youth has vanished like a mist.

JUNE, 1848.

Yesterday I wandered the whole day among the mountains, and even ascended the Zahn. On the way I asked myself a dozen times: Why art thou climbing up here, thou old child? Upon the summit I shall find the answer, I thought. I saw the kingdom of the Alps. I gazed into the blue depths of the glen below where by the black sheet of water stands the manor-house. I strained my eyes toward the south, my eyes already weak, but--it was all in vain. As often as I have climbed up there, I have never, never yet beheld the sea.

They say it is visible on a clear winter day. Besides this sight, I have nothing more to wish for now; but that one thing I still desire.

In descending I gathered a bunch of Alpine roses, _Edelweiss_, spikenard, arnica, and other flowers and plants and pinned them on the front of my hat, like a love-sick lad. For whom art thou taking home the nosegay? For wife and child? Ah, thou stupid old man!

But when I am away from her, as I was up there on the Alm, I see that she is still lovely. She will surely accept a bouquet of Alpine roses from me. I will be polite and not force it upon her. Had I but a single drop of old Ruepel's blood in my veins, I would recite a poem appropriate to the flowers! These were my thoughts; it is astonishing that I am still so daring!

When I reached Lauterhoehe, I seated myself under a tree to rest. My meditations were suddenly interrupted by something pulling at my hat; I turned to see what had disturbed me. A brown cow stood there chewing my mountain nosegay.

I started up, about to strike the stupid animal with my stick, when it occurred to me: Good creature, perhaps my flowers have given you more pleasure than they would afford her, so God bless them to you! She will drink your nourishing milk as a recompense.

As, late in the evening, I came down to the village, her windows were brightly lighted.

One of the lady's servants, Jacob, is a jack-at-all-trades. He is exceedingly clever, can play on musical instruments, do tailoring, make shoes and draw, and finally he has even made a drawing of me. I did not wish to sit for it, but he contrived, until at last, dressed in all my finery, I took my seat on the block of wood yonder. After having made the sketch, he then painted it in colours, the result being most remarkable. The red neckerchief was particularly well done.

He has given me the picture, which I look at in the privacy of my room; but the school children must not see it!

I think I will hide it.

I thought I should make the acquaintance of her children, but they speak a foreign tongue which I do not understand. The young gentleman is off with the horses and dogs; the girl would like to spend her time in the meadows with the flowers and beetles, but she is forbidden to do this. She is already too old to be allowed childish pleasures.

A day or two ago Hermann--God forgive me for still calling him by this name--came over from the glen to visit his sister. She excused herself on the plea of illness. Jacob told me that the two were not on very friendly terms, for she would recognise no sister-in-law who carried about with her the odour of pitch.

To-day the lady gave a dinner to which the priest and Grassteiger were invited. A slice from the roast and a glass of wine were sent to me. Fortunately a beggar was just passing the house, and the food was not wasted. So to-day two beggars have been fed.

At the dinner, Jacob said, they spoke of me. The lady then related to them how, as a poor student, I had once lived on charity for a time in her father's house, how I had then left the school and returned a vagabond, whereupon her father, out of pity, had sent me to the forest, where he had since supported me.

Now thou knowest all, Andreas Erdmann; but not a grey hair on that account, for it would only contaminate the white ones.

AUGUST, 1848.

They have gone away. Jacob has left here for me a pair of black trousers and a white glove.

JULY, 1852.

The title-deeds to the land have at last been conferred, and now most of the peasants in Winkelsteg are their own masters. They are to be heartily congratulated. But their eyesight seems to have become very dim, for none of them recognise me when I pass them on the road.

This summer I was once more on the mountain. I thought I could almost catch a glimpse of the sea towards the south. But it was only mist.

By this excursion, either from the dazzling light in the distance or the extreme change from heat to cold, I have again brought on the serious trouble with my eyes, which has lasted for many weeks and hindered me in my work.

I think the dumb Reiter-Peter should be taught a little music. He must have some way of expressing his feelings. It is hard to realise the suffering caused by keeping everything to one's self.

Peter is clever; he already plays on the zither and the violin. Later I must teach him the organ. The Winkelstegers will need music for their mass in the future as well as now. I shall not always be here.

Lazarus, or, as they now call him, the Winkel landlord, is kind to me and to everyone; all Winkelsteg have a friend in him. But his old trouble recurs now and then. If, for example, something excites him, he has a hard struggle to control himself. I have suggested that he should try picking up the beads from the rosary again; but perhaps that would no longer avail; then there is great danger that he will fall to drinking. He would be ruined if he had not such a good wife, and Juliana knows how to manage him; for her sake he will endure the keenest thirst.

The brandy-distiller Schorschl--Hannes is no longer living--occasionally breaks my windows. He considers me his greatest enemy, because I warn the children against brandy.

I mend the windows by pasting paper over them. But as long as I live I shall teach the young people to shun this evil.

1855.

Our priest has been changed for a very young one. The latter says that the curacy has been sadly neglected, but he will now endeavour to improve matters. He has ordered prayers, penances, and pilgrimages. His sermons are as cutting as lye; and there are so many sore hearts.

Since the new priest arrived I am quite superfluous in the school. He fills the hours with teaching religion.

The children are capable of more than they thought--they know the whole catechism by heart.

The emperor and the pope are said to have issued a special edict for the salvation of souls, and in Winkelsteg the devil has never been so much talked about as at present.

AUGUST 24, 1856.

To-day a public examination took place in the school. The dean from the capital was here. He seemed well satisfied with the religious teaching; as to the rest, he shook his head. On arriving, he greeted me politely; on leaving, he did not see me.

I often sit a long time up in the burial-ground under the old trees. This grove has been preserved from the great forest, and here the parish is being gathered, thus making another link in the chain of human history. I may sit here as long as I please, no one will call me. Would that the dead did not sleep so soundly!

I am an old spy. My eyes are weak and weary, yet I sometimes see what is taking place. Through the board fence I have just been observing Reiter-Peter seize the hand of Schirmtanner's daughter and refuse to let it go. By a thousand gestures he was telling her something; the blood mounted to his cheeks, but the girl continually said: "No, Peter, no!"

Then the lad suddenly took his violin and played for Rosa, something which I had never taught him. It was wonderful, and I did not suppose that he could play like that.

He continued until Rosa finally threw herself into his arms, crying: "Stop, it pains me so! Peter, I do like you!"

Young people are exceedingly demonstrative. If a lad has no voice with which to speak, he declares his love on the violin.

WINTER, 1857.

A diary is a faithful friend. No matter what one confides to it, it forgets nothing and discloses nothing. When I look through these records, I cannot realise that I have experienced and written all this. It is a strange history.

And who have I been! From the old man that I felt myself to be when I entered these forests, I became a younger one, from a young man I have grown to be a poor old creature, before whose half-blind eyes the notes dance up and down on the page, when I play the organ for mass in the church. The people have pushed me aside.

_Mein Gott_, others fare no better, and I desire nothing; I have done my part and am content.

1864.

For fifty years I have not been out of these forests.

The woodspeople come into existence, live and die and not once in their lives do they climb the mountain, from where one can behold the glorious picture and, on clear winter days, the sea.

The _sea_! How my heart swells at the thought! Yonder moves a boat, and within stands a youth beckoning--

Heinrich! What is it?

How foolish of me to have spent my whole life in the Winkel, when I should have been a sailor!

CHRISTMAS EVE, 1864.

The track is a short one, but the young people are sliding upon their sleds and boards over the frozen snow, from the Winkel-warden's house down to the churchyard wall. And how eager they are, as with glowing eyes and cheeks they shout at their sport!--I am waiting for Reiter-Peter; he is coming with his violin to try the new manger song with me. In the meantime I am looking at the happy children and writing.

The little ones wear fur caps, and they stumble and puff before they reach the top with their sleds--and they are down in ten seconds. Much exertion and a short pleasure! I only hope none of them will bump their heads against the wall!--Would that I might glide down to it on my sled--and never return!

Peter is coming. "Sleep sweetly, sleep in holy peace!" The song is so lovely, and to-morrow----

*THE LAST PAGE*

.... and to-morrow ....

With these words the story closes.

I had read two long rainy days. I had read the experiences of a strange life, covering a period from the last century up to the preceding Christmas festival.

.... and to-morrow ....

My head was heavy and hot. I gazed towards the door, fully expecting the man would enter and go on with his writing and tell us what happened the next morning, as well as what afterwards occurred. For this is no ending and no leave-taking; it is a hopeful look into the future, a long breath of relief, a morning star.

I felt almost convinced that the schoolmaster was still living. He was surely wandering somewhere in unknown parts, this poor man with his great, nameless longing, such as all feel more or less, the longing for the whole, the infinite, the true--incomprehensible though it be--wherein our striving, weary souls hope to find repose and deliverance.

A feeling possessed me that I must hasten forth and seek everywhere for the good, old, childlike man.--And what a terrible struggle and effort he had made! A vain endeavour after the pursuits of society, a painful crushing of his rising youthful passion, a despairing plunge into the entanglements of life, an adventurous journey over the world, a fearful awakening and disappointment, a flight into the barren wilderness, a quiet continuous toiling in humility and sacrifice, a great success, a deep contentment. Old age approaches, a young generation and new conditions no longer offer opportunity for work; a sad withdrawal into himself, desertion and loneliness, vague doubts and dreams and a quiet resignation and peace. In his old age, in his helplessness and simplicity he becomes a child; a smiling, happy, visionary child. But the longing and imagination of his youth still remain. And he has received a great reward, a compensation which reconciles us to his fate, and which the world can never give, for it only comes to one after the true fulfilment of life; it is the peace of the soul.

The quail's call on the clock sounded eight. I carefully locked the sheets of paper in the drawer and went down towards the tavern. It was already growing dark; a chilling melancholy brooded over everything, and through the fine dripping rain a sharp breeze was blowing.

Lazarus was standing before the door. He turned his face skyward, saying: "There is going to be a change." He was speaking to himself. He certainly had no idea that the young stranger now approaching him knew his whole history.

On this same evening the host was very sociable, but I was silent and soon retired to my schoolhouse to rest.

How changed was my view of everything here from that of two days before. I felt almost at home in this Alpine village where I, like the schoolmaster, had grown old.

And the man who had founded and developed the parish with his life's blood was now to be cast aside and forgotten?

No, there were traces of him everywhere. "Invisible he wanders around day and night in Winkelsteg, at every hour!"--the charcoal-burner had said.

The next morning was so dazzling that the light penetrated through my closed eyelids. On opening the window I saw that it was a bright, clear winter day.

I sprang to my feet. It had snowed, and the white covering lay over the whole valley and upon all the roofs and trees.

I was soon ready for my Alpine climb.

"To-day, _mein Herr_," said the hostess, "to-day it will indeed be fine on the mountain, if you do not lose your way in the snow. He who has patience may hope for everything in this world, even beautiful weather in Winkelsteg. But you must take someone with you." Then turning to her husband she said: "Dost thou not think that Reiter-Peter would like to earn a nice little fee for acting as guide?"

"Reiter-Peter," I said, "yes, he will suit me; for I do not care to talk on the way."

"Ah, you already know that Peter cannot talk; yes, he is quiet enough, when he has n't his violin with him."

Peter was the same dumb lad who two days before had met me by the church door after mass. So, provided with the necessary equipment, I climbed the mountain with the schoolmaster's godchild.

The snow was soft and glistened in the morning sunlight. Soon the prostrate plants and flowers were again standing erect, and the birds sang and hopped from branch to branch, shaking the flakes from the trees. The grass showed itself fresh and green through the rose-tinted whiteness of the ground, and the mountains stood out in bold relief against the sky. Summer and winter were blended in a most wonderful manner.

We walked by the burial-ground. Peter removed his hat, carrying it in his hand until we had passed the sacred spot. The old trees interwove their tops and branches over the few mounds, forming an arch like that of a Gothic temple. A veil of snow covered it, but beneath its shadow upon the graves flourished fresh grass and a tangle of moss, which climbed over and clung to the trunks, or lay in confusion upon the grey, bare, nameless wooden crosses.

I wished to see the resting-places of Father Paul and Rhyme-Ruepel. Peter looked at me inquiringly; the young man knew nothing of them.

A little later we came out upon a mountain ridge.

"Are we on the Lauterhoehe?" I asked my silent companion. He nodded assent. I thought of the cow that ate the Alpine nosegay, of the pine-trees in the background, and of old Schirmtanner, then I suddenly turned and asked Peter: "You know little Rose Schirmtanner, do you not?"

He grew as red as the Alpine flower of the same name.

From this elevation quite a new region disclosed itself toward the north; valleys and wooded hills were clearly outlined before me; to the left rose the cliffs, forming a rough, broken wall far over the forest. In this direction I fancied were the regions of Lautergraeben, Karwaesser, Wolfsgrube, and the Felsenthal.

The path led down toward the valley; but we turned to the left and climbed through forests of fir-trees and underbrush, higher and higher until we reached the clearing, which extended upwards toward the towering masses of rock.

The snow here was somewhat harder and more crusty, but it did not especially interfere with our walking. A few huts stood on this spot, the smoke issuing from their chimneys, while in the stalls the tinkling of cow-bells was heard. The cattle must eat hay to-day, but after the snow has gone there will be warm pleasant weather again. I should like to know from which of these windows the master workman Paul was found suspended!

We proceeded on our way; I soon noticed that my companion was not familiar with the path.

Approaching the rocks, we climbed through the defile, as I remembered the schoolmaster had done, and at last we reached the summit.

The picture was beyond comparison. The schoolmaster has described it.

We walked along the ridge, rested a little to refresh ourselves with bread and meat and bind on our climbing-irons, then, slowly crossing the glacier, we advanced toward the cone.

The air was remarkably clear, still, and frosty; and so invigorating that I felt like shouting for the very joy of living. The nearer we approached the summit, the more we hastened our footsteps; Peter, too, became jubilant.

And now we were above, standing on the summit of the Zahn. It seemed to me as if I had already been a number of times on these heights. Surrounding us in an endless circle--as the schoolmaster has said--was the kingdom of the Alps.

Even beyond the great forests, in the sunlit south, towered, clear and distinct, the spires and peaks of another mountain range, and farther on, stretched straight before me a shimmering band--the sea!

I felt almost impelled to hasten down from rock to rock and on over hill and valley to seek the schoolmaster and say to him: "Come, look upon the sea!"

Deeply thrilled and absorbed, I gazed a long time. Then we descended a few steps under the jutting rocks where the man had sat and dreamed fifty years ago.

Here the sun was shining warmly and the snow had already melted from some of the stones. Seating ourselves upon one of them, we ate our dinner. Peter played in the snow with his stick, tracing letters; I thought perhaps he was trying to express to me his thoughts and sensations. But he erased the characters and it proved to be only play.

My eyes wandered from one mountain to another, on to the most distant Italian heights; they gazed out over the sunny waters, they drank in the sea, where upon the waves I could catch the gleaming rays of the midday sun. A blue shadow suddenly passed before my eyes, which had become dazzled by the brilliant light.

All at once a cry resounded near me. The lad had sprung to his feet and was pointing with both hands toward the rough snow-covered ground.

Starting up in alarm, I first noticed where the snow had been displaced by the letters traced in it, and then to my horror I saw--the white covering having been partially removed--the head of a man which was thus exposed to view.

The lad, rigid with terror, stood motionless but for a few seconds, then, hastening to the spot, he worked with feverish haste to free the buried form from its snowy shroud. When the whole body was lying stretched before him, he covered his face with his hands and sank sobbing into my arms.

There lay an old man, wrapped in a brown cloak his features withered and sunburnt, his deep-set eyes closed, his scanty locks disordered and white as the snow.

My sensations at that hour were beyond description.

"Do you know him?" I asked the lad.

He sorrowfully nodded,

"Is it the schoolmaster?" I cried.

Peter bowed his head.